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Jack Barak had reached Chambers early that morning, and yet found his master Matthew Shardlake there before him.
He was at his desk, immersed in a letter, his dark eyes intent. Barak took a moment to look at those dark eyes and the angular face they were set in, for it was dearer to him than he would ever care to admit. It was almost humorous how like a mooncalf he had become over this man.
“Jack,” he said, glancing up. “This letter is most strange.”
“I don’t know that seal,” Barak said, drawing up a chair.
“It is from the Master of the Company of Barbers and Surgeons,” he said. “Petitioning for my assistance on “a horrifying occurrence”.”
“Have those butchers chopped up the wrong corpse?” Barak said.
“A possibility,” Matthew said dryly. “Well, Michaelmas Term is done, so we have the time. Shall we find out?”
“Is it a case or are they after free advice?” Jack said. One of his self appointed tasks was to prevent his master from taking on requests he had no time for, or which would make them no money. For all Matthew’s fierce intellect he was a soft hearted soul at times, taking on the most piteous of clients for the most pitiful of fees. And nothing would be heard in Lincoln’s Inn for a month now, so why begin this at all?
“I would like to know that myself,” Matthew said, and Jack knew then that they would be at the Barber-Surgeon’s Hall before sunset.
****
The barber-surgeon Carey was waiting at the door of the anatomy theatre for them, just as they had been told by the Beadle of the Hall. And what an agitated state the man appeared to be in! He seemed as though he would be of phlegmatic humour under normal circumstances, Barak thought, as he watched Carey’s eyes dance nervously between them. He wondered what lay behind those doors that had sent him in such a spin.
“Sir, I am most grateful for your prompt attendance,” the man said, as Barak and his master approached.
“I admit I am very curious. But tell me everything - leave no detail out,” Matthew said, his face all attention. Barak knew that look. If this piqued his interest, he would be like a terrier with a rat.
“Perhaps I should show you,” Carey said. “I believe the letter may have given some idea…”
“Some,” Matthew nodded.
Carey closed his eyes briefly, before turning and opening the doors to the anatomy theatre, and ushering them inside.
The smell was what hit Barak first. Like a butcher’s shop. Then he saw the two bodies laid across the dissection table. The room had tiered wooden seating, affording all a good view of the spectacle below. But this was no show.
He looked to Matthew, for he knew his master had a weak stomach for such things. He placed a hand lightly on Matthew’s back, in case he felt faint.
Matthew held a kerchief to his nose.
“How long have you left them like this?” Barak burst out.
“Only since this morning,” said Carey. “We did not know what was best.”
“Jesu,” Matthew whispered. “They are laid out like a page of Vesalius.”
Barak recognised the name of the book as one Matthew’s friend Guy of Malton, apothecary and physician, had owned. It had been full of drawings of bodies flayed to the bone. It had been his prized possession until his arsehole of an apprentice had stolen it.
“It is very like,” Carey admitted.
“So the surgeons here follow the instructions of that book?” Barak asked. “You suspect any of your colleagues?”
“We do use the book, but - not like this. You must know that since the King’s order that the Company of Barber-Surgeons can make dissections of four executed criminals a year, and it is done here.”
“I am aware of the Order,” Matthew nodded. Indeed Guy had had high hopes of the knowledge it might bring.
“All dissections are done with an audience, to ensure we learn as much as we can. But…with only four bodies a year, and so many students, it is difficult.”
“You find yourselves in need of a few more corpses, you mean?” Barak said with a snort. Matthew shot him a look that quenched him.
“We would never desecrate a body thus, without permission!” Carey cried. “And yet it is true that these bodies are not corpses we have been granted.”
“Can you be sure, all cut open as they are?” Barak interjected.
“We only ever have one corpse at a time. And that latest has already been buried.” Carey paced towards the dissection table, then back again. He wrung his hands together. “God’s death, who has done this! Shall we all be blamed?”
“We need see no more for now,” Matthew said, looking a little green. “Is there somewhere we can talk further?”
Carey nodded, then led them down a long panelled hallway to his study. It was cold in there, the desk heaped with papers and nowhere to sit.
Matthew resumed his questions.
“At what time did you find these bodies?” he asked.
Carey looked shifty, Barak noticed at once. “I was here late last night, finishing a paper in my study. Ten o’ clock perhaps. I - I thought I heard a sound in the theatre and opened the door to check.”
