Summary:
In the cold, isolated forests of 16th-century Europe, a lord takes a boy prisoner. As an unexpectedly tender relationship develops between captor and captive, resentment and distrust grow into warmth and trust in a pair of hearts that were once achingly empty. It aims to be a sensitive portrayal of a tender, if fragile, relationship that grows between two characters because of mutual loneliness as well as an intense longing for companionship. As a tentative trust develops between the two characters, the dynamics of their captor-captive relationship continually change as power is given, taken, and shared. As their bond deepens, the boy finds a new kind of freedom in his captivity and the man finds redemption for a brutal crime he committed.
A/N: Let me know if I should continue posting chapters here. I have 10 additional chapters on the back burner, but if no one is interested, then I won't keep posting. Alternatively, I could provide those who are interested with the external link to the story.
Chapter 4
“I need to let the boy out. He’s been in that room for days. He’s been compliant and hasn’t tried anything.”
“Matthias, you can’t. If he gets away—”
“Where is he going to go? The snow is almost a foot deep and he’s hurt. There’s no one around for miles. He’ll freeze if he doesn’t come back. He’s not stupid. He knows he’s got nowhere to go.”
“What if he tries to get away?”
“I’ll kill him if I have to stitch him up again,” Matthias muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
The other man chuckled softly.
“What is it?” Matthias demanded, a defensive edge in his voice.
“You say that almost like you’re worried for him…almost like you care about him. I’m just surprised, that’s all. It’s not like you to have a soft spot for someone, especially a prisoner.”
Matthias threw him a withering glance. “I don’t have a soft spot for him. I don’t feel anything for him. But he’s a boy. I don’t torture children needlessly.”
“You’re sure that he’ll behave himself?”
“Yes, I’m sure. He’ll listen to me. He won’t try anything.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “I’m not convinced that he’s so desperate to escape. He’s beginning to trust me.”
Җ
After three days, Tristan was reluctant to leave the familiarity and security of his bedroom, the only part of the manor house he had known. He looked at Matthias hesitantly. “No one’s going to touch you. You have my word,” Matthias told him.
He slipped his right arm around the boy’s waist, fingers curled around his side. Tristan timidly rested his left arm around Matthias’s shoulders, holding himself up. He leaned on him a little, just enough to steady himself on his feet. He still needed help walking on his sprained ankle.
As they made their way down the stairs to the drawing room, Matthias kept his hands on Tristan at all times, even though the boy made no attempt to escape his firm grasp. As they came to the entranceway of the drawing room Tristan stopped when he saw the other men sitting in the room. He was intensely aware of everyone’s eyes on him. He was embarrassed that Matthias was supporting him; he was embarrassed that he had a conspicuous bruise on his face. He knew that the others would immediately notice it and wonder how it happened. He felt a hand on the small of his back apply gentle pressure, encouraging him to step forward.
Matthias led Tristan over to a leather couch and pushed him down into it. It was the same couch where Matthias had sat when he had held him across his lap that first night, but Tristan didn’t know that. He had been unconscious. Matthias leaned down and spoke so that only Tristan could hear him. He tightened his hand on his shoulder as he spoke. “You will stay here until I move you. You will not talk to anyone else.” Matthias saw a momentary flash of stubbornness in the boy’s eyes at being told what to do, but then it passed. He continued: “I told you I wouldn’t hurt you and I won’t. Until you give me reason to.” He released his grip on Tristan’s shoulder and walked over to another couch opposite him and sat down.
“How’d you get that bruise?”
Tristan flicked his eyes up to glare at the man who had spoken the words. He gave him an irritated glance before he turned his head away and rested it against the back of the couch, ignoring the question. Matthias gave the man a warning look. “Don’t talk to him,” he said gruffly. No one bothered him after that.
