Chapter Text
It was a beautiful spring day. Father Matteo had asked Nicolò to accompany him to distribute alms to the poor and the widows today, a great honor, and Nicolò had accepted with happiness. It had been five years since he’d last gone much more than a few hundred yards past the abbey’s walls, and he thrilled to see the countryside open up before them through the carriage’s window. The breeze on his face was cool and sweet-smelling.
He glanced back at Father Matteo to share a smile with him, and his elder returned his smile, albeit muted. That was fine. Father Matteo was a man of great emotion and great responsibilities, and both weighed heavily on his shoulders. Nicolò was so grateful to the man for taking him in, nearly fifteen years ago, and giving him a place to belong when his family could no longer afford to feed so many mouths.
Nicolò sat back on the bench and mulled over what he might be able to say to lift the man’s spirits.
“Thank you for bringing me with you on this mission today, Father.”
He received a small glance and a pat on the knee. “You are so obedient, Nicolò. There was no other option.”
“Oh, thank you greatly, Father. I only wish to serve God. It is His wish that we treat the poor as we would treat Christ himself.”
“That’s right, my boy. That’s right.” The man seemed especially distracted today.
Several minutes later, the carriage began to slow, and Nicolò leaned over to look out the window again. “Did you tell Antonio to make a stop before the village, Father? We’re at Lord Yusuf’s manor.”
“Ah, yes. Lord Yusuf wishes to make a large donation to the church.”
“Oh, that’s splendid news!” Nicolò climbed out of the carriage and offered his arm for the elderly father to lean on as he stepped out. “Shall I come in with you or stay out here with Antonio?”
“You’d better come in, Nicolò.”
“Of course. As you wish, Father.”
A footman greeted the pair of them and led them to the Lord’s reception room, where they only had to wait a few short moments before Lord Yusuf swept in with several attendants and took a seat on his throne. The man, though his clothes were simple for a man of his station, was dressed much more richly than the pair of church fellows, and with a simple circlet resting on top of his curls.
Nicolò and Father Matteo both inclined their heads, but did not bow fully, for it would have been improper for servants of God above to prostrate themselves before a secular leader.
The first words out of the Lord’s mouth filled Nicolò with confusion.
“You have done well bringing him here, Father, and on such short notice. I will increase my donation by twenty per cent.”
Bringing who here? Nicolò glanced around the room. Perhaps Antonio was exchanging their good horse for a worse one with the hostler outside.
“You are too generous, Your Grace,” spoke Father Matteo.
“Not at all. Your work benefits me as well, Father. I also wish to see the orphans of this country fed and cared for.”
“We will see the orphanage is named after you, Your Grace.”
“Oh, nonsense! That’s not necessary. Pick a saint of your faith, I insist. Good day to you, Father.”
“And to you, Your Grace.”
Well, that was a brief audience, but Nicolò was not complaining. He inclined his head again to the Lord and turned to follow Father Matteo out.
The Father turned to him, his face stiff, mouth downturned. “Nicolò, you must stay.”
“Pardon?”
“You’re staying here, Nicolò. At the manor.” The wrinkles in his face deepened unhappily.
“I don’t understand, I’m sorry.” In the corners of his vision, he noticed a few of the Lord’s better-armed attendants circling the pair of them, and he tensed.
“Lord Yusuf has been very generous with the church, and has donated a sum that will feed the needy of our parish for many winters, as well as construct an orphanage, which you know is much-needed. You must stay here, Nicolò.”
“I don’t wish to stay!” Nicolò objected. His voice sounded higher in his ears than he was used to. Younger. “My home is with you, with my brothers at the abbey!”
Father Matteo shook his head sadly. “Nicolò, please. I just told you how obedient you were. Please don’t conduct yourself like this. Be a man.”
“Father--no--why--” Nicolò whirled around, searching for any friendly expressions in the room, but all their faces looked bored, except for the Lord’s, who looked intensely predatory. He turned back to Father Matteo. “Please don’t leave me here,” he whispered. “I don’t want to be alone.”
“You won’t be alone,” the Father answered, a hint of gentleness creeping into his voice. “Lord Yusuf has impressed upon me how well you’ll be cared for. Now stay, Nicolò, please. Don’t make a fuss.”
The weight of what was happening crashed down on Nicolò. He was being left, abandoned, by the person he trusted most in this world. His life at the abbey was over. He might never see its walls again. He might never pet Brother Francesco’s rabbits, or eat Brother Carlo’s bread.