“Did you see anyone last night who should not have been there? I will need the name of every person who entered the Hall that night.”
“There will be a record of all the Members who came and went yesterday,” Carey said. “And the apprentices of course.” He looked down at his hands. “There was one apprentice with me when I discovered the body…poor boy! He was most shocked.”
“We should speak to him next,” Matthew said. “What is his name?”
“But he has gone this morning to stay with family. He has a sensitive disposition and I thought it best that he begin his winter holiday now.”
“His name?” Matthew repeated.
“Piers,” Carey said, flushing a little. “Piers Maldon.”
Matthew cast a horrified glance at Barak. Piers had returned?
“Master Shardlake, can you help us?” asked Carey.
“I will try,” Matthew said grimly. “I will take your case. Please call the Coroner at once.”
xxxx
“That viper Piers,” Matthew almost spat as they mounted their horses and began to pick their way through the crowded streets away from the Hall. “For it must be him. Taking Guy’s name, and now, what? Is he murdering and dragging corpses to the Society to dissect them? Can he be truly mad?”
“We have suspected the little arsehole before and been wrong, but trouble follows him,” Barak remarked. “And one other thing is sure - Carey’s lying through his teeth about why they were both at the Hall so late. You could not hear a single sound from that dissection room from Carey’s study - it’s too far. I believe he and Piers were looking for a quiet corner together.”
“It is possible,” Matthew agreed.
“The anatomy theatre would always be empty at night, and dimly lit. A good place to go unheard. If you ask me, this Carey has had young Piers’ arse, and thinks himself besotted.”
“Could a learned man such as Carey truly fall for Piers’ tricks?”
“Didn’t the Old Moor come close? There’s none as learned as him. And there’s many a man who’d take Piers to his bed if he offered, a lad with comely looks such as his,” Barak said. “It is common enough.”
“Would you?” Matthew asked, before looking shocked at himself for the question.
“If I didn’t know he was a poisonous viper, then perhaps,” Barak said with a laugh. “He’s almost as pretty as I was at that age. But I’d not dip my quill in poison ink for love nor money.”
“Churl,” Matthew said, with a short laugh. “Your quill, indeed.” He looked over at Barak curiously.
Barak held his gaze a moment. “Such things are common enough,” he repeated, keeping his expression mild. “And much enjoyed.”
“Well,” Matthew said. He did not break his gaze, but caught his lip between his teeth.
“I’m going to spend a night making enquiries,” Barak said, trying not to imagine Matthew’s teeth tugging at his own lip. Or setting his own teeth into the plump flesh of Matthew’s own. Jesu save him.
“I know where the City apprentices drink and I know it’s four days from pay day besides,” he said, when Matthew stayed silent. “They’ll spill their guts to a man willing to stand them an ale. I’ll stay at Old Barge tonight, and report in the morning.”
With that, he dug his heels into Sukey’s side and urged her onwards, leaving Matthew to stew over his quill - or so he hoped.
xxxx
Early the next morning, Barak made the journey from Old Barge back to the City. He shifted in his saddle, his breath cloudy in the December air. Sukey picked up her feet as they turned onto Chancery Lane, knowing their destination was close. God’s teeth, the wind was bitter on this side of the river, though it was blowing the ale-induced headache away very well.
He could see the outline of his master through the upper window of the house, sitting at the table in his bed chamber. Perhaps looking at his prized bible - and why not, for all the sacrifice that had allowed it to be printed at all. Barak dismounted.
Weighing a pebble in his hand, he flung it with accuracy at the casement latch. It made a satisfyingly loud sound.
His master’s head came up at once, and the casement was thrown open.
“Jesu! Jack, what are you doing?” He demanded.
“Good morn to you sir,” Barak said, grinning up at him.
“Why don’t you knock on the door like a Christian?” Matthew said, hardly suppressing an entertained smile.
“I would, but first must tell you - the sweating sickness has come to Old Barge,” Barak said. “There was talk of shutting it up entirely and I’m not staying there to catch it from those arseholes. I haven’t been near another soul in the place, but I will not come in if you don’t wish it.”
“Of course you must come in. And stay till it passes! Joan would hear of nothing else.”
“Thanks to you both,” Barak said.
“But what news of Piers?”
“Shall I tell you in the street?” Barak said.
