Privileges Chapter Four
Aug. 27th, 2009 09:17 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dysonrulesWherein this fic takes a sharp right turn into darker territory... *hides*
Draco sneered as he got to his feet. He made his way to the kitchen where Molly handed him a large wineskin. “Be careful, lad,” she said. “That Sir Davies has a mean look about him.” Draco nodded. Indeed, he was already silently composing a letter to his father demanding comeuppance for Sir Davies.
Draco carried the wineskin over to the guard captain, who watched him with an unpleasant expression. Draco poured the wine carefully, unwilling to hear another slur pass the bastard’s lips. It was a wasted effort.
“You’re a pretty one, you are,” Davies said in a low tone that only Draco could hear. “What other services do you provide for Lord Tensbury?” As the question registered, Draco felt a hand touch the inside of his thigh and travel higher.
He stiffened in outrage, shocked at the man’s temerity, and completely forgot Tensbury’s advice. He poured the entire contents of the wineskin directly into Davies’ lap with a snarled, “You scabrous, mangy cur!”
Davies leaped to his feet with a loud bellow. Before Draco could move, Davies’ fist caught his jaw in a vicious backhand, knocking backward to the floor. “You little—!”
Metal snicked against hard leather and Draco blinked up through a blurred haze to see Davies brandishing a long dagger with a wicked expression on his face. He fought through the ringing in his ears, knowing he needed to stand and fight.
“Hold, Davies!” Blackfell shouted. His voice rang with such authority that Davies halted and glared at him. Draco climbed to his feet, shaking off the effects of the blow with effort. He clenched his fists, intending to take on the soldier with his bare hands, if necessary. The knife made him pause and he glared at Sir Blackfell.
“Tensbury, this braying ass dared to lay a hand on me. I demand retribution!” Draco proclaimed. He touched his throbbing cheek with a hand and glanced about for a weapon.
“Retribution?” Davies bellowed in a disbelieving tone. “Blackfell, if you don’t beat some manners into this whelp, I will!”
Tensbury’s face was dark and his green eyes seemed to sparkle with rage. “Draco, go upstairs. I will deal with you later.”
“I will not!” Draco declared haughtily. “Not until this bastard is suitably punished.”
Shocked silence met his words, finally broken by Tensbury, who spoke in a flat tone. “Ron. Neville. Take Draco below.”
Below? Draco’s eyes widened in surprise. Surely, Blackfell was not siding with the wretched knight? He opened his mouth to protest.
“Not another word!” Tensbury said in a voice that brooked no argument. Draco snapped his jaw shut, weighing his options. He wanted nothing more than to take Davies apart piece by piece, but his father had arranged this farce to keep Draco from the seminary. If he destroyed the sham this quickly, he would be off to join the priesthood for certain.
That, more than the approach of Tensbury’s underlings, decided him. He glanced at the trapdoor near the stairs with an open sneer of annoyance. It doubtlessly revealed a ladder that led to a storage pit or a donjon. Rather than allow Blackfell’s underlings to touch him, Draco threw one final threatening glare at Davies.
“You have not heard the last of this,” he warned in a low tone and then stalked to the trapdoor on his own. He could hear Blackfell growling at Davies, although he could not make out the words. Draco silently vowed that Blackfell would pay dearly for not allowing him to take out the price of the blow on Davies’ flesh.
Neville opened the trapdoor to reveal a narrow set of stone steps that led down into darkness. He took a torch from the wall and descended, followed by Neville and Ron.
The steep steps led to a circular underground room. Several casks and crates were stacked against one wall. A large wooden pillar stood in the centre of the room, bracing the ceiling of the Great Hall far above.
Neville hovered with the torch near the stairs, looking uncomfortable. The redhead perched on a crate, still gnawing on a hunk of gravy-soaked bread. Draco leaned on the centre post and waited for Blackfell, who would no doubt give him a stern talking to for dousing Davies and wasting perfectly good wine. Or perfectly wretched wine, actually, since these backwater outposts seldom had anything resembling decent vintages. Besides, once Blackfell heard what Davies had done, he would know that Draco had been justified.
