The Captain and the Cavalry Trooper

by Catherine Curzon

  There was a metallic scrape as the enormous wooden doors were fully unlocked and swung open.

  “Keep the noise down, though, eh, Trooper?” The NCO smirked as Queenie ran past him.

  He flew upstairs, taking them two at a time, sure that he would find the new boy there in Edmund Marsh’s bed. And if he did, oh, tales would be told without a doubt. Tales told, careers ended, the trench stronger to the tune of one trooper and one captain. Upstairs he went from one landing to the next, dripping rainwater on the priceless woven carpets, treading mud into the solid oak boards of the corridor along which he had once danced, teasing Marsh with the tips of those silk scarves.

  ‘If you can catch me, I’m yours…’

  At the door to Marsh’s room Queenie finally paused, mustering his rage, then he threw the door open and burst into the room with a cry of, “How dare you!”

  Marsh was smoking in an armchair by the fire, whiskey in his hand. Had it been almost any other man, it would have presented a still life of consummate gentlemanly elegance.

  But it was Captain Marsh in this scenario, and he rolled his eyes at Queenie, his moist, saggy mouth fountaining a desultory stream of smoke.

  “What a pleasant surprise! My dear Queenie, my boy…and I dare, yes, I do dare, to sit in my armchair and smoke—yes, I do—while you suffer in your garret with those wretched, sweaty roughs… Come and sit on the arm of my chair and let me beg my forgiveness of you, my darling boy, my sweet, fragrant little pansy.”

  Queenie positively surged into the room on a tide of nervous fury. He flicked his gaze this way and that as though he might spy his rival secreted away somewhere. He kicked the door shut with his muddy boot, smearing dirt over woodwork that had once been admired by Madame de Pompadour or some other powdered floozy.

  “You filthy, dirty, nasty little maggot!”

  Marsh recoiled and fumbled with his crystal glass, the cigarette nearly falling from his fingers.

  “What is it, m’ boy, m’ sweet, m’ pretty lass?”

  A few lopes carried him across the room and he seized Marsh’s plump cheek between his thumb and forefinger, pinching and twisting hard. “Whose cheek did you pinch, Marsh? Not your Queenie’s!”

  Marsh grabbed Queenie’s slender wrist, trying to hold him off, but the vicious tweak went on. With an ill-concealed groan of pain, Marsh said, “What is this, m’ Queenie says I’ve been untrue? That I’d never be, my bonny lad!”

  Booze and cigarette thrown aside, he slipped his free arm about Queenie’s waist.

  “Sit on m’ knee, laddy, let Uncle Marsh give you a kiss.”

  He pouted his wet lips at him, as appetizing as a saggy fish. Queenie met the look with a scowl then twisted his lips into a smile more radiant than any painted cherub’s. He released Marsh’s face and leaned forward as though a kiss might be forthcoming then, with a force belying his dainty ways, he drew back his hand and slapped Marsh hard across the face.

  “Did you pinch its face, Marsh?” He stared at the officer, barely even breathing. “And you know that Queenie always knows when Marsh tells fibs. Did. You. Pinch. Its. Face?”

  Holding his hand to his face, Marsh stared at Queenie. Queenie, who had to be pleased, or would tell everyone about his officer’s predilections.

  His voice was measured, careful and quiet. “What did that rustic little yokel say, Trooper?”

  “I want him moved, sent off to the trenches where he belongs. And where is he now?” Queenie snatched up Marsh’s glass and drained it in one gulp. “How dare he gad about as though he owns my yard? He’s not in his bed, Marsh. Have you had him up here? Have you been sucking him too?”

  “I—I’ve been alone all evening. You wore me out last night, boy! I was sitting here contemplating your pretty little cock, and then, as if by magic, you appeared! As though merely thinking of your dear little appendage summons you into my presence. My jaw’s still clicking! But if you want your Uncle Marsh to suck you again, you need only say.”

  “And dear, handsome Captain Thorne is sleeping in the stable like Mary herself,” Queenie’s voice dripped with venom. “Do you know what he did to me today, Marsh?”

  “Did to you?” Marsh spluttered. “What the devil are you saying, girlie?”

  “He dragged me out of my bed and put me under the pump. Then he had me shoveling shit all day!”

  Spittle shot from Marsh’s flabby lips. “The fucker did that? Why did you not tell me at once, dear boy! I’ll have the ruddy bastard horsewhipped!”