His shoulders drooped under the crushing weight of the realization, and he hung his head, staring at the rush-covered floor. “Yes, Father.”
Father Matteo stepped forward, and Nicolò tensed, expecting a hug that he didn’t think he could handle right now. Instead, the Father just patted his shoulder twice and turned away. “Goodbye, Nicolò.”
“Goodbye, Father,” Nicolò choked out. And with that, Father Matteo; the man who had helped raise Nicolò from the age of ten; the man who had taught him Latin, maths, and the virtues of piety, chastity, and humility; departed, leaving Nicolò behind.
Nicolò had no living impulses inside him, at that moment. He wished only that he could, as he had not done since the days long ago when his uncle whipped him, drop to the floor and curl up in a tight ball.
Instead, he turned, feet leaden, to size up the new master of his existence. The man who had orchestrated all of this.
Lord Yusuf was regarding him intently, chin in hand, elbow resting on the arm of his throne. They stared at each other for a moment, the Lord’s eyes raking down and then back up over Nicolò’s body, taking in his habit and muddy shoes. Nicolò didn’t have the faintest idea what interest this man had in him. What was he to a lord?
“Come closer,” the man commanded. Nicolò merely furrowed his brow. Why? What point was there in obeying this man’s orders? This man who had just torn his life asunder?
Lord Yusuf’s jaw tightened and he flicked a hand at the two attendants near Nicolò, who promptly crowded in and grabbed his arms, dragging him forward until he was only about eight feet from the dais.
“Paolo, Martino, Kabir, stay. The rest of you may go.” Five of the attendants bowed and departed, leaving only one stationed halfway between the throne and the door the entourage had entered through, as well as the two currently flanking Nicolò.
Lord Yusuf studied him thoughtfully for a moment, then stood. “Perhaps we should start over,” he announced, and stepped down off the dais, closing the distance between them by half. Closer, Nicolò could see that the man’s thick beard was trimmed closely, his eyelashes thick and dark. The embroidery on his robe was very fine. “I am Lord Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad al-Kaysani, liege of these lands. It is good of you to have come.”
As if he had any say in it? “Brother Nicolò,” Nicolò responded, then added, “Your Grace.” It felt too uncomfortable to leave off the title, going against all the manners Nicolò had ever learned.
Lord Yusuf tilted his head to the side and wiggled his hand in the air. “Not ‘Brother’ any longer.”
Nicolò dropped his gaze down and to the side. He couldn’t bear to look into this awful man’s eyes any longer. “Just Nicolò, then,” he responded, dully. He’d been so proud to earn the title of Brother.
“You are not ‘just’ anything to me, Nicolò,” the Lord said, startling him. He glanced up in confusion. “Do you not remember me? I toured the grounds of the abbey, last autumn. Your church welcomed me as a guest at your harvest feast day.”
Nicolò shrugged. That had been a very busy day, with lots of visitors.
“Well, I noticed you. You’re an incredibly beautiful man, Nicolò.”
Nicolò felt truly taken aback at that. Beautiful? Him?
“So shocked?” Yusuf asked, then muttered as if to himself, “You don’t know it. No matter.”
“Vanity is a sin, your lordship.”
Instead of nodding and perhaps offering a Bible verse that agreed with such a sentiment, as any of his church brethren would have done, Lord Yusuf merely smirked. “Perhaps, and yet I can’t bring myself to care.”
Nicolò frowned and said nothing. Of course this man was not pious, and Nicolò had no reason to expect him to be. Except... except for the matter with the donation.
“Why did you give such a generous gift to the Church, Your Grace?” he asked
“It is all to be spent on the needy, a cause I do not oppose, shall we say. But to be perfectly honest, I wanted you, Nicolò.” Lord Yusuf stepped forward then, right up to Nicolò, and lifted a hand to hold Nicolò’s chin, forcing his eyes up. “Please look at me when I’m speaking to you. That’s right. Your eyes are too lovely to cast aside.”
Nicolò had no idea how to respond to that. He would have pulled away but for the guards that still held him in place.
“What was I saying? Oh, yes. I wanted you. And not just for a night or two. I went home and gave myself a fortnight to think about it, as I do with any large purchase. I can tell the difference between a temporary plaything and something I absolutely must acquire, permanently. And the more I thought about it, the more I knew you were the latter.”
