by G. A. Hauser
Thinking he was anything but elegant, Mark laughed softly. “Surprised. Yes, indeed. If I get anything but sore from it.”
Francesco gave him that low rumbling laugh. “Come here to me, Catamito.”
Scuffing his tired feet, Mark moved across the room to that set of outstretched arms. Falling against Francesco's solid body, Mark groaned as Francesco rocked him.
Purring lovingly, Francesco kissed his hair and comforted him. “I will make you forget the ache. Take off your clothing, bello mio.”
Obedient as a servant, Mark nodded and stepped back. His coat had already been removed from the heat of his practice. He peeled off his blouse and breeches and respectfully set them aside.
When Mark was unclothed he stood in the center of the room, watching Francesco's expression as it changed from a soft, tired gaze to one that was filling with passion.
When Francesco beckoned, Mark approached. The embrace sent some unnamed sensation over Mark's entire length. It was so comforting, so loving. Mark exhaled a low, soft moan against this man's satiny open shirt and inhaled the spicy cologne on him.
Francesco nuzzled into Mark's long, silky hair. “You will get there, my Mark Antonious. You only need some patience.”
As he was embraced, Mark could sense Francesco's breathing soften. Mark had completely recuperated from the exertion of before. When he raised his head off that broad chest, Mark connected to those black eyes. With careful deliberation, Mark began to undress Francesco. As he did, Mark stepped back to see what was revealed in the flickering small flame that illuminated the chamber.
Dark hair. It came up Francesco's throat to the line where he had shaved it back. Even now that roughness had grown and was like the coarsest sandpaper. The pattern of that black hair amazed Mark. It seemed to dissect down the center of his chest and ribs and point outwards and upwards. A black line like an arrow aimed down his abdomen and then flared out once again at his pelvis.
Completely mesmerized, Mark ran his fingers lightly over it, petting it in the direction it grew. The olive skin under it was taut as if it were wrapped tightly around that musculature. Every line of Francesco's solid anatomy showed through it. When Mark had pushed the blouse down those massive arms, he ran his hands over biceps that curved and bulged, forearms that swelled at the elbow and then tapered to powerful wrists.
Kneeling down as he opened Francesco's breeches, Mark lowered them to see wide thick thighs covered once again by that black hair.
Standing back, Mark took in the whole of him.
From the thick black hair on Francesco's head to the tufts on the tops of his feet, he enthralled Mark. A smile curled Mark's mouth. This is the most masculine male I have ever seen. The differences in their appearance were marvelous to him. Of course, Francesco was in his mid-twenties, but Mark would never look quite like this!
Mark gazed down at his own hairless body, touching it to see when and if some would grow. When Mark's hand caressed his own lustrous smooth jaw, his eyes once again found Francesco's.
“You are very beautiful. Why do you look so troubled?” Francesco whispered.
At first Mark couldn't think of the words to express himself. When he finally was able to, he said, “I ... I am like a baby still ... or a woman. Next to you I am not a man.”
Immediately Francesco crossed the small space to him and drew him to his chest. “No. You are a man, Mark Antonious. My beautiful Catamito. We just are of different blood.”
Arching his delicate body, Mark leaned his head back to watch as Francesco talked. It then occurred to him that even Francesco's voice was deep, like a cello string. Mark's was still quite high. In his head he again thought it had more of a feminine quality to it. Or perhaps not. Mark hoped its quality was masculine and only the range was high.
Francesco kissed his neck. Mark softened immediately at the contact. Francesco coaxed him to back up until they felt the mattress hit their thighs. They lay on the quilt and tasted each other's mouths and tongues.
The intensity enveloped Mark. There was a scorching heat to this man like there was in the baron, but Francesco wasn't nearly as violent in his loving.
As if they were truly lovers who had their first chance to touch one another, they moved slowly, thoughtfully together into what felt like bonding to Mark. It fascinated him, the textures of Francesco's body. That tantalizing combination of soft hair and hard muscle, moist tongue, and dry scratchy beard. The surges to his loins were like flashes of fire from fresh tinder.
