The Duke's Fourth Son

They had just the one chance of looking at each other as the young man's horse was guided into the central ward of Duke Basile's strongest and most inaccessible mountain castle in Lublin with the other five hostages in early December. Snow lay heavily on the ground. Jan, the fourth son of Hainrich, the Duke of Kowel, was the one to look away. Although he was the one who had created this predicament, Hainrich, astride a war horse and saddled in the midst of three of his protecting knights, wasn't the one looking away. The expression on his father's face told Jan everything he needed to know. His father was angry and felt he was being unfairly shamed. The life of his son and those of the other five nobles, merchants, and a bishop who were being exchanged as surety for Hainrich to ensure the rest of his ransom would be paid were in grave danger. The Duke of Kowel had been taken prisoner in a border skirmish between the forces of Kowel and Basile's duchy of Holszany, and a high ransom had been demanded for Hainrich's release.

Six hostages from the citizenry of Kowel had been demanded to be held by Basile upon payment of the last half of the ransom, which Basile had accepted that Hainrich had to return to Kowel to be able to raise. Basile had demanded that one of the hostages be one of Hainrich's sons. The natural choice was Jan, the duke's fourth son, who was being prepared to enter the church, having little other value to Hainrich as long as one of his three older sons lived. Given a hearty heir and spare, further sons lost their intrinsic value, barring tragedy.

Jan was eighteen, a beautiful, perfectly formed blond young man who had not been trained to either arms or government. His natural talent had been playing the lute and singing songs in a clear, high voice, which had little value at his father's tense, meanly financed, and morose court. His father, Hainrich, who gave him little heed in his first seventeen years had nothing to say to him today as the father and his small retinue, basking in their newly acquired freedom, rode out of Lublin Castle, and Jan, guided by the castle priest, Father Slawek, was taken into the castle keep.

The priest, not far into his twenties himself, and only recently having taken up his post in the castle from service in the city's cathedral and, before that, at the Opole Monastery at some distance away in the duchy, was, nonetheless, sharp-witted and quickly picked up on the weakness of the relationship between the Duke of Kowel—at least on Hainrich's side—and his youngest son. He could see that the Duke of Kowel's sacrifice in the hostages he provided was not as great as the Duke of Holszany would want to believe.

As they entered the castle, the youth looked up the sweeping staircase in the reception room, wondering what sort of accommodations the hostages would be given. He knew nothing of the Duke of Holszany—whether his nature was a kind or cruel one—other than that Jan's father despised the ruler of his neighboring, and richer duchy and that Holszany's duke had captured his father and held him for ransom—an onerous amount of ransom that would cripple Kowel's capability of waging war for years, if not decades. The sum was so large that only half had yet been delivered.

All Jan knew was that Holszany's duke was tall of stature and solidly built, and although he was a handsome, red-headed and bearded man of some thirty-five years, standing there like a strong oak at the top of the stairs into the keep as the hostages arrived and captive neighboring duke departed, he was a man of stern countenance. As soon as Duke Hainrich rode through the postern gate, a glowering Basile turned, and without waiting for the hostages to be taken off their horses, he disappeared into the castle. He had, though, first taken a deeply assessing look at the duke's son captive he had acquire with the other Kowel hostages.

Duke Basile had his fetishes, and in his realm there was no one to deny him his pleasures.

Jan had also taken an assessing look at the duke, as, although he had not acted on it, he already knew that his interests in life went more to attachment with older men, and especially commanding ones like Basile, than with women. It had been for this reason that he did not shrink away from a life in the church, where, though not biblically supported, men did make attachments with other men in this region of Europe in these medieval times.

Seeing where the youth's eyes had gone in the reception hall, the priest, Slawek, sighed and murmured in regretful, but, he hoped, encouraging tones that, "No, young sire, not up the stairs. Down the stairs behind them."

