by Clay Ferrill
Over two hours later we were finally back on the road and headed off the path to a small village in the distance where we would seek warm shelter for the night. I was drenched and shivering uncontrollably, but I could feel the temperature of my skin increasing quickly as my muscles became more and more sore and achy. I would be ill. Very ill as it turns out. We spent the next six days in a barn with a blacksmith’s farrier’s furnace to keep the three of us warm at night. Archy went back and forth to the house to fetch the woman when I wouldn’t wake up, shivering and soaked in sweat under every blanket and piece of clothing Archy could find to keep my body warm. My fits of consciousness fleeting, each time I woke up, I searched for his face near to me. Such fear and concern there in his beautiful blue eyes.
On the forth night my fever finally broke and by morning I was sitting upright on the edge of the bed drinking the hot broth the woman of the house was kind enough to bring to me. Archy was famished, I could tell. He had been forcing me to eat not only my food, but most of his as well. When she left I handed him the generous portion of broth and smiled, insisting he drink it down as much needed nourishment. The driver, Alfredo, readied the carriage and worked with the blacksmith to craft a replacement wheel to replace the spare Archy had mounted out on the road in such biting cold.
The storm had finally passed over us, but it was still bitterly cold outside. With Alfredo in the house joining the couple and their two sons for evening meal, Archy crawled into the hay bed with me and held me close, commenting on how much I smelled. My clothes were drying, which almost made it all smell worse. He fetched my trunk and drug it into the barn, pulling his own along moments later, and went back and forth to the well for numerous buckets of clean water for us to use to bathe and cleanse ourselves.
His ginger touches on my naked skin so warm, made me hungry for him to take me, but I was still very weak and needed to stay seated most of the time while I washed myself clean. I have never been happier to see my clean nightshirt, which I rarely wear, but I did not want to soil the fresh clothes Archy laid out for me for our morning departure and our last leg of this journey. We would be leaving tomorrow morning at first light, and arrive, hopefully, at Urbino by early evening. Almost home to the waiting mothers. He had deposited with the blacksmith and his wife, two silver ducats for their kind hospitality. A King’s ransom to them. Well earned.
Archy moved away from me and under his own blanket when he heard the door to the house open and close, indicating Alfredo was on his way back to the barn to join us for sleep. I spoke to him in a low voice. “I love you, my friend, my savior. My sprinting stag that kisses me so sweetly. I love you.” The smile on his face as Alfredo opened the door told me that he loved me too. I slept very well that night, waking up twice to the feel of Archy’s hand on my forehead feeling if I was hot and dabbing a wet cloth to my face. The way he looks at me gives me such peace in my soul. I wanted to sleep wrapped in his big strong arms again and longed to get back to the estate and to our cot in the barn where we enjoy more freely, our time alone as men.
I woke with a start as Archy tapped the bottom of my foot as he struggled to put my boots on. I laughed at him and he sat backwards on his backside hard, laughing with me. Shooting a look over his shoulder to make sure we were clear of anyone else’s gaze, he pushed my face together between his big hands and kissed my puckered lips. He fixed me in the eyes “I love you Raffy. With all my heart and soul. I love you.” He rose and held out his hand to help me up. I stood and stretched and felt totally back to myself. Alfredo drove us with haste and deft skill as we entered the region of my birth, my home, the landscape there hilly and so familiar. The carriage pulled up in front of the house at just after sunset.
The arrival brought both our mothers running from the house to wrap us in hugs and find out why our return had been so delayed. Mothers worry for their children, sons or daughters. To bid them not to worry would be like asking that they not draw the very breath that sustains their lives. Hot baths were drawn for both of us and my mother scented the water with cinnamon oil from the orient, one of her most cherished exotic oils.
When Ilsa had left the room Archy, leaning back in his large copper tub, removed the cloth from his center, sniffing deeply before laying the dripping cloth over his face, said under his breath “this oil, this cinnamon, smells so delicious that I just may eat you tonight, Raphaello.” We were gazing into each other’s eyes when we heard the carriages arrive in front of the house, the footmen calling “halt”. My mother moving past the door with her candle sent her scurrying down the stairs to the main parlor, with Archy’s mother closely behind, he hair tied in rags to curl it for tomorrow’s promised sitting to work more on finishing her portrait.
