BindingPassion

Katherine
Kingston

Book 3 in the Passions series.

The people of Alderwood, including
young, lovely Lady Mary, received rough treatment at the hands of their last
lord, Sir Benwyck of Cryll. When the King grants the estate to Sir Philip,
they're determined to see him gone, and the sooner the better.

Mary certainly didn't count on an
offer of marriage from the handsome knight. Philip's got one year to show Mary
the pleasures of sex to win her as his bride, to bind her with his passion...

England, 1345

Sir Philip de MontCharles, newly created Baron of Alderwood,
stalked down the corridor of his manor, hoping he’d remember which door led to
his private solar. He was pretty sure it was the fourth door on the left, but
after only two weeks as lord of this confusing keep, he still had doubts.

He had doubts about any number of things, including his fitness
to be lord of a keep, with people depending on him, their very lives possibly
resting on the decisions he made. As the third son of a vigorous father, he
hadn’t been raised to the position.

His questions about whether he had the right room grew when
he reached the door and heard a strange scrabbling, squeaking noise inside the
room. Perhaps the maid was in there cleaning, but late afternoon was not, in
his experience, the usual time for it. He’d always had to ask specifically for
a bath to be brought to him, and he hadn’t yet done so today, so he doubted
that was the answer.

Given the numerous attempts already made to injure or harass
him, no doubt with the object of driving him away, caution was becoming a
familiar course to him.

He halted at the door and waited. Another squeak was
followed by the sound of feet moving across the floor. He was pretty sure this
was the door to his solar.

He wore soft indoor slippers rather than boots, so he had
moved quietly down the stone-flagged hall. Whoever was inside likely hadn’t
heard him approach. He grabbed the door latch and pressed down on it carefully,
releasing the catch without a revealing clatter. Quiet voices sounded. A small
giggle followed another noise that sounded oddly like—the croak of a frog?

It all stopped abruptly when he pushed the door sharply
inward. The panel swung on its hinges all the way back until it banged loudly
against the wall. Two faces turned toward him, twin mirrors of surprise and
guilt.

Though both were still beardless, neither of the two boys
staring at him with guilty frowns was a child. For a moment, they just stood
there, frozen in place by shock. A bucket behind them emitted another croak,
and Philip drew the obvious conclusions.

The taller one recovered more quickly and tried to dart past
Philip for the door. Philip sidestepped to block his way, and the other came at
him as well. Philip hadn’t spent years training as a knight to be defeated by
two beardless boys in unarmed combat. The struggle was brief, the outcome
inevitable.

With the two boys in neck-locks, one wedged under either
arm, Philip used his foot to kick the door closed. He reached for the cord
without releasing either one and pulled on it to summon a servant. He walked
them over to his bed and dumped both boys onto it.

Anger and satisfaction settled in his gut as he stared at
them.

“So, finally, I’ve caught my tormentors,” he said, softly,
watching them blanch as they heard the menace in his tone. “In the act. What
was it to be this time?” he asked them.

“My-my lord,” the taller one, whom he took to be the older
as well, though he hadn’t even a bit of fuzz on his face as yet, squeaked. His
voice cracked. “We were here to swab the floor for you.”

At that moment the bucket emitted a series of unhappy
croaks, drawing all eyes toward it.

“And that’s the water bucket?” he asked. “I suppose it’s
purely a coincidence it’s making those noises.” He shook his head at the boys.
“Frogs in my bed this time?” he asked. “‘Tis not as dangerous as some of the
tricks you two have played, but ‘twould certainly put me out should I have
discovered myself sharing the bed with them in the late hours.”

“My lord, we didn’t…that is, we wouldn’t…”

Philip stared hard at them. The younger one, a pale boy with
brown hair and brown eyes, cringed and appeared too terrified even to speak.
The older boy had lighter brown hair, lightly tanned skin, and strange, pale
green eyes flecked with bronze. Those eyes met his gaze more boldly although
Philip could read the fear in them as well.

“Don’t compound your guilt with lies,” he warned. “You’re
not—”

A knock at the door interrupted the lecture. At his bidding
a servant entered. The man’s eyes widened as he took in the scene, but he
wisely said only, “My lord?”

“Summon Sir Thomas, Sir Peter, and Derwyn. Tell them I have
need of them in my solar immediately.”

“Very good, my lord.” The man made a hasty exit, shutting
the door again as he left.

Philip continued to watch the two boys, though it was mostly
the older one who held his attention. The younger was too frightened and timid
to be much use. “While we wait, may I ask exactly what you hoped to accomplish
with these…harassments?”

