by G. A. Hauser
The sway of his cloak mesmerized him. Oh, the royal splendor was such a thrill. Now they were eyed curiously as they passed. Who were these men of wealth? Ambassadors? Counts? Such mystery! It was grandness on the largest scale.
At one point Mark's heart swelled to such a state he jumped into Francesco's arms and kissed him right on the lips.
Stunned, Francesco set him back and tried to calm him down, searching the piazza for anyone who may have spied them. “My young lover, you must act with some reserve. We are roaming the streets.”
“Yes. I'm sorry. I just cannot express the joy in me.”
“I am glad you are getting pleasure from my country. It pleases me.”
With the comment smacking of a lie, Mark sensed Francesco holding something back from him.
When Francesco caught Mark's gaze, he immediately distracted Mark and pointed out another marble sculpture to admire.
At their evening meal, again Mark drank more wine than he could handle. Mark was unused to its strength and potency. And the velvety smoothness of the liquid was better than any wine he had ever tasted in England. Devouring a plate of what he thought was the finest seafood stew in the land, Mark wiped his lip and met with those dark troubled eyes. “What is it, Francesco? Why are you brooding?”
Francesco sat up straighter and ran his hand tiredly through his hair, but never answered Mark's question.
A sensation of alarm passed through Mark's mid-section. Not wanting to heed Francesco's advice, Mark had shut out the sound of the words he did not want to hear. But he had heard. In some deep-seated place in his body, he knew he was not headed to play some romantic part on a stage. Francesco tried to warn him of the grave consequences for his actions. This was simply not done. The illegitimate heir of a powerful ruler of Venice could simply not exist. This was pure embarrassment and would be quickly, and possibly ruthlessly, gotten rid of.
Just recalling something, Mark reached into his shirt for the pouch. He withdrew the item and then set out to unfurl it on the table between them.
Francesco eyed the paper curiously.
When Mark had it all unfolded, he read it. It was from the Duke. Percivel had given him a letter of introduction to an Italian Countess who lived in Venice in an old grand palazzo. Mark twisted it to face Francesco.
“I cannot read English. Tell me what is says.”
“It is a letter from one of my friends. The Duke of Warwick. He has made a contact for me in Venice so I may have someone there who will look after me.”
“Who is this contact? What is their name?” Francesco squinted at the page.
Mark skimmed it in the dim light. “Contessa Masson.”
A flash of hope glimmered in Francesco's face.
“You know her?” Mark caught that look of pleasure and leaned across the space to him.
“Oh, my Catamito, there is someone very kind who looks out for you.”
* * * *
At the insistence of Francesco, they went directly to the Villa de Masson. If Mark thought Verona was fantastic, he was slapped silly by Venice. Everyone was on foot or in a boat. The streets weren't wide enough for elaborate carriages and large horses. With some light luggage for their travel clothing, they raised their heads to the sprawling city with its waterlogged canals and bobbing crafts.
In constant awe, Mark kept murmuring under his breath as they passed columned façades centuries old. The Basillica di San Marco was so overwhelming and covered with details and carvings that he stopped in the middle of the piazza just to gape at it. Francesco urged him along until they made it to the contessa's villa. One side of her palace felt the lap of the canals, whilst the other side was accessible from a narrow alley. Most guests arrived by gondola so the water entrance was the one used and by far the most attractive.
Francesco summoned a servant with his pounding on a door that was so monstrously large, a galleon could pass through it. Or at least a schooner, Mark thought to himself.
An old man bowed to them and Francesco immediately took the note from Mark's fingers and handed it to him. The servant first inspected them carefully, then bowed again and closed the door on them, taking the note with him.
Nervous anxiety passed over Mark like a shiver from an icicle, one that drops water on you as you pass beneath. “What if he steals my letter?”
“Stop this silly nonsense.” Francesco nudged Mark gently with his elbow.
