Authors notes: This story combines elements of the show and actual history, but can easily be read with no previous knowledge of either. It explores the complex dynamics of power and emotions in the relationship between Henry and Charles and gets quite intense. The title was inspired by the historical Charles Brandon's motto "Loyaulte me oblige" (Loyalty binds me).

Warning: This is slash and explicit and emotionally intense! There is some violence, too.

He leaves Charles sleeping on the bed, puts on a robe and sits down at his writing desk. Even with the snow storm still raging outside it is pleasantly warm in the tent and after the exertion of sex he now feels almost overheated. Knowing the heat will pass he still leaves his robe open, before he picks up the quill and dips the tip in ink. He hates writing. But he is in no mood to call for his secretary now to do it for him.

It would be too much effort to wake Charles and send him away. And as lividly angry as he was at his friend just an hour ago, he very much enjoys the sight of him asleep and naked in his bed now. The fire casts golden light over Charles's muscular, sweaty form on the costly red silk coverlet, his back rising with his slow breathing. His dark hair is in disarray, a lock falling into his relaxed handsome face. He looks like some kind of Greek pleasure slave. If Henry weren't too spent to get aroused again so soon, he'd have him once more.

He has read about pleasure slaves in ancient Greece and it has always been a secretly tantalising idea to him. A boy kept just for carnal pleasure, alongside a wife, with no one thinking anything of it that he would take his pleasure in a male... Charles of course is not a boy but a big, grown man his own age with too much pride. He would make a woefully bad slave, he wrily thinks.

Still, Henry likes to indulge in the thought a little and imagines himself as a great Greek warrior king of legend in a battle field tent with a pleasure slave. Or a lover. Like Achilles and Patroklos perhaps. But, alas, reality is different, that is not how things are done today by a Christian prince and he cannot have his secretary walk in here with the Duke of Suffolk naked and asleep in his bed, obviously having been bedded by his King.

Therefore he has to write this damned letter in his own hand without his secretary's help! Or sent his lover away. Writing is such a tedious, annoying task to him, that for a brief moment an intense resurgance of his earlier anger bubbles up inside him. He has to swallow the rising rage down forcibly, before he can dip the quill into the ink to start writing orders. He should really punish Charles for his disobedience! But he can't think of anything suitable, that would not include sending him away and he does not want to deprive himself of the man's company. He's been away for weeks on this campaign and only returned today. Of course, Charles would not even be here today, if he had not disobeyed his orders, but now Henry can't bring himself to sent him away for it in punishment. It is ridiculous and insufferable, because he strongly suspects Charles disobeyed him precisely for the purpose of spending time with him, feeling entirely confident that Henry wouldn't punish him for his disobedience.

But he's wrong. Henry is determined. He will punish him this time. Enough is enough.

His gaze involuntarily strays to the riding crop he carelessly tossed on his writing desk when he came in from his ride earlier today. The black leather handle is resting against his ink pot. If he was indeed one of those Greek warriors and Charles a slave it would be easy, he muses. Slaves were simply punished with whippings.

Dukes are not punished with whippings by their kings, though. They are banished or imprisoned or fined. Or executed. None of which is an appealing option to Henry. He won't have the man killed or imprisoned of course, even though he could - and would be tempted do so with anyone else, who disobeyed him so blatantly. He has too much affection for Charles to do that. Which – like a spoiled child - Charles must have known very well. He is not going to banish Charles from court either – he would miss his company, has missed it the past weeks too much already. So a money fine is the only punishment left and that seems ridiculously inadequate to fit a crime like disobedience in times of war, something that could be construed to be treason if one wanted to get rid of some inconvenient person. Oh, he knows it would pain Charles to part with money, as he was notoriously short of it and Henry could make it steep enough to really hurt. It would also refill Henry's own exchequer somewhat. This war is expensive, after all, as his treasurer never tires to tell him.

But a money fine isn't personal enough for Henry. Not after he has screamed and yelled at the man in rage for his disobedience, only to fuck him senseless before he was halfway done with that. While he feels physically very satisfied now, he regrets that it happened. He doesn't quite know why he did it, where this sudden change in mood came from. There could not have been a more inappropriate time to relent to the man's charms and he is no closer to asserting his authority and enforcing obedience from him in future.

