Mark Antonius deMontford

by G. A. Hauser

  Mark got it. He didn't want to wait, but he understood.

  With exhaustion creeping into his limbs, Mark followed the tall man to his room in the large house. Once they were closed inside and the noise of the street was left behind them, Mark heard Alessandro repeating something over and over. Mark finally thought he caught it. With water filling his eyes, Mark used the thumb of his right hand to run his nail across his throat and shook his head. “Dead. They have killed my lover.”

  Alessandro's eyes widened at the obvious gesture. “No! Morto?”

  “Si! Yes! They cut his throat! My Francesco! My lover! Amante mio!” Mark covered his face and burst into tears.

  Trying to comfort him, Alessandro hurried across the room and held Mark in an embrace. Softly Alessandro whispered his reassurances in his ear, though it was just sounds to Mark. The frustration at not being able to talk to each other was a misery for both. So many questions went unanswered. But the yearning for a safe haven and a bed were the one thing they understood. As Mark's weeping subsided, Alessandro undressed him for sleep.

  In what felt like relative safety, Mark allowed himself to close his eyes. The tears had dried on his face, and his body was completely physically exhausted.

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  * * *

  Chapter Fifteen

  The sun shone directly onto the bed. Mark squinted into the searing light like it inflicted pain. Jerking himself upright, he realized he was alone. A horrific thought occurred to him. Alessandro had gone to get someone. Someone in a black cape to turn him in. He leapt out of bed and scrambled to get his clothing on.

  When the door jiggled and started to open Mark gripped his sword and came en garde.

  Alessandro had a loaf of bread under his arm and some water. His eyes widened at the sight of Mark's stance. First Alessandro gazed behind him, closing himself in quickly.

  Seeing it was safe once more, Mark exhaled in relief and dropped the tip of the sword, laying it down to finish getting dressed.

  Alessandro whispered to him in Italian, shaking his head in sadness at Mark's fear. He set the food out for him and gestured for him to eat and drink.

  Mark thanked him and tore a piece of bread, chewing it hungrily. “A carriage?”

  Alessandro pointed to the front of the building. “Si!”

  “It is here?” Mark hopped up.

  Alessandro nodded, pointing.

  Mark wrapped his arms around him and kissed him. “Thank you! Grazie!" Gathering his things up and taking the water and bread with him, Mark checked around the area before he entered it. In appreciation, Mark handed Alessandro a gold ducat and Alessandro's eyes widened in amazement.

  Mark closed his hand around Alessandro's and squeezed it. “Grazie.”

  Alessandro smiled at him and nodded, “Prego.”

  Clearing his throat to get the driver's attention, Mark pointed to the long road ahead. “Inghilterra?”

  With a smile and a shake of his head he said, “Turin.”

  Mark understood. Waving goodbye to Alessandro, he crawled into the back of the carriage and readied himself for a long dull ride.

  He was torn. Horribly torn. The yearning to go back to Francesco's house, to make sure he was truly dead overwhelmed him. He hadn't seen Francesco lying in a pool of blood. No. He remembered him fighting. Shouting at Mark to leave. Was he taking the word of two unknown bodyguards? Two men who had defended him for some unknown reason, that his lover had indeed been killed? No. It couldn't be. But what was he to do?

  Mark leaned out of the carriage. “Oi!”

  The man looked back from his high perch.

  “Padua!”

  “Padua?”

  “Si!” Mark had to know.

  The carriage halted.

  Climbing out, Mark rubbed his face in frustration at the language barrier. He held out a gold ducat, saying clearly, “Padua, then Turin. Si?”

  Taking the gold greedily, the man nodded, turning the horses back as Mark crawled back inside the coach.

  Mark watched warily as they drew nearer to the Cavella household. He shouted to the driver to stop. Peering out nervously, Mark found a horrific sight. Francesco's parents were dressed in black stepping out of their tiny home. A black, horse drawn funeral carriage held a coffin. Covering his mouth to stop the scream, Mark banged his hand on the side of the carriage trying to get the man to go. Finally the driver got the message.

  As Mark's carriage moved on to the long journey to Turin, Mark wailed in agony until he was spent and had no more tears to cry.