Footsteps sounded on the steps just as Draco concluded his self-righteous reverie. Blackfell appeared, looking even angrier than he had above.
“Out,” he said tightly and jerked his head toward the steps. Neville nearly squeaked as he jammed the torch into a wall bracket and pounded up the steps. Ron scooted off the crate and gave Draco a wink as he passed.
“Luck, mate,” he said cryptically before he disappeared after Neville. The door slammed shut far above.
Sir Blackfell turned his baleful green gaze on Draco, but said nothing. Instead he walked over to a large table near the stairs. It was topped with debris of all types—broken clay vessels, metal tools, bits of wood and assorted leather pieces. Blackfell studied it all for a moment while the silence between them grew. Draco frowned, determined to wait and hear what Tensbury had to say before speaking his piece.
Blackfell picked up something metallic. “I am not certain you understand what it means to be a squire, Draco,” he said softly.
Draco rolled his eyes. “Of course I do.”
“You seem reluctant to accept the concept of obedience.”
“I am used to commanding, not being commanded.”
“And yet you agreed to become my squire as commanded by your father, the king,” Blackfell said conversationally as he walked toward Draco. He toyed with a bit of iron in his hands, twisting the pieces together.
“It is acceptable to take orders from those of higher rank,” Draco explained as though he spoke to a child.
Blackfell moved swiftly, covering the last few feet and pressing Draco hard against the post. Draco caught his breath, almost alarmed at the intense expression of fury on Blackfell’s face. “As of this morning, Draco, I do outrank you. You are my squire and by hell you will start acting like one. I did not work like a bloody slave since I was seven years old in order to have my goal snatched from my very grasp by a spoiled brat who can’t seem to understand the concept of taking orders!”
Draco’s eyes widened and he felt slightly panicked when he realized Blackfell’s chest was pressed quite firmly against his own. “It was my understanding that you were in full agreement with this arrangement. Or have you changed your mind about taking the cloth, Draco?” Tensbury nearly purred. The tone of his voice sent an odd rush of heat tangling through Draco’s midsection.
“No,” he breathed.
“Good,” Blackfell said and something cold clicked around Draco’s wrist. Before he could blink, Tensbury spun him around and locked another cold item about his other wrist before dragging his hands upward. Draco’s chest scraped against the wooden pole, which was a far cry from Blackfell’s warm body.
Draco pulled at his arms, but his wrists were firmly shackled to the post. “What? What are you doing?”
Draco heard the sound of tearing cloth and he gasped when cool air struck the suddenly-bare skin of his back. Blackfell’s voice resembled the iron that bound Draco’s wrists. “It is time for you to learn that disobedience earns punishment, Draco.”
Something whistled through the air and Draco nearly screamed as something sharp bit into his flesh, cutting across his back from shoulder to ribs. Hard leather. Tensbury was whipping him!
He had barely processed the thought and braced himself when a second blow slashed across his back, crossing over the first that now felt like a stripe of flame. He bit his lip to keep from crying out. A third blow struck and Draco pressed against the wooden pole, trying vainly to escape the burning sensation. He whimpered at the fourth lash and the muscles in his arms strained against their bonds.
His back felt like it had been doused in burning oil by the time the sixth blow landed. Pride alone kept him from shrieking aloud and begging Tensbury to stop. The bastard was methodical, spacing the blows evenly and taking care to strike a new patch of flesh each time.
Draco stopped counting, mindlessly cringing against the rough post with each blow and remaining on his feet though sheer force of will. His vision flickered darkly at the edges and he tasted blood. Either he had bitten his tongue or smashed his lip against the pole—it did not seem to matter which, as the pain covering his back drowned all other awareness.
Blackfell must have released him, because he suddenly slid to his knees, scraping his cheek harshly against the wood. He felt someone grip his arms and then he was pulled against a softer surface that he could not identify.
“Oh fuck,” Draco heard and then he surrendered to the darkness.
~~ O ~~
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, Harry thought as he stared at the red welts crisscrossing Draco’s back. He had been so angry that he had almost completely lost control. What the hell had he been thinking? He had beaten King Lucius’ son senseless.