Charles for his part had been – likely for the first time in his life - trembling and shaking at his master's anger, even dropping to his knees and bowing his head in deference, something Henry could not remember him doing ever before outside of stately ceremonies. But he had also sensed the change in the king's attitude remarkably fast and acted on it. In fact, thinking back, he had displayed an almost unsettling knack for diverting his anger. Henry hadn't been able to resist, his anger quickly changing into blinding passion. Granted it had been rough and angry, but that didn't change the fact that instead of punishing him, he had fucked him and left him passed out on the bed.

Which now leaves him in an uncomfortable position. He strongly feels there needs to be some kind of negative consequence for Charles's disobedience, he needs to make a show of dominance once and for all. After treating the man like his lover and not like a subject he is displeased with, that will be difficult.

And above all he has to deal with the immediate consequences of Charles's actions. There is now a town, a strategically very important town in this war, without protection, because the man decided to disband the reinforcement troops on account of the winter weather! Henry doesn't care that it was freezing cold and the mercenaries were not equipped for such weather. This is a war. People die in wars. He would have sent more troops to replace the dead. His war will not be won by disbanding troops, no matter the reason. But more importantly he had not given permission to disband, he had given orders to stay at all costs! He feels bile rise in his mouth and his earlier rage mounting again. Between the frustrations of having to deal with Charles properly somehow and thinking about an alternative strategy for his war, the quill in his hand suddenly cracks.

He looks down at the parchment and realises he hasn't written a single word beyond general greetings yet. Ink is just starting to drip in thick, black blotches on the letter, when he hears rustling from the bed behind him. Charles is awake and from the sound of it sitting up. Henry stiffens, then takes a deep breath and resists the desire to turn and look, to see the planes of golden naked skin as Charles gets up, the strong, stubbled jaw with the rather dashing cut he aquired awhile ago in battle and those expressive blue eyes, that swayed him one too many times already this evening. If this were any other night he would simply turn and put Charles on his knees again and make him suck him. But this isn't any other night.

Instead, he raises his hand over his shoulder and crooks his fingers for Charles to come closer. He takes care to put a commanding sharpness into the gesture. There is no sound for a moment, then he hears feet padding on the thick carpet, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Charles slide to his knees beside him, like some common servant, barefoot and bare-chested, only dressed in a hose. It's like a mockery of his earlier fantasy of a pleasure slave and he almost snorts. Because instead of placating him, the guilty - and very uncharacteristic - submissivness in this act annoys Henry.

Henry turns his head to look and gives him a haughty glare. Unlike some fantasy slave Charles has the daring to look at him. And the look that meets him – halfway between guilty and cheeky – tickles his anger even more. He puts a hand on the man's head – ignoring the feel of the sweaty lush curls – and pushes down with a jerk. „Don't you look at me!" This is no way for a king to treat one of the most powerful peers and nobles of his realm, but they are much more than a king and a duke. And Charles gives him a wide-eyed look of caution at first, but then just meekly lets it happen and keeps his head bowed where his master pushed it, gaze dropped. He is waiting for permission to rise, Henry knows, but he doesn't give it.

"I am writing a letter to the mayor of Therouenne," Henry informs him coldly, instead. "What do you think I should tell him?"

Charles has the decency to keep his gaze down - supposedly in fear of his displeasure - for a moment longer, before he looks up again and right into his eyes. That insolent presumption is a leftover from the boyhood they spent together and as much as it angered him just a moment earlier, Henry is not kidding himself, it's also one of the qualities he values most in the man. There are not that many people who dare look him in the eye, who don't grovel all the time.

"Your Majesty could let me do the writing. Since it is my fault." He says this in his deep, soft-spoken voice and his tone is deferential enough, but his words aren't. While Charles knows his loathing for writing - he hates it himself, though for different reasons - this is a glib answer. This is no answer.