A night or two? Plaything? Nicolò twisted his mouth in distaste. “Your Grace, I’m afraid I don’t understand.” But he did, finally, all too well. “I am not--I am not a whore. I am a man of the Church.”
Lord Yusuf shifted his hand where it had held his chin to instead grip his jaw, fingers and thumb on either side, and gave him an insulting little shake that had Nicolò thinking of biting his fingers off. “Nicolò, don’t be stupid. This is what I’m trying to impress upon you. As of today, you are no such thing. You are no longer a man of the Church. You are simply mine, and nothing else.”
Nicolò tried to shake his head no, but Lord Yusuf had his face in a vice grip, now. “Yes, Nicolò. There is no use at all in defying me.” He dropped his hand and returned to his throne, sitting and crossing his legs. “We will start with something simple. Earlier, when you and Father Matteo greeted me, you merely dipped your chins to me. An ordinary custom, for priests and nuns. You will now greet me properly, as befits your new station.”
Anger boiled up in Nicolò at this man’s cruelty. He had just taken everything Nicolò had ever known, his home, even his trust in his Church family, and now he wanted his dignity, too? Nicolò glared back at him, silently.
“Will I have to break you, then? What a pity. Your elder spoke highly of your obedience. I suppose you’d say that was obedience to God? And I am just a man?”
Nicolò tilted his head to the side in acknowledgment.
“We’ll see how long that perspective holds up. Kabir,” he said, addressing the man that stood off to the side. “The switch, until he bows properly. Paolo, Martino, lift his habit.”
Nicolò was no stranger to corporal punishment at the abbey. Father Matteo believed every boy needed a good switching now and again, to distract him from the unique temptations of adolescence. It had been some time since he’d been in such a position, however. One of the guards tugged off the cord that cinched his habit and the other fisted the back hem and lifted it up, baring Nicolò’s back to the swirling air of the reception hall. The sun had barely begun its intrusion through the windows on one wall and the room was uncomfortably cool partly-clothed.
Nicolò shivered and braced himself for pain.
The first lash of the switch crossed his back diagonally, a bright, sharp line of pain from shoulder blade to kidney. Nicolò inhaled sharply through his teeth. Pain in the moment was always altogether different from the echoes in one’s memory. He glanced up at Lord Yusuf after the second, slicing blow came down, expecting him to look smug.
He didn’t. He looked...genuinely regretful, which Nicolò found quite strange for a man watching his own orders being carried out. This nobleman clearly had an eccentricity to him.
As the blows rained down, Nicolò grit his teeth and gasped and writhed in the guards’ grasp, but always, his gaze returned to Lord Yusuf’s face, searching for a hint of glee or sadism and finding none.
His back was on fire, skin broken and bleeding, blood trickling down his sides and seeping into the waist of his smallclothes. And what for, exactly?
Pride?
Wasn’t pride a sin?
“Mercy,” he gasped out, and Lord Yusuf threw up a hand.
“Hold,” he commanded, and the blows immediately stopped. Nicolò felt a surge of gratitude followed by a wave of resentment at the absurdity of such a thing.
“Are you ready to bow, Nicolò?” Yusuf asked, a hard, brittle edge to his voice.
Nicolò nodded and hung his head. The guards released his arms and backed away. Nicolò hissed out a breath at the sensation of his habit falling back against his wounds and immediately sticking to his skin, tacky with blood. He swayed on his feet and let himself fall forward, on to his knees.
“Your Grace,” he gritted out, teeth clenched and grinding, trying to hold in the whimpers of pain that threatened to escape his throat. He leaned forward and braced his palms against the rushes covering the floor, then slowly, in agony as his habit dragged against the ragged skin of his back, tipped forward and rested his forehead on the ground, breathing in the aroma of sweet-smelling rushes.
He heard footsteps descending the dais and the crush of rushes near his ears and then, to his surprise, Lord Yusuf’s voice was very near his head, speaking in a low, almost kindly tone. “You did very well, Nicolò. Up you go, now.” Nicolò was hauled back to his feet by the guards. “Take him to the guest chambers closest to my own. I’ll be with you in a moment, Nicolò.”
Nicolò stumbled along, trying to move his feet in time with the guards who led him up two staircases and down a wide and grand hallway, with doors on either side. The final door on the left opened up to a large room, at least ten times larger than his cubicle at the abbey, with an enormous bed and wardrobe on one side and a small sitting area on the other, as well as a vanity with a genuine silver-framed mirror, a low stool, and a chamberpot.
