The Captain and the Cavalry Trooper

by Catherine Curzon

  “Sir…I know who it was. Who was smoking. I cannot tell you who, sir, but I want you to know that, as Apollo’s groom—as your groom, sir, I won’t allow it anymore. Apollo is my concern, sir, and I…I won’t have it. That shilly-shallying about—I simply won’t!”

  The captain looked back at him, his face set in a stern expression, those full lips a hard, tight line. When he spoke again, his voice was that of a commander once more.

  “The grooms here are a shower of layabouts, rascals and hooligans. Don’t let them draw you into their ways, Woodvine, I won’t tolerate it.”

  “Don’t worry, sir. I won’t.”

  But even so, Jack didn’t like the idea of lying on that mattress with its ammonia stink of fear, alone, without some fellows to talk to. Even if he had to make up some ludicrous story, as he had before—of losing his virginity to a farmhand’s buxom daughter in a hayloft. When he hadn’t even held a girl’s hand.

  And hadn’t wanted to.

  At the end of the narrow path was a bright green paddock where half a dozen other horses grazed contentedly, with no idea of what was happening just a few miles away. It was fenced all around and bordered with trees that provided cool shade for those that might wish it. Threaded along the fence and off through the trees was a stream, deep and wide, the sunlight glittering and dancing on the surface like stars in a night sky, and they walked alongside it to reach the gate, which was held in place by a heavy iron bolt.

  As soon as Thorne pulled back the bolt and opened the gate Apollo began to surge toward the paddock, the mighty creature pulling at Jack with enough force to have him trotting to keep up. The captain darted out one hand and seized the reins, admonishing the horse with a swift, “Fall back, Apollo!”

  The horse responded immediately, though not without a certain insolence as he pulled just a touch, just to make the point that the choice was his to make, not that of the captain or the trooper. When the trio stepped into the paddock, Thorne unbuckled the bridle in a few swift movements and pulled it gently over the horse’s head. He patted his elegant hand against Apollo’s firm shoulder and told him, “Go on then, lad.”

  And the horse was gone, cantering as happily as a pony across the paddock and into the shade. There he dropped his head and began to drink from the stream, leaving the captain to watch him with a soft gaze.

  As he watched the gentle glee of the great stallion, Jack beamed. He looked back at the captain and tried to push aside the wavy hair that had fallen into his face. But a breeze was stirring up from somewhere, and Jack’s unruly forelock flopped back again.

  “What a…a lovely paddock.”

  Jack shoved his hands into his pockets. He must’ve broken some protocol somewhere—should one be so casual when faced with one’s captain? What did he remember from training? Being shouted at a lot, shimmying on his hips face down through mud with a lump of wood that was supposed to resemble a gun and finally, when he had been given a real gun, and had been hopeless at firing it. He’d had more luck with the bayonet, but in reality he didn’t fancy his chances if he had to look a fellow in the eye and twist a sharp bit of metal into his guts.

  “Loveliest paddock I think I’ve ever seen.”

  “And not even twenty miles from here…” Thorne knitted his hands behind his back, his shoulders squaring, his feet set apart in their shining leather boots. He drew in a deep breath and surveyed the horses as they grazed in peace, all except one gathered at the far end of the field. “You’ll soon learn, trooper, Apollo likes his own company as a rule. Perhaps he might make an exception for you, we shall have to see.”

  “I…I hope so, Captain.” Jack peered at him from the corner of his eye. The captain’s face was set in a firm expression, as if it were hewn from stone. “I should like, sir, to please you.”

  He stared ahead, tugging at a loose button on his jacket.

  “Work hard and show proper respect and you and I will get on.” Thorne took a long, deep breath before speaking again. “And if you see anyone raise a hand to Apollo, I want his name, groom’s code or no. Understand?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Yes, sir. And…I’m sorry, Captain Thorne, if I didn’t show you respect earlier. With my muddy face and taking off my jacket without your permission. It won’t happen again, sir. I promise.”