  * * * *

  It seemed like forever. The carriage rocking, the lack of a companion, the horrible image of that funeral procession. Somehow it had to be a nightmare. Not real. In his mind he replayed it the way it should have gone. He and his lover would have savored their success together with a night to remember before they went to that house of horror. Soft, slow loving, like they first had at the inn in Dover. Hugs and kind words. A life together back in England. Living the highlife. All this he was denied. Denied because of betrayal. Who were these men? Why did they descend on that house like a pack of feral rabid dogs? How could Francesco's own brother destroy him that way? Did Guido feel remorse? Did he know he would bring death to his sibling? And why kill him? It was Mark Antonious deMontford that was the bastard! The cause! Not Francesco Cavella!

  Mark fingered that portrait. What once felt like a gift of joy and love now burned his hand like a symbol of Hades. Some urge inside him wanted to toss it to the wind. Let the horses stamp it to dust. But he held it. It was really all he had to prove someone actually did father him.

  Mark insisted on sleeping in the carriage, afraid of being alone at an inn. The driver refused to go any farther than Turin and showed him to the next carriage stop for a fresh horse and driver. From Turin Mark once again made the journey into France, those beautiful mountains showing white and peach peaks in the morning sun. They passed Grenoble. He stopped only to urinate and get some bread and wine.

  Once again he could get the driver to move no further than Burgundy. And again a new carriage and driver were provided.

  The life and energy seemed to pass out of Mark with the journey. His limbs felt weak from lack of movement. His back was aching from sleeping at an odd angle, and some nights, not sleeping at all. He was afraid to close his eyes. Francesco had warned him of robbers. Mark had enough gold to make it worth someone's while to attack him. And he was too spent to fight. If it happened, he would allow them to kill him. Exhaustion was forming in him as well as a depression that was consuming him. He had caused the death of his lover. Could one ever get over that?

  Wearily, he stumbled out of the carriage. The drivers exchanged looks with each other at Mark's appearance. He knew he seemed nothing more than a beggar now. His clothing was covered in dust and his face was drawn and pale. He paid the Frenchman and stood before his replacement. “England,” was all Mark said.

  “Calais,” the man said. “Versailles, alors Calais.”

  Mark nodded. Fine, whatever. Get me home. Just the sight of the inside of another carriage made his spine ache. He forced himself in and collapsed on the hard seat. “Just get me back to where I can speak English,” he mumbled under his breath.

  The tears renewed when that port town came into view. Francesco's scent washed over him suddenly. The feel of his muscles under his skin. And that hair. That dark wonderful hair. No. No ... no. He is not dead ... no...

  When Mark finally stood before a clerk to buy passage to England, he could barely keep his eyes open.

  The man warned him, “The ship is about to leave.”

  Twisting over his shoulder, Mark could see the line dwindling. Mark nodded and paid. With his last reserves of strength he rushed to the gangway, handing his ticket over and making that climb up the steep ramp.

  There was ice in the wind. His fur-lined cloak pulled tightly around him did nothing to stop that frigidity seeping into his bones. But like a song in his ear,
he heard spoken English. What had felt like a lifetime of carriage rides behind him, he was closer to the shores of his home. Never before did he feel the urge to kiss the land where he'd been born. In his mind he vowed never to leave her again.

  Bowing his head against the lashing cold, his hair wild and flying like a standard whipping, he again thought of that man who had cradled him when he was cold, held him upright when he was weary, and nurtured him like a mother.

  The few around him heard his sobs. One woman with a small child studied the clothing. “Great, another bloody foreigner headed to England's shores.” She shook her head in distaste. Mark turned away from her accusing glare.

  When they arrived, he didn't think he had it in him to even make the walk down that dock to the immigrations man. With cold numb fingers he tried to find the paperwork the duke had given him. In his frustration that he could not, he mumbled profanity to himself. “Bloody hell...”

  “You're an Englishman?” the man asked in surprise.

  “Yes. My name is Mark deMontford. I am from Newbury.”

  “Go on! You need no papers!” He waved him by.

