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“Lies!” Lord Praecepsia hissed from the corner of the room where he watched. “The boy lies! He saw something that day in the woods. And as a result, he speaks through the mouth of evil.”
The baron wanted to laugh at his father. Wanted to tell him to return to the hell from which he had indisputably come, but that was exactly what they both wanted of him. Confessing would have been his death sentence.
“Perhaps you have been there,Father,to speak so assuredly on my behalf.” Though small, the boy’s insult had him smiling as he watched his father’s face blanch.
“Your father fears for your soul, and as one who has borne witness to the evil corruption of young boys such as yourself, I cannot deny the telling signs of it in you.” The bishop circled him to his back, and when he leaned in, the baron felt the moist steam of hot breath against his neck. “I will tear away the nefarious beast which has taken residence in your heart like the fragile wings of an insect.” He stepped away, and the baron directed his gaze toward the stony floor, where bloodstains marked the punishment of others before him. “Come forth, demon of Lucifer. Come forth and reveal your wicked intent!”
The whooshing sound of leather sliced through the air and struck hard against the baron’s flesh. Pain rippled over his skin, searing and hot like scorched metal. He swallowed back a whimper, not daring to give them the satisfaction of hearing his cries. Another streak of fire licked his flesh. Another whoosh and crack. His knees buckled, knuckles burning as he gripped the chain for support. More lashes followed, and the baron opened his eyes in time to see his own fresh blood mingled with stains on the floor.
“Confess! Confess now!”
He could hear the exasperation in the bishop’s voice, a sound that only goaded him to remain silent.
“You will confess for the sake of your soul! Every drop of blood spilled is a testament of the devil’s hold on you! It is milk for the beast.”
Each strike arrived in an unbearable cadence of agony, until all at once, the baron felt a different sensation bubble up inside of him. One of anticipation.
Freedom.
He tipped his head back and spat a listless chuckle, which was met with a gasp from the young pentrosh across the room, who stood covering his mouth with his hands.
“Your defiance does not sway me, boy. I have learned to be resolute in the face of evil. Now tell me, what will you confess? What sins burn in your belly like fire?”
Again, the young baron chuckled darkly, breathing shallow so as not to disrupt his wounds. “It is only … the urge to piss … on your fine shoes … which burns inside of me.”
On a growl, the bishop struck again, and when the leather bit his muscles, the baron let out a groan. “Mark my words. I will exorcize this dark creature from your soul. If it takes an entire lifetime, I will see you purified. We will reconvene after your wounds have had the opportunity to properly heal. And then, young lord, the true inquisition will begin.”
* * *
With one arm wrapped around him, Drystan helped the baron lower to the soft bed mattress. The wounds on his back flared in protest, and the baron turned onto his stomach, burying his face into the mattress. The bishop had allowed him to return to the manor, but only for his father’s sake.
How would the great Lord Praecepsia be perceived, had his own son been accused of heresy?
“You haven’t so much as moaned. I dare say you seem content. How is that possible after such cruel punishment?” Drystan asked, daubing a wet cloth against the opened flesh.
The truth was, during punishment, his mind had raced with so many vicious thoughts, his rage as strong and unrelenting as the leather which tore at his back, that he’d barely felt the pain through the numbness. But as he lay in the aftermath, the agony poked at him with a vengeance. He searched his mind for distraction. Anything that could deter his focus from what must have been a grotesque sight to behold.
In the nothingness, a figure emerged. One with long, raven hair and skin as fair and flawless as the fresh snow. The soothing nature of her voice somehow mingled with the searing burn on his back, entwining itself like silken ribbons across a blade’s edge. An inexplicable arousal throbbed in his groin, and he shifted on the bed, groaning into the pillow.
“That is the first sound of agony I’ve heard out of you. Dear Lord in Heaven, if you saw what I see … well, you would surely vomit.”
While the baron wanted to hate Drystan and all he represented, it so happened he was the only semblance of a friend the boy had, seeing as the baron had been cast as evil from the time he had been born. The villagers paid him respect out of stature only, because of his name and his father’s position, while otherwise speaking ill of him behind his back.
“Leave, if it troubles you so much.” Something had happened inside that small room in the undercroft, which stank of dried blood and suffering. As he hung from those chains, helpless and hopeless, he’d felt a mystifying exhilaration consume him. A delicious fearlessness that had curled in his stomach with every strike to his back. The visions in his head had darkened, a black, toxic fume of elation that held him captivated.
Craving.
“What troubles me is that you insist on prodding your father. Do you not know that just three nights ago, young Lord Fletcher was taken down into that very room and has not been heard from since?” Drystan dipped the blood-soaked rag into the basin of water on the table beside the bed, squeezing the pink-tinged fluids from the cloth. When he set it on a new wound, the baron’s muscles flinched with the burn.
“For whatcrime?” The baron could not help the sarcasm in his voice. The boys taken to the undercroft had rarely ever committed a crime worthy of the punishment rumored to have been doled there. Punishment, for which, he could now attest.
“He claimed to have seen a tiny serpent-like creature housed within an apple.”
“He was murdered for observation of a worm?”
“It was no worm. I saw it myself. And I will not dare describe the nature of it, except to say, itwas no worm.”
“It did not matter what I said to the bishop. Whether I confessed, or remained silent. He has longed to punish me for quite some time.”
