by G. A. Hauser
On his powerful legs, Mark raised up on the coach to see over the man's head. A massive structure appeared silhouetted against the creeping night, a castle with four towering spires. Helped to the ground, Mark straightened his back to stand tall and followed this dandy into his palace.
In the candlelight they appraised each other more carefully. Servants hovered around them, taking their cloaks and offering them tea and food. With a wave of his gloved hand they were sent scurrying in every direction.
Mark was led to a cavernous space with walls covered in thick tapestries. An enormous fireplace lit and heated the stone coldness.
On one wall a narrow window rose with painted glass. In the darkness Mark could not tell what it depicted.
A brandy was slipped into his fingers. Mark found his host in the room and bowed to him, thanking him, sipping it.
“Such a pretty boy you are. Scorching passion such as yours I have not felt since the first time I lay with a woman.”
Mark roamed around the room, trying to gather all the details in. His mind was full and empty together. Full of the desire to get to Venice and settle the anger in his mind, and empty of the families he'd left behind. He knew neither would assist him on his journey, and on the contrary, they would do all they could to prevent it. Mark wondered if this man knew the way. These aristocrats, they were so vain, so indiscreet with their passions. Could he buy his way there through favors?
Mark moved closer to this slender man in the horrid wig. Like a court concubine, he knelt down before the man and set his empty glass on the decorated tile floor. Slowly Mark's fingers touched that warm satin covered thigh.
“Though you deny me a name, I shall tell you mine. We shall not be strangers to one another under my own roof. I am Percivel Goodrich. The Duke of Warwick.”
“I am Mark Antonious deMontford,” Mark revealed with some fraudulent pride.
“One can tell an enormous amount of information from one's name. Very good, Mark. Now we are acquainted.”
“You live alone in these halls?” Mark crept up higher on Percivel's lap so he could whisper.
“I do. Along with a hundred servants.”
“Do you ever get lonely?”
“No. I am too busy for that nonsense. If anything, I need more time alone.”
Squinting at him, Mark wondered what he would look like without the wig and with his face washed of the paste and dot. He didn't seem homely. Just very thin.
Percivel eyed him suspiciously. “What do you seek, Mark Antonious? Why do you seduce me?”
It stunned him. He had been seen through. Though Mark tried to prevent it, his face flashed disappointment. He wasn't supposed to be exposed so soon.
With a calming grace, Percivel smiled. He cupped Mark's face. “Do you think me naïve? No, do not underestimate me. I have been alive for twice your own lifetime, maybe more. You are what, fifteen?”
“Nineteen!” Mark corrected angrily. His plans were crashing down on him. “Fifteen? Oh, please!”
Percivel whispered, “Oh, such a lovely pout. Even more endearing than that of my five-year-old niece. Come here.” He patted the spot beside him.
Raising himself up with some effort, Mark slid onto the lounge, staring at the duke curiously.
“Just because I have discovered you have an ulterior motive, does not mean I will not try to assist you. Come now, Mark, what is in that lovely head of yours?”
Mark twisted his face away as his cheeks burst into a hot blush. Is this it? I have to tell people this humiliation? Oh, this is cruelty at its highest form.
Patiently, lovingly, Percivel petted his hair. “You seem to have little faith in people. Why? At such an age as yours has someone already disillusioned you so completely?”
The tears welled up in Mark's eyes.
“Why is it you weep? You have wealth, you have beauty. What more do you desire?”
Mark's anger ignited. “I have no wealth.”
With careful deliberation, Percivel eyed his attire once more. “No?” He rubbed the texture of the lace at Mark's sleeve. “Why do you lie?”
“You don't understand,” Mark groaned in anguish.
“No, of course I do not understand. It is up to you, my lovely, to explain things.”
Mark brooded, lost in his own world.
Percivel shook his head sadly. “Fine, my young prince. Maybe after some rest you will feel more amiable.”
When he stood, the duke's slippers hardly made a sound. Percivel reached out his gloved hand and Mark took it after giving his empty glass to the waiting servant.