  Relieved it was simple, Mark nodded. Walking through the crowds, he stood still in the middle of a bustling port. Dover. After nearly three months of traveling. He was in Dover again.

  With gratefulness of his journey coming closer to home, he dropped to his knees and covered his face, weeping with relief.

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  * * *

  Chapter Sixteen

  An odd feeling had him. The disorientation was overwhelming. Blinking his eyes open, Mark found he was in a richly dressed canopy bed. He sat up with a jerk and stared around the room. White and cream colored lace hung from the lavish satin drapes that were elevated on the wooden bedposts and framing cut glass windows.

  “Where the devil am I?” Mechanically, Mark reached for his suede pouch and found it gone. He was dressed in a sleeping gown and had no idea how or why.

  The door opened a moment later. Panicking, he grabbed at the quilt and tried to hide under it.

  A woman with a tray of tea and soup came in. She was a servant girl with a dull gray dress and an apron and hat of white.

  She was surprised to see him awake and fully alert. Smiling kindly, she set the tray aside and said, “I shall tell m'lady.”

  With only his wide eyes peering from out of the bed sheets, he watched her go. Frozen until the woman of the house came into the room, Mark swallowed down a dry throat in awe.

  “Lovely! You are awake. Come let me have a look at you.”

  In utter confusion, Mark stared at this comely woman who sat down next to him and tried to get the quilt down from his clenched fists. Her red hair was tied up on her head and her neck had an enormous strand of large pearls encircling it .

  “Who are you? Where am I? Why am I here? Where are my things?” Mark whispered anxiously.

  Her laughter was light and full of affection. “An Englishman! How wonderful! My dear, you were in such a state.”

  “Please...” Mark begged. “I think I have gone mad. Please tell me what is going on.”

  She settled herself and reached for his hand to hold on her lap. With her maid servant's eyes wide and staring at him, the Lady said, “Three days ago we found you in the middle of the street in Dover. You were not aware of your surroundings and most certainly undernourished. No one knew your name or where you were from. Someone pointed out to me you had just come off the ship. That was all we knew. My husband and I took you in. We couldn't leave you out in the cold. You have been sleeping most of the time, but you have taken some broth and tea. This is the first time, my lad, that you are truly in the same world as I am.”

  “Three days?” Mark gasped.

  “Yes.” She pushed the long hair back from Mark's face.

  “Where are my things ... my ... my purse and sword?”

  “I have them safe.” She rose up and opened a drawer on a small night table. Placing the suede purse down on his lap, she then gestured to where his clothing was, now clean, and with his weapons, along the wall on a dresser.

  Mark squeezed the purse and felt the coins and the portrait inside. He didn't want to seem rude and actually open it up and count the contents. He smiled sweetly. “Lady, you are too kind. I am not deserving of such charity. I thank you and will repay you anything you have spent.”

  “Nonsense!” She blushed and waved him off like he was being absurd. “But what is your name?”

  “Mark Antonious deMontford.” Mark tried to bow his head.

  “Lovely! Yes, I am Lady Wallace, and my husband is Lord Wallace. He is off to Parliament or we would bring him to meet you.”

  “Parliament!” Mark's eyes widened. “Cousin Thomas!”

  “You have a relative who is an MP?” Her eyes widened hopefully.

  “Yes! Thomas Holloway. But are we not in Dover?”

  “No, my dear. We have taken you all the way to our home in Maidstone.”

  “Where is that?” Mark's head started hurting. He began squinting from the pain.

  “Not far from London. A day's ride in a carriage.” As he weakened, she whispered, “You are still ill. Please, sip the broth and tea.”

  The maid hurried to the bedside and set the tray in front of Mark. She sat next to him and tried to feed him the warm broth.

  Not one to accept this kind of pampering easily, Mark opened his lips and allowed himself to be babied. In truth, he felt so weak, he wondered if he could feed himself properly.

  His appetite was returning and he finished all the broth and tea, as well as a biscuit. He thanked them both and found his eyes growing heavy.

  Lady Wallace waved the maid out and sat next to Mark on the bed. Once again she took the suede pouch and hid it in the drawer, raising the quilt up to tuck Mark in. Staring at him, she sat with him until he fell back to sleep.