“Well, come in then,” Matthew said impatiently.
“I asked the Old Moor and he said I cannot infect you if I take nothing into your house,” Barak said. “But that means my clothes must come off.” He began to unfasten his doublet.
Shardlake’s pale face went pink.
“God’s teeth Jack, you cannot stand bare arsed in the street. Come through the stable to the garden and shed your clothing there at least.”
Jack chuckled to himself, having had no intention of undressing there in the first place. But it amused him to see his master flustered.
He led Sukey to the stable, tying her there and giving Chancery a pat. Then he let himself through the gate into Master Shardlake’s serene garden, now shrouded in snow.
Matthew was waiting for him at the kitchen door with a bundle of clothing.
“They were Mark’s,” he said, holding them out. “Joan said to lay your things over her rosemary bushes there. They will sweeten your clothes and purify any contagion.”
Barak noticed that he was not as neat as he usually was. His doublet was half-undone and Barak could see dark hair at his throat. Matthew kept his face close-shaved, but it seemed beneath his shirt he was entirely different. Well, that was something to think on indeed.
“What did Guy say?” he asked Barak. “Must your clothes be burned? Some physicians are saying it must be done now.”
“Jesu, I hope not,” Barak said. “This is my best doublet.”
“It is very fine,” Matthew said, looking it over. Then he raised his gaze to Barak’s face and Barak felt the flutter of excitement he always felt when his master looked at him in that way. Any other lad that looked at Barak like his master was looking at him now, would have been tumbled as soon as they’d found a place to do it. But this was Matthew Shardlake, and he was more than a knee-trembler in a dark lane. More was the pity.
And he might look, but he didn’t leer. Barak had noted that from the start.
Barak was well used to sizing men up and having only a moment to do so. He remembered the measure he’d taken of him the first time they met. What he’d seen of this man in an instant: kind to his horse; oppressed by a crowd; sensitive to bad odours. Of melancholic humour. The twist of his spine tilted him forward, but he rode well for all that.
And as to the rest of him - well, his face was as comely as you like. He had fine features and a full mouth, and a look of nobility besides. Barak had seen over and again Shardlake draw the eye of a lady, till they saw his crook-back and looked sharply away again.
The lawyer himself paid scant attention to the women he passed. But he had liked the look of Barak in his red doublet, that first time he laid eyes on him - that was certain. Though he hadn’t been lewd about it. When Barak had smiled at him like a bawdy to see what the man would do, he had averted his gaze politely, without shame. A gentleman. A gentle man.
A man who was now his master and source of his livelihood, and unlikely to want to tup Barak over his housekeeper Joan’s rosemary bushes. So stop thinking about it, churl.
Swallowing a sigh, Barak busied himself with hooks and eyes, loosening his doublet and shrugging it off without looking directly at his master. Thence to his shoes, and his breeches. He felt Matthew’s eyes on him still, even though he did not look up. He unfastened his breeches and pushed them down to his ankles.
Down to his hose, Barak paused. He shifted slightly, knowing his prick had thickened under Matthew’s gaze. Well if the man chose to stand and look - let him see what he might see.
Stripping the last of his clothing, he stood before his master, shivering in the December air. His cock had risen only slightly, lying heavy against his thigh. He wondered if Matthew’s cock had filled too. Stop, he told himself again, as the lusty thought rolled through him.
Matthew abruptly turned and went into the house.
Barak pulled on Matthew’s previous servant Mark’s old clothes, noting that Mark’s taste in codpieces had been on the extravagant side. He had been quite the young buck by Joan’s account, and had run off with some woman. Ungrateful wretch, he seemed to Barak. Imagine being taken under Matthew Shardlake’s wing and not wanting to remain there?
All dressed, he went to Matthew’s parlour.
Matthew was seated in his cushioned armchair, drawn close to the fire. His doublet was still unfastened at the neck, and Barak’s eye was drawn to his throat again. Matthew’s eyes in turn were drawn to the ridiculous codpiece, which amused Barak more than a little. God’s death, they way the two of them eyed each other! Barak felt maddened with it all. But he pushed the thoughts down, as he always did.
“What news of Piers, then?” Matthew said.
Barak drew a stool close to the fire. “He’s made no friends among the apprentices,” he said. “They suspect him of thieving, and he tells tales of them when they are slovenly or late.”