Another servant lit the torches on the walls as they ascended a spiral stone stair lifting them up to the second floor of a tower like structure.
The room illuminated for Mark held a grand bed of linens and lace.
I am not sleeping alone in this place. He felt an eerie presence of spirits around him.
A nightshirt and a basin were provided for him. Before Percivel took his leave, Mark asked, “Which is your room?”
Percivel studied Mark carefully, his eyes moved quickly to that jewel-encrusted sword at his hip as if he were considering the motives. Taking Mark's velvet shoulder in his hand, he tugged him out to the hall and pointed. “That door.”
Mark exhaled in relief and said, mostly to himself, “Then I will see you soon.”
As he removed each layer of his garments, a servant gathered them up to tend and clean. Mark slid the nightshirt over his head and stood waiting until the servant had gone. Taking one last look at that lonely bed, he raised his candle and made his way down the hall. From outside Mark could hear the duke talking. Mark scratched at the door to be allowed in.
“That did not take long,” Percivel announced.
Mark peered inside after yet another silent sentry had opened the door. Mark could see the duke was still being attended. Setting aside the candle, Mark waited by the door, hands laced nervously behind his back.
When the duke was finished, he sat atop a very high bed lavished with satin pillows and an embroidered quilt. His attention once again on Mark, he sighed and reached out his hand.
Hesitating, Mark waited until the last servant had gone before he moved quickly to the bed. He climbed with an effort onto the high mattress. Now that he had settled down, Mark took his first look into the face that had been almost completely concealed by make-up and white curls. The cocky boldness, the coquettishness, had gone away with the paint. It was possibly a cover to what may even be a shy nature. Percivel had a sweetness to his face. That long, narrow jaw and those very light blue eyes, so different to the darker brown shades Mark was used to.
“Why do you stare at me?”
It was as if Mark had come awake. He lowered his eyes demurely and said, “You are very pleasing. I wonder why you hide under the paint.”
Stunned by the comment, at first Percivel broke into laughter. “It is in the name of fashion, my natural beauty. Fashion.”
Slowly taking in Percivel's appearance, Mark raised his lashes to those laughing eyes, trying to conceive of a fashion that made one so unappealing. “Can I kiss you?”
“You ask me?” Percivel's eyebrows became expressive. “You did not ask me in the carriage.”
Mark blushed in remembrance. He wondered if he could please the duke, then maybe the duke would help him. He needed a benefactor to finance his way to Italy. Confident of his skill in the bedroom, Mark most certainly knew he could. His doubt was only on one thing. Would the duke agree to his requests?
Percivel's smile mellowed to a soft, contented gaze. “Yes, Mark Antonious, you may kiss me.”
More gently, and with some tenderness he hoped to share, Mark leaned forward and closed his eyes. When their lips met, Mark let a soft moan escape him and urged that narrow body close to his own. They lay side by side, exploring each other more slowly, the nightshirts getting in the way, so they removed them.
“What a skin you have on you,” Percivel groaned and ran his hand over Mark's c
hest.
“I want to satisfy you again.” Mark drew him closer under the quilt.
“You will, you lovely creature, you will.”
* * * *
After they were both spent, they lay curled together, a dew-like sweat covering them. Mark asked, “Will you help me get to Italy?” To his sleepy ears his own voice sounded like crushed velvet against Percivel's chest.
Percivel let out a soft laugh. “What are you escaping?”
“No ... I am not escaping.”
“Play me as anything, Mark, but not a fool. Tell me who is out looking for you now.”
“No one.”
“No? You have no parents fretting of their lost prince?”
Taking it as insult, Mark sat up instantly, the pain in him growing unbearable once again.
Percivel sighed. “Do not lie to me. You are not on your own, love. Someone who owns you and is missing you will be searching. Who and why, you must tell me. For if you involve me in some mess I will not be pleased.”
The anger defused and the defeat came back. “Why must I retell something that is pure humiliation? Can I just simply say, I am no fugitive. I've committed no crime. And I have no parents.”