Henry sneers. "You think I would make the man suffer your atrocious spelling in addition to the loss of his enforcement troops through your disobedience?" Charles has a much neater hand than his own broad scrawl, but his spelling is awful, always thick with his Suffolk accent, sometimes hardly readable. Something he normally finds amusing.

Charles's mouth opens slightly in astonishment, then he drops his gaze again in a way that is pissed-off rather than meek. His jaw is working angrily, his posture stiff. The insult has clearly been a bullseye blow. Henry knows he would have lashed out at any other man for this, be that with fists or with words. He never has had much self control. But of course he doesn't - not even Charles would dare hit the king of England or reply with sharp words. Henry watches with grim satisfaction as he swallows his pride.

"I didn't think so," he says cruelly. He lets silence follow for a few long moments.

"Now what do you suggest I tell the man? That his reinforcement troops will be so late he will have to fend for himself until then?"

Charles looks up again, warily and opens his mouth to speak, but then closes it again.

"Well?"

Charles blinks, clearly uncomfortable. "Sire..." he starts. "I doubt we will be able to retroop and sent reinforcement. Those were all mercenaries after all. They were dispersed. It would be almost impossible to regroup them." He looks guiltily from underneath his lashes, gauging his reaction.

"You think I don't know that, Charles?"

Charles avoids his eyes at that. They both know that town is as good as lost if attacked.
Charles goes on, "But I don't think there will be an attack. I have it on very good authority that the Duke of Orleans has disbanded his troops as well on account of the weather conditions, that's why I deci---"
Henry feels the tight lid he has kept on his anger until now blow away. Slamming his fist on the table and knocking his chair over as he jumps up, he yells. "I don't care what you think! And I don't care what the bloody Duke of Orleans did! You were commanded to stay and wait for further orders!"

Charles flinches violently, keeping his eyes averted. There is silence for a stunned moment as Henry watches Charles's adam's apple bobbing as he swallows nervously.

"Why, by God, can you not obey a command as simple as that?!"

Charles doesn't answer, but all his usual cockiness is gone and he's trembling a little with the emotional effort to keep still and not to look up.

Henry goes on pitilesssly. "What am I to you? A laughing stock, to be obeyed only when the mood strikes you? Tell me, Charles, who do you think I am, that you dare disobey me!"

Charles's voice is shaky and quiet when he answers. "You are my king. My lord and master."

Henry snorts. "Am I indeed?"

A moment passes, then Charles nods and mutters emphatically "You are," and reaches for his hand to kiss it.
Henry however catches his wrist, before he can do so. "No." he says firmly.

Charles looks up carefully, warily. Henry doesn't let go, he makes his grip painful and gives the man a hard, unwavering look. "I'm going to punish you."

Henry doesn't quite know where these words suddenly come from. He hadn't decided on any punishment yet, but he finds his anger suddenly washed away by a calming determination. It must have shown in his eyes, because after searching them for a long moment, Charles's face flushes and his lips press into a thin, stubborn line. It makes him look like a recalcitrant child too stubborn to speak. But Henry knows better. It's embarrassement – and shock.

He does not take any pity though. "Did you think I forgave you over a roll in the hay?" Before he can answer, he lets go of Charles's hand with a jerk and leans down to whisper in his ear. "You are not quite that charming, my lord."

Charles stares at the carpet and seemingly doesn't know what to say or do. Henry knows he came here expecting to be forgiven for his insolence with just an apology - as he always is – and now that he is not he doesn't know what to do. It's Henry's own fault, he thinks. He has treated him with too much leniency in the past, has allowed him to charm his way out of punishments before with cajoling and sex. But he cannot tolerate Charles's behaviour any longer. They are not boys anymore, testing each other's strength in a wrestling match for fun. They are grown man and this is a war. Henry is his master, he needs to know his orders will be obeyed. He needs to know he can trust the man to do what he says, when it counts. At that moment his gaze involuntarily returns to the riding crop on the desk as if drawn there and the world slows down around him. Suddenly it is completely clear in his mind what must be done.

"I have forgiven you too much in the past," he says slowly. "But I can't ignore your disobedience now. You have betrayed the trust I have put in you." He watches Charles pale at those words. He raises his head a little as if he wants to say something or look at him. Then he seems to think better of it and bites his lip.