Curious, we rose from our warm baths cleansed, and dried ourselves and began to get dressed in the muslin nightshirts and thick Turkish robes my father had brought back from his trip to Constantinople long, long ago. We stepped down the stairs to three excited women’s voices, not just our mothers. We entered the parlor just as a large woman was taking her seat. Ilsa was pouring her hot tea. Archy spoke first “Bonjour Comtesse, quelle belle surprise! Ce qui vous amène à l'Italie?” I know very little French, truth told, but I have always found it such an alluring language. Especially when Archy speaks it to me when we are alone together at night. She reached into her silk satchel and withdrew a folded document with the seal and ribbons of blue and red. From King Louis. “It is from the King himself. I dared not open it and snoop or he would have my head. But he has been recalling all members of court of late, so this is what I suspect his message to you indicates.” I held my breath at this unnoticed and watched him open it. Upon finishing the short message, he looked down at the floor and then shot his eyes up to meet his mothers, whom had been holding her breath as well. He looked at me and then quickly away back to the floor. No. Something is upsetting him in this message from his King. He walked over to the fireplace and deposited the letter onto the flames and stood there silent.
The ladies all watched his every movement, holding their breath. I still looked at the floor where he had cast his gaze afraid for me to see into his eyes. I willed myself not to cry and drew in breath as he began to speak. “I have been summoned back to court by King Louis. I have no choice in this. I must return to Paris at once. His majesty requests my presence at court without delay.” Backing up from the fireplace he brushed past me and walked out the parlor door calling over his shoulder. “We will leave at dawn and accompany le Countess back to France, mother. You are called to court as well as I.” A minute later I heard his bedroom door at the other end of the house slam hard.
Niceties exchanged, and some of the delicious cakes of Ilsa’s to ensure our sweet dreams, the visiting Countess was shown to her rooms and settled in by Ilsa and the Marquise. I tucked a cake into my robe pocket for him. The mothers then huddled in the drawing room where my unfinished painting sits covered by a large cloth to keep it free of dust. I walked out the door just in time for the tears to burst forth. I walked quickly, barefoot, to the barn and ran up the stairs, sobbing by the time I got there. The room was empty, cold and very dark. Without undressing from my robe, I crawled into the bed and pulled the heavy blanket over my head.
I curled up there into a ball and cried myself to sleep, wondering why Archy has not come sleep by my side. We have not slept together now for many days and I have to admit, I hunger for his embrace deeply. I woke in the morning to a rooster’s crow? Mother must have purchased more chickens for eggs and wanting a steady supply of them to feed the guests that were now departing, she has a rooster on the farm now to produce more live chicks and the endless supply of their eggs.
I wiped the sleep out of my eyes and stretched, yawning deeply. I dropped my head in thought and the tears came. Again. Such profound sadness, this. Wrenching at me inside. When I lifted my head up sitting on the edge of the cot, I saw him leaning against the wall in the shadow. He was now fully dressed in his formal military uniform, his t
unic red and cape a deep royal blue. His metals glinted in the morning sunshine, his sword sheathed in gold and fastened to his thick leather belt. His face was looking down and when he lifted it, his face was streaked with tears.
“I leave you, perhaps for forever in ten minutes time, my love. You have again overslept. We leave for Paris and to the court of King Louis, right now. I know not why he summons us, but it is likely more war. With my title and lands I cannot refuse my King, or my house, my entire family, would be ruined. I must go.” He turned to just leave and walk out? I rose from the bed and ran to him, throwing my arms over his shoulders, knocking one of the golden arm caps askew in my haste to stop him from leaving me so abruptly. He lowered his mouth to mine and kissed me deeply. “I love you Raffy. Never forget that. I love only you.”