  “You’ll find me a fair master, but I brook no nonsense.” Thorne took the gloves from his pocket and slipped his hands into them, flexing his fingers a couple of times as if to test the supple leather. “Now back up to the yard and get yourself settled. Tomorrow we’ll go through your duties. Really put you through your paces, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jack began to walk away, realizing that the captain was standing still, as if his feet had grown roots and those fine, sturdy legs had become tree trunks. He gave a salute.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  With a strange feeling of loss that he couldn’t quite account for, Jack went back to the stables.

  Chapter Two

  During supper, Jack tried to make conversation with the other grooms, but his new friends were just out of reach. Wilfred larked about, trying to grab other fellows’ rations, a sport that Jack had no wish to join. Queenie sat at the head of the table, smoking and looking bored and slightly disgusted, picking occasionally at his lip as if trying to remove something that was stuck there.

  Jack lolled on his bed for a while with Keats, but the evening seemed pleasant, and at least outside he wasn’t haunted by the smell of his mattress.

  He swung his jacket over his shoulder and decided to wander down to the paddock, a far more peaceful place than the grooms’ quarters.

  He climbed the gate rather than draw it back, his long legs carrying him over with ease. He wandered the slow, sinuous course of the stream, wondering if, should he float in it, it would eventually carry him out to the sea.

  O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

  Alone and palely loitering?

  But as he rounded a bend, he spotted a figure in the water.

  And he realized who it was.

  Captain Thorne was swimming through the water at the widest part of the stream, the hair that had been so carefully pomaded now slicked down with the clean, cool water. As the powerful arms of that handsome man scythed through the moon-flecked surface the water splashed around him, yet he seemed untouched by it, his broad shoulders propelling him down into a dive and out of sight.

  Moments later he resurfaced in the middle of the stream and tossed his head back, closing his eyes as he turned to face Jack. Jack’s teeth caught his lip just for a second when Thorne reached up both hands and passed them over his hair, sweeping it back as he shook his head to clear the water from his eyes.

  Jack knew he should turn away, that this was something he had no right to be watching, yet still he looked on, gazing at the sight of Captain Thorne unencumbered by authority or propriety, swimming through the deep stream with all the grace of Neptune himself. It did no harm to look, Jack told himself, and nobody would ever know that he had, for who else was here to see?

  He would never speak of the neat pile of clothing that was folded on the bank, nor the cap that lay atop it. The boots were there too, of course, one standing, one fallen carelessly to rest in the grass and there, protruding from the lip of that boot, was the whip.

  Jack’s breath caught and he told himself that he would leave, that he had no right to intrude on this, because even unseen, he knew that he was an intruder here. Yet he seemed to be held there by some invisible shackle, his gaze fixed on Captain Thorne, who was now surging through the water toward the bank just as Apollo had surged into the stable yard like a thing possessed.

  When Thorne reached the bank he hauled himself nimbly out to stand on the grass. Now a tremble ran through Jack at the sight of the captain’s nakedness, at the wide shoulders, the way the water slid down his taut, dark-haired chest and over his flat, lightly muscled stomach and— Jack closed his eyes, telling himself not to look
, that it was wrong, that the only thing worse than watching this was being caught watching this. Yet he couldn’t keep them closed, couldn’t know that such a vision was right there before him, bathed in the glow of the dusk that turned those steady rivulets of water into liquid gold.

  When his eyelids lifted, Jack saw that Thorne had turned and now stood looking back at the stream, yet this was no less thrilling than the previous vision. Now he could watch without fear of detection, could let his gaze wander over the contoured planes of the captain’s back, the muscular firmness of his buttocks, the toned sweep of his thighs. How must it be to be a man like this, to know what was concealed beneath that sharply cut uniform, the tight breeches and tailored tunic? A man who looked like this would never struggle to find the right words or be told to sleep on a stinking bed. He wouldn’t arrive at a chateau with a muddied face, let alone break his shoulder so badly that he couldn’t even get out to the action until it was surely almost over. A man like this would always be sure and confident. A man like this would always know how to wield a whip.