"I will give you a choice. You can either walk out of this tent right now and I will banish you from court and my presence and fine you," Charles does look up at that, a frown on his face, his mouth opening in protest, but Henry silences him with a hand.

"Or...." he breathes for a few seconds, before he can go on. "Or you can go get my riding crop now."

Charles goes completely still then, staring at him, not understanding at first, and Henry watches as realization slowly sinks in and his eyes widen in disbelief. Henry's heart is racing now, but a detached part of him wages the likelihood of Charles agreeing to this. He doesn't have to put up with this, no king can demand something like that from a subject. There are other methods of punishment. Official ones. He could storm out now and not look back and simply be punished with banishment and a fine like it's supposed to be, because they both known there will be no Tower, no execution.

But Henry knows he would hate that and it would not regain him Henry's trust and forgiveness. Those aren't earned back that easily. They are not just between a king and a duke. They are between friends, lovers. Henry waits, nervously. He is determined to show his authority no matter the cost, but the outcome is out of his hands now and he is not sure at all, what Charles will choose.

He can't see Charles's face clearly, but it is obvious he is thinking furiously. His shoulders are tense, his hands are balled into fists. He is biting his lip. This isn't easy for him, Henry knows. He can either walk away with his head held high, but be held in distrust and sent away. Or he must swallow his pride and bow down to his friend and master, acknowledge his dominance thereby and regain his trust. He has to decide what is worth more to him: his own pride or his King's love.

He is silent for so long, that Henry ist starting to doubt his own decision. It's such an insult to the man's pride, how will he ever be able to agree to it?

Charles suddenly takes a deep breath and gets up, and Henry thinks, this is it, he's going to get his clothes and leave. He won't suffer a whipping from anyone, not even me.

It makes him feel sick, angry and disappointed at the same time, but Charles doesn't move further. He just stands there avoiding his gaze and then - stiffly nods. Then he reaches for the crop on the writing desk. His fingers wrap around it slowly and Henry swallows, hardly believing his eyes, but feeling warm relief and determination flow through him. There is no going back now.

There is a long moment of tense silence, during which Charles is resolutely looking at the carpet, holding the crop lightly, like it is some sort of poisonous snake and for a moment Henry thinks he is going to change his mind.

Then something indiscribable changes and he slowly moves his hand to give Henry the crop, handle turned to him, his gaze remaining on the floor. There is no anger or resentment. He looks utterly dejected and miserable. Henry takes the crop.

"You want this?" Henry asks him, not to be cruel, but to be sure.

Charles casts a very quick, embarrassed look at him, before he nods jerkily. "Yes." he whispers.

Henry has a moment of weakness and pity as he reaches out to cup the man's neck. The skin is hot under his palm and the hair on his nape tickles softly. Charles is stiff underneath him, but when Henry gently but firmly pushes, he lets himself be guided to the post in the middle of the tent without protest, like a lamb to the slaughter.

Henry has to take a step back and remind himself that this is necessary.

"Grab the post," he commands and inwardly congratulates himself on how steady and firm his voice sounds. Charles gives him an unsure look over his shoulder before he obeys and grips the post with both hands, trying to keep some dignity in this. It will be hard for him to keep still like this. But even though Henry thinks he could tie his hands to the post, that would be rather too demeaning and he doesn't want to humiliate the man. Not anymore than he has to anyway, he tells himself. Charles can prove himself by keeping still on his own, but...
He finds himself starting to like how powerful this situation makes him feel. He feels crowded with heat and conflicting emotions suddenly and steps back again. It doesn't help, because now he can't help but appreciate the clearer view the distance affords him. Charles is all coiled, tense muscles. Henry admires the sight of him ready and waiting for his whipping and he makes no effort to resist the sudden impulse to raise the crop and slowly run it's tip down the strong, smooth back, dipping down his spine to the crack of his ass. Charles flinches a little at the first unexpectedly light touch of the crop, but keeps still. He starts breathing a little heavier. The submissive posture is making Henry's cock twitch, but... This isn't the time for this. He drops his arm and takes a deep breath. Then he experimentally snaps his wrist and lands a stinging lash on the man's cloth covered ass. Charles gasps and jerks.