After they had tapped their toes and hummed to themselves for what felt like ages, the door strained open. The servant once again bowed and allowed them to pass.
The scent caught Mark by surprise. It had some dankness to it, like moldy water. This lessened as they rose above sea level. When a rat snuck by them, Mark grabbed hold of Francesco's arm so tightly Francesco shouted out from the pain.
They were escorted to a grand salon with a high, painted ceiling and a long, narrow table. A massive chandelier, gilt with gold leaf hung in front of mirrors with golden frames. Textured wallpaper covered the room in a dizzying array of patterns.
A woman was standing there, her dress was peach colored satin and her wig was a cloud of white over her head. Mark dropped his bag and hurried to her, bowing properly and raising her hand to his lips.
“I am Mark Antonious deMontford, my lady. I am hoping you speak English and can hear how grateful I am for your hospitality.”
“I understand you, my charming boy. And you are welcome to my home as a friend of the Duke of Warwick.” She raised her head to acknowledge Francesco.
Mark gestured to his lover and introduced him. “He is traveling with me as a guide and translator. Please accept him into your home with the same civility as you do me.”
She bowed to Francesco and he nodded in greeting to her, keeping silent.
“Come, you must be tired and hungry from your journey.” She led them to be seated at the table that had bottles of red wine and a bowl of freshly sliced bread, fruit, and cheese.
Mark handed his cloak to the servant and sat next to the contessa who was at the head. Francesco handed off his tabarro and sat across from Mark, at the other elbow of this elegant woman.
“What brings you all the way to Venezia, Mark Antonious? It is such a long journey.”
Mark waited before answering while a servant poured wine. “I am an admirer of great opera. I was hoping to catch one of the finest in Italy. I have heard it is here that I will hear it.”
Lips parted in surprise, Francesco's eyebrows raised expressively.
“Opera?” The contessa smiled sweetly. “How wonderful! Yes, Italian opera is the greatest gift in the world. We have some voices that can make one cry. You must come with me to see it. Caffarelli is going to perform one of Scarlatti's most beautiful works.”
Like he understood a word she was saying, Mark nodded. “How delightful. I hope we can arrange it.”
Francesco stared at Mark, blinking in disbelief.
They enjoyed one another's company as the food and wine were consumed.
As the hour drew late, and the fires needed tending, Francesco and Mark were shown up yet another level of white marble steps to a bedroom.
At one point the servant bowed for Mark to enter a chamber. Mark knew Francesco would be led just as efficiently to another. With a discreet hand he drew Francesco to his ear to whisper, “Do not come to me, lover.”
“Yes, I know,” Francesco whispered back. “I shall see you in the morning.” Holding Mark by the shoulders, Francesco kissed both his cheeks goodnight.
Before Francesco could vanish, Mark gripped him tight. In his mind he was asking Francesco to understand. As if Francesco knew the look and the message it conveyed. He gave Mark's hand a reassuring squeeze and left him.
Remembering the past rendezvous, Mark waited, sitting on the bed. A dressing gown that had been provided was the only thing covering his nakedness. As he anticipated, there was a gentle knocking at his door. Mark called, “Come in,” and the servant bowed, candle held aloft.
Qu
ickly, Mark hopped off the bed to follow. Another door opened and the servant bowed and vanished.
Searching the enormous chamber, surrounded by tapestries and curtains, Mark found the contessa sitting up on her mattress, her wig now gone, her own black and gray tresses spilling down her naked shoulders onto her dressing gown.
With respect, Mark bowed low to her, standing still, allowing her to reach out to him first. When she gestured for him to approach, Mark floated across the room to sit on her bed. He smiled sweetly at her pleasantly rounded face. “Tell me how to please you, my Lady.”
“Oh, I hardly think one such as yourself needs my instruction.” She lifted the covers to invite him in.
Curling around her, Mark purred softly. It had been so long since he had played the aggressor he almost had forgotten how. His hungry kisses caressed her neck and chest as his fingers probed under her satin gown to her breasts.
