Pretender's Fate Ch. 07

It seemed to William Howard that deClerq's riders were on the road for weeks, traveling almost entirely at night. By day they would lay up in some deserted country cottage or off a narrow track in a forest. William would be allowed to leave the carriage to have something to eat and to relieve himself. When there was a stream nearby, he would be permitted to bathe in that. When there wasn't, a bucket of water would be brought to him.

DeClerq said he wanted the man he fucked to be clean.

For much of the day, deClerq would keep William pinned to a soft area of ground or the straw flooring of a deserted building with his cock. By night, as they traveled, the four riders who wanted to fuck William would visit the inside of the coach as they were on the move.

William didn't mind it much. As deClerq had the biggest cock and the best technique, though, William preferred the days to the nights. On the whole, he was happy just to be alive. He thought about trying to escape before they reached France and he found himself in deClerq's dungeon. But he only once had the chance. He had convinced the dumbest of the four riders and the one with the smallest cock that the man could saddle him better if his hands were freed and he could ride the man on the floor of the carriage. He got the man in an awkward position on the floor and then sprang for the carriage door. But he only made it as far as leaning out of the door, looking for a soft spot to land when he leaped before deClerq saw him and pushed him back into the coach.

As punishment, deClerq had William's wrists tied to the ceiling of the carriage and let the two men with the biggest cocks crouch on the benches across from each other, with William suspended in the middle, and take William together. As far as punishment, that didn't mean much to William. He subsequently thought of trying the escape again just for the punishment.

This wasn't making him free, though. And the farther they rode into England, the more sure it was that, if William escaped, the only place he could go was London. He didn't know, however, how well he would be received at court if he showed up there again. He suspected he wouldn't survive the night. Other young men who had found favor with the king had fallen to their deaths from the battlements of the palace before their favor could afford them power and position.

But the night came when he no longer needed to think of escaping himself. He was lying under one of the riders, who was covering him close as William was slumped on the bench, the foot of one leg leveraged against the window frame of the black-cloth-covered window beside him and the other one hooked on the man's naked hip. The rider had removed his breeches but was still wearing his doublet. William's arms were tied to a hook over his head, and he was doing what he could to meet the pistoning thrusts of the man's cock. Of the four riders, this was William's favorite cock. It was bent up at an acute angle so that it punished William's channel walls as none others did.

He had tried to convince the rider to release his wrists so that he could more actively participate in the fuck—and that was exactly what he wanted to do. But the rider was having none of that.

William had already come, and the rider was approaching his ejaculation. William was hoping for a second joust as he did prefer this man over the one he assumed would visit him later. Sometimes deClerq only allowed one in the coach on a night if he took more than an hour. He did not let William go more than two days and nights without a taking, though. When they had been traveling near York, the passage had been dangerous and the men had put all of their effort and attention in the ride. William had become irritated and mouthy at a delicate moment and deClerq had had to send one of the men into the coach to fill William's throat with his cock to keep him quiet. Since William had returned from London to Roxburgh and was taken into Thomas's bed, he had become a prisoner to the frequent fuck.

The man inside him had tightened up, ready to explode, when he was interrupted by the shock of shouting and the clash of steel outside the coach. The coach had come to an abrupt halt and the horses were whinnying in fright.

The rider pulled away from William, grabbed for his sword, and turned to open the door to the carriage. The door opened without his help, though, and a pike was thrust into the cabin and all of the way through the rider's chest.

His face took on a wild, questioning look, and he fell back across William's lap, dead before he reached William. William looked down into the lifeless eyes, retaining the same look they had when he'd been run through, and then up at the open carriage door.

The man entering the carriage was tall and thin, perhaps forty years or more of age. He wasn't a soldier; he was dressed in a rough cotton tunic of a servant. William's first impression was that he was a priest, but he wasn't wearing priestly garb. But he was smiling benignly even though he had a knife in his hand. William flinched as the knife came toward him, but it sliced up, cutting through the rope that had been pulling William's arms over his head.