Harry dropped the whip as a sickening sensation gripped him. He had allowed Davies to goad him into a blind rage, insinuating that Draco had made a sexual advance and then upended the wine in his lap, unprovoked. Harry knew it could not be true, and yet the very idea of Draco touching Davies in an erotic fashion… It had driven him beyond a state of anger into near-madness.
Harry frowned as he scanned the marks once more. Only one blow had drawn blood. Despite his rage, he had been careful not to break the skin. Harry had been beaten far worse and many more times than he could count by his own master. Harry had only given Draco ten strokes with a single leather lash. It should not have been enough to make the man swoon.
Harry supposed it might be the shock of never having been beaten. Bloody hell, Draco would certainly write to his father, now. Harry felt a hanging looming on the horizon, perhaps accompanied by being drawn and quartered.
He reluctantly released the blond, who looked tragic crumpled on the dirt of the donjon floor. Harry suddenly felt sick. Draco was a right prat most of the time, but Harry still felt that he had marred something beautiful. He hurried up the stairs and signalled for Ron and Neville to take Draco to his room.
Davies watched with approval as Draco’s limp body was carried from the trapdoor and up the stairs to the second level. Harry kept his face impassive, but he wanted nothing more than to wipe the self-satisfied smirk from Sir Roger Davies’ face. Why had he let the pompous arse goad him into doing something so abysmally stupid? Granted, King Lucius had given Harry permission to beat Draco, if necessary, but the monarch had likely doubted Harry would ever dare.
The remainder of the meal seemed endless. Harry kept his gaze from darting to the stairs, but as soon as it was seemly he excused himself and hurried to his room. Draco was thankfully still unconscious. He lay facedown on his pallet.
Harry quickly fetched a jar of unguent from his personal stores and sank to his knees beside the blond. He spread the salve over each welt, feeling every mark as though it marred his own skin. The bloody wound was a small gash over Draco’s ribs where three lashes had crisscrossed.
Harry used a wet cloth to wash the blood away and Draco stirred with a low moan. An apology was on Harry’s tongue, but he choked it back. “Lie still,” he commanded.
Draco stiffened, at once completely awake. Harry touched a bit of salve to the bleeding cut and heard Draco’s sharp intake of breath. The salve stung at first, but it would deaden the pain and soothe the burn.
Surprisingly, the prince said nothing. Harry continued to dab on the salve and then replaced the stopper before setting the jar aside. He removed Draco’s boots and then covered his legs with a light blanket, taking care not to pull it up over his waist. He doubted the blond would appreciate Harry removing his hosen, so he left those alone.
He felt Draco’s eyes on him as he took off his own clothing and slid into bed before blowing out the light. “Goodnight, Draco,” he said softly.
“Good night, my lord,” he heard bitterly.
Harry sighed. Sleep was a long time coming.
~~ O ~~
Draco awakened early and was instantly aware of the pain. It felt like he had been stung by a thousand bees. He was also stiff as a board from sleeping on the uncomfortable pallet—if it could be called sleep. Every movement in the night had jolted him out of sleep. He sat up, wincing when his back stretched the welts and set up renewed throbbing.
He got to his feet and walked to the fireplace. The room was cold. He shot a glare at the dark head that lay on the white pillow. His master was still asleep. Draco’s lip curled. To think he had almost started to like the bastard yesterday.
Draco knelt and looked blankly at the fire-making supplies. There were small bundles of twigs, wood chips, and larger split logs next to a square of flint. Draco vaguely remembered watching his servants build a fire, but he was damned if he could recall how they did it.
“You don’t know how to lay a fire?” a dry voice asked and Draco straightened. He nearly bit his tongue to stifle a gasp of pain. He did not bother to snarl a reply. Surely the idiot knew he had never been without someone to perform the most rudimentary of chores.
He heard Tensbury slide from the bed and then the man knelt next to him. He took a small bundle of twigs and placed them beneath the metal grate of the fire before adding a stack of larger chips and gradually larger pieces, building them into a small tower.