The guards set him on the stool and waited to see if he would tip over. When he did not, one left while the other stayed, standing near the door. As if Nicolò was in any shape to escape, right now.
And where would he even go?
To the abbey? They would promptly send him right back.
Where else? There was nowhere else that wanted him.
Nicolò’s heart felt incredibly heavy. He closed his eyes and tried to pray.
Our Father, who art in heaven…
But all he could see in his mind’s eye was Father Matteo’s lined face, chiding, “Don’t make a fuss.”
Several minutes of staring at the floor passed, and then the guard opened the door to the hallway. Through it stepped Lord Yusuf, followed by a serving maiden, carrying a large tray laden with food and a tea set. She carefully deposited it on the low table in the sitting area and bobbed a curtsy. “Shall I wait on you, Your Grace?”
“No Suhana, that will be all.” She exited. Lord Yusuf eyed Nicolò, who looked away. “I am here to care for your back, Nicolò.” Nicolò startled at that, bewildered. “Am I in any danger from you or may I send Paolo out as well?”
Nicolò shook his head. He didn’t have the energy nor the training to fight.
“No, I’m not in any danger from you or no, I should not send Paolo out? Use your words, Nicolò.”
“No danger, Your Grace,” he whispered to the floor.
The door to the hallway shut, and Nicolò sensed that they were alone. Fear spiked through him. He didn’t want to be alone with this man. He clenched his fingers around the edges of the stool he sat upon.
Lord Yusuf stepped closer, and Nicolò looked up at him, eyes wide. The man held his hands out in a gesture of peace.
“I meant what I said,” he spoke, soothingly. “I am here to care for your back, nothing more. Turn around for me.”
Seeing little choice, Nicolò turned his back to his captor. Footsteps approached closer. “I’m going to remove this habit. It will hurt quite a bit. Do you need something to bite down on?” Nicolò shook his head. “Very well. Put your arms up, please.” Nicolò raised his arms above his head, upper back burning. With one smooth motion that set Nicolò’s back afire anew, the Lord removed his habit and pulled it over Nicolò’s head and arms. He dropped it in a heap and kicked it aside.
Such treatment of holy garments would have been grounds for punishment, had he been back in the abbey--and had Lord Yusuf been Brother Yusuf. Nicolò blinked at the ridiculous thought.
“Am I to wash that, Your Grace?” he asked, needing to break the uncomfortable silence as Yusuf--what? Stared at his back?
“What? Oh, no. It’s rags, now.”
Nicolò bit back an objection. He’d earned those garments, much as he’d earned the title of Brother. Of course Lord Yusuf had no use and no respect for either. He heard a jar opened behind him.
“I’m going to spread this on your back, Nicolò. It will feel good.” Nicolò nodded, jerkily, and then felt a blessed coolness at the top of his spine, wiping his pain away. He couldn’t help the little sigh of relief that escaped him. “See? That’s so good. This is better, isn’t it?”
Lord Yusuf’s voice was lower now, warmer, and it sent a shiver down Nicolò’s neck. The Lord’s hands were shockingly gentle as he carefully dabbed cool ointment on Nicolò’s wounds.
“I have no interest in hurting you, Nicolò,” the man husked. “Of course I can’t tolerate disobedience of any sort. But your pain brings me no pleasure. It’s important that you know that.”
Nicolò wasn’t sure what to think of that. It certainly accorded with the grimness he’d seen on the man’s face whilst Nicolò was being lashed.
Nicolò saw a hand reach past him to set the jar on the vanity, and then felt it caress the hair on the top of Nicolò’s head. The gesture was uncomfortably intimate, but nobody had played with Nicolò’s hair in...well, he couldn’t remember when. He held himself stiff and tried not to lean into the touch. Lord Yusuf’s other hand continued dabbing at the ointment, making sure every lash mark was covered. “I ordinarily wish you to speak up when I address you, Nicolò,” the man said, placidly.
Nicolò opened his mouth to respond, and then realized he didn’t know what he was supposed to say. “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” he answered, with a little frisson of fear. “I’m afraid I didn’t hear the last thing you said to me. Please forgive me.”
The hand in his hair scratched his scalp gently, and this time Nicolò couldn’t resist leaning into it a bit. Something about not being able to see the Lord made it easier to give in to him.
“I asked if you believe me, when I tell you I do not enjoy your pain.”