  Lady Wallace found him awake when she came to his room to check on him in the morning. “You must be feeling better. Good. My husband would like a chat with you, then I shall get you some breakfast.”

  “Thank you, m'lady.” Mark smiled sweetly at her.

  A moment later, a compact, book-wormish, spectacled man with a white wig and a dark brown velvet coat that had worn at the elbows, knocked at the open door with a light rap and stepped in. Seeing Mark was alert, he sat down heavily on the chair near the bed. “Oh, good show! You are awake. Now, young man, my wife informed me that you have a family member who is a Member of Parliament. Is this true? A Thomas Holloway?”

  “Yes, sir, it is. He is my distant cousin.” Mark tried to sit up higher on the pillows. “I am well enough to travel, Your Lordship. I wish to not burden you any longer.”

  “No burden whatsoever. You stay until you are completely healed. The weather has turned frightful, and I don't think someone who is just getting over an illness should be out in it, even in a carriage.”

  “Oh...” Mark tried to see out of the window, but the curtains were drawn. “Is it raining then?”

  “Oh, heavens no. It's snowing, my dear boy!”

  “Snow?” Mark couldn't imagine how that was possible. “What month is it?”

  “It is December, the third week. Today is the twentieth.”

  “How can this be?” Mark rubbed his face tiredly. So much time had passed since he first set out. Over three months, in fact. “Christmas ... do you think I can make it home for Christmas?”

  “Where is home?” Lord Wallace leaned closer to the bed.

  “Well, I am from Newbury, but my Cousin Thomas and Gabriel live in London.”

  “We will try, my boy. But it depends now on the weather, I'm afraid. The almanac threatens a very horrid winter is upon us.”

  Mark moaned when he thought of his Uncle David facing it alone.

  “Are you tired? I shall let you rest.” Lord Wallace mistook the groan for discomfort.

  “No ... no, sir, I am not tired. I am just frustrated. I have been away too long. Every
thing has gone wrong. I never should have left them. Now they are alone without me there to help ... everything has gone wrong,” he cried.

  When Mark turned his face away to hide his tears, Lord Wallace patted Mark's leg over the quilt and said, “Tut tut, now, things will be just fine. We'll get you home, lad ... we'll get you home. When I can, I'll head into London and inform your cousin you are here with me. It just may take a day for the weather to turn.”

  Mark pulled himself together and wiped his face dry. “Yes, of course. Forgive me. Thank you for your hospitality, Your Lordship. Thank you.”

  “Not to worry, dear boy. Look, your breakfast is served.” He tilted his head to the maid standing, head bowed, with a tray.

  When he left, Mark pressed back into the cushions and allowed the tray to be set before him. A fresh egg, bacon, and home baked bread were prepared, alongside tea with milk and honey. “Lovely ... thank you, this is lovely.”

  The maid smiled at the compliment and sat near him. “Can you manage yourself?”

  “Yes. Yes, I can. You are a dear.” He took his first mouthful of food in delight. “It is marvelous. Just what I crave.”

  With her hands clasped on her lap, she watched him eat with what was now a hearty appetite. He tried to remember to use the knife, but it kept getting in the way and turned into a nuisance. When he used the bread the way Francesco had, she giggled and covered her mouth.

  “Sorry. I think I like to eat with more of an Italian flare than an English. Forgive me.”

  “No. It is all right. I like watching you.”

  “Even though I am barbaric?” He laughed as he sipped his tea.

  “You are far from it, my elegant lord,” she sighed.

  He set the cup down and frowned. “I am no lord. I am a farm boy. And glad of it!”

  As if it startled her she blurted, “A farm boy?”

  Not answering, or meeting her eyes, he continued to eat.

  After Mark had finished she said, “I'll take that if you are done now.” She lifted the tray and left the room.

  Mark thanked her, pushed back the blankets and sat up on the edge of the bed. He was trying to decide if he was strong enough to stand. He paused, waiting for the blood to catch up to his change in posture. When he did get to his feet it was with a wave of dizziness. He held onto the bedpost and waited for it to pass. Once the ringing left his ears he reached for his clothing.