Inquisitioned

But he must be here.

The Inquisitor's bejeweled hand lingered over Guarin's pelvis and settled on the young man's cock, stroking it for a few moments lovingly. "Ah, perfection," he murmured. "It would be such a pity . . ."

"No, I know nothing about these matters," Guarin murmured, his voice shaking so hard he almost couldn't get the words out. "And, no, God help us, not the countess. She is as devout as they come. Her noble Catholic lineage is known by all."

The Inquisitor released Guarin's cock and ran the fingers of his hand up and down the line of the young bard's body—almost like he was worshipping the perfection that Guarin was, at least for now. The thought entered Guarin's mind at the intimacy of the priest's touch that maybe . . .

"Sir, I'll do anything for you not to put me to this torture. I'm simply a musician. I'm not involved in any scheming against the mother church. Where I come from, we are as Catholic as you are in Spain. I would never . . . and I don't know of anyone else . . . and I would do anything to please you. I have experience in pleasing a man."

"I am aware of that," Valera said dryly. "I know you would please a man who wished to take his pleasures from other men. The prince tells me what you do for him. His court priest has told me, with a bit of persuasion, what you do for him as well."

He stopped there. Guarin saw hope in that. He hadn't mentioned Miguel. Maybe Miguel wasn't here. It must have been Mendoza who denounced him.

"Please, Sir. I will give you pleasure as you have never known before."

"I think you have no idea what pleasures me." Valera gave Guarin a hard look and then stood and called for the guards. "Hang him from that device over there," he commanded, and the soldiers took Guarin off the rack and hung him, with his wrists bound, from the top of a pole that had a cross pieces with restraints on the ends. When Guarin was trussed up to the device, he was hanging from his wrists, but his legs were split in either direction a couple of feet off the ground and tied off at the ankles.

"Now you may go for a rest and not come back for an hour," Valera said to his attendants.

When the guards were gone, Valera stripped off his cassock and underclothes until he was naked. He had a powerful body—thick but not really fat. He also had a colossal erection.

Taking a whip, he laid into Guarin's back and legs, as the young man screamed from the pain—not as painful as if the priest had put the full power of his body behind the lashes, but painful enough to raise red welts on Guarin's tender body. All the time, the priest made the pretense of trying to get Guarin to provide the names of secret Jews at court. But both men knew, really, that the Inquisitor was more interested in his own sexual satisfaction and that his sexual satisfaction hinged on sexual torture.

After whipping Guarin for a short time, he saddled up behind the young man, ran his tongue over the welts on Guarin's back, kissing those and Guarin on the neck and then on the mouth when he'd turned the young man's face to his. He split Guarin's plump, reddened buttocks cheeks with his hard, thick cock and fucked him to a completion.

He was finished before the hour was up, but not really finished. He had his cassock back on when the guards reappeared and instructed them to take Guarin down and to bind him to a series of chains hanging from the ceiling. His wrists were bound over his head to one chain, and his legs were each bound, spread, and stretched parallel to the stone floor on other chains. When the guards were sent away for another hour, Valera stripped, pressed in between Guarin's spread legs, pulled the young man's channel onto his reengorged staff and fucked the musician again interminably to another ejaculation.

The Inquisitor took Guarin a third time that evening, from behind, with Guarin stretched over a saw horse device, with both arms and legs spread and secured at the base of the four legs of the device. By the time the priest was done, Guarin was nearly done as well—unconscious and breathing shallowly, almost not at all.

When the guards returned, Valera declared, "He is close to talking, but I do not have time tonight. Tomorrow he will talk and we will finish with him." They extinguished the torches in the dungeon and left the day's work in the dark. There were moans and groans revolving around the chamber—although there were more bodies on devices in the chamber than were able ever again to moan or groan. Guarin was one who still could.

Guarin regained consciousness in the night to the sensation of being unbound. There was a torch and he looked up and recognized the man freeing him.

"Miguel," he said. "You live."

"For now I do, and so do you," Miguel de Morillo whispered. "But we must be away from here—away from Aragon—away even from Spain if we want to continue to live. I have passage booked for this night on a ship in the harbor bound for France."

"You came for me."

"The booking is for two. I could not leave you. I cannot live without you."

As Guarin was freed and was hobbling away from the torture device, he suddenly said, "The court priest—Father Mendoza—he's here somewhere. He's—"

"Past saving. Past praying for even. He denounced us both. He is somewhere we can't touch him, answering for much. Come, we must go. The ship leaves on the morning tide."

* * * *

Guarin had been aware that the priest had been watching him—had been following him around—since they had cleared the Mediterranean and were sailing up the Atlantic coast. Miguel had booked them on a ship going to France by this route rather than to a French Mediterranean port. He knew that the Church had eyes everywhere and that Archdeacon Valera would not be pleased that they had slipped through his fingers. He would have ships bound for French Mediterranean ports watched carefully.

Was this such a priest, Guarin wondered.

Seeing the priest nearby one day while Miguel was elsewhere on the ship, Guarin gave him a meaningful look and slipped into his cabin, leaving the door open. The ploy worked and the priest followed him in.

"You are Guarin, Countess Margaret's bard," the priest said. "I recognized you."

"Yes, I am," Guarin answered. "Or I was," he added.

"I am Ferdinand de Mena," the priest answered. He was perhaps in the middle of his years, tall and gaunt. His face was not ugly, but it wasn't handsome either. He was giving Guarin an intense look. "I am a friend of the court priest, Tomás de Mendoza. He keeps me well informed of the happenings at court."

He hasn't kept you well informed that he's dead, Guarin thought, but he realized it was a rather hysterical thought. His mind was racing. This man knew. He was going to denounce them. They'd both be taken back and broken on Valera's racks.

Unless Guarin did something. He smiled at the priest and began to unlace his doublet.

"Yes, Mendoza told me he you lay under him—and under the prince as well. He told me that you were a delight to cover. And that's not all he told me. He told me that your grandmother was Hebrew. It's something the Tribunal del Santo de la Inquisition in Barcelona would very much like to know, I'm sure."

"Unless?" Guarin asked, giving the priest a provocative smile and pulling his doublet open to show his bare chest.

"Yes, unless you lay under me too."

Stripping off the doublet, Guarin unfastened his belt, stripped off his breeches, lay back on the bed, and opened his legs and his arms. At the same time, the priest was unbuttoning his cassock. He sank to his knees and attacked Guarin's cock, balls, and hole with his mouth, as Guarin sighed and moaned for him.

The priest was crouched over him, between his legs, feeding a very nice cock in him, as Guarin clutched the man's shoulder blades, content to enjoy the fuck. And the priest was doing very well, not going for broke before pumping him, but going in a few inches, shallow pumping there, as Guarin moved with him, and then sinking in further and pumping some more.

He wasn't all the way in before he stiffened, gave Guarin a surprised look, and slipped over to the side and to the floor. As he slipped away, Miguel came into sight, holding a bloodied dagger in his hand.

"You killed him," Guarin croaked.

"Yes."

"You killed a priest. You'll go to hell."

"As will priests like this. I think you've learned by now that priests are the same as any other man. They lay you just as any other man does. They deceive and betray you as any other man does. And they bleed like any other man does."

Guarin didn't know how to respond to that, so he remained silent.

"Yes, he had to die. It was just Mendoza all over again. It had to be stopped before it began."

"But he wasn't finished. I didn't—"

Miguel laughed. "You are such a little whore," he said. "I can finish you. He can go over the side later."

And, with that, Miguel took up the priest's position, but sank all the way in before he started to pump. Moaning his satisfaction, Guarin clutched at the soldier's shoulder blades and started to move with the fuck.