The Captain and the Cavalry Trooper

by Catherine Curzon

  When the gloaming comes,

  I shall think of you, my friends.

  Golden light of evening,

  The mellow end of day,

  May it make you smile a while,

  To know not far away,

  Your friends think fondly of you,

  At the closing of the day.

  “Not enough explosions for The Morning Post, I suspect.” Jack’s gaze was fixed on the square piece of sky that he could see from his window.

  “Possibly.” Thorne closed the book and turned, his reflection receding as he walked away from the window. He paused before the mirror, looking into the glass.

  Jack picked up his pencil again and scratched at his scalp with its tip.

  “Oh dear, was it really that bad? There’s another I don’t mind you reading. About Apollo! But I’m stuck on the last line. Maybe you’d know the right word?”

  “I probably won’t, but I can try,” was Thorne’s murmured reply, his gaze still on his own reflection. “I’m going gray, darling. Just like my father.”

  Tucking the pencil behind his ear, Jack crossed the room to Thorne. He slipped his arms around Thorne’s waist and kissed the nape of his strong neck.

  “You’ve got the odd bit of silver right here—I noticed it the other day. I rather like it, I must say. My distinguished gentleman lover.”

  Jack rested his chin on Thorne’s shoulder and caught the glance of his reflection.

  “Your poem was wonderful—now tell me what you’ve been writing about that pony of mine.”

  “You sure I won’t sound silly?”

  Thorne’s reflection offered the faintest ghost of a smile and he slipped the book into Jack’s fingers. “Why don’t we try it and see?”

  Jack retreated. He was encroaching on something. Shadowy, half-realized notions presented themselves to him, but they were too ill-formed for him to grasp.

  He perched on the edge of the bed and flipped to the right page. Even if Thorne wouldn’t share what was bothering him, at least Jack could try to cheer him up.

  “It’s not the best poem in the world. I wrote it one afternoon, in the paddock. I bought some nice paper so I could write a fair copy and give it to you as a present, but the last line just won’t come. Are you ready?”

  Thorne drew himself up to his full height and swallowed, setting his jaw. Then he ran his palm back over his hair, silver strands and all. It was like watching a man putting on his Sunday best or a woman applying her rouge, donning a mask before they could face the world. When the captain turned to give Jack his attention he wore a brighter smile and said, “I’m ready.”

  You’re not, Jack thought. But he painted on a smile and, in a voice honed by the masters at the grammar, recited,

  Lone in the field stands the white charger,

  A more fearsome creature could never be known.

  He’ll bite and he’ll kick, for he is a fighter,

  A toss of his mane and a glare; he’s alone.

  But I do not fear the fearsome white charger,

  To me he is sweetness, to me he is mild.

  To me he is sunlight, and wind breathing over—

  “And that’s where I’m stuck. Something-something child, to rhyme with ‘mild’?”

  It was only then that Jack looked up from his notebook.

  “My white charger.” Thorne smiled, a faraway look crossing his eyes. “Not so lonesome anymore, eh?”

  “I was worried, lying here…who would look after him. But I’m glad that Bryn’s stepped in. If we’re not careful, Apollo will be the most popular horse at the chateau!”

  That was, Jack admitted to himself, a dramatically outside possibility.

  “I think your young friend is even a little less afraid of me than he was, though he still flinches when I call him to attention.” Thorne was clearly considering the matter of the poem. He folded his arms over his broad chest and clicked his tongue.

  Jack grinned. “I think everyone flinches when you call them to attention. Although I have different reasons…”

  Jack laid his poems down on the bed and noticed that Thorne’s sketchpad was lying open. There was a near-finished sketch of a young man sitting by a window, and Jack angled his head to look at it, smiling when he realized that it was of him.

  “And who’s this chap you’ve been drawing, then?”

  “Oh, just some terribly seductive gypsy sort that I know.” Thorne was casual as ever until, with a sudden burst of speed, he bolted for the bed, his arm already outstretched to seize the pad. Jack was quicker and he snatched the sketchbook away, leaving Thorne to tumble down onto the mattress, though he managed to catch one arm around Jack’s waist as he went.