  Jack, his focus entirely on the man before him, who seemed to be a Greek statue come alive, didn’t notice that Keats had slipped from his hands until the canvas-bound volume landed on the ground with a quiet but definite thud. He crouched to pick it up, but it was too late.

  “Trooper Woodvine!”

  “Captain!”

  Jack stood to attention, the book clutched in one hand. He fixed the direction of his stare just over the top of the captain’s head, not daring to meet his eye.

  Thorne was looking at him though, facing him once more. He stooped to retrieve his breeches even as he called to Jack, “Here. Now.”

  Then Thorne began to dress, the tightness of the breeches as they clung to his wet skin doing nothing to make the vision any more innocent. If anything, it made it even more tempting.

  Jack came at a march, hindered by the strategic position of Keats rendered necessary by his body’s traitorous reaction to the sight of his naked captain. Unnatural desires. But what could be unnatural about appreciating such perfect human form?

  “Trooper.” The captain rested his hand on his hip and spoke again, his voice full of flint. “Have you entirely given up saluting an officer?”

  “Sorry, sir. Captain Thorne—sir!”

  Jack made his salute, his other hand still clutched to the book.

  Thorne returned it with parade-ground precision, sending a small spray of droplets showering from his sculpted arm.

  “I hardly dare ask what sort of gentleman’s literature you’re reading.” Thorne held out his hand, his eyes fixed on Jack’s face.

  What could Jack say to deter him? Perhaps he wouldn’t notice. Why should the captain pay a groom any regard?

  “Keats, sir.”

  He passed the captain the well-worn volume, only just stilling the tremble in his hand.

  “Sweet, sweet is the greeting of eyes.” Thorne looked down and smiled for a second, his expression nostalgic. Then his jaw set and he held the book in a grip so tight it whitened his knuckles, as though battling with the pages in their desire to be read. His voice was firm once more when he sniffed and declared, “Well, they tell me war is good for poetry.”

  “I’ve written some poems, sir.” Encouraged by the captain’s interest, Jack decided to share a confidence. “I sent them to The Morning Post, but they…they said they weren’t strident enough.”

  “The Morning Post wouldn’t take you?” Captain Thorne laughed and clapped one strong hand to Jack’s shoulder. “I consider that proof that your poetry must be very good indeed, Woodvine!”

  Jack grinned, touching his hand to his shoulder for a moment.

  “Perhaps I might be brave enough to let you read them one day, sir.”

  And he realized then that the captain was looking into his eyes because it was the safest place to look, to avoid the obvious embarrassment that had been standing between them rather too literally.

  “That would be an honor indeed, Trooper Woodvine, strident or otherwise.” Thorne held out the book to him. “How’re the boys treating you?”

  “They’re a nice bunch of lads, sir, but I don’t know them well enough yet to… Troopers Cole and Charles showed me to my quarters… Cole carried my kitbag for me—he seems a good egg. The others…well, save talking about horses, I’m not sure I know what to talk to them about, sir. Football, perhaps, though I don’t really follow it. Cricket’s more my thing.”

  Jack was rambling, he knew, but in thinking of the other grooms, his body’s reaction was waning. Thank God.

  “A cricket man!” Thorne smiled again and Jack found himself glad that he had been able to conjure such joy with his simple admission. “What’s your county?”

  “Shropshire, sir.” Jack blushed. His accent had only a vague Shropshire tinge, blurred out by the masters at the grammar school, but it came out rather loudly when he said the name of the county of his birth. “And…and yours?

  “Surrey, for my sins. Home of Hobbs, as I needn’t tell you!” Thorne stooped once more, this time to retrieve his shirt, and Jack caught a glimpse of something white peeking from beneath the jacket that still lay folded on the grass. It was the corner of a sketchpad, he realized, though in the dusk light the image that was drawn there faded into indiscernible gray.

  “Do you draw, sir?”

  It was, Jack knew, mildly impertinent to ask, but the question was out of his mouth before he could stop it.