His thoughts never far from his lover, and his concentration challenged because Mark wanted to love and be loved from one man, and only one man, Mark forced himself to perform, though it was more difficult than any of his past conquests.
Gritting his teeth, Mark drove in between her legs. Both his hands were on her breasts and his eyes clamped shut. He came and shuddered, groaning in exaggeration for her pleasure as well as his own.
In a gasping breath she uttered his name, kissing his sweat covered face and rushing her hands over his skin.
He was spent. In yearning Mark imagined his own bed. No. He imagined Francesco's loving embrace, craving him.
“Mark Antonious, you were a gift sent to me by your English duke. I must thank him with all my heart.” Staring at Mark's face, she pushed his hair back from his sweating brow.
A soft chuckle came out of him before he could prevent it. “Just knowing I was treated kindly will be enough of a gift for him, my lady, my lovely contessa.” With his finger Mark lightly touched the tip of her nose in a playful gesture.
“I love the way you say it. Say it again.” A girlish smile illuminated her face.
“Say what?”
“Contesssssa!” She tried to imitate his accent without much success.
“Contessa! Contessa! My princess in a silk dressa!” He rolled on top of her and hugged her tightly.
Her laughter delighted him. It was so filled with joy and youthful fun. “Oh, you are such a man! Magnifico!” She kissed his cheek. “You will stay here, si?”
Leaning up on his elbows so he could see her, Mark stared into her dark eyes.
When his laughing stopped, it seemed to puzzle her. “What is it, darling child?”
It shook him out of his dream. He wondered if he could confide in her. If she would help him.
She nudged him to sit up as they lay on the soft pillows together. “What is it? Surely you cannot withstand this burden alone.” With her left hand she pushed the long hair back from Mark's eyes.
Horribly, it sought to overwhelm him. She was so much like Gabriel, so kind, so full-hearted and filled with some warm love he could not get enough of. And in a blink of an eye, his filled with tears. The mask had fallen off, the act was crumbling.
“Shh ... oh my sweetness, amor mio, please, per favore, tell me, what is it?” She cooed and petted him lovingly, only making the anguish worse.
“I am humiliated now.” He covered his face in both hands to hide.
“Nonsense. Please. What is the real reason you come here to Venice?”
Swallowing down his grief, Mark fought to calm himself. Slowly, he lowered his hands to his sides and without looking at her directly, he told the tale.
Patiently, she listened. She never interrupted him. At times he just rambled about his feelings and the frustration, then when he finally fell into a deep silence she whispered, “I know your father, my sweetness. I know him enough to tell you, do not do this.”
He had expected support! He had hoped for help. Guidance. Not this! Not more discouragement, more pain. Not after coming all this way.
It flashed like anger, a lightning bolt that crackled and threatened to burn the house down, then as quickly as it had come, it subsided to just agony. “Why?” Mark sobbed. “He is my father. Why should we never meet?”
“Shush, my lovely man. Shush your cries and I will tell you.”
Sitting up higher on her cushions, Mark wiped at his face roughly like the tears revolted him. When he settled down again, he did finally look into her eyes.
Very gently, she began to explain, “Marc Antinous Caeserni is the son of a wealthy councilor who was the son of one who sat in the Most Serene Senate, who was the son of the doge. The Caeserni have been one of the most powerful families in Venice for as long as there has been a Libro d'Oro. When I say they are the most powerful you must believe me, I mean in every way. They have their wives chosen for them. Women who also are of nobility. It is like your royal family, my sweetness.” She pushed the hair back from his eyes lovingly. “As I was saying, your father had a wife who was carefully chosen for him. She remained in a convent for him until they wed. In the open there is this perfection of their marriage and the sons who will also be leaders and taught in the finest school in Padua. Yes, we know there is indiscretion in high places. It is kept in the shadows and tolerated somewhat. But!” She waited until Mark felt the film of exhaustion lifted from his eyes and he paid close attention. “But ... to have an illegitimate son thrown in one's face, and if this were done in public, where anyone may overhear, and to add to this, this child is a foreigner—”
It was too painful. Mark covered his ears and closed his eyes.