After retrieving a dagger from the sheath hanging from the bedpost, Tensbury struck the flint piece until sparks flew onto the twig bundle and then he leaned down and blew until something ignited. Flickers of flame grew steadily brighter until Draco could see Tensbury’s face clearly. The man seemed transfixed by the wood as it was consumed.
Draco turned away and picked up his tunic, although he dreaded to put it on.
“Wait,” said Sir Blackfell.
Draco glared at him, but Tensbury held an earthenware jar.
“This will help. Lie on the bed.”
Draco thought about arguing, but the salve had helped measurably last night and his pride did not extend to stupidity. At least, he hoped it didn’t. He walked forward and sprawled obediently on the blankets before pulling the down-filled pillow toward him. It smelled of Tensbury and Draco fought the knowledge that it was anything but unpleasant.
Sir Blackfell sat next to him and then Draco felt coolness dab at the flames consuming his back. Tensbury’s touch was tentative at first, but grew more assured when Draco neither moved nor commented.
“You most likely despise me right now,” Tensbury said conversationally. “And if you choose to end our association I will allow you to send a messenger to your father this morning. You probably think your beating to be unfair, but Davies would never have given me an inkling of respect had I not punished you. I take my duties seriously. Your father gave this responsibility to me and I will not shirk it. Do you understand?”
“I am not a child,” Draco snapped.
“No. No, you are definitely not a child,” Tensbury said and something in the tone of his voice made Draco’s breath catch in his throat. Tensbury’s hands suddenly seemed less like those of a physician and more like those of a…
He swallowed hard, not allowing the thought to fully materialize. It would not do to see Tensbury as anything other than his overlord. And his hands, though gentle, had still caused pain as they glided over the wounds inflicted by those very hands.
Sir Blackfell finally finished his ministrations and handed Draco a tunic of soft lambskin. It was far less abrasive on Draco’s raw flesh than harsh wool would have been, but Draco could not find it in him to thank the man. He dragged on the tunic and quickly threw on the remainder of his clothing.
“Will you help me to dress?” Tensbury asked just as Draco prepared to bolt out the door. He was willing to do whatever menial chore necessary to escape Sir Blackfell’s disturbing presence. Draco’s face flamed at the question and he nearly snarled in rage, but at the last moment he realized Tensbury might be baiting him. He restrained his anger with effort.
“By all means,” he said in the mildest tone possible and sent a quick prayer of thanks to his mother for teaching him to remain calm and use dulcet tones so as not to offend any obnoxious foreign dignitaries.
Tensbury’s brow rose, but he only nodded and began to shrug into his clothing. Draco wordlessly assisted the man with his tunic, dropping it over his head in a manner that would have gotten his own valet fired. Luckily, Tensbury was rustic enough not to notice. He had thankfully slept in his braies, so Draco was spared tugging those over lean legs and lacing them, but he did drop to his knees to help Tensbury with the cross-garters on his shoes. It was a strange feeling, being on his knees before anyone, and especially Tensbury. Draco kept his eyes firmly fixed on his task.
He quickly got to his feet and suppressed a wince when the movement pulled at his back. Tensbury held out both arms from his sides and Draco gazed at him blankly for a moment.
“Belt?” Sir Blackfell prodded gently.
Draco nodded and took the sword belt from the bedpost. He leaned close and reached behind Tensbury to place the leather strap. Tensbury’s scent assaulted him once more, reminding him of the knight’s firm body pressed against his prior to the beating. Draco suddenly felt uncomfortably warm.
He jerked the belt tight and buckled it around Tensbury’s hips with a rough motion before stepping back several steps.
“Will there be anything else, my lord?” he asked stiffly.
“You can fetch my breakfast. I would rather not eat in the hall with Sir Davies and the others, should they happen to rise after all the drink they imbibed last night. I will be going over accounts at my desk.” Tensbury jerked a dark head at the large desk near the window embrasure. “You can join me, if you’d like.”
About to declare that he would rather dine with a pit full of starving wolves, Draco remembered Davies with a grimace. He would rather eat with starving wolves and Sir Blackfell than Davies. He muttered something incomprehensible and slipped out the door.