At one point Francesco sat back to stare into Mark's face, petting gently the hair back from his forehead. Their legs intertwined, their bodies overlapping, it was so tender and kind.
Mark gave in in the end. He would have it no other way. With a grogginess that was a gift of exhaustion, he opened himself up to be taken.
His body lifted as if on wings and the gratification was so complete he knew nothing could compare.
When his gasps and groans finally silenced, a deep coma-like rest engulfed him. His bravo was well within reach.
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* * *
Chapter Nine
Another first for Mark Antonious came when he boarded the ship. Its tall masts speared the bluest sky as he craned his neck and shielded his eyes to see the sails flapping in the wind.
Francesco was at his side, his eyes everywhere at once.
Mark felt exhilarated as the journey before him became a reality. This would be the trip of a lifetime. Everything he had experienced in the last month had been new, a first, the most, and everything in between. The grandness of the whole threatened to swallow him. Somehow that little farm in Newbury seemed so meaningless in comparison.
If he could open his mouth and sing, he would, like Margaret, and express his passion in the virtue of song. He knew nothing to sing. It seemed a terrible pity.
The crowds were separated by fares. The wealthy had private cabins and meals, whilst the rest just stood crowded on the decks. Mark sneered as he and Francesco walked past the privileged who had their noses up in the air as if the “peasants” were repugnant. Mark had enough gold to buy them the best, but Francesco wisely held him back. They had a long journey ahead.
The wind felt refreshing at first, growing colder as they gained speed. Mark turned his back to the chill and Francesco brought him closer to his chest to keep warm. The shivering subsided in Mark and he closed his eyes and rested against Francesco as the boat rocked and splashed its way to mainland Europe.
Mark's legs ached from standing and his head hurt from the constant breeze. When land came into view on the other side and drew close enough to touch, Mark sighed with relief at the thought of a warm cozy carriage and a nap in its interior.
The seaport of Calais did not appear much different from the one they had left behind in Dover. The lines were long as authorities requested traveling papers. Mark showed his and was let through. Wondering how his partner would be received, he stood and twisted back as Francesco only needed to open his mouth for entry. When fluent French came out, Mark was in awe of him. Mark waited until they were both standing side by side once more, staring at Francesco with so much pride he could burst.
Francesco grinned modestly back. “What? Again the looks. Go get us a carriage, Catamito.”
Knowing he had been understood, Mark laughed to himself and stretched tall over the rest to wave and see if he could find one in all this turmoil and crowded mayhem.
It seemed an impossible task. After some determination, Mark finally managed to catch a driver's attention. Mark spun around for Francesco and just caught him hurrying back after buying a loaf of bread at an open-air stand.
Mark climbed into the carriage and told Francesco to ask the driver to get them as far as he could across France, hopefully to the next coach stop where they could continue.
With a nod, Francesco leaned out to discuss this with the driver, handing Mark the crusty loaf. Listening to the different dialect, Mark sat back and admired his
lover's tight bottom and strong thighs as they tensed and shifted on the ledge. Bowing low to avoid the top edge of the carriage, Francesco withdrew and closed the window so they were once again in a private compartment.
Mark handed him the bread and asked, “Does he understand?”
“Of course!” Francesco ripped off the top and handed the baguette back to Mark.
Mimicking his lover, Mark tore a piece off and ate it hungrily. “You speak French?”
Having been waiting for that question, Francesco's eyes lit up impishly. “Only the English have no interest in other languages.”
“No! This is not true. You cannot judge all Englishmen by me. I was raised in Newbury on a farm. I am not as sophisticated as a Londoner.”
“A sophisticated Londoner...” Francesco scoffed and finished the bread, reaching for more.
Mark took the slight as he chewed quietly. Finally he said, “I am ignorant. I am sorry.”
“You always wound yourself. You must stop doing this.”
It was an odd thing to say to someone. Wound myself? Mark thought this through very carefully. Was he inflicting pain on himself?