  “I can’t escape!” Jack laughed, playfully slapping Thorne’s arm. “I must say, you’ve made me look very…well, I’m sure I can’t look quite like that. Almost beautiful.”

  “Then I’ll start again on a new page, because you are beautiful. Almost isn’t good enough.”

  Jack narrowed his eyes at him. “Is this the first picture you’ve done of me? And remember, I’m holding your sketchbook, so I’ll find out!”

  “Give me back my pad!” Thorne laughed, dotting a kiss to Jack’s shoulder.

  Jack locked his legs around Thorne’s. “Not until you answer me!”

  “There may be one or two others…”

  “May I see them?” Jack asked, surprised and flattered.

  “They’re really just little sketches.” Thorne kissed Jack’s cheek and sighed contentedly. “They’re in the back of the book.”

  Jack rolled onto his side. He turned the book as if it was a valuable artwork and took care not to open any other page. He knew well the excruciating sensation of someone seeing one’s work.

  He chewed the side of his finger as he looked at the drawings. There was Apollo by the stream, Jack leaning close to the horse, one hand on his mane as he brushed him. Jack’s fringe had fallen over his face, mirroring Apollo’s forelock, his long legs not unlike the stallion’s. Another showed Jack perched on the paddock fence, his head turned at an angle as if he was looking at the sky. Perhaps he had been. Limbs braced as if he was about to jump down, his face radiant with a smile.

  He studied each pencil stroke on the page, individual lines that were nothing by themselves, but brought together by Thorne had turned into something that almost breathed.

  Jack closed the pad. He reached toward Thorne and tenderly caressed his face. No one who knew Thorne only as the whip-cracking officer with the spine-chilling bark could guess that he had such a talent, such an eye.

  “They’re ever so good.”

  “I love you.” Thorne shifted to rest his head on Jack’s shoulder. “Your poem hit me— I think about them all the time, you know, the chaps we send on. I wonder why they’re going and why I’m still here, what the future might hold.”

  Jack pressed his mouth to Thorne’s neck.

  “It’s not your fault. You mustn’t blame yourself… Wilf had such a big smile on his face when he left—did you see? I saw him from the window. He hopped up in that wagon and was waving his goodbyes—he wanted to go. I wrote him a note… I said I forgave him, because I knew he hadn’t been behind it, not really. And he replied and said he was sorry.”

  They lay in silence for a while.

  “I haven’t been outside for ages.” Jack lifted his head, turning toward the window. “I’m like the Lady of Shalott. I am half sick of shadows.”

  “But, unlike her, you do have a knight.” Thorne held him close. “Loyal and true.”

  “Let’s walk down to the stream, then. It’s a lovely evening.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Captain Robert Thorne showed no sign of anything other than professional interest as he escorted his bruised groom from the chateau and along the narrow, winding path that would take them to the paddock. As they went, he spoke of the tasks that Jack could do on his imminent return to duty, things that couldn’t be neglected any longer, and that ce
rtainly couldn’t be left in Bryn’s hands, since he had his own horses to care for. To any idle spectator there was nothing that might be worth hearing, yet to Apollo, who galloped at full tilt across the grass at the very sound of his friend’s return, Jack was clearly a very welcome sight indeed.

  The horse waited at the fence, head high, ears alert, his tail swishing as he gave a long and happy whinny as soon as Jack came into view.

  Jack gave the horse a whistle, a bright whoosh of sound that he had trained Apollo to respond to. He hopped over the fence with a slight wince and embraced the horse.

  “My poor old mate—I missed you!”

  “Didn’t I tell you that he was coming back?” Thorne scrubbed Apollo’s mane with his gloved hand. “And your pa’s never wrong!”

  “Your dad has drawn a very beautiful portrait of you, Apollo. He’s a very talented chap.” Jack dropped his voice to a whisper, though there was no one about to hear. “And I love him.”

  “And your—” Thorne laughed. “Well, your other pa, has a poem for you, but he’s stuck for a word or two.”

  “Perhaps you can inspire me, Apollo. I shall stay out here all night with you, until you tell me what the last line should be.”