"Don't be afraid. You are safe now."

William was understandable wary and didn't respond. He had heard the "you are safe now" empty assurance too many times already.

The voice was soothing, comforting almost familiar. And the smile seemed familiar as well. "Here, let me help you out of the coach."

William took the other's hand. He didn't know if he was being rescued or about to be murdered, but, in any event, there wasn't much he could do about it. He could have died any time in the last several years—recently more assuredly than before—and long ago he'd determined that he'd just take life as it came—for as long as it came.

He stopped at the doorway, trying to get his bearings and to take the scene in. Before him were horses, their saddles empty, the riders who so recently had been on them, on the ground in heaps, with arrow or pike shafts rising precariously from them. In a ring surrounding them, and in greater numbers, were other riders, dressed in black just as the Frenchmen had been, but with some carrying torches that lit up the scene as an eerie, almost surreal scene. In the nearer grouping, though, William now saw that Guy deClerq was still astride his horse. His eyes latched onto the naked body of William, standing in the coach doorway. The expression on his face was one of surprise—and slightly of sadness. As William watched, noticing belatedly the three arrow shafts emerging from deClerq's chest, the French knight slowly collapsed in upon himself, and his body slipped off his horse and to the ground.

A frightened voice was crying out for mercy, and William's eyes went to the driver's bench of the coach in time to see two arrows strike the driver. His body toppled from view between the rumps of the two horses hitched closest to the coach.

"Time is short," the man in the tunic said. "We must away before someone residing locally raises an alarm. I have a tunic in my pack that will fit you, I believe. Here, come with me. You can take deClerq's horse; he won't be needing it anymore."

So, they knew who they had attacked. If so, they probably knew who he was as well. James Young's men coming to reclaim him? No, he didn't think so. The man in the tunic spoke flawless English, without the slightest of accent. So, probably not a Scotsman. Strange, though. He had the bearing of a servant—if one of some stature and air of authority—and the men on the horses had the bearing of knights, although none spoke. And yet they were deferring to this man.

"It will be just you and me," the man said as William pulled the rough cotton tunic over his head. "These men will see us to the edge of the wood, but then they will go back. If anyone is following, they will lead them away. But I don't think anyone is following."

"Why do you think that?" William asked.

"We have been tracking you from Roxburgh. We only seized the moment now, because we are close to the docks. It is evident deClerq meant to take you to France."

"Yes, he did. Close to the docks? I see no sign of water. Where are we?"

"We are near Gloucester. It's an inland port. You would have been sailed down the Severn and then it would be but a night's sail to the coast of France."

When they got to the edge of the wood and their silent escort had turned away, the man gestured toward the distance. "See? Can you see it? The tower of Gloucester Cathedral. We are near to it. And where we go will be almost in its shadow."

"I don't understand. You are taking me to Gloucester? Why are you doing this? And for who? I do not know you, do I? And yet there is a familiarity about you."

The man lowered his head for a moment and then looked up. "There is one who would protect you. But the best way to do that is to hide you until the right time comes. Some places are better than others. Gloucester is one of the better, as no one will expect to find you there—or in the house where I take you."

"I don't understand."

"Nor do you need to for now. We must cover the last small distance now. You are not in the danger you were with deClerq, but I doubt you will ever be out of danger."

No other words were spoken as they rode into Gloucester. William was near to exhaustion from his journey and ordeal and he was much too sore to be riding a horse if he had any other choice. But he didn't have any other choice. And there was something about this man—something that made William trust him and be comfortable with him.

"Here we be," the man said when they had ridden through the city streets at some distance and were, indeed almost in the shadow of the Gloucester Cathedral tower.

"This looks like a shop," William said. "Just a metal shop."

"Yes, it is, and no doubt you will be working in metal yourself soon. I recommend that you try your hand at it. It is good for a man to have skills of the hand, even a noble Howard. It will put muscle on you, and you will be safer, hiding right out in the open, apprenticing as a metal worker. There is no one in the streets of Gloucester who will know what a Howard is, let alone that you bear that name and the Howard title. And there is no reason you need come into contact with any royals in that town."