“So he likely has protection from someone more powerful,” Matthew guessed. “For apprentices don’t take kindly to a talebearer, and they’d use their fists to show him why.”
Barak nodded. “Once their tongues were loosed, it seems I was right. They say Carey beds him, and two other senior barber-surgeons beside. But more interesting than that…” Barak paused. “One lad whispered to me that he’d bedded him too, just for fun. In the early days of Piers apprenticeship. He’d seen the Vesalius anatomy book by his bedstead, and Piers had laughed and held him down, and asked if he’d like to be a page of the book.”
“Jesu,” Matthew breathed.
“He’d thought him in jest, so he…they continued…” Barak made a hand gesture which could signify half a dozen sex acts, and Matthew nodded.
“But afterwards Piers brought him a drink of ale. Lucky the lad only took a little, but he felt so queer afterwards that he dressed and took himself outside in the street to get some air, despite young Piers using every trick he could to get him to stay. He woke three streets away, having fallen asleep in an alley.”
“Drugged, then. Can he remember where Piers was living?”
Barak shook his head. “Not clearly. The stews of Southwark, somewhere.”
“Is that how he is paying for his apprenticeship, I wonder?” Matthew said. “Residing in a whorehouse in the stews?”
“The lad said no, just an ordinary lodging. Piers may have stolen more than we think from the Old Moor, and that’s what has got him through the door at the Barber Surgeon’s Hall. Or perhaps he works over at the Paris Garden, with a better class of customer. His face would buy him that certainly.”
“Still, unlikely with all the hours he works at the Hall.”
Barak nodded.
“And there was something more,” he said, having saved the best for last. “There are four great dissections a year at the anatomy theatre, as the law allows. But the lads hinted of more - of private lessons, behind closed doors. And more lessons means more corpses.”
“And someone finding them those corpses would be giving a very valuable service,” Matthew said.
“People disappear in the stews all the time,” Barak said. “Taken to Newgate, or hanged, or run off. Who would know or miss them?”
“This is good stuff, Jack,” Matthew said, his face alight with excitement. Barak felt a stupid glow of pride. “So Piers could be killing to please Carey and the rest.”
“And perhaps has grown frustrated at the lack of advancement or money this has given him. It would not be the first time.”
“But we cannot yet be sure,” Matthew said.
“Then we must follow him to earth,” Barak said. “I have a boy watching the Temple stairs for him.”
Matthew frowned with worry at once. “I hope he takes care to stay concealed,” he said. “For all we know, Piers has become a Gilles de Rais.”
“Sweet Jesus, I pray not.” Barak groaned and stretched. “And I am half starved. Shall Joan feed me, do you think?”
“If you flirt enough. Though it will be no more than pottage - she is hoarding all our eggs and butter for the Twelfth Night feast.”
Barak grinned, knowing she’d give him something better than that. At least his flirting worked on someone.
xxxx
“You are sure he comes to Temple Stairs at this time,” Matthew said breathlessly, as Barak hurried him down from Chancery Lane on foot two days later. They were dressed in quiet black, from doublet to coif.
“I paid the boy for two night’s vigil,” Barak said. “He said he took the same route both times. He’s a good lad, I believe him.”
The lad in question was now sitting in Joan’s warm kitchen being fed and tended to. No doubt he would be taken into the household before the week was out, like all of Matthew’s waifs and strays. The tender-hearted fool, Barak thought affectionately.
It had been a pleasant two days, almost always alone together. Barak certainly did not miss the moulding walls of his room at Old Barge, or the noises of fighting or fucking which usually surrounded him. Matthew’s house was serene and ordered. Even his stableboy was well mannered, which was astounding in Barak’s experience of them.
They had supped together each evening, talking late enough for the candles to gutter and on one occasion go out entirely. They had stumbled around good humouredly in pitch darkness not daring to begin a fresh candle, for all the household stock was under strict ration in anticipation of Christmas.
“If I light another candle tonight, I believe you will be investigating Joan’s murder of me,” Matthew whispered as they climbed the stairs together.
“I would have her acquitted,” Barak said, and Matthew’s soft laugh brushed his cheek, sending shivers to every part of him. Barak was far from used to being chaste, but he knew he could not take the lead like he would with anyone else. Oh to be taken to bed, in this soft darkness - and would that his master would suggest it! Yet he did not.
