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You are Jacques de Crussol, the 8th Viscount of Uzčs.

It was a cold autumn evening. It might have been October.

The fire crackled warmly its stone hollow. Occasionally, it would pop, the grain splitting slightly on the newest log as the flames eagerly consumed it. Outside, in the murky windows, you could hear the dulled roar and quiet hiss of wind crashing by, rain striking ground and glass, and the shivering of leaves; but inside, sheltered from the struggle and hardship, the sounds soothed your senses. Nestled beneath a pile of furs, you would yawn and your eyes droop, absently gazing upon the shadows performing their silent waltz on the walls.

You stroked the pelt nearest your lap, letting your hand run through its silken hairs, and amusing yourself for a while watching its sheen change as you stroked the fur this way or that. You drew a few simple figures in it – a knight on horseback with a long spear, a proud stag with great, branching horns. Brushing the patterns away, you fingered instead a few of the hairs. Black, tipped with silver. It had been the first animal that you had caught – you and your father had embarked on the hunt with but a pair of crossbows and a sword for him, and a minimum of supplies. You exhausted them quickly and the pursuit wore long; as it continued, you grew hungrier and more desperate, hungrier by the minute. As each hour stretched on, that nagging and gnawing pain within you slowly filled your mind, until there were no thoughts left but that of hunger. But then, as a shadow, you would spot your quarry, a monstrous thing, and dangerous though it was, you ran for it with all the heroism you could muster. Your legs ached and burned, and your lungs were up in flames, as you coughed and kept running, lifting up the leaden load of your crossbow to your shoulder, aiming, finger at the ready on the trigger pin – then, at last! In a single, invisible instant, it had all ended. The signal travelled from your eye to the finger – the finger bent around the pin, the iron shifted – a twang of sinew, the bolt flew and whistled through the air – your prey fell over itself in the distance, slumped and collapsed. You rushed toward it, the pain of your limbs evaporating in the elation, eyes fixed on your prize – you dared not even blink lest the elusive animal simply disappear. Then, crouched over it, you lifted it up with one hand, the bolt still in its side – a rabbit, and your first catch. If you searched for long enough, you could still find the sewn-up hole in the pelt that it had left behind. That you had left behind.

It was quiet and uneventful; a rare evening, where a few weeks after harvest everything was done and a moment of peace could be found. Father was sitting proudly in his tall wooden throne by the long table, busily writing and handling accounts and writing to important foreign dignitaries for important political matters. Mother was knitting something, still just a square of fabric, with the house colours. Green and gold. You were never quite sure what he was doing at the desk – though you liked to imagine – and you couldn’t peer far enough over the table to check, anyway, but you were certain that they mattered. If you had grown a little taller, then, maybe. Maybe you’d have been trusted with more by then.

Your eyelids began to feel even heavier – fluttering, you struggled to keep them up. Shifting a little to get the soft furs in a more comfortable position, you shut your eyes and listened to the soft sweep of the wind.

That was when you heard the herald come. After some time, you heard his heavy footsteps approaching from the far end of the hall, each punctuated by a swish of chainmail, and a quiet cough, then your father’s disinterested voice, saying “Yes?”

“My lord, Jean d’Uzčs, the 7th viscount of Uzčs, has arrived with his retinue. He intends to stay for some time.”

“Thank you. I’m aware. Let him in.”

More heavy boots. You opened your eyes again with a sigh – you clearly weren’t going to get that nap. Three men came in, two in light armour of chainmail and leather, and a lone man, presumably the viscount. He had long black hair, greasy-looking even in the dim light of the fire and candles, and a cropped beard; the heavy and wet woollen cloak was as black as his hair. There was a large lump at his chest, and he seemed to be carrying something under it – when, with one hand, he unfastened his cloak and gave it to one of his men, it turned out to be something fairly large, loosely wrapped in a soft red-and-gold cloth and carried gingerly. You saw him put it down on a table and stroke it softly. Your father stood up to greet him.

“Your Excellency. Welcome; my house and my table are yours. I am curious what matters would prompt you to see me in person.”

“Thank you, my Lord. I trust you received my advance letter, then.”

“Yes, I did, but you wrote little about the matter at hand.” Your father made a sidelong glance at the package.

Your mother, seeing the meeting that was about to begin, quietly ushered you away. The visitor, noticing this, said- “Please, my lady, keep the boy nearby.” The two of you went into the little hall, you carrying the largest fur, where you craned your neck to see the two men talking.

The viscount’s gaze travelled around the room, and he stood in silence for a long while. “Our families have been friends for a long time. I trust you know that well. In fact, we helped in no small part to help validate that claim to castle Crussol, several generations ago - the name Crussol suits your family much better than Bâtard.”

Your father looked down and frowned. “Yes, that is true. But what is it you want, your Excellency-” and those words were bitter “-as I trust you came here for more important issues than to remind us of your superiority?”