  Jack’s smile alighted on Thorne. He was thinking of their first night together in the stable, and from the look on Thorne’s face, he appeared to be remembering the same thing.

  “And I shall stay with you both, because there’s nowhere else I’d want to be.” Thorne shrugged, blushing.

  “I want nothing more than to hug you, Captain Thorne, but you won’t give me permission because anyone coming round that corner will see. Shall we take Apollo along by the stream, where the trees are?”

  “Will you ride?”

  “Bareback?”

  “Are you suggesting, Trooper”—Thorne narrowed his eyes, his voice growing hard as granite—“that your captain lug a saddle down here for you like a damned groom?”

  “Perish the thought, Captain!” Jack pouted at him, enjoying Thorne’s switch into the persona of the stern officer once more. “Bareback it is. But you might have to help me up…”

  “It’ll be a pleasure.”

  Jack climbed onto the fence and whistled and clicked for Apollo to come to him. Once he was sure that the horse was content, he swung one long leg over Apollo’s back and with agile grace was mounted. He grinned down at Thorne, whispering, “You can hop on once we’re behind the trees.”

  “What a generous sort you are.” Thorne laughed and began to walk down toward the stream. “I might even take my swim tonight, since I’m not required at the sickbed of my gentleman friend.”

  “Would you mind your gentleman friend coming in with you?”

  “Permission granted, Trooper.”

  They crossed the paddock toward the far gate and the promise of the woods beyond. With Jack settled into the rhythm of his mount’s gait, Thorne opened the gate for them and secured it as they passed through. Once Apollo was screened from view by the tree-lined stream, Jack turned and patted Apollo’s back.

  “Come on—ride first, swim after? You might work up a sweat.”

  Thorne hauled himself up onto Apollo’s back without any trouble and took his place behind Jack. He slipped one arm around his waist while the other settled on Jack’s thigh.

  Jack leaned back against Thorne, and as Apollo made his quiet away along the bank of the stream, farther into the woods, Jack curled first one arm then the other up behind him, crossing them behind his lover’s neck, his head cushioned on Thorne’s strong shoulder.

  “My lovely captain,” Jack murmured.

  “We’ll ride like this in Shropshire one day, you and I.” Thorne kissed Jack’s cheek. “And remember our fairytale castle…”

  “Yes, we shall, we most definitely shall. I’ll hold you to that—as a promise.”

  On they rode, the shadows lengthening in the dying late summer sun, with only the birdsong and the soft sounds of the stream to accompany the gentle beat of Apollo’s hooves. The captain occasionally shifted to caress Jack, his lips brushing his lover’s cheek now and again as the horse carried them farther and farther into the woods.

  Jack crossed his arms more tightly behind Thorne’s neck, holding him closer.

  “Unbutton me,” he sighed. “I want nothing more than to feel your touch.”

  The captain removed his gloves and tucked them into Jack’s pocket. Then his fingers moved with sure confidence over the buttons of Jack’s shirt, unfastening them until he could slide his hands over Jack’s chest, caressing the now-fading bruises. As he did, he murmured softly of his love, humming their song.

  Jack moaned at Thorne’s touch. The same hands that had nursed him now tenderly passed over his skin, and even the lightest touch made Jack tremble.

  “I love you, Robert. No matter what happens, I always will.”

  “Wherever we may be, I shall never love another but you.” Thorne’s voice trembled, just a little but enough for Jack to sense the trepidation in him. “And I never have until I saw you.”

  Jack pressed his lips to Thorne’s neck.

  “I loved you from the moment you first smiled at me.”

  “And I smiled at you because I loved you.” He kissed Jack’s earlobe.

  Jack turned to Thorne as best he could and claimed his mouth, his arms still linked behind Thorne’s neck.

  Apollo was carrying them through a small clearing, the branches reaching overhead to form a thick canopy of leaves. Underfoot the ground was mossy and soft, the air rich with the earthy scent of the woodland.

  “I think,” Thorne whispered, “that Apollo might be ready for a rest.”

  Jack reluctantly let go of Thorne. His lover’s warm, soft lips brushed for a moment against the top of his spine. Then in one elegant movement, Thorne dismounted. Jack began to maneuver himself to climb down but Thorne was beside him, like Lancelot ready to hand down Guinevere.

