Duet in Blood (2 page)

J.P. Bowie

9

one is to disturb him in the daytime. He has travelled a long way. He is weary and must sleep.”

Not wanting to disregard the man’s wishes, I waited until after sunset before returning to the inn where I espied him sitting at a table outside, a flask of wine and two goblets set before him.

He looked up at me and smiled. “Joseph,” he murmured in his deep, melodious voice.

“Join me, please.” He poured some wine into the goblet in front of me.

It was then that I remembered we had not exchanged names the night before, yet he knew mine. Perhaps he had asked old Franz. And the two goblets—had he been expecting me?

“Sir,” I said, sitting opposite him. “You know my name, but I do not know yours.”

“My apologies, Joseph. I am Marcus Verano.”

He offered me his hand, and I grasped it gladly, happy to feel his firm grip cover mine.

I gazed at him with a kind of adoration. I wanted so badly to know him better, and for him to ask me to join him on his travels.

It seemed as if he knew my thoughts for he smiled and said, “You have an adventurous spirit, Joseph, but our paths are not yet as one. Tomorrow, I must leave for France.”

“France…such a long way from here. Will I ever see you again?”

“I have no doubt that we shall meet again one day.”

We talked for an hour or so, then my impatient need for him made me bold. “Will you walk with me in the woods,” I asked, praying he would not refuse me.

“It will be my pleasure,” he said, rising from the table with effortless grace. Everything about him, his mode of elegant dress, his quiet manners, told me he was indeed a man of worth and one held in high regard by those who knew him. I did not, for one moment, fear him, though I recognised a warrior’s strength beneath the calm and stylish appearance.

He put his hand on the nape of my neck as we walked, his strong fingers massaging my flesh, his touch thrilling me.

After a little while, he bade us stop and spread his cloak on the ground. We lay together, our chests and thighs touching, his lips a tantalising inch from mine. His kiss melted my heart. I clung to him, telling him that whatever he wished me to be, I would be.

He seemed to understand my need, for suddenly we were both naked and his mouth was DUET IN BLOOD

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everywhere, bringing me to a jolting climax that left me spent and breathless. His lips nuzzled at my neck, and I pressed myself willingly to him, unaware in my ecstasy of his deep bite.

My arms tightened about him as he drew my blood into his mouth. I could feel his hardness between my legs, and I whispered my acceptance of his dominion over me. The rapture that followed was so intense, I remember it to this very day, so many years later. It was as if he had transported me, body and soul, to a plane of existence where he and I were alone together. Nothing, no one else mattered at that moment. With his arms about me and his manhood deep inside me, I imagined I could be like him—a fearless warrior, or at the very least, his companion-at-arms. Such are the dreams of young men, conjured up only to be dashed in the cold light of day when reality once more looms before us.

In the morning, he was gone, and I was bereft. Old Franz did not recollect in which direction he had gone, and although I spent the entire day looking for his horse’s tracks, I could find none. For days after, I was inconsolable, much to the consternation of my parents, in whom, of course, I could not confide. It took the machinations of religious zealots to bring me to my senses and plunge me into a world of danger, politics and ruthless, deadly enemies who would stop at nothing to attain the power they thought belonged to them.

The war that had raged around us for years, but strangely had left our corner of the world untouched, now descended on us with sickening force, destroying the surrounding villages and countryside, inducing famine and sickness upon the population, and leaving a trail of death and destruction that did not stop at our tiny village. As the women sought refuge in the abbeys and churches, my father and I along with any other able-bodied men were swept into daily skirmishes as the enemy troops surged across Germany.

History called the conflict the Thirty Years War. It was a war that then I did not fully comprehend. It seemed as though all of Europe was set on the destruction of my homeland.

Spain, Denmark, France, the Vatican and England were all meddling in the politics and sending soldiers to bring us to our knees. Whatever the outcome might be, I knew it would be a long time before order was restored and my father and I could go home.