Draco sneered as he got to his feet. He made his way to the kitchen where Molly handed him a large wineskin. “Be careful, lad,” she said. “That Sir Davies has a mean look about him.” Draco nodded. Indeed, he was already silently composing a letter to his father demanding comeuppance for Sir Davies.
Draco carried the wineskin over to the guard captain, who watched him with an unpleasant expression. Draco poured the wine carefully, unwilling to hear another slur pass the bastard’s lips. It was a wasted effort.
“You’re a pretty one, you are,” Davies said in a low tone that only Draco could hear. “What other services do you provide for Lord Tensbury?” As the question registered, Draco felt a hand touch the inside of his thigh and travel higher.
He stiffened in outrage, shocked at the man’s temerity, and completely forgot Tensbury’s advice. He poured the entire contents of the wineskin directly into Davies’ lap with a snarled, “You scabrous, mangy cur!”
Davies leaped to his feet with a loud bellow. Before Draco could move, Davies’ fist caught his jaw in a vicious backhand, knocking backward to the floor. “You little—!”
Metal snicked against hard leather and Draco blinked up through a blurred haze to see Davies brandishing a long dagger with a wicked expression on his face. He fought through the ringing in his ears, knowing he needed to stand and fight.
“Hold, Davies!” Blackfell shouted. His voice rang with such authority that Davies halted and glared at him. Draco climbed to his feet, shaking off the effects of the blow with effort. He clenched his fists, intending to take on the soldier with his bare hands, if necessary. The knife made him pause and he glared at Sir Blackfell.
“Tensbury, this braying ass dared to lay a hand on me. I demand retribution!” Draco proclaimed. He touched his throbbing cheek with a hand and glanced about for a weapon.
“Retribution?” Davies bellowed in a disbelieving tone. “Blackfell, if you don’t beat some manners into this whelp, I will!”
Tensbury’s face was dark and his green eyes seemed to sparkle with rage. “Draco, go upstairs. I will deal with you later.”
“I will not!” Draco declared haughtily. “Not until this bastard is suitably punished.”
Shocked silence met his words, finally broken by Tensbury, who spoke in a flat tone. “Ron. Neville. Take Draco below.”
Below? Draco’s eyes widened in surprise. Surely, Blackfell was not siding with the wretched knight? He opened his mouth to protest.
“Not another word!” Tensbury said in a voice that brooked no argument. Draco snapped his jaw shut, weighing his options. He wanted nothing more than to take Davies apart piece by piece, but his father had arranged this farce to keep Draco from the seminary. If he destroyed the sham this quickly, he would be off to join the priesthood for certain.
That, more than the approach of Tensbury’s underlings, decided him. He glanced at the trapdoor near the stairs with an open sneer of annoyance. It doubtlessly revealed a ladder that led to a storage pit or a donjon. Rather than allow Blackfell’s underlings to touch him, Draco threw one final threatening glare at Davies.
“You have not heard the last of this,” he warned in a low tone and then stalked to the trapdoor on his own. He could hear Blackfell growling at Davies, although he could not make out the words. Draco silently vowed that Blackfell would pay dearly for not allowing him to take out the price of the blow on Davies’ flesh.
Neville opened the trapdoor to reveal a narrow set of stone steps that led down into darkness. He took a torch from the wall and descended, followed by Neville and Ron.
The steep steps led to a circular underground room. Several casks and crates were stacked against one wall. A large wooden pillar stood in the centre of the room, bracing the ceiling of the Great Hall far above.
Neville hovered with the torch near the stairs, looking uncomfortable. The redhead perched on a crate, still gnawing on a hunk of gravy-soaked bread. Draco leaned on the centre post and waited for Blackfell, who would no doubt give him a stern talking to for dousing Davies and wasting perfectly good wine. Or perfectly wretched wine, actually, since these backwater outposts seldom had anything resembling decent vintages. Besides, once Blackfell heard what Davies had done, he would know that Draco had been justified.