Tristan was sitting on a couch that was off to the side, not too close to the other men. He couldn’t hear what they were talking about and he didn’t dare get up without permission. He recognized that he had been purposefully positioned so he couldn’t hear their conversations. After he got over the initial discomfort of being in the presence of unfamiliar men, he realized that he enjoyed being in the drawing room. It was magnificent, filled with rich leather couches, fur blankets, candles flickering in intricate iron sconces, a grand fire place, and mahogany paneling on the walls. It was in fact similar to the house he shared with his stepfather, except this one had an intangible warmth that was missing from the other residence.
That first night in the drawing room Matthias brought a mug of hot liquid over to Tristan and told him to drink. Tristan did as he was told, taking the mug from the man. Their fingers touched briefly. A few minutes later Matthias noticed the boy fading. Tristan didn’t know if it was the warm, dark atmosphere, the low murmur of voices, the comfort of the couch, or the drink he had swallowed, but he felt drowsy. He leaned back against the couch, relaxed, and felt his eyelids droop a little. The next time he opened his eyes he was lying in bed, covered by an extra blanket.
Matthias watched Tristan carefully over the next few days. Even though the boy appeared to be resting, he knew he was scrutinizing his surroundings, noticing details, taking everything in. Occasionally he stretched out on the couch, lying down, but even then he was surprisingly alert. Matthias had no doubt that he was aware, listening to what he could without arousing suspicion, even when he appeared otherwise.
Җ
It had been nearly a week since Tristan’s capture. Over that time he and Matthias had developed a kind of cautious trust. Perhaps it couldn’t be called trust. Not yet. It was a tentative comfort with each other, a respect for each other—an understanding.
On the morning of the sixth day a man that Tristan had seen before came to speak with Matthias. Tristan recognized him as one of his stepfather’s advisors, though he had never spoken with him. He tried to rise from the couch when he saw him, but one of Matthias’s men put his hand on his shoulder and held him down. The man seemed to have a heated argument with Matthias, gesturing at Tristan several times during the discussion. Tristan shrank back at the way the man’s eyes continually appraised him, glaring at him. It looked like Matthias had refused the man’s stipulations, and the man had left dissatisfied. Tristan couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but he gathered that it involved him. Matthias had met his eyes once during the conversation, very briefly, before turning away.
In the hours since that confrontation Matthias had been distant. He hadn’t so much as looked at Tristan, refusing to meet his gaze. It was unsettling. Tristan felt ignored and rejected. He knew that he should be relieved that they were leaving him alone, but he was confused by the sudden lack of attention. Of course he would never show his displeasure at being overlooked. He did his best to appear unaffected, but it still bothered him.
Later that evening a second man came to talk to Matthias. When the man entered the drawing room Matthias moved toward the couch where Tristan was resting. It was the first time he had looked at him in hours. Tristan knew he must be imagining it, but Matthias almost looked scared. But that couldn’t be possible. Matthias was always calmly in control.
Matthias took a step toward the newcomer and smiled, but Tristan could see the uneasiness in his face. “Barrett, my friend. How have you been?”
The man answered in an aggressive tone: “I’ve been trying to save my son, pleading for his release. But I’ve been told he won’t be returned until the conditions of the agreement are met. Meanwhile, it seems that you’ve been—entertaining—your guest. I’m sure he appreciates your hospitality.”
Tristan felt uncomfortable. He sat up and winced at the pain in his side. Barrett nodded toward Tristan. “So this is him?” he questioned. Matthias didn’t respond. Barrett spoke directly to Tristan. “Listen to me, boy. If Caius hurts my son, I promise I will kill you,” he growled.
Matthias moved to stand directly in front of Tristan, shielding him from the other man’s anger. “Leave him alone.” His voice was soft but dangerous.
“Why are you protecting him?”
“The boy has nothing to do with this. It doesn’t involve him. He’s been forced into this just like your son has. His stepfather is to blame, not him.”
“No, you know he has everything to do with this. He’s the reason my son is just a pawn in Caius’s sick game. That man is cruel—”
“Barrett…”
“Ask that boy what Caius is really like. Ask him if he thinks he’ll have mercy. Ask him!”
Tristan felt he had to respond. Through clenched teeth, not knowing if he believed his own words, he spoke: “If you bring me back to him he will give you your son.”