Jan couldn't help but shudder as he and the other hostages were herded down the stairs into the base rock of the mountain Lublin Castle rose from. They were taken only one level down, though, and the rock-enclosed chamber they were led into wasn't too much of a dungeon. It was on the side of the mountain sloping down, so there were windows, albeit encased in bars and with nowhere to go other than plunging to one's death into a raging-current river at the foot of the cliff if anyone managed to get through the bars. The floor, walls, and ceiling were stone, but there was fresh straw on the floor; beds, with rush mattresses and blankets, enough for each of the hostages; a long table, with sturdy chairs enough; and a private alcove with a pissoir and a narrow privy chute opening down the cliffside.

Not all of the hostages were there. The Bishop of Brno, from the chief city of Kowel, had been conducted up when the others were taken down. Obviously, as a prince of the church, he was being accorded better accommodations than the others. The one person Duke Basile could not distain in this transaction was the pope in Rome.

They were left in private, with guards outside the sturdy, locked door; the food was plentiful enough and probably a bit better than the standard fare in the poorer Duchy of Kowel; and water was brought in weekly to fill the stone tub in the corner of the room where the hostages could bathe themselves. When they bathed they were provided clean clothes. At the first change of clothes, though, Jan lost his noble-class distinction from the rest of the hostages. They all were dressed as meanly as the peasants of the fields. Still, the handsome young duke's son wore his clothes well and stood out from the other, older men.

The conditions were not any worse, other than the confinement, than the hostages were accorded in Kowel, and they were all of the upper classes in their home environments, so they had no reason to complain as long as their confinement was short and Hainrich sent back the rest of the ransom promptly.

The priest, Slawek, visited as soon as the hostages had been settled, pulled young Jan aside, knowing that he was the son of a duke, and asked if there was anything the youth needed that would be permitted by the guards.

"I'm sure your stay here will be short. It need not be unpleasant." Even as the priest said it, though, it was clear from the tone of his voice that he didn't fully believe that himself.

Jan was not so sure on the shortness of the stay and he already could see that his lot might be boredom. None of the other hostages spoke much to him. Not only were they deferential because he was their duke's son, but also it was their duke who had placed them in this position and they were not feeling all that kindly to the ruling house of Kowel.

"We have dice for the others, but I am not much for such games. Would paper and pen be permissible?" Jan asked. "I would wish to assure my mother that I was doing well. And perhaps a lute, if there is one. I do receive comfort from music."

The priest noticed that the youth hadn't mentioned writing his father, which was further evidence that the two were not close. "I will see what I can do," he answered.

When he returned, it was to express regret that the young man would not be permitted paper and pen or any sort of communication with his family until the rest of the ransom was paid. "But I have brought this lute. Perhaps you could play it for me."

And play it, the young duke's son did, demonstrating that he was a talented musician—and not only with the lute. He had a clear, sweet voice that went with it. The priest was so impressed that he came back daily. Slawek also was a talented singer, his voice register lower than the young man's, and much of the time of incarceration in that chamber went more quickly for Jan because of the musical sessions with the young priest.

These conditions lasted for only two weeks, though, at which time guards appeared and roughly moved the hostages down two levels into the true dungeon, where no special amenities were accorded them at all.

Jan need know nothing other than that they were moved into much meaner conditions to confirm what he already, in his gut, knew. His father wasn't going to pay the rest of the ransom. He must already have ignored a deadline.

When they were hustled out of the chamber down further into the dungeon, Jan was not permitted to take the lute, and Father Slawek was not there to soften the indignity of the rough handling down the stone steps into the cold, damp, and dark bowels of the castle.

* * * *

The precarious fate of the hostages became clear immediately upon being taken down to the dungeon. They weren't given a chance upon first arrival to survey how much further down the scale of amenities they had sunk because they saw little of the dungeon until their eyes adjusted to the weak flames from a few smoking torches set in the walls. They were all stripped down, hung from the stone walls on chains, and left in the dank darkness long enough to be nearly overcome with fear before any sort of explanation was provided why they were being treated this way.

After an indeterminate time, the dungeon was filled with light as guards came in carrying flaming torches. They were followed by the Duke of Holszany himself, Basile, who was carrying both an expression of anger and a horse whip in his hand. Behind him, walking between two guards, was the Biship of Brno, looking no worse for whatever inconvenience he had experienced.