After some months, the small force my father and I fought with a larger army of men defending the southwest border against the advancing French army. We were badly

outnumbered, and although we fought long and bravely, the day was lost.

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As the cries of “Retreat!” rang out, an arrow from a long bow pierced my side. The pain was excruciating. The shock and force of it sent me reeling into a ditch where I lay unconscious for many hours. When I regained my senses, a terrible silence surrounded me. I knew my comrades had either fled or died in battle, and I also knew that I, too, would die if I did not receive aid quickly.

I crawled out of the ditch, the pain in my side increasing with every movement. I managed to stand and look around me and was startled to see some figures in long black cloaks moving silently among the bodies of those who had fallen in the battle. I thought they were searching for survivors, and so I hailed them. “Over here,” I called, although it hurt to shout. As one, they turned and stared at me, then slowly approached where I stood, trembling now, for there was something sinister in their appearance. They were not the men of mercy I had first thought them to be. My instincts told me to run, but I took only one step before the pain in my side forced me to my knees. They gathered around me, whispering among themselves—then one of them reached towards me and tugged the arrow free from my flesh.

I screamed aloud, cursing the one who had so thoughtlessly caused me even greater pain. I fell over onto my back, groaning, convinced that now I was going to die. Just before I lost consciousness, I felt myself being lifted from the ground and carried away from the battlefield.

When I awoke, I was in a place like no other I had ever seen. My foggy vision made out the shape of a dome-like ceiling, tiled and painted to represent the moon and stars. I was lying on a narrow wooden bed, atop a thin mattress, and I was naked, save for some linen strips that bound my wounded side. A black-cloaked figure stood on either side of my bed looking down at me with unreadable expressions on their pale, wrinkled faces.
They must be
very old
, I thought. I searched their eyes for a trace of kindness but could find none. I shivered with dread, yet the realisation that I owed my life to these men gave me some hope that they wished me no ill.

“You have lost much blood,” one of them said, his voice a grating whine. “You will drink this.” While the other supported my head, he held a goblet containing a dark red fluid to my lips. As the thick sweetness flowed over my tongue, I felt an immediate surge of energy course throughout my body.

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“What is it?” I asked, wanting more.

“The elixir of life.” The two exchanged cold smiles. “You will receive another cup in a few hours.”

They left me alone, and it was then that I realised I was in some form of prison. The brick-lined walls had no windows. The only light came from two large candles that hung from iron brackets embedded in the wall over my bed.

Testing my strength, I sat up slowly and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The stone floor was cold beneath my feet, but as I stood up, the pain in my side seemed less and no blood stained the linen bindings. I walked a few steps. I felt stronger, much stronger than when they had carried me here—but to where exactly? I looked up at the domed ceiling again. It had the look of witchcraft. Men who experimented in astronomy or worshipped the sun and moon were considered to be dabblers in the black arts—and as such were often executed by drowning or burning.

Why had they brought me here? Was I to be sacrificed after they made me well? That possibility could not be ignored, for although the men had cared for me, there was nothing about them that inspired hope or comfort. Later, they brought me a platter of bread and cheese, and more of the ‘elixir’ that I again swallowed with zest. For three days I was fed this way, then, on the fourth day, the men bade me to stand and roughly removed the dressing from my side. Sighs of satisfaction escaped their lips as they gazed at my body. I peered down, expecting to see some form of scar where the arrow had pierced me, but there was not one sign there of my ever having been wounded. One of them reached out and ran his hand over my side, teasing the flesh with his fingertips. I felt a quick revulsion at his touch.

“Enough,” the other snapped. “He is not for you to enjoy, brother Tito.” He took my arm and led me to the door. “A bath has been drawn for you, and fresh clothes put aside for you to wear. The Master will speak with you when you have prepared yourself.”