Footsteps sounded on the steps just as Draco concluded his self-righteous reverie. Blackfell appeared, looking even angrier than he had above.
“Out,” he said tightly and jerked his head toward the steps. Neville nearly squeaked as he jammed the torch into a wall bracket and pounded up the steps. Ron scooted off the crate and gave Draco a wink as he passed.
“Luck, mate,” he said cryptically before he disappeared after Neville. The door slammed shut far above.
Sir Blackfell turned his baleful green gaze on Draco, but said nothing. Instead he walked over to a large table near the stairs. It was topped with debris of all types—broken clay vessels, metal tools, bits of wood and assorted leather pieces. Blackfell studied it all for a moment while the silence between them grew. Draco frowned, determined to wait and hear what Tensbury had to say before speaking his piece.
Blackfell picked up something metallic. “I am not certain you understand what it means to be a squire, Draco,” he said softly.
Draco rolled his eyes. “Of course I do.”
“You seem reluctant to accept the concept of obedience.”
“I am used to commanding, not being commanded.”
“And yet you agreed to become my squire as commanded by your father, the king,” Blackfell said conversationally as he walked toward Draco. He toyed with a bit of iron in his hands, twisting the pieces together.
“It is acceptable to take orders from those of higher rank,” Draco explained as though he spoke to a child.
Blackfell moved swiftly, covering the last few feet and pressing Draco hard against the post. Draco caught his breath, almost alarmed at the intense expression of fury on Blackfell’s face. “As of this morning, Draco, I do outrank you. You are my squire and by hell you will start acting like one. I did not work like a bloody slave since I was seven years old in order to have my goal snatched from my very grasp by a spoiled brat who can’t seem to understand the concept of taking orders!”
Draco’s eyes widened and he felt slightly panicked when he realized Blackfell’s chest was pressed quite firmly against his own. “It was my understanding that you were in full agreement with this arrangement. Or have you changed your mind about taking the cloth, Draco?” Tensbury nearly purred. The tone of his voice sent an odd rush of heat tangling through Draco’s midsection.
“No,” he breathed.
“Good,” Blackfell said and something cold clicked around Draco’s wrist. Before he could blink, Tensbury spun him around and locked another cold item about his other wrist before dragging his hands upward. Draco’s chest scraped against the wooden pole, which was a far cry from Blackfell’s warm body.
Draco pulled at his arms, but his wrists were firmly shackled to the post. “What? What are you doing?”
Draco heard the sound of tearing cloth and he gasped when cool air struck the suddenly-bare skin of his back. Blackfell’s voice resembled the iron that bound Draco’s wrists. “It is time for you to learn that disobedience earns punishment, Draco.”
Something whistled through the air and Draco nearly screamed as something sharp bit into his flesh, cutting across his back from shoulder to ribs. Hard leather. Tensbury was whipping him!
He had barely processed the thought and braced himself when a second blow slashed across his back, crossing over the first that now felt like a stripe of flame. He bit his lip to keep from crying out. A third blow struck and Draco pressed against the wooden pole, trying vainly to escape the burning sensation. He whimpered at the fourth lash and the muscles in his arms strained against their bonds.
His back felt like it had been doused in burning oil by the time the sixth blow landed. Pride alone kept him from shrieking aloud and begging Tensbury to stop. The bastard was methodical, spacing the blows evenly and taking care to strike a new patch of flesh each time.
Draco stopped counting, mindlessly cringing against the rough post with each blow and remaining on his feet though sheer force of will. His vision flickered darkly at the edges and he tasted blood. Either he had bitten his tongue or smashed his lip against the pole—it did not seem to matter which, as the pain covering his back drowned all other awareness.
Blackfell must have released him, because he suddenly slid to his knees, scraping his cheek harshly against the wood. He felt someone grip his arms and then he was pulled against a softer surface that he could not identify.
“Oh fuck,” Draco heard and then he surrendered to the darkness.
~~ O ~~
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, Harry thought as he stared at the red welts crisscrossing Draco’s back. He had been so angry that he had almost completely lost control. What the hell had he been thinking? He had beaten King Lucius’ son senseless.