"Behold the objects of Duke Hainrich's surety for the now-long-overdue remainder of his ransom pledge, Bishop," the duke spat out. "I want you to behold and report how the hostages suffer for Hainrich's failure to fulfill his agreement."

The guards standing at the sides of the Bishop of Brno then took hold of the clergyman and made him watch as the duke stripped down to breeches, showing off a magnificent, reddish-hair-dusted, muscular torso, went from one hostage to the other, and whipped each man's writhing bare-flesh back, buttocks, and legs. He worked his own exercise up to where his chest glistened in the torchlight. Putting his bulging biceps to work, he raised welts and blood but whipped with some restraint, which he promised to the bishop was only the beginning. He was perhaps a bit more lenient in whipping Jan, the young eighteen-year-old son of Duke Hainrich, but he was more engaging with his hands on the young man's flesh than with the others. All in all, the duke seemed to be enjoying this sport—he certainly enjoyed it more than the hostages did.

When he had made the circuit, he turned to the bishop and said, "You will return to Duke Hainrich and attest to what you have seen and convey that conditions will be no better for the hostages until you have returned with the rest of the ransom money. The balance is already overdue. If you have not returned by Epiphany, January 6th of the new year, I will hang one of the hostages every three days. And if I have not received payment by the time the lives of the hostages have been exhausted, I will come get it myself. Hainrich already knows his forces will buckle to mine on the battlefield. That is how he came to owe the ransom."

With that, he pulled his leather jerkin down over his head and stormed out of the dungeon. At the duke's signal, the bishop's guards drew the cleric away as well. The hostages were then let down from where they were hanging from the wall in chains, and, while assessing the effects of the whipping on their bodies, were given the opportunity to see in the light from the additional torches that had been left attached to the walls that, in addition to this chamber being far meaner, damper, and colder than the one they had left, they no longer had fresh straw on the floors, beds to lie in, a sufficient number of blankets to keep them warm, or a separate privy to meet the demands of their bodies. They would also learn in time that meals were neither regular in delivery nor of the quality they had heretofore enjoyed.

Within the hour of their release, servants arrived, under the guidance of Father Slawek. They brought salves and bandages, and the priest supervised them in the tending to the hostages' wounds. There was nothing that could attend to the indignity they had suffered at Duke Hainrich's failure to send the rest of the ransom money, however.

Slawek himself attended to Jan, cooing to the young man in soothing tones, and he held the duke's son close, glided his hands lovingly over the bruised flesh of the beautiful young man, and gave him such comfort and soothing of pain as he could. The effect was to raise the arousal and interest he had in Jan. Jan responded in kind, further arousing the priest.

"I will do what I can for you," he whispered to Jan. "I'm sure that Duke Basile doesn't mean what he has threatened to do and that his anger will abate. Christmastide approaches. There will be a big banquet, and I am sure his spirits and thoughts of charity will rise."

Jan couldn't be that sure about Duke Basile's mood and the seriousness of his intentions. What he could be sure of, though, was that his father, Duke Hainrich, didn't care a fig about the hostages, including his fourth son, and would not be paying the balance of the ransom. This treatment was all too mean for the Bishop of Brno, of course, who had not shared in the severity of the captivity even when it wasn't all that severe. The church gave the bishop some protection from Basile's ire. The presence of Duke Hainrich's own flesh and blood could only elevate that ire toward the young man, though. Jan was sure he'd never see the bishop again any more than he was likely ever to see his father again in this lifetime.

He had no reason to want to see his father again, however.

He did take comfort in Father Slawek's gentle ministrations, though, and if the touch of Father Slawek's hands on him was a bit more than medical need required, this did not repel the young man either. He needed all of the goodwill and support he could get in these circumstances and he was attracted to the handsome young priest.