"I don't know . . ." William said, completely out of his element, and both confused and uncomfortable. But then he looked at the passageway beside the shop, with what most probably was the metal worker family's rooms above it, that must lead back into the workshop area, as smoke was rising from back there and William could hear the sound of mallets hitting metal. Standing in the passageway, looking like he fully expected the visitation, was a magnificently muscled man, bare to the waist, but with a leather apron hanging down from his neck and a hammer in his hand. The man probably was in his forties, and he was ugly as sin in the face. But his body was as powerfully built as James Young's was.

"This is Jock, Sir William," the man said in way of introduction. The hulking man at the passageway entrance nodded his head slightly in welcome, and he gave William a broad smile. "And these are his sons, Will, named like you, and John," the man with William, said as two strapping young men, close to William's age, but closer to their father in physique, came up behind him. They also were bearing smiles, and they were, by far, more handsome then their father. They also were bare to the waist, but without the aprons, and their torsos were gorgeous.

"You will be staying with Jock and his sons. Jock's wife is dead. You may wish to learn the metal trade from them. But you should not go out too much or too far. I think you will not get bored, though. Jock fucks men. So do his sons. I have been told of your needs. The one who sent me wishes to keep you content. For your own safety, and to keep you separate from Will, I believe we need to drop the 'Sir' for now and you need to go simply by Bill."

"That is fine with me," the young man now named just Bill answered, with a smile.

After the man who had rescued William—now Bill—departed, Jock demonstrated his welcome to Bill, rightfully taking the interest the young man was showing in him, by hoisting him up on a workbench, laying him on his back, parting his legs, and fucking him to heaven. Bill writhed and ran his hands over the bulging muscles of the man, as the almost-impossibly thick cock worked him hard and deep. As the father withdrew after they had both come, the visage of his older son, Will, came into view. He had inherited his father's cock. Bill was turned on his belly and fucked like a dog. After that, the younger son, John, showed Bill where he would bed down and remained for an hour of mutually pleasant sport.

It was the latter, younger son, who Bill melted to, as he was bent over the bed for the entry of the cock and then raised from the bed, John supporting his body by palming and spreading his buttocks to permit even greater depth than father and the other son had achieved, while Bill stretched his arms up and around John's neck and locked his fists. The strong, young, virile metal worker then just lifted Bill up and down on his cock until Bill ejaculated onto the mattress. The highly conditioned John, though, was far from ready to spill his seed. He pulled Bill down onto the bed, spooning the young lord's body into his and fucked him from behind to exhaustion. They both drifted off to sleep with John inside Bill, ready to resume the pumping as soon as they had awakened. This was exactly the mastering that kept Bill satisfied and under control.

All doubts evaporated from Bill's mind on whether or not he could adjust to life in a Gloucester metal-working shop.

* * * *

In late February of 1315 Bill heard the clatter of horses' hooves and then heard them abruptly stop out in the street from where he was working on nails to be used in the new extension of the cathedral. John was standing beside him, helping Bill size the nails uniformly. Their fingers met and intertwined often, so the work wasn't going nearly as fast as John could have done on his own. But Bill wanted to learn the trade. And John wanted to please Bill. And both wanted to be as close together as possible.

The two were committed lovers now. John asked for nothing from Bill but the fuck and seemed to have no ambitions linked to using Bill in any way other than the one way that Bill wanted to be used. Bill was being bedded less and less by the other two—although Jock was the roughest cocker of the three, so Bill didn't want to give him up completely. It was John who was sleeping with Bill now, the father having given up the wider bed he'd shared with his wife to his son and the noble who was hiding in his house.