Barak had not known that part of him would find that the frustrated torment enhanced his longing. Alone in bed, he imagined begging Matthew for relief.
Those imaginings were pushed to the back of his mind now, as they hurried across the Flete and into the dark lanes of Temple Bar, in search of their quarry.
“We should have crossed earlier and laid in wait on the other side,” Matthew was saying, staring all around. He was nervous and it made him querulous at times. “It is too close to curfew, he is likely gone already and we won’t get across. We…”
“Hush sir, I see him,” Barak hissed, grabbing Matthew by the wrist.
Barak could see Piers wending his way through the crowd by Temple stairs, his coif pulled low on his brow. It did not stop people from turning to get another look at him however, such were his comely looks. Barak could almost track him through the crowd just from the turning heads. Piers slipped easily through the crowd, and with a flash of his white teeth, brazenly went to the front of the line awaiting wherries, and stepped into one.
Not so easy for Barak and Matthew, who were now vying for the last of the afternoon boats.
“River’s begun to freeze again,” Barak observed. “You can’t get past the bridge already. It’s stopped half the wherries getting up here.”
“Perhaps we should wait for a thaw while Piers carves up half of London!” snapped Matthew.
“It was merely an observation,” Barak said, suppressing a grin at his master’s impatience. “It makes a wherry harder to find. And Curfew will be upon us in an hour.”
“And in the meantime he makes another corpse for the Surgeons. No. We must go now,” Matthew insisted. “The river is still passable.”
“But how, I wonder, are we getting back,” Barak muttered under his breath, but he didn’t argue. He recognised when his master had become intransigent through nerves. In any case, he wasn’t entirely averse to a night spent amid the brothels of Southwark, if it came to it. Might even be a relief.
He sighed, then made it his business to ensure Matthew reached the front of the crowd. There was a deal of jostling and some shouting. Drunken singing too. Some people had begun their Twelfth Night wassailing early, perhaps.
“Get away crookback,” a drunken man yelled, elbowing Barak in the side as he forced his way in front of Matthew.
“Stand back, arsehole,” Barak said, planting a firm hand on the man’s chest.
“Jack, we cannot draw too much attention to ourselves,” Matthew murmured in his ear. “Ignore the fool.”
“Don’t look at me, you bent-back crow! I don’t want the bad luck!”
Barak turned on him. “Here’s your bad luck,” he said, and punched the man as hard as he could in the gut. The man folded to the ground, the breath knocked out of him. Barak helped Matthew step over him.
“God’s teeth, Jack,” Matthew said with exasperation. “He was a drunken sot, he wouldn’t have harmed me.”
“That was for my sake. I allow myself one a week,” Barak said, unperturbed by the scolding. Matthew subsided, and they climbed into a wherry at last.
Jesu, but it was cold out on the water. Snow had begun to fall, though this wherry had a canopy, it did nothing to keep the wind off. It was not quite dark, but the light was fading quickly now. He scanned the river for sight of Piers, noting two boats which might be carrying him. He tried to mark which mooring they went to but it was almost impossible to see.
“Jack,” Matthew said after a few moments of silence. “Do you truly thump one person a week on my behalf?”
“What of it?” Barak said. Matthew could tell him to stop all he wanted, he would just do it out of his sight.
“There is no need,” Matthew said. “These insults are nothing I have not heard a hundred times.”
“They are not nothing,” Barak said at once, for this melancholic passivity of Matthew’s angered him. “They should not dare to say such things to a man such as you, of your stature! They need to be taught. And you should care more yourself for that matter.”
“If I cared about name-calling I would never leave home.”
“If you cannot let yourself care, then I will demand their respect on your behalf,” Barak said, passionately. “How dare they? I should get you a stout stick.”
“The hunchback lawyer who carries a club. I will become a bogey-tale,” Matthew chuckled.
“Aye, well,” Barak said, and laughed too. They lapsed into silence, not quite able to see each other’s expressions in the dark. The water lapped at the boat, and the wherryman pulled them onwards to the far shore. They were silent awhile.
“Thank you, my friend,” Matthew said presently, against Barak’s ear. But - what now? - the wherryman had stopped.
“River’s frozen here,” the wherryman said. “I cannot risk my boat getting stuck.”