“Tristan!” Matthias snapped at him, but there was a pleading look in his eyes, begging him not to speak further.
Barrett seemed surprised the two had exchanged words. He turned to Tristan, then back to Matthias. “He doesn’t know, does he? You haven’t told him. He must think—”
“Stop!”
“No! He needs to hear this. He needs to know.”
“No, he doesn’t…he can’t. Please, Barrett!” Barrett stopped, only because he had never heard Matthias beg.
Matthias seemed to regain his composure after a momentary lapse. “Take him upstairs to his room!” he ordered one of his men, undisguised urgency in his voice. He twisted around and grabbed Tristan, lifting him to his feet and pulling him close, his hands on the boy’s hips. Startled, Tristan put his hands around Matthias’s wrists, steadying himself on his feet. Tristan felt himself pushed into another man’s grasp and half-dragged up the stairs.
Once Tristan had been taken upstairs Matthias turned to Barrett. “I swear to you I’ll do whatever it takes to get Faran back. I’ll bring him home.”
Barrett considered him for a moment. “Even if it means killing that boy you fawn over?” he snarled.
Matthias didn’t answer and didn’t meet his friend’s eyes.
“That’s what I thought,” said Barrett bitingly, and pushed past Matthias. On his way out of the drawing room he turned back to Matthias for a moment. “Matthias, I would ask you to consider this: who is the captor and who is the prisoner? I think I can see for myself, but I don’t know if you can. You’re bound in ways that even you don’t understand.”
Җ
Tristan was back in his bedroom, sitting on the bed. His head was reeling. He hadn’t understood what he had just heard. Barrett had said Matthias had been protecting him. Was that true? He also seemed to think he held some kind of power over Matthias. But what kind of power could a boy hold over a lord?
It was bitterly cold in the room, especially after losing the warmth of the fire. Tristan shivered and pulled the covers around him. He gazed out the window, watching the snow fall softly and blanket the ground. Dusk had fallen.
His skin prickled and he suddenly became aware of another presence in the room. Before he could whip around he felt cold metal snake around his neck and press against his throat. “Don’t call out for him,” a voice whispered in his ear. The words he heard next chilled his blood. “He can’t save you. Not this time.”
Chapter 5
Tristan knew immediately that he was in more danger now than he had ever been with Matthias. This man was desperate for his son’s release and he had no personal attachment to him. Tristan quickly scanned the room for something he could use to defend himself. At his delay he felt the knife press harder against his throat. The warm thread of blood he felt trickling down his neck gave him an idea. He quickly tore the bandage off his hand and threw it on the bed, leaving his swollen palm, recently stitched, exposed.
He acted disoriented and weak as he turned around on the bed to face Barrett. He got to his feet shakily, putting most of his weight on his right ankle. “Wait, I…I feel sick,” he said to the man, desperation in his eyes. “They gave me something…” “No,” said Barrett firmly. “Walk with me.” He lowered the knife from his throat and prodded his back with the hilt. Tristan stumbled and fell forward, into the man, grasping his coat to hold himself up. He glanced up at Barrett’s face, but it was a mask. He couldn’t tell if he believed him or not.
Barrett returned the knife to his throat and covered the boy’s mouth with his other hand. He wrapped his arm tightly around Tristan’s chest, restricting his movement. He pushed him forward. As they passed through the doorway, Tristan held out his hand to brace himself, raking his palm against the metal door frame, tearing the stitches open.
Barrett dragged him out of the manor house without incidence or interruption. He made him walk an eighth of a mile before he stopped on the edge of the forest. Tristan’s feet, clad only in leather slippers, were immediately soaked in the snow. He was dressed in nightclothes and a dark blue shirt that he had wrapped around himself in his room. The biting night air stung his face and hands and made his teeth chatter. He observed a horse tethered to a nearby tree, waiting for its owner. Barrett produced a length of rope from inside his coat and bound Tristan’s hands together.
“Where are you taking me?” Tristan demanded.
“I’m not taking you anywhere.”