“We didn’t…”

“Do not lie to me!” Philip’s tone held an intended
harshness.

Both boys flinched. The older one drew a deep breath. “What
plan you to do with us, my lord?”

Philip studied them. He’d been asking himself that same
question, but he knew what had to be done. “Make an example of you,” he
answered. He hadn’t thought either one could get any paler, but both did. The
younger one moaned and started to cry quietly.

The older boy leaned over and brushed a hand across his
shoulder. “My lord,” he said, his voice carefully controlled, “Ross was only
involved in this because I made him help me.” He patted the younger boy’s
shoulder again. “Spare him, if you please. The guilt is entirely mine.”

“Admirable,” Philip said, holding the older boy’s gaze.
“What is your name, young man?”

“Martin, my lord,” the boy’s voice broke into a squeak that
he controlled with some effort. “Martin Fisher.”

“Martin Fisher, you admit this prank was your idea and your
doing? And all the other pranks as well?”

The boy nodded quickly.

“Very well. I’ll keep that in mind. But your friend Ross did
assist you and so cannot be entirely excused from punishment.”

“But you will spare his life?”

“Spare his life?” Philip couldn’t help his astonishment.
“What think you I plan to do?”

“My lord, you said you’d make an example of us.”

“And what do you take that to mean?”

Martin had to draw a deep breath and steady himself to speak.
“A stretched neck, I should suppose.” He tried to make the words light, as
though he cared little about it, and failed completely.

Philip had to control a small gasp of shock on his own part.
“It’s past time all in this keep understood I am their lord now, whether it
pleases them or no, and I shall have order and discipline in my household. That
said, though,” he continued, watching the boys’ reactions, “I’m no tyrant
either. While some of your pranks of the last few days have come close to being
attempts to kill me, I would still decline to execute children for such. I
think a sound whipping, performed before the assembled household, will get my
point across, just as effectively.”

Both boys looked dazed as three of his own men, Sir Thomas
Preston of Westvale, his nephew, Sir Peter Wrathkin, and Derwyn of Eastchester,
arrived to assist him. Philip had his men secure the two, then he sent Sir
Thomas to demand the household assemble in the great hall immediately, Derwyn
to cut a set of switches, and Sir Peter to gather the rest of the equipment he
would need.

He waited with the boys while his men carried out his
orders, studying them. Following his pronunciation of his intentions, both had
looked momentarily relieved, but then, no longer burdened by the worry of
impending execution, the older one had let anger and defiance show on his face.
With their hands and ankles bound, there was little else they could do now.

“I ask again,” he said. “Why have you been subjecting me to
this harassment? What did you hope to accomplish by it?”

The younger boy looked up at the older.

“You’re not our true lord,” Martin said defiantly. “You have
no right to be here.”

“And who has determined that?” Philip asked.

The boy shrugged as well as he could. “You have no connection
to the Alderwood family.”

“There were no male heirs remaining after Sir William took
it and slew the old Baron and his son. Title therefore reverted to the Crown.
The king granted it to me in thanks for my part in defeating Sir William. Do
you gainsay the king’s right to bestow the honor?”

The boy shrugged again.

“Who would you have in my place, then?” Sir Philip asked.
“Surely you recognize the need for a lord to hold the keep and secure your
safety?”

“We did well enough without one before your arrival.”

“For a short time. ‘Twould not have been long before some
other warrior in the area noted your lordless state and set his sights on it.
Many would be far less comfortable than I to deal with. “ He looked at them,
but saw no change in either boy’s expression. “I at least will endeavor to be
fair to all herein, to rule justly, to secure the safety and prosperity of all
who depend on these lands. I am not by nature cruel, harsh, or tyrannical. I’ll
be firm when needed—as now—but will deal gently and respectfully with those who
accord me the same.”

“Pretty words, my lord. But you do not know these lands or
the people on them. Why should we believe what you say? Why would you want to
settle down and remain here in this out-of-the-way place? Surely an important
and powerful knight such as yourself will have more pressing business elsewhere
much of the time.”

Philip looked at the boy again, struck by something out of
place in the way he spoke. It took him a moment to realize the boy’s tone and
words suggested a better education and more boldness and self-confidence than
usually found in a household servant.

“I plan to demonstrate the truth of what I say by the way I
conduct myself and the affairs of the keep. I intend to learn what I can of the
lands and the people. And I do plan to settle here and make this my home. I
have no taste for politics or the intrigues of court, and my closest friends
are not far removed from here. But you, sir. What is your role in this
household?”

Oddly, the boy blushed, a hint of pink rushing over the
tanned skin. He hesitated a fraction of a second too long. “I’m assistant to
the steward, my lord.”