Harry dropped the whip as a sickening sensation gripped him. He had allowed Davies to goad him into a blind rage, insinuating that Draco had made a sexual advance and then upended the wine in his lap, unprovoked. Harry knew it could not be true, and yet the very idea of Draco touching Davies in an erotic fashion… It had driven him beyond a state of anger into near-madness.
Harry frowned as he scanned the marks once more. Only one blow had drawn blood. Despite his rage, he had been careful not to break the skin. Harry had been beaten far worse and many more times than he could count by his own master. Harry had only given Draco ten strokes with a single leather lash. It should not have been enough to make the man swoon.
Harry supposed it might be the shock of never having been beaten. Bloody hell, Draco would certainly write to his father, now. Harry felt a hanging looming on the horizon, perhaps accompanied by being drawn and quartered.
He reluctantly released the blond, who looked tragic crumpled on the dirt of the donjon floor. Harry suddenly felt sick. Draco was a right prat most of the time, but Harry still felt that he had marred something beautiful. He hurried up the stairs and signalled for Ron and Neville to take Draco to his room.
Davies watched with approval as Draco’s limp body was carried from the trapdoor and up the stairs to the second level. Harry kept his face impassive, but he wanted nothing more than to wipe the self-satisfied smirk from Sir Roger Davies’ face. Why had he let the pompous arse goad him into doing something so abysmally stupid? Granted, King Lucius had given Harry permission to beat Draco, if necessary, but the monarch had likely doubted Harry would ever dare.
The remainder of the meal seemed endless. Harry kept his gaze from darting to the stairs, but as soon as it was seemly he excused himself and hurried to his room. Draco was thankfully still unconscious. He lay facedown on his pallet.
Harry quickly fetched a jar of unguent from his personal stores and sank to his knees beside the blond. He spread the salve over each welt, feeling every mark as though it marred his own skin. The bloody wound was a small gash over Draco’s ribs where three lashes had crisscrossed.
Harry used a wet cloth to wash the blood away and Draco stirred with a low moan. An apology was on Harry’s tongue, but he choked it back. “Lie still,” he commanded.
Draco stiffened, at once completely awake. Harry touched a bit of salve to the bleeding cut and heard Draco’s sharp intake of breath. The salve stung at first, but it would deaden the pain and soothe the burn.
Surprisingly, the prince said nothing. Harry continued to dab on the salve and then replaced the stopper before setting the jar aside. He removed Draco’s boots and then covered his legs with a light blanket, taking care not to pull it up over his waist. He doubted the blond would appreciate Harry removing his hosen, so he left those alone.
He felt Draco’s eyes on him as he took off his own clothing and slid into bed before blowing out the light. “Goodnight, Draco,” he said softly.
“Good night, my lord,” he heard bitterly.
Harry sighed. Sleep was a long time coming.
~~ O ~~
Draco awakened early and was instantly aware of the pain. It felt like he had been stung by a thousand bees. He was also stiff as a board from sleeping on the uncomfortable pallet—if it could be called sleep. Every movement in the night had jolted him out of sleep. He sat up, wincing when his back stretched the welts and set up renewed throbbing.
He got to his feet and walked to the fireplace. The room was cold. He shot a glare at the dark head that lay on the white pillow. His master was still asleep. Draco’s lip curled. To think he had almost started to like the bastard yesterday.
Draco knelt and looked blankly at the fire-making supplies. There were small bundles of twigs, wood chips, and larger split logs next to a square of flint. Draco vaguely remembered watching his servants build a fire, but he was damned if he could recall how they did it.
“You don’t know how to lay a fire?” a dry voice asked and Draco straightened. He nearly bit his tongue to stifle a gasp of pain. He did not bother to snarl a reply. Surely the idiot knew he had never been without someone to perform the most rudimentary of chores.
He heard Tensbury slide from the bed and then the man knelt next to him. He took a small bundle of twigs and placed them beneath the metal grate of the fire before adding a stack of larger chips and gradually larger pieces, building them into a small tower.