Barrett roughly grabbed the boy’s face and forced his chin up. Unwillingly, Tristan met his eyes.
The man examined him. “You are beautiful…ravishing, even.” Tristan wanted to push him away but knew better than to provoke him. He set his jaw and looked up at him contemptuously.
“What’s this?” Barrett noticed the fading bruise on his cheekbone and forced his face to turn so he could see his profile. “Did he give that to you?” Tristan didn’t respond. “Just a love bite,” the man concluded. Tristan flinched with obvious disdain at the comment.
Barrett released him and Tristan took a few steps backward. Tristan knew he would never make it back to the manor house without being caught. His ankle was healing, but it was still not strong enough to support his weight.
“What have you given him?” Barrett asked. “Why does he have some sort of loyalty to you when he’s known my son all his life? I can’t figure out why he’s kept you around…why he hasn’t killed you yet.” He thought for a moment. “Have you offered yourself to him?”
“I haven’t offered him anything,” Tristan snarled, his voice trembling with thinly disguised anger and disgust at the implication. “What do you want?”
Barrett took a step toward him.
“Stay away from me,” he warned, holding his bound hands up in front of himself. “Caius will kill you if you hurt me.”
The man smirked a little. “No, he won’t. He has no use for you anymore. You only stand in his way to inheriting the lordship. In fact your abduction works in his favor. Who would suspect him of having his own stepson kidnapped?”
“No, you’re lying.”
“How do you think Matthias found you so quickly in the forest? How do you think he knew exactly where you’d be? Caius told him. They had an agreement. And now Matthias has to fulfill his part of the contract.”
“No. No, I don’t believe you.”
“Matthias’s weakness is the only reason you’re still alive.”
“If you harm me you’ll also hurt your son. You’ll break the agreement—my life in exchange for his.”
“No, Tristan,” said Barrett. “Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said? His life in exchange for your death.”
Tristan saw no deceit in the man’s eyes. He knew he was telling the truth. He just didn’t want to believe him. So his life didn’t matter. It never had. Matthias had no reason to keep him alive or protect him as he had been doing. In fact, he had reason to hasten his death. He had to in order to save his friend’s son. So what had stopped him from killing him? He had had ample opportunity over the past week.
Tristan hated the way Barrett was looking at him. Like he was a poor little lost boy who thought he had been safe and only now was beginning to understand the rules of the game. His eyes scrutinized him, judged him, watching for a reaction. But the thing that bothered Tristan the most was his expression. His eyes were fixed on him, pitying him. He didn’t want pity.
Barrett waited for the boy to respond, and finally he did.
“He won’t hurt me.” There was an unexpected confidence in his voice.
“I know. He never had a chance. Not from the moment he saw you and decided you were worth protecting. Your hands may be bound, but you are not a prisoner like he is.”
His anger at Tristan had diminished. Now he seemed almost sorrowful. He continued: “That’s why I have to do this. I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you. But I have to protect my son.”
“You’re not sorry.”
Barrett stepped toward him. “I am. This is hard for me too. You remind me so much of my son. I know you’re scared.” He reached out and gently stroked his cheek. He looked into the boy’s eyes, seeking forgiveness for what he had to do. Tristan let him touch his face. He let him see the sad resignation in his face, the acceptance of his fate. He let him believe that he had surrendered, that he wouldn’t fight anymore. Tristan locked eyes with Barrett, looking deep into his eyes. He leaned into his touch slightly, like he was comforted by his tenderness.
Never breaking eye contact with the man, Tristan clenched his fingers together. Then he drove his bound hands upward into the man’s chin with all his power. Barrett was stunned for a moment, and Tristan kicked him hard in the stomach with his good foot. It had hurt to put all his weight on his bad ankle, but the adrenaline pumping through his body made it possible.
Barrett staggered but remained on his feet. He propelled himself forward and Tristan fell hard as the man’s body slammed into his own. Momentarily winded by the impact, Tristan remained on his hands and knees. Barrett grabbed one of his legs and dragged him back toward him. Tristan’s hands scrabbled for anything that could help him. His stiff, nearly frozen fingers found a metal pole that had once been part of a fence. He thanked God for his luck. He held the pole for a moment, positioning it between his bound hands, before he felt it ripped out of his grip.