“No? Then who provides for you the finest clothing in all of London?”
Defeated, Mark lay back and released a sigh of stress. It was no use.
Rising up on his elbows, Percivel leaned over him. With a long, reaching index finger, he traced the line down Mark's smooth jaw to the skin at his neck. “No crime. No reason to run. Just a flight of fancy to Italy.”
“Yes! Maybe I just want the experience of it.”
After Percivel drew a circle around Mark's small nipple, he made it the object of caressing. “Why? Why Italy? Why not Germany? Why not France?”
“I do not know. It has just always held some fascination for me. Look, if you will not help me, leave it.” Mark closed his eyes and placed his hands over his ears in an attempt to cut out the comments.
Percivel's tireless fingers moved down Mark's side to his hip. “I did not say I would not help you. But you ask a great deal of me. I have my position to take into account. I am already not the favored son of the Queen.”
At the mere mention of Her Majesty, Mark dropped his hands and shivered. “Nor am I,” he whispered bitterly.
Stunned at the reply, Percivel sat up. “Now you say you've had audience with the Queen? Who are you? Please stop this charade!”
Groaning in frustration, Mark pulled the quilt over his head.
Percivel tugged it back. “I will put you out on the street. Take care!” he warned.
“So? I am not afraid. You think you are the first to declare you do not want me?” Mark's anger was like steam, boiling rage. “I will get to Italy! If I have to walk there on my own two feet and arrive in rags and starved. I shall get there. I need no one! Do you understand? If I am unwelcome here, I will be gone!” Dramatically, he threw off the covers and attempted to get off the high bed.
Percivel yanked him back. “Calm,” the duke shouted. “Calm your rage. I will at least give you leave to remain here until a decent hour. I am no inhospitable host.”
Pouting, brooding, Mark was drawn back and the quilt once again covered over him.
“You are a puzzle, young one. One I would like to unravel. Why you hold so much contempt is beyond me. You could have it all with those fine looks of yours. You could bed anyone at any castle. No one would turn you away. Fine ladies and lords would do any of your bidding. But you have no finesse. No way about you to woo a lover. How do you think you will be treated if all you do is rank and rail after every passionate encounter? The sooner they are rid of you the better. That is what you will find. You will get to Italy. Of course you will find your benefactor and you will go. But patience and some class, my lovely thing. Learn it, or yes, you will indeed be there in tatters and starved.”
Mark's eyes were wide as he absorbed the lecture. It softened his fury instantly. He closed his eyes and shuddered as a deep sob overwhelmed him.
Lowering himself, Percivel took Mark into his arms to comfort. Though Mark tried like a demon to hold it in, he could not. He cried and cried against this noble's shoulder until he finally fell asleep.
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* * *
Chapter Seven
The next day Mark awoke to find it was past noon. Stunned he had slept so long, he jolted out of bed and located his neatly folded clothing that had been attended to during the night. Once he washed, dressed, and brushed his hair, he was back to being a clean, polished young man. Lastly, he fastened his sword to his hip and checked his reflection in a mirror.
When he made his way down to the first floor he was stunned to see several people had come to pay the duke a visit. He noticed Percivel's outstretched gloved fingers and drew near for an introduction.
Mark took the hand of a lady and kissed it lightly. It seemed her wig competed with Percivel's at being the loftiest.
“What a fine young man.” She admired Mark's features lovingly. “Have I heard the name deMontford before?” she mused out loud.
After he was introduced to Lady Ridgeway, Mark studied her intently, estimating her age to be about sixty. He asked boldly, “Do you know a singer of the name of Elizabeth Jones?”
She gave the question some serious thought. “I know only of one. A lovely soprano for the opera. But she was known then as ‘Maria'.”
Percivel addressed Mark, “Why do you ask this? Who is Elizabeth Jones to you?”
“No one,” Mark said softly.
Lady Ridgeway seemed to let her focus blur as she recalled what she knew. “I remember seeing her on stage at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.”