Philip doubted it was an outright lie, just as he doubted it
was the entire truth. “And your friend?”

“Works in the stables, my lord. He’s very good with the
horses.”

A knock sounded at the door. Sir Thomas pushed it open and
stuck his head in. “All is in readiness, my lord,” he said.

“Good.” Philip stood, went the bed, and pulled each boy to
his feet. “Release their ankles, Thomas, and help me escort them to the great
hall.”

As he and Thomas pulled the young men along with them,
Philip had to admire the dignified way the older boy faced his fate with head
held high and no begging or whining. He even sent the younger an encouraging
smile every now and again.

In that moment Philip realized he didn’t want to punish
these youngsters. The older one, in particular, had a courage he could admire.
But then he remembered the frogs in the bucket in his room, the excessive spice
in his stew, the chair leg that had been damaged so that when he sat in it, it
collapsed, pitching him back and off the dais on which it was placed. But for a
lucky twist of his body, he might have been badly injured by that fall. The
thorn in the blanket under his saddle might likewise have caused serious injury
were his steed not so well trained to battle.

He dared not tolerate such incidents and allow them to go
unanswered.

Philip didn’t know the household well enough to be sure
everyone was present, but the gathered crowd was large enough to represent a
significant portion of it. All seats at the trestle tables were taken, while
groups of people clustered throughout the hall and lined the walls. Those not
present would hear the story of this day’s work.

He signaled Thomas to take the boys to one side as he
stepped up to the dais. He pitched his voice loud enough for all to hear. His
speech to the assembled household wasn’t eloquent or pretty, but it got across
his message that he was now the lord of this household, that he wanted to be
fair and just, but he would have discipline in the place and would serve
justice as best he could. That included meting out chastisement when such was
due.

He explained to the group what the boys had done and why
they were being punished. He added that the older of the two had already
admitted his guilt and that he’d been the instigator and leader of the efforts,
so he would get the heavier penalty.

He called the younger boy to stand before him. Thomas
escorted the young man and untied his hands.

“What is your full name, young man?” Philip asked.

“R-r-r-oss Cameron, my lord.” The boy stuttered badly but
managed to get it out.

“Ross Cameron, you admit to taking part in malicious pranks
against my person?”

“Aye, sir,” the boy said.

“You did so at the behest of your friend, Martin Fisher?”

“Aye, sir. B-b-but I…Sh…No one forced me to it.”

Philip regarded the boy. “An admirable observation, and true
as well. For your fault you’ll receive a dozen cuts with the switch. Undo the
laces of your breeks and lay on the bench, facing toward the room.”

The bench was long enough that the boy’s entire length could
be spread on it with some room to spare. Sir Thomas and Derwyn moved to the
bench and quickly used lengths of cloth to secure Ross’s hands to the legs of
the bench and fasten him down on it at waist and knees. Philip rolled the boy’s
breeks down to his knees, picked up a solid feeling switch and proceeded to
deliver the promised dozen strokes.

He struck sharply, trying to measure his blows to raise
significant welts without drawing blood. For the most part he succeeded.

The first three strokes left red lines across the flesh but
didn’t raise welts. Philip increased the force on the next ones. The boy
accepted the punishment more stoutly than Philip expected. He only groaned and
tried to kick free once or twice.

The room grew quiet during the punishment, the only sounds
the whiz and crack of the switch as it struck skin and the small gasps of the
victim. Looking around Philip saw one or two of the softer-hearted women wince
with each cut, while some of the men nodded. Most remained stone-faced,
however.

After seven strokes, his switch splintered and he picked up
a new one. He delivered each stroke in easy rhythm, but he did make the final
one harder than those that had gone before. It struck with a resounding crack
and painted a brilliant red line almost straight across the boy’s bottom that
rose quickly into a thick, angry welt. The boy squealed loudly, then controlled
it into a series of panting groans.

Philip dropped the switch, restored the boy’s breeks and
signaled to his men to release his bonds. Ross wavered a little as he got to
his feet and Philip steadied him.

“I hope you learn from this how unwise it is to provoke your
lord’s wrath,” Philip told him.

The boy looked up at him. His brown eyes were bright with
unshed tears and his voice was unsteady as he said, “Aye, my lord.”

“You may go, then. And all is forgiven, but please do not
try my anger again.”

“Aye, my lord,” the boy repeated. Derwyn helped him climb
down from the dais and stagger off to a side of the room.

Philip sighed as he turned to the other miscreant. Ross’s
punishment had no doubt felt harsh to the boy, but in truth it was fairly
light. This next one would be considerably more severe.