“It’s only just froze, you arsehole. Can’t you break it with an oar?” Barak said. “We must get across! It won’t be thick enough to walk on.”
“It is,” said the wherryman, folding his arms. “And I go no further. Not with a bad omen on board.”
“Don’t you want your fare, churl?” Matthew snapped, perhaps having taken Barak’s speech to heart a little.
“If my boat gets frozen in, I’ll starve this winter,” the wherryman said. “I’ll forfeit this fare for that.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Matthew said impatiently, and began to clamber out of the boat.
“God’s toenails,” Barak swore. “Sir, make less haste, or let me test the ice myself first. You cannot swim.”
Matthew paused long enough for Barak to get ahead of him. The wherryman barely waited till Barak’s foot had left the boards of his boat before rowing away. “Superstitious old arsehole,” Barak called, throwing a handful of ice at his retreating boat and looking round for more.
“Come Barak, you have had your quota of fights for this week, I believe, and, oh…”
Matthew had slipped already, falling hard to his knees.
“Sir!” Barak rushed to his side. He got his hands on his good arm, not wanting to wrench at his twisted side and cause him more pain.
“I can manage Jack,” Matthew snapped, always angry and ashamed of any physical weakness.
“I’m sure you can,” Barak snapped back. “But this ice doesn’t go deep, and looks like you’ve cracked it with your boney knees. So let’s move our arses as fast as we can, and if that means me pulling you to your feet, then so be it.”
Matthew looked down at the ice. “Jesu,” he said. Barak took his arm firmly.
“Move, sir.”
Barak took them over the uneven ice at as fast a pace as he could manage. He could hear it groan a little with every step, and the only thing that would save them a dunking would be speed. But it was snowing harder now, and the whirl of flakes were getting in his eyes and down his collar, and making it even slippier underfoot.
“Almost across,” he panted as Matthew almost lost his footing again.
They were only a few paces from the shore when he heard the ice give a horrible creak and Matthew cried out. He had slipped through up to one knee, and was having trouble pulling himself up. Beneath that ice was the dark drag of the Thames itself, trying to take him out to sea.
With a roar of frustration, Barak hauled at Matthew under his armpits. “Lift your leg and kick!” he cried, and Matthew did for all he was worth. Barak pulled backwards and Matthew succeeded in getting his foot against the edge of the ice and shoved them both backwards.
They scrabbled to the embankment, wet and filthy. Matthew was already shuddering from head to toe.
“Well, we’re across at least,” Barak said, panting.
“J-jesu I am sorry,” Matthew said, getting unsteadily to his feet. Barak got up too, and began to march them towards the Southwark stews. “We should not have tried it. I wouldn’t listen.”
“Don’t you think I know what you are like by now?” Barak snorted, keeping Matthew moving with a firm arm across his shoulders. “I wouldn’t be here if I thought we couldn’t manage it. So I must be as bad.”
Matthew tried to speak but his shivering only increased.
“I need to get you indoors,” Barak said.
“W-where? A brothel?” Matthew managed.
“If you’ve no objection, I know a place that will rent out a room to two men and no questions asked,” Barak said, impulsively winking at his master. “Amid the Winchester Geese there are many ganders.”
Matthew looked unenthused, but followed him anyway.
The Boar’s Head was always worth a wager, and it didn’t see Barak wrong that night either. The place was not busy, and the madam understood immediately that they wanted the best room and a fire, and no interference else.
“Tis a wild night out there, an no way back across the river,” she said with a wink, showing them upstairs.
The room was not bad, and the bed linen fairly fresh. They ordered some food for politeness, though Barak at least had no intention of eating it, and Matthew would certainly be too finical to touch it.
Barak had only to dry his shoes and hose by stretching out before the fire, but Matthew was much more sodden and had to undress.
Barak half turned away as he did so, only snatching glimpses of lean muscle and dark hair.
“Our mission has not gone to plan,” Matthew said morosely, putting his shoes by the fire to dry, followed by his doublet. “We lost Piers, and now we lose an evening’s work trapped here. And what if we are wrong again? Piers might be up to no more than his usual tricks - seduction and thievery. What if we are on a wild goose chase?”
“Don’t despair. We need to speak to Carey again and press him harder,” Barak said. “He’s lying and we both know it. And this time it is Piers, I feel it in my gut. Don’t you?”