  “He’s down in the stable with that beast of his.” Queenie finally deigned to perch on the arm of the chair. “And his man is who knows where with who knows who. You wouldn’t betray your girl, Marsh, would you? Not your Queenie?”

  “Of course I wouldn’t. Thorne’s apple-cheeked lad… Well… I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s gone off to the whorehouse with the lads from the depot down the road. Break the virgin lad in, I suspect. Initiate him. He’ll still be drunk next week, and he won’t know where he’s left his trousers!” Marsh put his arm around Queenie’s slender waist and reached to the front of his jodhpurs. “Have you a little present there for Uncle Marsh to suck?”

  He tossed his head and sniffed, looking down his nose at Marsh. What a pathetic, ridiculous sort of man this was, but a stepping stone to better things when the war was over. No man like this—married, respectable—would hesitate to find his lover a place to live or a new wardrobe of clothes, let alone an entry into society, when they were back on civvy street. Wouldn’t it be a cheap price to pay to keep Mrs. Marsh, the lady with the money, in the dark, after all?

  “That’s it, slip off the chair… Come and stand between my knees. Let me unbutton you… Oh, yes, that’s it…that’s it… And what would you like from Uncle Marsh, eh? A new bed, eh? I could get you that. Perhaps you’ll let me join you on it!”

  “A new bed, yes,” Queenie agreed, though he didn’t really care one way or the other about that. “And I want a glass of wine, Marsh, and then I may consider letting you embrace me.”

  Queenie, unbuttoned, gave Marsh a tantalizing hint of what lay within, the flat, pale stomach, the almost-blond hairs. Used to a fleet of servants, Marsh would have to shift for himself. He rose from the armchair and Queenie was in it a half-second later, crossing one elegant leg over the other, not acknowledging Marsh at all.

  “The red’s been warming by the fire, boy. It’s a vintage from the cellars. Expensive, I shouldn’t wonder—you’d like that, yes?”

  Queenie waved a hand to suggest that he didn’t care one way or the other about that either. Sitting here watching the fire burn, he knew without a doubt that this was the life, and that he had to get out of the stables and on to the officers’ staff once and for all. He would be Marsh’s batman, his chap, and do nothing all day long. Of course, this wasn’t the first time such an idea had occurred to him and off went Marsh to make his case and each time the answer was no.

  ‘Captain Thorne has concerns about Trooper Charles joining the chateau staff.’

  ‘Captain Thorne thinks Trooper Charles is lazy.’

  And what did Marsh do other than tell him why he was still stuck in the attic over the stables? Nothing, because he was pathetic. Instead he nodded and crawled away, touching his forelock to the plummy Captain Thorne.

  “I want to be on the chateau staff.” Queenie pouted.

  “I’ve tried m’ best, laddy, but… Here’s your wine, pet.” Marsh passed Queenie a tumbler of dark ruby liquid and ruffled his hair. “One day, maybe…”

  Marsh knelt before the armchair, puckering his moist lips at Queenie. As Queenie drank, looking over Marsh’s head, the officer stroked his hand up Queenie’s slender leg to the unbuttoned fly.

  “Get on with it if you’re doing it,” Queenie told him. “You look ridiculous.”

  Marsh shuffled in between Queenie’s legs, a hand in the groom’s jodhpurs and one in his own. The wet mouth found its way to Queenie’s unenthusiastic cock and up and down Marsh�
�s head bobbed, a sad little groan puffing from his lips each time, his knees creaking against the teak floor. Finally, after ten long minutes had ticked past on the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece beside a photograph of Mrs. Marsh and their son, the debased officer reached his vague climax.

  Marsh looked up at the pretty boy with cheekbones like knives as Queenie slapped him across the face. A hard, vicious slap from the boy he paid for his silence.

  “I need some cigarettes.”

  Holding his hand to his cheek, Marsh heaved himself back to his feet and passed Queenie the large silver box, the kind that French grand-mères kept almond biscuits in for their visitors. It was stuffed full of gold-tipped cigarettes handmade to his own specifications by a tobacconist just off Bond Street. Queenie dug his fingers into the box and took a handful before turning his gaze on Marsh and blessing him with a cold smile.

  “You may finish me off with your hand later. I shall sleep here tonight.”