"I want you to stay still and quiet." He doesn't say it harshly, but with enough command in his voice that
Charles will know he is serious. That he wants him to prove his obedience by this.

Charles turns his head a little and nods over his shoulder.

"Yes, Your Majesty." He says it so quietly it's almost inaudible. Henry can see the deep blush on his face even though it is mostly hidden by his hair, before he turns to face the post and puts his forehead to it. His back is one big tense line and Henry isn't cruel enough to draw out the waiting any longer. He hits as hard as he can, this time on the naked back and Charles hisses loudly. A red line appears almost immediately.

"I said quiet."

He can't see his face, but he imagines Charles biting his lip, as he puts the next lash on the angry red line of the last. This time Charles only presses out a small pained sound and grabs the post a little tighter.

That's better.

He sets himself to work then and the air is soon filled with the slapping sharp sounds of the crop hitting naked flesh. He throws all of his anger behind the lashes. It's not hard to find the anger inside him again, he is still pissed. Charles deserves this. How dare he disobey him? How dare he just disband part of the fucking army because it was cold? That hadn't been his decision to make.

He covers his back in angry red stripes and Charles is quickly gasping and panting, his knuckles turned white from gripping the post so hard. Henry doesn't reprimand him for the sounds, though, because he stays stock still during it and he doesn't cry out.

He is too proud to do otherwise. The guards outside might hear him after all, even over the howling storm. But somehow Henry doesn't think that is the only reason. He wouldn't have chosen this, if he hadn't wanted Henry's forgiveness, if he hadn't wanted to prove his obedience. The strong leather swishes through the air over and over again and strikes with a sickening sound. Henry doesn't count, he will stop when he wants to, when he is satisfied. It becomes a rythm, a frenzy, his arm drawing back and striking again and again and growing heavy and he feels dizzy, his vision blurred at the edges, his focus solely on his task, the man before him. He doesn't stop, until he suddenly sees a thin line of blood welling up where he just struck and Charles cries out in shock.

Henry's arm, drawn back for the next lash, pauses. He watches as some blood trickles down and it suddenly brings him back into himself. It is as if sounds suddenly return to him. Charles is gasping, his neck drenched in sweat, a fine tremor running all over his body, while he tries to keep still. The sight is overwhelmingly erotic to him and any leftover anger he might have harboured melts away. Neither of them moves. They are both breathing hard and the air around them seems hot and heavy with the smell of sweat. He reaches out a hand and touches Charles's hip, which is hot and firm, but soft at the same time. The sudden tender touch makes all the coiled tension drain out of Charles's body and for a moment it looks to Henry like he is going to collapse.

"Alright. You are done." Henry hears himself say softly and at these words Charles does slide to his knees, boneless and weary, but still holding on to the post, as if he has forgotten how to let go. He is looking weak as a kitten and Henry steps even closer and touches his hair lightly, nudging his head towards him. Charles responds like a thirsty man presented with water, suddenly burying his face in Henry's thigh, and throwing his arms around him, desperately seeking comfort.

"I'm sorry." he whispers.

Henry is speechless and touched deeply. A powerful, warm affection flows through him. It is not so much the heartfelt words, but more so the fact that a man he knows to be insufferably proud, seeks comfort in the touch of the same hand he has just been whipped with. His hand. He looks down and strokes through the dark curls soothingly, trying to silently convey his feelings, because words are failing him.