“Why is this journey so important to you? Was your life, with all the finery and riches you left behind, so bad?”
The bread poked him. Mark took it and tore another piece off, ignoring the question. “We need wine.”
“Ah! Sorry.” Francesco shook his head.
“No, I did not mean it was your fault.”
“Who do you blame? Yourself once again?”
Feeling like a bad little boy, Mark stopped chewing and said, “Why are you behaving dreadfully to me?”
“Why? Are you about to apologize yet again for something that has nothing to do with you?” Francesco stopped eating and stared at him. “Catamito, there are things you must give up on as, how can I say...” He thought hard first before he found the right words. “As things that you cannot make different. Look at me. I came to Inghilterra with a dream of a lover. When he betrayed me I brought pain upon myself. It took me many months to see this betrayal was not for what I had done but was my lover's own action. You see?”
Mark did. “I am so sorry he hurt you.”
Dramatically, Francesco threw up his hands in a comic version of frustration. “Even for this he is sorry!”
“No! I didn't mean—”
“Come. Come here to me. Why are you so far?”
In the close confines of the coach, Mark crouched to stand, brushed the crumbs from his lap, and sat next to Francesco so they could touch. The roads were rutty and rough compared to the ones they had just left in England. The carriage lurched back and forth occasionally, and rumbled constantly.
* * * *
Francesco set the bread aside and put his arm around Mark's shoulder, urging him to his chest to rest. Kissing his hair, Francesco set his cheek down against Mark's head. He was afraid for Mark. Though Francesco dreaded verbalizing that fear, he felt it. Mark had no sense of the world, no thick skin, no street skills. He imagined Mark alone on this trip. What if they hadn't had that chance meeting? Or if Francesco were still involved and not willing to leave England, where would this young man be now? Traveling like a babe in a world of the wolf. That gold that hung from his neck would have vanished, and so would the body in some canal.
Fearing for him, Francesco wrapped tighter around him and nuzzled into Mark's fragrant hair.
* * * *
Since Calais, they had spent two nights inside a carriage, only stopping quickly for some food, fresh horses, and to urinate. They felt filthy and worn out. Mark suggested the next country inn and a bath would be in order.
Heading southeast through the rolling green farmland of France's countryside, they bypassed Paris and stopped in Fontainebleau.
Aching from being cramped and in need of a bed, Mark straightened his back up and handed Francesco a few sovereigns to pay for their journey.
When two came back to his purse, Mark blinked in surprise. Francesco shrugged, “Honest driver.”
“One was enough?”
Francesco shook his head. “You have any idea how priceless English gold currency is?”
“Obviously not,” Mark whispered as they took what few things they had with them into the inn.
With fluency and style, Francesco greeted the owner and very efficiently requested a room and two baths.
When a woman nodded to follow, Francesco made a silly bow to Mark and gestured for him to make his way behind her. A small chamber was prepared and two tubs were filled.
“Le bain pour le garcon,” Francesco said, smiling wickedly at Mark.
Francesco's tease was overridden by the landlord whose hand was out, shouting at Francesco in anger.
Snarling his lip in disgust, Francesco grumbled something that sounded profane to Mark's ears. The landlord reacted to the insult, scuttled out, and left them to their baths, without his advanced payment.
“What was that all about?” Mark waited before he disrobed to make sure things were all right.
“Nothing, you go and enjoy your soak. I will wait until you are finished.”
Not convinced things were quite calm enough, Mark touched the hilt of his sword. “Why?”
“You ask too many questions. Get in the bath.”
Seeing he would get no more from the very tired Italian man, Mark sighed, giving in without further arguments. Mark stripped and sank into the water. Francesco watched the door until Mark splashed and moaned behind him. Peering over his shoulder, Francesco whispered seductively, “Get yourself good and clean, Catamito, for I intend to devour you.”
“You will just get me sweaty when we practice fencing.” Mark dipped his head under the water and shampooed his hair.