He smiled softly, sheepishly, even. “I apologise if I took a misstep in our conversation. My intent was not to offend.” He paused. “There are few people I can confide this to. You are one of them.” His eyes turned away from your father and to the package as he spoke. “This is our first child to survive – It will also be our last. My wife has died in childbirth, and I have fallen ill – though I may not look it – and that will limit what life I have left. My physician has warned me that any children I produce now are likely to also have the disease.”

Your father raised his brows, but said nothing.

“Without a son, then, it’ll be the end of our lineage.” He sighed. “I wish it were not this way, but it is what it is. I am looking for potential houses to take over from here, and have their son be betrothed to my daughter. Given our relations, I thought house Crussol would be a good choice.”

“We’re honoured, your Excellency. My sympathies for your wife. It... It was a noble death.”

“Yes, it was.”

After that, silence filled the halls again. Your father and the viscount remained standing for a few minutes as if in mute communion – then, the viscount turned on his heels toward the archway behind which you were raptly listening.

“Come, boy. You have nothing to fear from me.” He bent down to your height; still peeking from the archway, you looked at him for a while before tentatively approaching. He put his hand on your shoulder. “What is your name? I’m fairly certain it isn’t ‘Boy’,” he said with a smile.

“I-it’s Jacques, your Excellency.”

“How polite. How old are you?”

“Twelve, your Excellency.”

“Then I’m sure you’ll get along very well with Simone,” he said, gesturing to the package. Standing on your tiptoes, you peered over the table – and there it was, between the folds of cloth; a baby girl, sleeping quietly.

“You must be hungry after your journey. I will ask the servants to prepare something for you.”

You take another sip from your wine. You still remember it all clearly – after that first meeting, the viscount stayed at the castle occasionally over the next few years. You were then betrothed – on the condition that your family would incorporate the name and coat of arms of house Uzčs into yours – and a short time later, the viscount passed away leaving her as a ward of house Crussol. Of course, this was all working out to your parents’ favour; sentiment aside, they had no less of the drive and hunger for success than the first generation – a common family that was barely literate – had. Though they had been looking for a good marriage with which to secure a strong position for some time, this had almost fallen into their laps. The union with house Uzčs would result in the control of a proper township, and proper lands.

Once she became of marriageable age, you did so – but having grown up together and played together, you had always thought of each other more as siblings than lovers. You moved into Uzčs in order to make sure you would be recognised as the new ruler and lived there when you could, between tours of duty in Paris; you were, like your father, the Grand Chamberlain and Breadmaster – though it is now only a ceremonial position – and had to participate in many of the political matters in the royal court. Lords and ladies in that dank palace would argue matters of legislation and discuss social issues for hours on end.

You yourself had a rather different idea of nobility when you were younger. Noblemen were brave, chivalrous folk who led armies into wars for great causes, and who would rule with a just and firm hand. The common folk would adore them for doing what they themselves could not. How disappointed you were when none of this was true, not even in your own family.

“Your horse is ready, your Excellence.”

“Thank you.” You gesture for one of your servants to come with you. The summer markets are open today; at least you can enjoy that.

You blink in the bright noon light, and take in the sights, sounds and smells. From the fruit vendors would waft a sweet, flowery potpourri of summer berries and fresh fuzzy peaches, deliciously soft nectar matured in warm French sunlight and now perfectly ripe for enjoyment. Farmers would arrive with wagonloads of green, yellow, orange, even purple vegetables almost sparkling with colourful vibrancy and vitality, smelling of honest, warm earth and hard labour. There would be a few vintners plying young wines in shades of bright crimson and scarlet or glittering ivory, tart and sweet all at once and smelling of fresh snow and grassy orchards.

You tour enraptured along the rows of stalls in the farmer’s market, until you spot a farmer selling poultry in a coop. You ride up, and after some inspection from a distance, pick out a good duck.

“I’ll take that one, there. The brown one with the yellow flecks.”

“Aye, that’ll be five deniers. Do you want me to pluck it for you, milord?”

“No, it’s fine.” You put on your best smile. “Give it to my servant live. I’ll have my cook pluck and prepare it myself for tonight.”

“As you wish, milord.” He bags it – you wince slightly – and hands it to your servant.

After a few more hours of gleeful touring, the two of you come home. No, it’s not really her fault. She’s not very ugly, either – no, other men would have had a fairly easy time had she married one of them. But you two did grow up together; she’s almost a sibling. It feels strange, and she’s missing a certain something. There will be a child eventually, but it’ll be difficult until then, and both of you will have to keep your façades up.

You glance briefly at the church steeple in the distance. Hopefully, your son won’t be like you.

A handmaiden lights the candles in your private chambers as you enter for the night. Taking off your outerwear, you sit down and have your supper for the evening. Served on a trencher, you note ham, some fresh plums and softer bread. You never much liked ham, but you eat it anyway and drink a large cupful of wine – the mere thought of what is going to happen tonight makes you quiver, with as much anticipation as trepidation.

