A Baptism in the Forest
- 5 days ago
- 17 min read
A short story by Daniel Stride
This story contains: her and him, historical fiction, fantasy, strangers, outdoors, forbidden, cunnilingus
Lorenzo gritted his teeth.
He was still miles from Milan, with his gelding gone lame. He’d trudged through mud and snow-sludge, leading poor Aqualino by the reins, until sunset forced encampment amid the forest undergrowth. Along the road, Lorenzo had hoped to stumble across some cottager or monastery. A warm fireside and a bellyful of wine would work wonders, and Aqualino deserved mash.
Alas, despite his good Christian prayers, neither Benedictine abbot nor sturdy woodsman awaited, but only godless bandits: a score, hooded in winter-furs, and armed with axe, knife, and crossbow. They glowered from among the tree-trunks.
“Surrender or die.”
Lorenzo’s fingers twitched beneath the folds of his cloak. He reached for his sword-hilt. Then he recalled the old tavern joke:
“What do you call the man who dies an hour after a knife-fight? The winner.”
Pride must yield before reason.
Lorenzo cursed the whoresons to the fires of Hell.
**
In a fit of Charity, the bandits spared the gag, but Lorenzo stood trussed-up nonetheless. The rope binds bit, and the tree trunk prodded his back. He shivered, bound as he was too far from the campfire. At least the wind had died.
A wiry fellow led Aqualino away. Lorenzo knew he would never see that white-nosed horse again, save as salted jerky. By Saint Christopher, I’ll count myself lucky if I escape a slit throat myself.
And yet, the bandits might strike a deal. They had stolen his sword, his dagger, his purse of silver soldi, and even his cloak—but his life still held value. He just needed to beware his immortal soul.
“I serve Count Giovanni,” Lorenzo said, licking his lips. “I am the son and messenger of his Chamberlain.”
A stout bearded brute and a scarred man rummaged through the filched saddlebags. They fished out the letters, each adorned with the Count’s wax seal.
“As you see, I carry correspondence meant for the Duke’s private secretary in Milan. I am a most valuable hostage.”
The stout bandit waved the letters. “He’d fetch us a tidy ransom. Gold florins, even.”
Scarface shook his head.
“We have his sword and silver. But ransom or no, Her Ladyship likes her pretty ones. We can’t prosper without her favor.”
“Who is Her Ladyship?” asked Lorenzo.
A smile spread across the scarred man’s lips.
“You’ll find out soon enough, lad. Full Moon tonight.”
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