Francesco grinned devilishly. “I do not mind your sweat on me.”
“You've made that quite obvious.” Mark rubbed the soap on his face, staring at Francesco's broad back as he watched the door. “Will you tell me about your family later?”
Again Francesco peered over his shoulder. “Why do you ask it?”
“I don't know.” Mark shrugged. “Is it a secret? Or embarrassing?”
Francesco lowered his head. “No. Nothing like that. It is just needless information. It makes no difference to us. I am no patrician's son.” Right after he said it, Francesco's face showed regret.
Pain. Mark flinched at the bite.
“No, I did not mean this. Please forgive me, Catamito. I lament my words as soon as they come out.”
“No. Don't apologize. I know what you meant.” With his bottom lip pouting, Mark rinsed out his soapy hair and stood to get out of the bath.
Patiently, Francesco waited until Mark was fully clothed and armed before he started to undress.
Without the need of directions, Mark sat in the spot previously occupied by his lover and watched the door, but his mind was elsewhere. Behind him Mark heard the bath water move and imagined with the sound what Francesco looked like while he bathed. Though he had the chance to compare his thoughts with reality, Mark never turned around. Their conversation had evaporated.
Mark grew bored with the door. It didn't seem too threatening to him so he decided to stare at his friend instead.
Once Francesco had dried himself off and dressed in his breeches, he sat before a mirror to shave. With very well trained hands, Francesco spread the prepared cream on his face, down to his chest, and lifted the razor. Using confident strokes Francesco shaved the heavy beard off his jaw.
Mark's eyes widened in awe. Instinctively, he reached for his own chin and tried to feel anything, a bristle, a nub. Mark sighed. Nothing. I am a woman!
Fascinated by this ritual, Mark stood behind Francesco, who could see him in the mirror's reflection. Mark was anxious to shave and assume yet another manly function. Watching Francesco run the razor across his chin was driving Mark mad. Trying not to let it distract Francesco, Mark looked away so the poor man could finish without cutting himself. Taking the soft towel off the rac
k, Francesco wiped the foam clean.
Hearing his movements close by, Mark turned to look at him. That beautiful, damp, thick head of black, wavy hair covered his head to the tops of his ears and danced over Francesco's huge rounded shoulders. The almost gray colored skin from where he had just erased the growth of two days was still so dark it tantalized Mark.
Francesco stood and slipped on his blouse, his eyes fixed on Mark. “We are hungry. And some wine I think. Si?”
“Yes. Yes, please.”
“Come, Catamito, come let us drink our fill.”
Following him out to the tavern, Mark was unused to being in a place where he could not understand the language. It frustrated him beyond measure. He grew weary of asking Francesco to translate, as weary as Francesco had grown of the task. Giving up, instead Mark tried to understand the words simply through the gestures, quite unsuccessfully. “I am a foreigner,” he sighed, curling his lip in distaste.
An impish light came into Francesco's eyes. “Yes, it is your turn. What do you think of it?”
Mark grumbled, “I don't like it.”
“How do you think they will treat you in Venezia then, hmm?”
It stung. Pretending it didn't matter, Mark turned his gaze to anything but the dark black eyes in front of him.
The inn's ceiling hung low, like the English style of dark tar-stained crossbeams and smoke-coated white stucco panels, as well as a sensuous roaring fire. The walls were covered in old, burnt umber oil paintings. Men occupied every candle-lit, scarred oak table. This was a common stopping place for the passing carriages. The men appeared tired, bent over their wine, haggard looking, with beards on their faces and dark, heavy, soiled wool clothing. No white wigs here. No. Not a wig in sight.
Francesco caught Mark's gaze. Before he spoke, Francesco released a low long breath. “My treasure, tesoro mio, I say these things to you to forewarn you. Do not take it as I am insulting you. I just know how it will be, Catamito. You will be so mortally wounded by their distant coldness, their rudeness. You needn't even open your mouth for them to see where you are from. Your dress is foreign to them.”