After retrieving a dagger from the sheath hanging from the bedpost, Tensbury struck the flint piece until sparks flew onto the twig bundle and then he leaned down and blew until something ignited. Flickers of flame grew steadily brighter until Draco could see Tensbury’s face clearly. The man seemed transfixed by the wood as it was consumed.
Draco turned away and picked up his tunic, although he dreaded to put it on.
“Wait,” said Sir Blackfell.
Draco glared at him, but Tensbury held an earthenware jar.
“This will help. Lie on the bed.”
Draco thought about arguing, but the salve had helped measurably last night and his pride did not extend to stupidity. At least, he hoped it didn’t. He walked forward and sprawled obediently on the blankets before pulling the down-filled pillow toward him. It smelled of Tensbury and Draco fought the knowledge that it was anything but unpleasant.
Sir Blackfell sat next to him and then Draco felt coolness dab at the flames consuming his back. Tensbury’s touch was tentative at first, but grew more assured when Draco neither moved nor commented.
“You most likely despise me right now,” Tensbury said conversationally. “And if you choose to end our association I will allow you to send a messenger to your father this morning. You probably think your beating to be unfair, but Davies would never have given me an inkling of respect had I not punished you. I take my duties seriously. Your father gave this responsibility to me and I will not shirk it. Do you understand?”
“I am not a child,” Draco snapped.
“No. No, you are definitely not a child,” Tensbury said and something in the tone of his voice made Draco’s breath catch in his throat. Tensbury’s hands suddenly seemed less like those of a physician and more like those of a…
He swallowed hard, not allowing the thought to fully materialize. It would not do to see Tensbury as anything other than his overlord. And his hands, though gentle, had still caused pain as they glided over the wounds inflicted by those very hands.
Sir Blackfell finally finished his ministrations and handed Draco a tunic of soft lambskin. It was far less abrasive on Draco’s raw flesh than harsh wool would have been, but Draco could not find it in him to thank the man. He dragged on the tunic and quickly threw on the remainder of his clothing.
“Will you help me to dress?” Tensbury asked just as Draco prepared to bolt out the door. He was willing to do whatever menial chore necessary to escape Sir Blackfell’s disturbing presence. Draco’s face flamed at the question and he nearly snarled in rage, but at the last moment he realized Tensbury might be baiting him. He restrained his anger with effort.
“By all means,” he said in the mildest tone possible and sent a quick prayer of thanks to his mother for teaching him to remain calm and use dulcet tones so as not to offend any obnoxious foreign dignitaries.
Tensbury’s brow rose, but he only nodded and began to shrug into his clothing. Draco wordlessly assisted the man with his tunic, dropping it over his head in a manner that would have gotten his own valet fired. Luckily, Tensbury was rustic enough not to notice. He had thankfully slept in his braies, so Draco was spared tugging those over lean legs and lacing them, but he did drop to his knees to help Tensbury with the cross-garters on his shoes. It was a strange feeling, being on his knees before anyone, and especially Tensbury. Draco kept his eyes firmly fixed on his task.
He quickly got to his feet and suppressed a wince when the movement pulled at his back. Tensbury held out both arms from his sides and Draco gazed at him blankly for a moment.
“Belt?” Sir Blackfell prodded gently.
Draco nodded and took the sword belt from the bedpost. He leaned close and reached behind Tensbury to place the leather strap. Tensbury’s scent assaulted him once more, reminding him of the knight’s firm body pressed against his prior to the beating. Draco suddenly felt uncomfortably warm.
He jerked the belt tight and buckled it around Tensbury’s hips with a rough motion before stepping back several steps.
“Will there be anything else, my lord?” he asked stiffly.
“You can fetch my breakfast. I would rather not eat in the hall with Sir Davies and the others, should they happen to rise after all the drink they imbibed last night. I will be going over accounts at my desk.” Tensbury jerked a dark head at the large desk near the window embrasure. “You can join me, if you’d like.”
About to declare that he would rather dine with a pit full of starving wolves, Draco remembered Davies with a grimace. He would rather eat with starving wolves and Sir Blackfell than Davies. He muttered something incomprehensible and slipped out the door.