Mark grew a bit pale at that news.
“She was brilliant! A voice like hers has never been heard on stage again. Tragically, she passed away. Several years ago now.”
Growing concerned by Mark's waning color, Percivel prodded, “What is it, Mark? Are you all right? Do you need to sit down?”
Swallowing his anxiety, Mark regained his composure. “Are you a fan of the opera?” he asked her, giving his empty teacup to a waiting servant.
“Oh yes! Very much so.”
“Do you ever dream of seeing it in Italy? Like on the stage in Venice, perhaps?”
Suddenly as if understanding the ulterior motive, Percivel rolled his eyes.
“I have. I have been to Naples and Venice. It is so lovely. Is it something you have an interest in?”
“Yes,” Mark said with all seriousness. “I have a dream to see opera in Venice. Tell me, how does one get there?”
Percivel tapped his satin toe impatiently as the lady recounted her trip in great detail whilst Mark memorized every word.
When Percivel could, he brought Mark aside. “It did not take you long.”
“What have I done?” Mark stood defiantly. “You told me I could bed them and they would help me.”
“Not Lady Ridgeway! Surely!”
Mark twisted back to see her. Though she was way past her prime and quite plump, Mark decided he would do whatever he needed to do, if the means justified the end.
“No. I don't want you to sleep with her. She and Lord Ridgeway are not the type. No, you will not get her to finance your little excursion with your penis.” Peering behind him, Percivel contained his voice. “Look, Mark, there are others who will, but take a moment to compose yourself. Go out to the courtyard for a few moments and gather yourself together. You need to sort yourself out and I don't want you doing it here, in front of my guests. Allow me to send the appropriate ones to you.”
Mark plodded along a corridor and found the sunshine beaming down on a small, open, grassy courtyard. There were barren fruit trees and dried shafts from flowers, gone with the coming fall.
First—book passage on a ship across the Channel. It wasn't as difficult as it sounded, was it? People came and went daily to mainland Europe. There was commerce, holiday traffic, and so many
other reasons for that connection. He would be simply one of many making a trip.
It occurred to him that he could go back to the whore district. How difficult could it be to make some money there? Maybe in just a few nights he would have enough in his purse to make the trip across the water. Then, once in France, he could sleep with others to get what he needed.
The language barrier hit him. English was the only one he knew. How would he communicate with foreigners? How had his mother?
Oh, how appropriate that part was! The Moor of Venice. Ha! Didn't that fit so well when she bed that horrible Venetian? She spread her legs for a man she did not know!
A choking sound came out of his throat. As a child he imagined his mother closer to the Virgin Mary. She was supposed to be a saint. His father a vicar. He had convinced himself that he was born of two of the most pious people, that they gave him up as charity to a loving couple who could have none of their own. Oh, if he had just been left to his ignorant fantasies. Why did he leave the farm? Why couldn't they let him be? And in his head he could not erase the shouting, “Maria! Maria!”
He didn't know how long she had been standing there, observing him, this woman in yet another pompous white wig. Only he had refrained from covering his hair with that nonsense. And why should he? He had a glorious mane of brown hair. Damn them to hell if they thought him crass or uncouth. Who the hell ate with a knife anyway?
Was she staring because she thought him a freak? Why was she doing this to him? Could she not see he needed a moment to reflect?
He grabbed a handful of his own very thick hair and used it to cover his face, like a mask.
He heard her laughter. He peeked through his waves at her.
“Are you trying to hide?” Her tiny gloved hand covered her painted smile. “It is not working. You are too large to be concealed, even by locks as lovely as yours. Oh, look at those bright green eyes of yours, blinking at me with so much innocence.” With the bold confidence of a man, she approached and stood before him. “I am Lady Grey. And you, my gorgeous nymph?”
Embarrassed by his immaturity, Mark pushed all his hair back out of his face and stood. “I am Mark Antonious deMontford.” He bowed and took her hand. “At your service, m'lady.”