He pushed me back hard to force the separation and left before I could object, once again taking 3 steps at a time with his dark blue cape floating behind him making him look so swift of foot and graceful. His loud footfalls the only thing betraying the image of him flying away from me. I crumbled to the floor in tears. My mother appeared at the bottom of the stairs a few minutes later, scolding me loudly for oversleeping again and then ordered me to collect myself and dress to come to say good-bye to the Marquise and her son, and the “visiting Countess Bourgogne of Bad News.” She too had tears in her eyes.
I rose and pulled on dirty clothes left from before I went to Rome. I stepped into my boots as I blew my nose into the sleeve of the nightshirt and wiped my eyes with it and cast it aside. I descended the stairs slowly, wanting to draw this out. Make him stay here longer. But he was a man of duty, as are we all, and he was resolute to leave at the personal dispatch of his King and friend, sending a Countess to retrieve him and bring him home to France.
As I approached the carriage slowly, my mother came to my side and took my hand as we walked up to the ladies before they climbed inside. They had been waiting long before Archy came to wake me up. Very ungentlemanly of him, Archy had already climbed in and was seated at an angle with his back turned toward us staring out the lavish carriage’s encrusted interior window frame. The cost of this carriage alone, its gold-gilded accents on the interior only, the outside plain to the eye, meant to escape the looter’s examination from the outside. He turned his head slightly at the sound of my voice. Before they could engulf me in conversation and hugs and kisses, I rounded the back of the carriage and strode up to wear he was looking out the window. I stood on my tip toes and he leaned out to meet my upturned face. We kissed just briefly and I mouthed “I love you” as did he. I reached up to wipe his face of tears and kissed the hand with my lips.
Rounding the back of the carriage again, I excused myself “I am sorry dear ladies, nature called urgently” pretending that I had gone to the other side of the carriage to make water. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Archy’s shoulders dancing in a silent chuckle, I imagined, because I did not want that movement to be his sobbing at having to leave me before we moved to Rome. Ah. Rome. I would now be going alone, it appears.
I kissed and hugged his mother twice, the tears I could no longer control so I just let them flow freely and chose not to be embarrassed by the show of my emotion, of my fondness for Archy’s mother. In this life, you never know when you will see the other again and that makes me sad. I helped the ladies into the carriage and stood there as it drove off, following a little way down the road until it overtook a hill and disappeared from my sight. I would paint his image as I had seen him upon waking. My Stallion of God. In his uniform I would paint his portrait using my mind and memory of him standing there. It would be a grand size.
Tears still streaming down my face, I returned to the house, closed the front doors without going inside to my mother and Ilsa. I retreated to my studio in the barn to begin stretching for his portrait. The Stallion of God. I would not see Archy again for almost two years. His portrait was long finished by the time I would be reunited with him.
Chapter Six
Day Two, Tuesday, November 24, 2020
Doing His Duty
Vatican jet leaving Italian airspace, 6:15 A.M. GMT
I relaxed into the glove-soft leather of the heated sleeper lounge, one of four identical chairs, and let the engine vibrations lull me into sleep. As I drifted off, I think of my frantic search for Luigi before I left to be driven to the da Vinci private jet terminal. The papal private jet had been prepared to take-off when I arrived and I quickly ascended the stairs into the cabin and relaxed back into this wonderful chair. The smell of roasting meat is permeating the air as I am starving. It smelled delicious. The occasional clinking sound of dish ware only slightly stirred me, but when the hot plate was silently walked into the cabin my eyes shot open, fully awake.
The young priest, shorter in stature with white-blonde hair in a white apron over his cassock, a fair complexion, touched the arm controls to deploy the table as the air lounger returned to its upright position. My legs, spread wide, dropped from the knee down to the floor with thuds when the roll-prevention cushions receded into their stowage. My bulge was clearly visible under my cassock, its outline quite large under the fabric. I smoothed the fabric over my leg to hide it as best as I could. The young blonde priest set the gold dinner tray down as I used my arms to raise my body into a more comfortable seated and hide my center from view.