A bath—how wonderful to be able wash away the sweat and dirt of the past few days. I began to feel better about my situation. Perhaps they meant me no harm at all. Perhaps after bathing and speaking with the Master, whom I presumed I was to thank for his charity, I would be sent on my way. Perhaps.

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Happily, I splashed about in the hot soapy water, holding my breath and dunking my head under the surface, rubbing vigorously at my skin, all the while thinking of the ways I could find my way home—hopefully to discover my mother and father alive and well.

I lay back in the tub, relaxing in the balm the warm water created, and I thought of Marcus Verano, the stranger who had come into my life those months ago and who had brought me sensations that before him, I had never even dreamed of. Lying there in a luxury not often afforded me, I visualised his noble face, the dark hair that curled around his brow, the full sensuous lips that had brought me to the brink of ecstasy with their first touch on mine. I swear I could feel it then, that first feather-light kiss he had bestowed on my eager mouth. A first kiss is something to remember and treasure for all time. That first sensation of moist warmth that envelops the senses, that increases as the kiss grows from tenderness, to a quiet passion, to an all-consuming desire to have it never end. Such was the kiss Marcus Verano had left me to remember and never forget.

I wallowed in this bliss until the water grew cold, then I dried myself with the thick towel provided. A tunic of white linen hung on the back of a chair, and I slipped it on, before running my fingers through my short black hair.

The door opened as I peered at myself in the mirror that hung by the bath.

“Yes, you are beautiful,” a voice behind me said. “But then, I do not think you need my assurance of that.” I swung around and stared at the tall figure in the doorway. Like the others, he was dressed from head to toe in a long black cloak. But no hood covered his head, and green eyes gazed at me from a face I instantly recognised.

“Marcus…” I gaped at him as a slow smile spread across his strikingly comely face. I ran to him, throwing my arms about him, and he held me, his mouth taking mine in a hungry kiss.

“Marcus,” I whispered into this mouth.

“So, young Joseph…that is his name…”

I jerked my head back and stared at him. His green eyes had lost the lustre I

remembered. Something was not right.

There was something sinister about this man.

My voice trembled. “Marcus?” His laughter chilled my blood. I struggled to free myself, but his arms were like iron bonds. “Who are you?” I gasped.

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“I am what you wished me to be,” the man said, a wicked chuckle escaping his lips, his breath rancid on my cheek.

“You are nothing I wished for,” I said, still struggling in his embrace.

“Better you hold on to that wish, for the reality will freeze your blood.”

He ripped the tunic from my body, gripping my naked flesh with hands that I

remembered as sensuously tender but now brought pain. Anger grew within me. I lashed out at him, striking him on the face. I cried out in horror as, like a waxen mask, his features dissolved into a grotesque parody of a human face.

“Dear God…” I backed away from the monster who stood before me.

“Hold him!” His command brought two more men into the room. They seized my arms

in a brutal grip, forcing me to kneel in front of the man who, only a few seconds ago I had been ecstatic to see again. Now, the sight of him froze my blood, just as he had predicted. He opened his robe, and I screamed as I realised what he intended.

“No, no—”

My cries of despair were cut off as he plunged his disgusting flesh into my mouth.

In the days that followed, I thought that the depths of my degradation could sink no lower—but in that, I was wrong. It is too painful for me to relate all that was perpetrated upon me in the ensuing years—years that were long and insufferable. Suffice to say, I wished for, no longed for, death to take me away from this vile existence to which I was subjected.

But the monsters were not quite finished with me. On the eve of the twenty-fifth year of my life, they gathered about me, these fiends in black, shuffling, shifting, whispering around me as I lay bound and stretched naked upon my bed.

“Beauty still exists,” one said, running a finger over my torso. “See, how tight and firm is his flesh and how smooth his skin.”

“But…” The Master, the one I hated beyond all the others regarded me with his pale eyes. “…Now is the time for his beauty to be preserved. Another year and it will begin to fade. Bring in the creature.”

The door opened, and a young man bound in silver chains was pushed into the room.