Barrett raised the pole in his hands and brought it crashing down on Tristan’s shin. Tristan let out his first scream of agony, blinded by the brutal pain. He felt physically sickened by it. The pain was unlike anything he had ever experienced. Barrett hit him a second time. He felt his bone crack under the crushing blow. Black spots intruded on the edges of his vision and he struggled to remain conscious.
Despite what Barrett had said—that Matthias had agreed to kill him—Tristan knew he would be safe if he could only drag himself back to the manor house. He knew Matthias would protect him and help him. He tried to stand up but immediately collapsed from the throbbing, all-encompassing pain. He tried again to get up, desperately begging his body to obey him, but it betrayed him. He turned over onto his stomach and tried to crawl forward. He looked longingly in the direction of the manor house. He couldn’t see it anymore, but he knew it was there, beckoning him. A week ago he would have given anything to be away from it, to be free. Now he wanted nothing more than to be inside, back in bed or sitting in the drawing room. He wanted Matthias to find him and take him in his arms. That was the hope that he held onto. But all his strength had left his body, and with a frustrated sob, he rolled over onto his back.
Barrett clamped his legs securely around the boy’s torso, holding him in place. He straddled him, pinning him between his knees. Tristan wasn’t going to plead with the man or beg for his life. He would fight him, even as he lost consciousness.
Tristan struggled wildly, thrashing around, trying to escape his captor’s grasp while doing his best to ignore the throbbing agony in his leg. Though he had limited mobility in his bound hands, he seized Barrett’s hands when they came close to him and sunk his fingernails into his flesh. Barrett shook him off and hit him in the ribs with the hilt of his knife, several times, trying to subdue him. Every time Tristan was hit he felt the air roughly forced out of his lungs.
Through his darkening vision, Tristan saw Barrett turn the knife in his hands and point the blade down toward him. He saw the cruel barbed tip come closer. Reaching up with his bound hands, Tristan tried to stop the descending blade. His hands shook as he lost strength and his grip weakened. He felt the knife tear through the fabric of his shirt and nightclothes. He felt the sharp, cold tip press against his abdomen and then smoothly cut into his flesh, burning like a scalding poker as it penetrated him. He gasped as it slid into him, steadily burying itself in his insides. Barrett stopped when the knife was inserted up to the hilt. Tristan’s hands, on top of Barrett’s, still gripped the knife that had pierced his body. He felt the warm blood bubble.
Barrett gently slid his hands out from under Tristan’s and stood up, looking at the bruised, battered boy lying before him. He left his knife embedded in his abdomen. He knew the boy would die. He didn’t want to cause him unnecessary pain. He wasn’t a cruel man. He hadn’t wanted to kill the boy. He had only taken the boy’s life to save his son’s.
It had never been a fair fight. Tristan was young and weighed half as much as Barrett did. His hands were bound and he was weakened by his previous injuries. Barrett had wanted to make the incision cleaner, but the boy had struggled too much. It had been hard to subdue him. He had meant to make it a killing blow, to end the boy’s life quickly. Now the boy would suffer as he bled out, feeling his life slip away as his blood slowly drained out of his body cavity. Barrett took one last look at the boy before mounting his horse and riding off into the night.
As Tristan lay dying, he didn’t think about his mother or father. He didn’t think about his friends or the people he had known all his life. He thought about Matthias and how much he wanted to see him again.
He weakly let his head fall back onto the ground and lay still. His hands slipped down from the gaping wound in his abdomen and lay limply at his sides. He let out an anguished sob but then was quiet. His eyes closed slowly as he slipped closer to the warm comfort of unconsciousness, an escape from the pain. The falling snow blanketed his face gently, clinging precariously to his dark eyelashes just as he clung to life. His crimson blood stained the snow around him in an ever widening pool.
His last conscious thought was that he would never be held by Matthias, and how he would have given anything to know how it felt in his arms.
.