They stay like that for a long while. Charles doesn't let go and Henry doesn't have the heart to move away either. This should feel embarassing, he thinks but somehow it does not. He feels powerful and joyous. Charles's heavy breathing slows down eventually, but he doesn't move and Henry keeps stroking his hair with one hand, still holding the crop in the other. When Charles's moves his hand a little higher up his thigh he doesn't notice at first, but then he moves his head as well and his cheek brushes Henry's half hard cock through the thin material of his robe. The touch shoots a thrill of prickling arousal through his entire body and he gasps a little. He watches as Charles slowly and carefully parts his robe to lightly touch his balls, then hesitates. He looks up from underneath his lashes, a question in his eyes, unsure if he can go on and for the first time since this began Henry can see his face and the dried tear tracks on his cheeks. He doesn't say anything, but with the hand still resting in Charles's hair he gently nudges his head to show his approval. Encouraged Charles softly puts his lips and tongue to Henry's length and laps at it, warm and wet. The sensation is nothing new to Henry but the circumstances are novel and intensely exciting to him, making powerful lust pool in his loins. He quickly comes to full hardness under the skilled hands and mouth and then he is treated to a slow, hot sucking. It's not usually slow and tender between them and the reverent, softly submissive way Charles tends to him now arouses him to no end, making his head spin. He comes hard and long and Charles swallows and suckles him through it attentively.

Afterwards, when he has caught his breath, Henry traces Charles's jaw and then raises his chin. Charles looks up at him, biting his lip, his blue eyes still unsure, seeking approval and Henry's heart swells. He's never seen the man look like this before, he has never been offered to look at this sort of vulnerability. There is none of the usual bravado and challenge between them right now. He has asserted his authority and Charles has accepted his mastery of him completely. He runs a thumb over his red, swollen lips possessively and Charles does not only let it happen, like he would have never normally done, but further surprises him by reaching for his hand. He turns it and presses small kisses to his palm, trembling. Henry lets him do it for only a moment, then takes his hand away. He seems to need some further assurance.

"Calm down, Charles." he says and pulls him up. Charles sways on his feet for a moment and he steadies him and then goes in for a soft, reassuring kiss. While the taste of himself on Charles's tongue doesn't thrill him too much, it has the effect he desires. He feels Charles calm down, his muscles relax as he returns the kiss, tentatively at first, then steadily more self-assured. It is sweet and slow, he explores Charles's mouth as if for the first time and after awhile Charles finally dares to raise a warm hand to his cheek in return and touch him as he would normally do - though normally their kisses are never like this. Henry can feel the tiredness in Charles's slow, heavy movements and the sluggish way his tongue strokes against his and he eventually breaks the kiss. When he draws back, Charles is looking him into the eye again and the look that meets his is tired, but not fearful or unsure or wary. He knows he has been forgiven.

"Did I please you?" he asks quietly. His eyelids are drooping and he looks bodily and emotionally drained. Henry doesn't quite know what Charles is asking, if he means his choice to be punished like this, the way he behaved during it or even just that he serviced him with his mouth afterwards. But it doesn't matter, because he is pleased with all of it, so he just says „Yes".

Charles coyly kisses him on the jaw in answer. Henry laughs in delight at the uncharacteristically chaste gesture and leads him over to the bed. They lie down and he kisses the man some more, then reaches for his cock and strokes him to an orgasm. Charles clings to him tightly, quietly moaning through it. It doesn't take long until he spents and he quickly and blessedly falls asleep afterwards.

Henry leaves him sleeping on his bed for the second time that night and returns to his letter. He sits at his desk, picks up a new quill and starts writing in the light of the last candle, that hasn't burned down completely. The town will have to be given up if attacked, he thinks, but he can't muster the energy to feel angry about this anymore. He still gives orders to the mayor though to resist to the last any troops that might arrive. Perhaps they will be lucky and the French will indeed not attack in this freezing winter weather. He finishes writing just in time before the dying candle on his desk sputters out it's life and in the last weak light it casts, before the tent goes completely dark, his gaze returns to Charles.

He will be back to his usual self tomorrow and Henry knows neither of them will ever again mention what has happened here tonight.

~~~~
The End

A/N: In history Charles Brandon, as commander of an army invading France, did indeed disband his mutineeing troops in the bitterly cold winter of 1524, after having come within 30 miles of Paris. Henry VIII was so furious he refused to see him for months. He had hoped to capture Paris. (But unlike in this story here, Henry had not come to France himself for this campaign) On the show this campaign never seems to have happened and Charles has not yet been made a duke in 1524, so this is combination of both.