  Marsh had moved off to the bed, shrugging himself out of his uniform.

  “Will you never let me bum you?” There was no hope in his tone—he had asked the question many times before. On this occasion, though, Queenie didn’t even deign to speak his refusal—he merely gave Marsh a withering, pitiful look and shook his head.

  “Thought not.” Marsh put on his hairnet and yawned.

  Queenie turned back to the fire, smiling to himself as a thunderclap sounded overhead.

  Chapter Eight

  Jack, concealing his nudity as best he could under a blanket, had only breathed out when Thorne had holstered his gun. But he didn’t dare speak. Still Apollo fretted and snorted, ears flat, eyes wide, but he couldn’t risk going to the horse with Queenie so close, even when the captain closed the stable door and stood beneath the lantern, his face pale with annoyance.

  “The mystery is solved,” was all he said as he flung the sharpened crop to the floor. Then he laid his gloved hand on Apollo’s nose and told him, “Calm, lad, calm.”

  “Has he gone?” Jack could only manage a whisper. “I just don’t understand how a groom could intentionally wound a horse. Why does he do it?”

  Thorne shook his head and pressed his cheek to the horse’s soft face, closing his eyes. “It’s for tomorrow. I won’t have tonight spoiled.”

  Jack put his arms around Thorne, touching his lips to the nape of his neck. How many nights would they have together? No, tonight couldn’t be spoiled.

  The blanket slowly slipped off Jack, but he made no attempt to grab it.

  “My gypsy,” Thorne whispered. He turned in Jack’s embrace, slipping those strong arms around his waist. “Apollo tells me he likes you. It’s a rare compliment.”

  “Will you tell him I like him too? And will you tell him that I won’t let any harm come to him, ever?”

  Jack began to unfasten the belt on Thorne’s tunic, his eyes never leaving his lover’s.

  “I believe he already knows.” Thorne stroked Jack’s face with his gloved fingers. “He adored you from the first.”

  “A big strong creature like him and a slip of a lad like me…perhaps we belong together.” Jack leaned into the touch as he unfastened the shiny buttons on Thorne’s tunic, seeing in those dark, sparkling eyes a vision of a future. A place of peace, and…yes, the possibility of love.

  “He’s not so fearsome as people think.” He let his palm linger on Jack’s cheek, throat moving when he swallowed. “And I would rather he were safe at home.”

  Jack kissed Thorne gently.

  “We can’t lose hope… We mustn’t ever lose hope.”

  Together, they removed Thorne’s tunic. Together, they unraveled his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. Together, they took off his boots and skimmed off his breeches. Together, they lay naked in each other’s arms.

  And those kisses, those lingering, deep, loving kisses that might go on forever, Thorne’s arms around Jack as though that alone would see them safe through the maelstrom.

  The storm was still rumbling on outside, but fainter now. Worn out from love, he and his captain fell asleep.

  * * * *

  The fresh air of the morning woke Jack. His head pillowed by Thorne’s shoulder, he was warm and content. He was waking in his bed on the farm at home.

  But how could Thorne be there, in Shropshire? How could either of them, when this wasn’t Woodvine Farm at all?

  “Darling…” Jack, caught up in the sleeping man’s strong arm, couldn’t move. “Darling…no one’s about yet. Perhaps—”

  Thorne replied in a murmur and fluttered open his eyes to gaze sleepily at Jack. They brightened immediately, even as he gave a slow blink.

  “Good morning, gypsy,” he murmured gently. Then he pressed a kiss to Jack’s hair, shifting beneath the blankets.

  Jack tried to cling on to the warm, safe feeling of being home. A feeling he’d not had since he had crossed the Shropshire border.

  “Good morning, Captain. Good morning.” Jack kissed him lightly on the mouth, his voice soft with affection. “Good morning, Robert.”

  “I can see you might be trouble.” Thorne gave a hint of a mischievous smile and reached up with one toned arm, stretching it above his head. “I shall keep an eye on you, Trooper.”

  Jack reached under the blankets and tickled Thorne’s stomach, intent on making him laugh.

  “But, Captain, if you keep those lovely eyes of yours on me, then how am I to concentrate on the task in hand? I’ll be terribly distracted, sir.”

  “You must learn to keep yourself focused”—Thorne seized Jack’s hand and twined their fingers together—“because I might find myself being rather stern about the yard today.”