“I...I don’t know, Your Grace,” Nicolò answered, honestly. “My whole...everything has changed. I don’t know what to believe.” The man behind him hummed consideringly. “I thought...I trusted Father Matteo, and…” Nicolò’s voice cracked. “I thought I’d spend the rest of my life in the Church. I thought I would die and be buried there.”
Both of Lord Yusuf’s hands left his body, and Nicolò felt immediately bereft. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and shivered. The Lord pulled a plush chair over from the sitting area and positioned it in front of Nicolò, then sat down in it and regarded Nicolò silently. He felt suddenly very self-conscious of his naked torso. What was the word Lord Yusuf had used? Plaything. Nicolò shivered again.
“Are you cold, Nicolò?” Nicolò nodded. “Paolo!” The man immediately poked his head through the door. “Build a fire in the grate here, please.”
“Immediately, sire,” the man responded, and then left to fetch supplies.
“Nicolò.” The man leaned forward and took both of Nicolò’s hands in his. Nicolò stared down at his hands held between the Lord’s, at the contrast of their skin tones, at the incredibly elegant taper of the nobleman’s fingers against Nicolò’s broad and sturdy palms. “You must remember what I am about to say, for it is both true and important. You are much too good for the Church.”
Nicolò whipped his head up and stared at the man.
“When I saw you at the harvest feast, when I beheld your poise and beauty, I thought to myself, This man does not belong here. This man is not made for chanting hymns and churning butter all the days of his life. I thought, I must show him all life has to offer. I must see pleasure, nay, rapture, nay, ecstasy cross that face. It is too good to squint at verse and mutter Hail Marys and never experience true poetry.”
Nicolò swallowed. He didn’t understand and couldn’t possibly agree. He thought, That was what I chose, though, and then paused to chew on that thought. Had he? No. His uncle had just...dropped him off one day, and that set the rest of Nicolò’s life in motion.
And yet. This man had no right.
Except...he did. These lands were his and he could do precisely as he wished on them, as long as he kept the king happy and the Pope appeased.
Nicolò realized Lord Yusuf probably wanted him to say something again. “Th-thank you, Your Grace. I think.”
Lord Yusuf smirked, still in good humor, and Nicolò realized uncomfortably that it was an attractive expression on him, warm and human. His eyes crinkled at the corners.
Nicolò ducked his head and swallowed, suddenly remembering what this man expected of him. His throat felt tight and he cleared it, coughing into his shoulder. The motion pulled at the wounds on his back and he winced.
Lord Yusuf was still holding his hands. He started rubbing soothing circles into Nicolò’s wrists and the backs of his palms with his thumbs. Nicolò struggled not to fall into a daze at the feeling of warmth flowing up his forearms. “My Lord,” he started, hesitantly.
“Yes, Nicolò?”
“I...I should tell you that I. I meant what I said, that I. Well.” Nicolò licked his lips and tried again. “I have no skills. I may not please you. I’ve never lain with anyone.”
“Never?” the man purred. Nicolò had a jolt of insight that perhaps divulging this piece of information had been a mistake. He bit his tongue and shook his head, jerkily.
“Oh, my sweet, innocent Nicolò. I had hoped, but I had not dared to expect. Do not worry. You have nothing to prove to me. I will teach you everything you need to know, pet. I will take…immense pleasure in deflowering you, bit by bit. You’ve kneeled for me, and I will have the rest.”
Yusuf wrapped his fingers around Nicolò’s bony wrists and squeezed, uncomfortably tight. Nicolò leaned back, fearfully, curling into himself. “Every last piece of you that you imagined keeping for yourself, keeping sacred for your God. You will give it to me, or I will take it from you. And you will like it, Nicolò. Oh, I promise you that.”
“Your--your Grace,” Nicolò stammered. “You’re scaring me,” he whispered, for it was true.
Yusuf dropped his wrists, abruptly, and stood. There was a knock at the door. Lord Yusuf adjusted his crotch beneath his robes and then crossed over to the door, opening it so that Paolo could enter with the hearth-keeping supplies. Nicolò turned on the stool to watch, unwilling to put his back to this man for any further length of time.
“You’re a temptation, Nicolò, but you are injured, and I will not add to your pain. I will stay away while you recuperate. Suhana and Paolo will see to your needs.” And with that pronouncement, he swept out into the hallway, shutting the door firmly behind him.
For lack of anything better to do, Nicolò watched Paolo efficiently build a fire in the grate. The bedroom began warming immediately.
Paolo gathered up his things and left without a word or a glance to Nicolò, and then he was alone.