  “I dabble. Drawing is far too strong a word for my appalling efforts.” Thorne sat down on the grass, focusing now on dressing, on returning to rank and role and that immaculate uniform. His skin, so lightly burnished by the sun, was fast disappearing beneath khaki and his leather boot creaked as he slid it onto his foot, an earthbound accompaniment to the chirping birds above.

  “Bloody hell!” The captain’s furious exclamation split the peace wide open and he cast the boot down. From it emerged an enormous wasp, buzzing furiously toward Jack before it spiraled up into the sky, leaving Thorne languishing there on the grass to spit, “What the devil—”

  “Gosh, did it sting you, sir?”

  Jack dropped to his knees, about to yank the captain’s sock off, but Thorne waved him away, grimacing. Instead it was left for Thorne to gingerly remove his own sock, this tall, commanding captain reduced to a pale, pained figure by something so simple as a wasp. He brought his foot up to rest on the opposite knee, peering at the underside and there, in the tender skin of his instep, was the wasp’s sting, embedded deep in what was already a sore-looking swelling.

  “Sir, if you’d let me—I can…”

  There was no nervousness—Jack Woodvine was doing the right thing once more.

  He threw aside his book and took the captain’s foot in his hand, bringing his face down toward it. Before Captain Thorne had time to protest, Jack had nudged the sting out with his fingernails.

  “Good God, man, I thought you were—” Thorne let the sentence hang, too intent on peering at his foot and the tiny pinprick hole left by the sting. “He packed a hell of a punch for a little ‘un!”

  Jack got back up to his feet. It was as if the captain’s delicate flesh was still there in his hands. He looked away, over to the stream, listening to the babble of the water.

  “Nasty thing, sir, a wasp sting. Got one in my neck once, and I swear my head went numb!”

  “Lord help me if I ever have to see battle.” Thorne’s laugh was pained, though, betraying his attempt at humor.

  “Do you need a hand getting up, sir?” Jack wouldn’t hold his hand out. It was too familiar, even though he’d just been on his knees beside the man, cradling his foot.

  Thorne, abandoning his efforts to replace the boot on his stung foot, shook his head. “No, no, I can—” He was silenced by a gasp as soon as his foot touched even that soft grass, his ankle giving way beneath him.

  “Come on, Captain Thorne…lean on me.”

  Jack picked up the discarded boot
, his Keats tucked into his armpit, and, deciding that a matey gesture might reach the officer, even if protocol forbade it, reached his free arm toward the captain. Thorne tucked his whip into his boot, pulled on his jacket, placed his cap on his head and scooped up his pad. Only then did he put his free hand in Jack’s and gingerly stand, putting his weight on the good foot as though he feared that one might also betray him.

  “There you go, Captain.”

  Jack stared back across the field, deliberately avoiding the temptation to look down and see the captain’s strong hand in his.

  “Are we leaving the horses out tonight, sir?”

  Thorne looked at Apollo, still apart from the other animals, cropping lazily at the grass. Perhaps he sensed his master’s gaze, because he raised his large head and blinked at the captain and Jack, watching them in turn.

  “It’ll do them no harm. Tomorrow morning, bring him up to the stable and give him a brush down, then get him tacked up. I’ll be riding out.” Something seemed to occur to Thorne then, but he maintained that same, sensible manner. “And when you’re done, give his stable walls a check, will you? He’s had one or two nasty scratches overnight. I’m damned if I can find what’s causing them, but your eyes are a decade younger than mine!”

  “Yes, Captain. Now…do you want me to help you back to the chateau?”

  Jack wondered at the sense of this, as the captain would have to lean on his bad shoulder. But it had healed enough for him to pass his Army medical—it could surely take the weight of his captain without any trouble at all.

  “I’m afraid you might have to. I imagine you wish you’d stayed back at the barracks now.” Captain Thorne put his arm around Jack’s neck so that he could hobble more easily. “This isn’t getting your poetry read.”