  Jack squeezed his hand tightly against Thorne’s.

  “I’m very fond of my stern captain.” He kissed the firm jaw. “Even if he shoves me under the pump.”

  Thorne gave a rather theatrical sigh and glanced toward the utterly sedate horse. “Your good pal got you out of that particular fix.”

  “I know he only did it because of Queenie, but for a moment, I did wonder…” Jack grinned at Thorne.

  In reply his captain raised his immaculate eyebrow, the look on his face one of good-humored disbelief.

  “I could do with a bath, actually. Perhaps you should dunk me with a bar of soap.” He tossed his head, his fringe flopping back from his forehead. Jack was aware that Thorne had a liking for his chestnut hair. “Do you think I’d suit pomade, sir, or is that only for the officers?”

  “I think you’re perfect just as you are, Trooper Woodvine. Unlike your vain captain, you were just made that way.”

  Jack brought their linked hands to his stomach.

  “Perfect…really?” His eyes were alight. No one had ever said that to him before—legs too long, eyes too big, hair untamable. “Even with my little round tum?”

  “It’s perfect too.” He kissed Jack’s forehead.

  “Permission to stay all day in this very spot with you, sir, just exactly as we are now?”

  “My God, I wish I could grant that.” Thorne shifted his lips lower, brushing Jack’s own.

  “How—how long do we have together?”

  “Don’t think about it…”

  They kissed with exquisite tenderness, hands roaming to caress delicate skin, sighs captured by passionate lips. Desperate not to let go, Jack embraced his captain tightly, his leg draped over Thorne’s waist to hold him near.

  “I don’t want this to end,” Jack sighed. “I wish… Oh, Robert, I wish you could always be with me. I wish you could hold my hand in the stable yard, in front of everyone, and that it wouldn’t matter to anyone but us.”

  “Don’t…” His voice was soft, imploring, and he held Jack tighter than ever. “I wish it too…”

  Just as their mouths were about to meet again an imperious bark split the morning peace. Outside in the stable yard, one of the officers shouted, “Trooper Pritchard! Wake up, you scrawny ginger bastard, and fetch me my horse!”

  “Poor old
Bryn!” Jack’s eyes sprang wide with alarm. “Oh, heck, Robert, what time is it?”

  “Get dressed.” Thorne kissed him urgently. “And follow my lead.”

  Jack flung back the covers. He found his boots and his pajama trousers easily enough, but his jacket took some effort to locate. Eventually, he discovered it under Apollo’s hoof and he charmed the horse into lifting his leg so that he could reach it. He pulled his uniform jacket, still damp from last night’s rain, over the top. His clothes and his hair were laced with straw. It was certainly not a look that would pass muster.

  “Ready, Rober—I mean, ready, sir.” Jack saluted.

  And Thorne was immaculate, dressed in his uniform, cap perfectly in place, gloves covering the hands that had been so soft on Jack’s skin just moments earlier. He brushed the last of the straw from his shoulder, returned the salute sharply and kissed Jack’s cheek.

  “You’re trying my patience, Trooper!” Thorne threw the door open onto the brightly lit yard. “Buck bloody up!”

  “Sorry, sir!” Jack tried his best to sound like a woebegone groom, even as Thorne’s strident bark excited him. He blinked in the sudden sunlight, his legs unsteady.

  “When the hell did you last have a bloody wash?” Thorne seized his arm and ran one disapproving hand through his chestnut hair. “Have you any respect for your king’s uniform?”

  “Sorry, Captain Thorne, they had no hot water at my last barracks, and I’ve been too busy here to—”

  “And you’re too delicate for cold, are you? A wilting flower on the vine?”

  “No, sir. Sorry, sir!”

  “A delicate”—he put his face very close to Jack’s and bellowed—“English! Bloom?”

  Jack gasped and rocked back on feet.

  “No, sir!”

  “No, sir! You’re a slovenly little bugger, what are you?”

  A gentle pink stain came to Jack’s cheeks. “A slovenly little—little bugger, sir.”

  “Pump! Now!” And the captain strode off toward the water pump, the crop tucked beneath his arm as he went.

  Jack marched across the stable yard. He saw an audience gathering at the windows of the grooms’ quarters. Someone whistled. There was a shout of, “Woodvine’s going for a dunking!” and laughter. Raucous, relieved laughter because it wasn’t them going under the pump.