You dress down and wait in your sleeping chamber, heart racing, skin flush with a pent-up passion of so many months – even years. The strictness of your parentage and the sanctity of marriage had let only chance encounters and such rare, dreamlike and endlessly unsatisfying, insufficient gropes through the cruel bars into your desperate hands. When desire first truly bloomed in adolescence, and your parents, sensing this but not having found another wretched alliance to forge, put you in forced celibacy – and your new passion, overflowing without an outlet, began consuming your mind in its fires.

In hindsight, you feel a slight, mad smile break through. Oh, what comedy! It was all rather unnecessary – if they had known.

You sought, with every free moment, for even a minute’s escape from your prison. You savoured every sight, sound, smell, and touch, every moment of your brief encounters with a ravenous and bottomless hunger, extending in your mind each while into an infinity. But you wanted more, always more; each encounter drove you into a frenzy of desire. Each time, it left you with only a taste of the real thing – only a tantalising glimpse of paradise – barely enough to sustain you, and the fires kept burning, lit anew with a fresh spark, burning your entrails and choking your soul.

You hear a few tentative steps from the doorway, and the slight, rasping creak of floorboards. Turning toward the sound – and there, leaning coyly against the doorway, your fairest maiden.

Quietly, you leave the bed and walk over to her. Your eyes travel all along her body – silken chestnut hair, long neck, a delicately curved bosom – and your hands, as if moving by themselves, reach out to stroke the curve of her shoulders and the nape of her neck – her honey-hued skin, her quivering, softly opalescent down. She trembles and twitches as you kiss the corner of her parted lips; in one stroke, and with a cry of surprise, you pick her up and move her to your bed. A cluster of stars palely glow in the skies above you, and through the arabesques of the tall windows, slivers of shimmering light would reach you and bathe the room in shades of blue and grey. Seeing her face in the darkness, it seems strangely distinct – as if it emitted a faint radiance of its own. Her legs, her lovely live legs, were not too close together – and when your hand finds what it seeks, a dreamy and eerie expression, half-pleasure, half-pain, washes over her features. When, in her solitary ecstasy, you would kiss, her head would bend in a gentle drooping movement that seemed almost woeful. With a sibilant intake of breath, you draw your face close to her, and at once you meet with her fragrant scent, sweetish flowers and dark musk mingling with her own biscuity odour. With deep breaths, you fill your senses to overflowing. At first, she would roughly rub her dry lips against yours – but, as the night progresses, she would come darkly near you and let you feed on her open mouth, then draw back with a nervous, teasing toss of her head.

As the first light breaks through the rooftops and the forest canopies, you rise up, exhausted, reinvigorated, and don a fresh set of linens. Tucked in the billowing folds of the blankets, your lover quacks softly. You turn around and pluck some of the larger stray feathers that had come off, brown and yellow, off the bedsheets. Carefully, you drop each one into the fireplace – then, after some thought, a small amount of incense as well.

“Are you done?”

You jump a little, startled – but you quickly recognise the voice. “Yes, I am.”

She was leaning against the frame of the open doorway, facing away from you with arms crossed. “Will you ever stop doing... This?”

You sigh, and sit back down on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know.”

“You can’t keep up with this forever, Jacques. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to return to our family, to the real world. And if not...” She sniffs. “Jacques, you’re going to get caught in the act.”

“Simone, what-”

“And then you’ll die!” She had come in now, and stood in front of the doorway, red in the face. You look away. “Don’t you realise what you’re doing, Jacques? It doesn’t matter if you’re the viscount – you’ll be hanged for sodomy, and then your body will be burned. I’ll probably be hanged too, as your accomplice!”

“What can I do? I’ve tried, believe me – I can’t help it. I just... I can’t.”

She says nothing, and looks down. After a while, her gaze travels back up to yours. “The Inquisitors are coming. They might be coming for you.”

You suddenly feel cold, as if touched by Death. A shiver runs down your back, down your arms – you feel the hairs stand on end – and down your thighs, to your legs. Something lodges in the back of your throat, and you cough and try to catch your breath. “W-where did you hear this?”

“I was in the summer markets when I heard the news. One of the vendors there saw the troops on his way here, flying the Pope’s coat of arms. They were visible at quite a distance, apparently.” She suddenly seemed resolute. “You must ride out and greet them when they arrive.”

“No! They’d kill me!”

“They’d kill you anyway, if you’re what they want; their knights would hunt you down. If not... You mustn’t let them become suspicious. If you don’t ride out, they could think you feared them - that something was wrong. Besides, the Inquisitors are likely just here to question people.”

It was true, every word. Still, you can’t help but let out a small groan. The best investigators in Europe were arriving in your lands, and you had to go out and meet them. You may even need to host them.

“You’re right. I’ll ride out in the morning.”