“I do,” Matthew said after a moment. “I think this time we are right. He is fascinated by cutting people open and sewing them closed again.” Barak saw his hand go to the scar on his arm, the place where Piers had sewn his stab wound. Expertly done, but with far too great an enjoyment.
“Is Carey likely to protect him? If the surgeons close ranks it will be very difficult. But then perhaps his feelings do not run so deep as that.”
“We cannot rule it out. Men can have passions for each other, true ones. Piers twists that for his benefit - I believe he would lay with any person he needed to. That does not mean it is always that shallow, between two men,” Barak said.
Matthew nodded. “Certainly I would…I mean, if I was passionate about someone, I can imagine I would want to protect them.”
Barak stared into the fire before making his response. “I know for certain. I already do. Though I’ve made a poor enough job of it at times.”
“Tamasin has ever been independent,” Matthew began.
“Not her,” Barak interrupted. “But you.”
There, he had said it. All this dancing around it for the past week, all the months before that, of longing looks. And here in a brothel in the stews, half soaked and tired out, Barak had had enough. No more.
But Matthew looked furious.
“Stop this, Jack,” he said, standing up from the hearthside and striding across the room. “This strange mood of yours these last few days, these jokes you persist in making about taking men to your bed! I do not understand it, and it feels as though you are trying to tease me. Why?”
“They’re not jokes,” Barak said belligerently, folding his arms. “It’s the truth. And I believe you know it.”
Matthew stared at him wordlessly. Then he sat down on the bed, as far away from Barak as possible.
But Barak would not be defeated when he was so close. He moved to Matthew’s side.
“Sir,” he said. “I do not jest about any of it, and I am not stupid or without feeling. You have seen me looking and I’ve felt you looking likewise. Can we admit this much?”
“But…we cannot do anything about it,” Matthew said in almost a whisper, and this was as good an admission as any.
“What’s to stop us?” Barak asked roughly. “Who do we break faith with? Neither of us have wives.”
“Tamasin may come back to you yet.”
“She may,” Barak shrugged. “That’s no matter for tonight. So I say again - why not? You fear God?”
Matthew gave a wry smile and shook his head.
“The law then.”
“I believe we are safe from that in Southwark,” Matthew said with another twist of his mouth. “And it is not that either. I am your Master, Jack.”
“You worry that I won’t want to serve you after this,” Jack said. “Or that I won’t take your orders. Or that I’ll think I have to take you in my arse because I’ve got no choice.”
Matthew’s eyes darkened at Barak’s coarse expression, and his lips parted. Good. Barak wanted his mind back on his prick and not his principles.
“I only take your orders because I want to,” Barak said, his mouth a hair's-breadth from Matthew’s. “I only serve you because I choose to. I may not show my obedience with meek looks and cast down eyes, but my loyalty is to you entirely, and has been since the second week of our meeting. I challenge you because I trust you. I would follow you into anything. I have confessed to you my passions for men because I know you would not betray me. So - is it that you do not trust me? You think I would betray you?”
Matthew seemed speechless. He gave the tiniest shake of his head. Barak could hear his breath coming fast, and knew he was as roused up as Barak himself. Enough of all this talk.
And so, he kissed him.
Barak did not usually kiss - or not for a quick tumble at least. But this was more than kissing, these trembling presses of their mouths, the way Matthew had wound his fingers into Barak’s hair, the way each kiss melded them closer together and promised more and more.
“I have wanted you in my bed a long long time, like many others have I am sure,” Barak breathed. “You are so determined no one could want you. Lucky I’m just as determined as you.”
“I could not bear…if someone was to look upon my back with disgust.”
“I know it. But you’re made of the same stuff as I am,” Barak said with a shrug. “Your back is just your back and part of you. You look the same as any man when you’re on it.”
Matthew looked up at him, startled at the comment. A flush of colour was rising from his throat to cheek, and Jack wondered how far it went the other way too.
“Aye - Just the same as any other man I’ve had on his back,” he continued, with a grin. “And it’s not as though your shirt isn’t clinging tight as skin to you. What do you think I’d see that I can’t already?”
“What if I do not wish to be beneath you?” Matthew said quietly, but with fire, and Jack felt a laugh rise up within him.
“I am your servant, sir,” he said with a grin. “And if you wish to be above me, it would be my pleasure.”