Even through his actions she continued, “You cannot imagine the damage you will do to your father's career, his household, his standing in the community, and inevitably to yourself. My sweetness, he may even try to have you killed to keep you secret and gone from his life.”
A welling up began again in him. Even through his hands and closed ears he heard it. And it started so deep inside him it came from his soul.
Sympathetically, she drew him to her as he wailed. “I know, my dearest. The pain of this injustice is stabbing me as well. Beautiful man, you only want to know your father. It is an ironic cruelty I cannot abide either, but one I know is as real as the assassins that would reach out to kill you, my handsome young man. I think you should go back to England. There you will be safe.”
Angry and betrayed, Mark pulled out of her arms to try and find some strength to deal with this, any of this. “May I take my leave of you, my gracious contessa?” His voice was not his own. It was empty of feeling and sounded like an echo of someone else.
“Of course, my sweet. My servants will come for you in the morning when your meal is served.”
Before he left, Mark took her hand and toyed softly with her fingers. “Forgive me for unburdening myself with this foolishness. It was grossly unfair of me to share what are my own personal problems with one who has shown so much generosity and kindness. I am beside myself in embarrassment. And I seek your forgiveness. Come the morning we will not burden you with our presence any longer.”
She gripped his hand tightly. “You are not a burden. So, of this you can forget now. You are welcome here as long as you would like to stay, and the invitation to join me at the opera still stands, or any other event you would like to share. You flatter me, Mark Antonious, to share with me your feelings. I know you have done so with very few. I give you all my support and power if you need it.”
“You are too kind, beautiful Contessa Masson. And I am undeserving.”
When Mark scuffed out of her chambers, he ached like a carriage had run him down. Slowly he investigated the doors and passageways of the stone house. Paintings of dead family members hung on the walls. Gilded sconces lit the way.
He came to a door and opened it. It was dark as night inside. Pausing at the entrance, Mark closed and latched the door behind him, then waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. On light, bare feet, he padded to the bed.
The
deep breaths of slumber gave way to watchfulness as Francesco's eyes opened wide to identify the intruder in his room. Recognizing Mark peeling back the covers to reveal his nakedness, he invited Mark to join him.
Mark curled against him and exhaled some deep painful release of stress. Francesco didn't question him as to why he was there, and wrapped around him tightly as they both fell asleep.
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* * *
Chapter Twelve
At breakfast the next morning the contessa was seated with her coffee, her white pearl encrusted wig in place, her gown richly flowing and shimmering in the sunlight that poured through the open curtains. Like a proper gentleman, Mark kissed her hand and bowed low before seating himself.
“Why do you leave so soon, Mark Antonious?” It was said without pain or emotion, just a simple question.
“I have to keep my schedule, my generous lady.”
Mark's eyes turned to his plate, but he caught a silent exchange between the contessa and Francesco. He had felt their transmission though their heads had quickly turned to avoid it. Angry, Mark now ate his food with a chip on his shoulder.
They hardly spoke during the meal. Once they had finished Mark stood up and announced their eminent departure. “I am afraid, my good lady, it is time for us to leave.”
Contessa Masson stayed him and made Mark wait in the salon. “You must accept a gift from me.”
“No, my lady, I cannot. My imposition on your time has been enough of a burden.”
“Do not insult me.” She reached out her hand and a servant brought over a small chest which he held out. The contessa unlocked it with a key she had around her neck and removed several golden ducats. She reached out to hand them to Mark.
He stepped back involuntarily. “Please, I cannot.”
“You must. I will be insulted if you refuse me. Now take these and put them away. My servant will show you to a private room.” She nodded to her servant. Mark bowed and followed him out.