* * * *

Two days later the guards came for Jan. They took him out of the dungeon and up several levels in the castle to a small room that was an improvement over both of the chambers he'd occupied in the castle before. He had no anticipation he'd be staying here, though, until servants appeared with water and a tub and a change of clothes—something more colorful and serviceable, after three weeks belowdecks in the castle, than what he'd been given while he was in the dungeon. When they were done, he once more looked like the son of a duke.

After he was dressed again, Father Slawek came into the room. He was carrying a lute, which he handed to Jan. "Duke Basile is having a banquet on the Eve of Christmas," Slawek said.

"When is that?" Jan asked. "What day is it now?"

The priest looked a bit confused and then, when he realized that the hostages probably had lost track of time, especially in the dark dungeon without windows, he said, "Tomorrow. The Eve of Christmas is tomorrow." He continued. "I had told Duke Basile of your talent with the lute and song and he spoke to me of how presentable he found you when he last saw you." The priest paused here as they both knew that when the duke last saw the eighteen-year-old, Jan was nearly naked, was hanging from a dungeon wall in chains, and the duke was whipping him.

"You are to play the lute and sing at the banquet. I would not suggest refusing to do so. Your lot may improve if you please the duke and his guests. Part of why you will be at the banquet will be to show off the son of a duke Basile has defeated and held captive. He wants to be able to claim to the public that his treatment of the hostages is humane. It will be easier for you if you are there willingly and have a function—entertaining with the lute and song."

"And afterward?" Jan asked. "Do I come back here afterward or am I thrown back into the dungeon?"

Slawek started to say something but then decided not to. "Who can be sure? I would hope it will be better than the conditions you have been living in. It may depend on how you act at the banquet. You may be able to better your lot. Pay particular attention to trying to please the duke."

"My father hasn't sent the rest of the ransom, has he?—and there's no indication that he will."

"No, he has not," the priest said, reluctantly, "there is no hint of that. But perhaps the duke will show mercy to the hostages."

"But you do not think he will, do you?" Jan whispered.

"I think you should do what you need to do to be the hostage he does not give his anger too," the priest said. Again, he was about to add something to that, but then he didn't.

Jan was perplexed. The priest hadn't answered the question, but, upon reflection later, the young man realized that perhaps he had.

"I will play. I will be happy to play. And thank you for bringing me a lute. Can you stay and sing with me for a time? I will need to practice for the banquet."

"I would like nothing better to do than that," Slawek said, trying his best not to reveal that he was smitten with the young man and was determined to do all he could to save him—and that he wanted to be around him. "We must make you as handsome as possible for the banquet and you need to be as agreeable and friendly to the duke and his friends as you can be."

"Won't I just be behind a curtain somewhere?"

"No. You will be prominently displayed. You will remind those at the banquet of Duke Basile besting your father but also that he is treating the hostages well. You should not think of that. You should please them all—and especially the duke—as best you can."

Again, Jan didn't understand at that point why this would be so important, or why Father Slawek seemed to be sad in discussing it, but he would certainly come to understand why in the days to come.

* * * *

Jan was the butt of jokes aimed at his father when he first entered the banquet hall on Christmas Eve, but there were also favorable comments on the beauty of the eighteen-year-old youth and some bawdy bantering on Duke Basile having kept him hidden away to keep for himself. The young man didn't understand what they were hinting at at that point, but he made the connection later. The guests at the banquet well knew the preferences of their duke.

Once Jan was positioned on a tabletop near the center of the banquet hall and had started playing his lute and singing his ballads, all were won over. The priest Slawek joined him in song at several points. The music of the evening was meant to be only background sound behind the boisterous talk as the banqueters caroused and for most musicians that evening, that was what it was. But guests paid attention to Jan and demonstrated their approval, some of them bold enough to tell the duke what a lucky man he was.

The banquet was still going but winding down a bit when guards came to take Jan out of the hall. Slawek accompanied the young man up the stairs into the upper reaches of the castle. When they reached the level where the room was located that Jan had been taken to prepare for the banquet, though, they didn't stop. The guards prodded the young man up another set of stairs. Jan turned a questioning face to the priest, who grimaced.