“Sweet words,” Matthew said. “I think I know now why your bed is never lonely.”
“Oh you don’t know the half of it yet,” Jack said. “But you will. If you give me leave to show you. Sir.”
“Churl,” Matthew said affectionately. Then not taking his gaze from Jack, he pulled his sodden shirt over his head.
He had a pelt on his chest just as Jack had hoped and imagined. And besides that, one shoulder hitched above the other. But nothing that needed hiding the way Matthew seemed to think. Matthew’s gaze was still fixed upon him, waiting for something. For Jack to speak, he supposed.
Better to act. He leant over Matthew, kissing him again and running his hand over Matthew’s chest.
“I came here to tumble a gentleman, or so I hoped. Didn’t know I’d strayed into the Southwark bear garden,” he said. Matthew began to laugh.
“Of all the things to say…and you are hardly less furred yourself.”
“True. But I’ll enjoy bedding down in this.”
He kissed his throat first, near the join at his hunched shoulder. Matthew flinched a little, but gave a small gasp, which Jack took as encouragement. Emboldened, he moved up to Matthew’s ear, hair still damp from the river. Then along his jaw, and then finally found his mouth again, before climbing back off the bed.
He knelt, pushing Matthew’s thighs apart. Their eyes were locked on each other, Matthew’s as dark as night. He let his legs fall open at Barak’s touch with a small moan.
Barak pulled gently at the ties of Matthew’s hose, watching as they opened. More dark hair here, but even more enticing, the head of a heavy prick appeared. Matthew made another moan, and Barak wondered how long it had been since he had been touched. Certainly he was already leaking. Barak licked at him, the salt taste making his own prick jerk with anticipation.
Taking him into his mouth at last, he sucked it from root to tip, just once, before Matthew clutched at Jack’s hair and protested, his climax almost upon him already. Jack pulled his mouth away as though ordered.
“Tell me, sir,” he said. “When to go and when to stop.”
Matthew above him, flushed and breathing hard, was a sight to see. But the fire in his eyes was another thing entirely.
“Take me back into your mouth,” he said.
Barak let out a moan of assent as he did just that. He held still, hoping Matthew would instruct him further.
“S-suck on me,” Matthew managed. “And pleasure yourself besides. Oh, oh Jesu…Jack…”
Barak hardly knew how long either of them lasted. He obeyed every instruction, swallowing his master down over and over, with his own prick slippery in his hand. He toyed with himself, bringing himself to the edge, just as Matthew used Barak’s mouth for the same. Barak felt him close more than once, the salty taste flooding his mouth, but then Matthew would deny himself again, teasing the moment out longer. But then Matthew asked him to look up at him, and Barak could not stop his climax as he did, moaning around the thick cock in his mouth as he spilled.
Matthew thrust his hips forward, once, twice, almost choking Barak - though what a way to go - before climaxing with a groan over Barak’s waiting tongue.
Barak sucked and licked him clean until Matthew made a sound of protest. Then he sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
They stared at each a moment, before Barak gave a laugh of joy. Matthew smiled back. A rarity indeed.
“Come up here Jack,” Matthew said, holding out his hand. Jack clambered up on the bed with him, wondering if he should go in search of the slop that would be their supper, or if he would stay and hope for a second round.
xxxx
“Last night did not exactly go as we hoped,” Barak said, when they both stirred awake the next morning. He gathered Matthew to him and kissed the nape of his neck, lest Matthew retreat into shame and assumption that Barak found his body ugly. Istracted by the soft skin there, he carried on kissing and nipping at Matthew’s neck until he reached round to find Matthew hard again.
He continued his kissing and his stroking, until Matthew turned in his arms to face him. Barak wrapped his hand around both their pricks, which sent Matthew moaning against his mouth in the most wanton way.
“Make me spill,” Matthew breathed, bucking into Barak’s hand. Barak obeyed.
“Sweet Jesus…” he managed as the press of Matthew’s cock against his own finished him.
“Now what was it you began to say?” Matthew said, his head against Barak’s chest.
“Something about our plan,” Barak said. “I believe I no longer care.”
“It is not the first time our plans have gone awry. We will find him yet.”
“And when we do, he’ll hang,” Barak said with relish. “The slippery little shit.”
He looked up through the window they had not shuttered the night before, seeing the winter dawn reach even this darkest place in the stews. A new morn for them both.