I watched the young priest browse my tall form, his eyes constantly going back to the large bulge. A small blossom of wetness there clearly evident. I had been thinking of Luigi. A slight smile crossed face as I tugged the cloth napkin from the tray and covered my lap with it. I smiled broadly and locked onto his light blue eyes. Intense eyes like mine. I have not really seen anyone with his color of eyes. Light blue, almost white.
I reached my bare hand down to the plate and withdrew a freshly roasted chop of some kind of meat. I brought the blonde meat to my lips and bit into the meatiest portion and ripped it from my mouth, never having let my eyes leave the curious young priest’s stare and haunting eyes. Over the delicious smell of the roasted baby calf, I had surmised by its texture and color, I could not detect his pheromone signature. I chewed, swallowed, and then brought the chop to my mouth again, tearing off another bite. The grease of the meat coating my lips and around my mouth sloppily as I chewed the tender baby’s meat. I smiled at the young man as I chewed and he simply stood there watching the glutinous spectacle smiling widely, apparently amused by me.
Leaning forward, he used his other hand to pull and then straighten his own center. Dropping the chop to the tray, the audible ‘clink’ sounded when the chop’s bone struck the china plate, the only sound between us. I picked up another and repeated taking two bites only from the chop before tossing it down for another. I burped loudly, holding the cloth napkin over my mouth. “Mi scusi, padre. Ero vorace’. Grazie mille. Grazie”, my faint excuse for having made such a pig of myself. The young man chuckled. I pushed the tray away, not touching the baby carrots or the baby beans. The meals on this jet would always be some version of cooked baby something, I would find. The young priest picked up the tray and disappeared from sight. My hand cradled my renewed excitement. I stood up to follow him into the galley to smell of him.
Finding him there, I leaned my body against the wall opposite him. Looking at the back of him working to clean and then re-stow the fine china and silverware I had not even touched. In my mind he was Luigi and I pressed my naked body against his back, moving my hips aggressively against his butt. Grinding into him. I lowered my head to suck there on his neck and ear, to taste of his skin. I snap out of it. No longer hungry and having processed the scents of the cooked meats and vegetables, I have now in fact detected the young man’s pheromone signature and it had momentarily taken complete control over me.
I backed away and returned to my lounge and sat down. He wants to be taken by me. My pheromones never, ever initiate sexual congress with another human. Ever. That prevents me from committing the violence of the sin of inv
oluntarily taking another human sexually against their will. Rape. The act that crushes souls. But when given the pheromone signals in response to the way I look; strong, virile, large, beautiful - I am positioned to engage with, and take sexually, those who wish me to take them that way. I am a human man. I too feel desire for them then. This can backfire, however, if the object desiring me is undesirable themselves for some reason. Oh, it might still happen anyway, and this I cannot control.
But I am strong in my will to remain fixed and solidly loyal to Luigi. I have an overwhelming need to please him in every way I can. This is my reaction to receiving these pheromonal signals. Sex happens. But not here. Not now and not with the young priest with the hauntingly blue-white eyes. He is albino, I suspect. As I observe him in movement I imagine it in my mind’s eye and then pinpoint the pairs, just 2 of them, in his DNA’s long and winding ladder. The two pairs that make his skin so pale and his eyes near white. They are inexorably linked together. This condition is thoroughly documented. It is referred to as “The Angels Kiss”.
I close my eyes and rest my head back. In my mind’s eye I am letting my tongue … slip into his ear, I exhale a hot breath that envelopes him as he lowers his head in total supplication and agreement to let me take him. Have my way with his body. I bite the back of his neck firmly as I lift his lightweight cassock to expose his lower body to me. I feel the absence of underwear there, his skin so warm and soft under my hands as they gently glide over the surface of his naked body, finding two firm and generously plump globes, letting my right hand and fingers gently explore him with my touch. His pheromone now clear and excited for what is coming next. I am pressed to him hard as I move his body around in my hands like clay to a sculptor, my roaming hands under his cassock, pliant and smooth to my touch. My eyes snap open. Holy fuck! I push the button to return the lounge to a seated position.