Sir Thomas and Sir Peter escorted Martin to the dais,
removed the rope binding his wrists and stood aside. Philip was surprised by
the crowd’s reaction. He heard a number of gasps and a few sobs mixed with many
exclamations of shock and dismay. He couldn’t guess what it meant, other than
perhaps Martin was a rather popular young man. Given the boy’s attractive
looks, the boldness of the bright green gaze, and the quickness of his tongue,
Philip could well imagine it was so.

Philip held up a hand and the gathered members of his
household quieted.

“Martin Fisher,” he addressed the young man, “You’ve
admitted your guilt in the incidents of harassment and persecution I’ve been
subjected to since my arrival. You’ve further admitted that those were
committed at your design and instigation. Have you anything to add to this?”

The young man stood straight and watched him with a
combination of fear, dismay, and a reluctant respect. “Nay, my lord.” His voice
was steady. He came only to Philip’s chin, but he was slim and held himself
with dignified firmness.

“Very well. Since you’ve admitted you own most of the
responsibility for the incidents, you will also receive the majority of the
punishment. Ross received a dozen strokes with the switch. You will get three
dozen.”

A number of people gasped. One woman sobbed loudly, and a
few scattered protests erupted, but Philip quelled them with a look. The boy
himself had paled noticeably. A bead of sweat ran down his temple.

“Loosen your laces, Master Fisher,” Philip directed, “and
take your place on the bench.”

The young man drew a deep breath and complied with some
obvious reluctance, though not enough to compel Philip to have one of his men
force the pace. Martin Fisher was fastened down to the bench much as Ross had
been, with wrists tied to the legs of the bench and straps holding him down at
waist and knees. The bindings were pulled a bit tighter since the punishment
would be more severe.

Philip rolled down his breeks. The young man’s buttocks were
slim but surprisingly rounded, verging on effeminate. His legs clenched tightly
together, anticipating the pain to come. Still, he’d shown a man’s composure in
the way he’d held himself and dealt with his lord.

Again Philip wavered in his anger, but then he reminded
himself this troublesome boy had put him in considerable danger of injury or
worse with some of his pranks. The entire household knew it, too. Did he not
answer it justly, he would get no respect for any of his commands from anyone
here in the future. He picked up another switch, raised it, and whipped it down
for the first strike.

The boy tensed as the first cut dug in. A red welt appeared
almost immediately, though in truth it hadn’t been a hard lash. Because there
were so many to go, Philip kept the first few strokes fairly light, almost a
warm-up. After the first half-dozen, though, he began to bring the switch down
more smartly. He’d been on the receiving end of such a punishment himself often
enough to know how much it would sting and burn.

By the time he’d delivered a dozen strokes, Martin was
wriggling and gasping occasionally, though he bore it well, with no squalling
or begging for mercy.

To spare his arm, Philip allowed some time between each cut,
which gave the victim some recovery time as well. By the time two dozen had
been administered, the young man’s loins and thighs, from just below his waist
to just above his knees, were bright red and webbed with raised, crimson welts.
The boy moaned quietly at times, tensed and wiggled with each lash, and had
squealed on one particularly hard stroke, but he was maintaining a surprising
control. Philip had already splintered two switches and selected bigger,
heavier new ones each time.

The boy’s composure began to break up as the last dozen cuts
printed new, harsh welts over already grated flesh. Determined to ensure his
message was driven home, Philip delivered the final strokes with yet more
force. With six to go, Martin began to gasp and groan aloud at each cut. His
body arched within the bindings, and he tried to kick out.

The fourth-to-last stroke drew a long, loud cry that trailed
into a series of sobbing moans. With the next cut he arched and wriggled so
hard, he revealed more of his body than he would have been comfortable knowing
about.

Philip almost dropped the switch in shock. He should have
guessed, he realized. There had been clues enough.

Martin wasn’t a young man at all. He was a young woman.

Just as Philip’s brain absorbed the realization, his body
reacted to it. His cock, quiescent throughout the scene so far, abruptly
engorged and tried to stand at attention. Fortunately his long overtunic would
hide that reaction from the view of the crowd. But he grappled with what to do
next.

The punishment he’d meted out already was severe but not
unduly so for a young man. For a young woman, though, it was quite harsh.
Should he continue?

He doubted anyone around him could have seen what he did,
and he wasn’t sure he wanted to reveal his knowledge. Not until he’d had time
to think about what it might mean. Only two strokes remained to be
administered. Drawing a deep breath, Philip raised the switch and brought it
down again. Not so hard this time, but it stuck across very sore skin. “Martin”
jerked and screamed.