John was an attentive lover, using skill in what aroused Bill the most and a tenderness that was new—and pleasing—to Bill. He obviously had lain with experienced men before—more so than his father or brother—because he knew as well as Sir Thomas or Guy deClerq ever had how to work Bill to the heights of ecstasy. He also knew of positions of the fuck that Bill had never imagined were possible and that the young noble found intriguing. There was always a surprise with John, who appeared at the most unexpected times and in the most unexpected places to get his cock inside Bill.

If there were just one man in the world who Bill could have, forsaking all others, it would be John. But John also wasn't jealous. He would be just as happy holding Bill in a headlock as Jock fucked him as he was taking Bill by himself, or being the third in succession to take Bill on top of the metal-working table.

They both looked up at the sound—or, more accurately, the sudden lack of sound—of horse hooves in the cobblestoned street.

"They've come," John said quietly.

"Who has come? Tell me, John. Who has come? What have you kept from me?"

"You knew they would come when it was time. We all knew that. I don't want to see you go, so I must leave you now, before they have entered the courtyard." He pulled Bill's face to him and gave him a deep kiss. And then he withdrew behind a pile of metal scraps.

"Sir William." And with that, "Bill" reverted to his position in the nobility once more.

The voice came from the opening of the passageway to the street. William recognized the voice.

"You," he said to the man who had rescued him from deClerq and brought him here.

"Yes. It is time. Your father wants you by his side."

"My father?"

"Yes. Robert the Bruce, king of Scotland. You knew he was your father, didn't you?"

"Yes, I knew. But why now?"

"It isn't just you. He wants all of the offspring he can bring together by his side. There is to be a great parliament. Scotland's first. King Robert wants to show the strength of his family—to show that he has heirs enough to stop the feuding over who should succeed him."

"How do I know this is true? He has never shown interest in me before."

"That is untrue. While we ride, I can tell you of the ways he has watched over you as best he could."

"How do I know this isn't just a trap? If I figure in the succession, how do I know I will survive this trip?"

"My master—the one who sent me, the one waiting outside to escort you safely to Scotland could have had you killed any time in the last few months. You can understand that, can you not?"

William didn't answer. His mind was racing, trying to figure out the scheming within the riddles that ruled his life.

"And there are two signs I can provide to give you assurance."

"Two signs? The first."

"The parliament. The parliament is to be held at Ayr, the place of your birth. King Robert chose that because, although a bastard, you are his eldest surviving son. He thought you would see the significance in that in the hand he is reaching out to you."

William was taken aback. Now he most certainly wanted to hear from this man before him how Robert had been in his life these past, tumultuous years. "And the second?"

"The second is that I never introduced myself to you. My name is Samuel. Does that name mean anything to you?"

"No, it . . . I'm not sure. Let me think."

"You said there was a familiarity about me. There is a reason for that. When you were a boy, you were given half a Roman coin, were you not?"

"Yes, but I lost that long ago. I looked for it frantically, I was told, when my mother and I were taken from Castle Ayr. But I didn't find it. It must have burned in the fire. I was told that it had been given to me my squire . . . my favorite . . ."

The man, Samuel, was holding his hand out, palm open. Laying on the palm was half a Roman coin. "I have the other half. Perhaps you can remember it. Even if all of the Scots in the world wanted you dead, I would stand with you. I would have stood with you in Ayr if I had had the power to do so. Come, my lord and master, John Douglas, awaits us outside. He is the most trusted knight of your father, King Robert. He has been sent here to see that you arrive safely at the king's side. Will you come with us?"

William hesitated, choked up by the revelations assaulting him, and, although elated at the possibilities, also weighted down by a feeling of great sadness.

"What is wrong? Why do you hesitate?" Samuel asked.

"John. The metal crafter. He and I . . . I have never before . . . I have been happy here."

"With John?"

"Yes." William was close to breaking down.

"That is no problem. If John is willing to travel, he can come with us. The world is open to you now. If it is John you want by your side, it is John you shall have. Do you trust me? It is Scottish that you are, son, not English. You are meant to help defend Scotland. Come, let us go home."