  He gladly submitted to his captain’s gentlemanly attentions and allowed himself to be helped delicately to the ground. Thorne greeted him with a tender kiss and told him, “I believe we have found our fairytale glade, darling.”

  “The honorable captain…or whatever way round it is. Sir Robert de Thorne! But can I be something a little more elegant than Jack and the Beanstalk, please?”

  “If you’re looking for a title, my fair Guinevere, I shall have to introduce you to my older brother.” Thorne kissed him again. “But I warn you, he’s terribly, terribly dull. And he doesn’t even own a whip.”

  “Trooper Guinevere will have to do!” Jack gripped the belt over Thorne’s tunic and unbuckled it with what had become practiced speed. “How the hell can you be related to someone who’s boring?”

  “Are you undressing me, Guin?”

  “I most certainly am, my noble knight.”

  “I shall enjoy that.” He scooped his cap from his head and placed it on Jack’s. “Consider yourself promoted.”

  Jack kissed his captain as he skimmed off the officer’s tunic, unfastened his tie and hurried off his shirt. He pulled Thorne to him so that their bared torsos could touch while he guided Thorne’s hands to his trousers, his own attention on denuding Thorne of his breeches. They scarcely broke their kisses for air, bodies pressed tight together once both were naked, yet still the captain was gentle, mindful of those bruises that faintly stained Jack’s skin.

  “Lay me down on my mossy bed, Sir Robert.”

  Thorne drew them both down to settle on the soft ground. The air smelled clean and fresh, alive with the scent of the woodland at dusk. The chill of the moss against Jack’s skin was bewitching after the heat of the summer’s day. As they caressed and kissed, the only sounds were of the distant splash of the stream, and of Apollo as he cropped at the lush grass.

  “I should probably admit that I don’t own a Palladian mansion.” Thorne’s voice was a playful whisper. “I do hope my Guinevere won’t object.”

  Jack tangled his fingers in Thorne’s ha
ir. “You’ve never told me where you live, but then, I’ve never asked. I just imagine there’s a barracks bedroom somewhere, exceptionally neat and tidy, save for a framed photograph of Apollo on the windowsill. And sometimes you put on your silk dressing gown and retire to a folly in the woods.”

  “I don’t really have anywhere other than the barracks bedroom,” Thorne admitted. “The ma and pa have places but…I’ve always been a solitary sort, snippy, some would say. Just me and a long line of horses.”

  “My wandering knight errant.” Jack kissed him slowly, but excitement broke him from the kiss. “When we get back to England… Oh, come and live on the farm! Or you could take lodgings in the village. If, that is…you decide you’ve had enough of your barracks room.”

  It was better to think that there would be a time when they would both return to England than to spare any consideration for the mere idea that there might not be.

  “Would you really want a snippy old soldier under your feet?” The captain met his gaze and Jack saw a spark dancing there, a flare of hope, tempered by the fear that this might just be a joke, or something said in the heat of a kiss.

  “Of course I bloody do!” Jack’s caresses became more urgent, his words punctuated by kisses. “Under my feet, and in my bed and riding a horse through my fields.”

  “Winter night in front of a roaring fire, snuggled up with brandy and kisses?” Thorne lay back in the grass, bringing Jack into his arms. “Hot summer evenings swimming in the stream as the sun sets?”

  “Yes! Oh, don’t you think it would be lovely? We’ll have the most marvelous time.”

  “If—” Thorne ran his hands through Jack’s hair, cradling his face gently. “This war, darling. If I don’t make it home, if we can’t have all those dreams… Promise me that you’ll find someone? Don’t be alone like I have been, Jack, promise me?”

  Jack attempted a brave smile but his lip wobbled. Tears rose in his eyes, threatening to spill over.

  “P-Please don’t…don’t, Robert. Please don’t say that. I can’t imagine the world without you in it. You will get home, I know it. And how would I ever find another man to match you? I would always think back, and— I would rather be alone for the rest of my life, Robert, remembering what we had—what we have—than endure some pale imitation of love.”