Mark Antonius deMontford

by G. A. Hauser

  The next day Mark felt good enough for a bath, and after the bath, even better. Gabriel stood behind him whilst he sat on a bench and combed his long wet hair for him. She tied it back in a dark blue ribbon and then left him. Moments later she brought in a selection of some of the clothing he'd left there. English made.

  “No, do you mind?” He gestured to his Venetian garments.

  “My dear, there will be a house full of nobles.”

  “I know, Gabriel. Please. They are not so different from my breeches and coat. Humor me.”

  The redness showed in her cheeks. She narrowed her eyes. “You would humiliate me?”

  He rose up instantly and grabbed her hand. “No, I do nothing to insult you purposefully. It is just...” Pausing, Mark tried to find the right words. He released her hand and went to locate his suede pouch. Removing the oval from it, he cupped it in both hands as if it were a fragile egg, standing silently.

  When he returned to her she met his eyes quickly, as if she hadn't peeked down at his crotch through his sheer nightshirt. Trying not to become distracted by her attraction, Mark placed the oval into her hand gently.

  Mark studied her expression. “This is my father. Though I owe him little respect, I don't deny my Venetian heritage.” Yet, this was a lie. He wanted to wear them for Francesco, but how would he explain to this “sophisticated Londoner” that it was in honor of his Italian whore-lover. The memory of the sound of Francesco scoffing at that phrase made him smile.

  She held the small portrait up to inspect it closely. Mark wondered if she caught the resemblance. With her eyes flitting from one man to the other, she no doubt could.

  “Please. It is a small favor for one who will be gone from you, most likely until he dies.” Very gently, Mark touched her hand.

  She clutched the portrait and hissed, “You will visit again! Or we will see you. You do not disappear from our lives after this.”

  With quiet tenderness, Mark took back the oval. “Right. Maybe I am mistaken.” But he knew he was not. He would have no reason to come to London again.

  She resisted his nudging towards the door. “You will visit. You will miss us. We are your family.”

  He closed the door behind her. Carefully Mark placed the oval back in the pouch. He touched his fine velvet garments, always cleaned and pressed from a very efficient staff. The dust of a month on the road had vanished and the colors and textures of lace and finery were dazzling to him. Such royal splendor. As he slid on the silky blouse, the cuffs, a foaming frill of Venetian lace, he relived the little shop he and Francesco invaded. With so much joy they adorned themselves in the clothing of kings.

  Dabbing at a tear before it fell, he buttoned his breeches and buckled them at the knee, stepping into his high-heeled slippers. The lush royal blue velvet cloak covered in fine embroidery was next, lastly, all his armor, his two jeweled swords. The stiletto he left behind in the drawer with the pouch. When he was through, he found his reflection in the mirror. “Look at you,” he whispered to himself, “a fine Venetian lord. Bello mio.” A crooked grin shined through that pout. With his eyes to the ceiling he spoke to Francesco, “Your Catamito, he makes you proud tonight. He will see those who made him rich and gave him his time in Venezia with you. Amor mio. Tesoro mio.” He surprised himself at how many words he had picked up from accompanying Francesco. With one last smile at the ceiling he said, “I will always love you. Ti amo, Francesco Cavella.”

  * * * *

  More than ever Mark knew he appeared to be a foreigner. An exotic man from some far away land.

  He waited until all the eyes were upon him. With one hand on the hilt of the sword the Duke of Warwick had given him, one he had used to impale two assailants, Mark smiled at the gaping mob in complete satisfaction and made his way to Percivel. As he did the baron blocked his path. Mark bowed to him respectfully. “How are you, Baron Abel. Good to see you again.”

  The baron peered over his shoulder first, leaning against Mark to whisper, “Would you do me the honor of allowing me to be the first one to tear off those fine Venetian clothes?”

  Mark laughed softly, lowering his head. “You flatter me.”

  As Mark brushed by on his way to the duke, the baron hissed, “I must have you!”

  Leaving that hungry male behind, Mark once again tried to make his way to Percivel, who was watching his progress and the obstacles that prevented it in amusement.

  “Lady Grey,” Mark bowed his head politely, “you look ravishing, as usual.”

  One peek behind her at her suspicious husband and she whispered, “Meet me! Promise me you will!”

  “I thank you, dear lady, for the kind compliment.” And again Mark brushed by to try and get to Percivel.

  With a smile too broad for his white powdered face, Percivel seemed honored to be the one Mark sought out.

  As Mark drew nearer to the duke, the few around them backed up to allow them to speak to each other privately.

  “You look well.” Percivel raised up his wine glass as if toasting him.

  “I owe you a great thanks.”

  Percivel gave him a deliberate appraisal from head to toe. “You shall set the English fashion world on its ear.”

  “Is that so? Gabriel thinks I am shameful.” Mark took a passing glass from a servant's tray.

  “What does she know? She wears last year's slippers!” He made a foppish gesture with his free hand.

  Mark laughed at Percivel's humor and gesture. “So much has passed since I last saw you, my friend. I could fill a novel.” Mark kept his smile, though he knew Percivel could see through it to the sadness.

  “I can imagine. But, I can see, you are no longer content here. Off to? The wilds of Africa, perhaps?” the duke teased.

  It ignited Mark's laughter once more. “No, not as glamorous as that, my love. I am a farmer's son. So, I am a farmer.”

  That stunned Percivel. He took a grand step back to once again take in the whole of Mark's appearance.

  At the gesture, Mark felt a little self-conscious and tried to peer around discreetly. Many eyes were spying their chat.

  Percivel stepped closer again. “A farmer? Hardly. My beauty, you are a prince, nothing less. What a waste all that sensuality and elegance will be picking corn.” His nose tilted upwards in repugnance.

  “I do not expect anyone to understand. But, Percivel, what am I to do? Spend my life in the beds of rich people?”

  “Yes. Of course, dear. You see how lucrative it is. It is a natural career for you. Escort old shriveled countesses to grand balls. Make a hundred gold sovereigns a week. Such easy work. Look around you, Mark. They are so hungry for you.” Percivel swept his hand grandly in a wide circle.

  Gutted, Mark did the opposite, he lowered his eyes to the floor.

  With one finger Percivel lifted Mark's chin back up so his eyes were once again his to admire. “It pains you now. I can see it. No. You go back to the farm. Follow your heart, lover.”

  “I thought it was my calling. Some divine pleasure. But I am just a play toy for crass rich people. I need love. Real love. One on one. I had it once. I want it back.”

  “Real love? Oh, how dull!” Percivel bent his wrist again and then gave Mark an impish grin. “Whoever this person was, he was mad to lose you.”

  Darkness fell over Mark's features. “I lost him. He was murdered.”

  “Oh, dear. I'm so sorry.” Percivel touched his arm lightly.

  Regaining himself, Mark stood tall. “So, you see how it is. I just came to offer my humblest gratitude. And also a thanks for the letter of introduction to the wonderful Contessa Masson.”

  “I see. And she was helpful in your journey?”

  “She was. And very generous, not to mention, a kind soul.”

  “I hope you treated her well.” Percivel rose his glass higher trying to hide his devilish smirk.

  Mark mirrored his grin. “She was treated to a wonderful evening.”

  “Of your rich loving, my beauty?”<
br />
  “Now, what sort of a lover would I be if I answered that question?”

  Percivel's silly smile softened to a genuine one. “I will miss you, Mark Antonious.”

  “Grazie.” Mark bowed. “And I shall miss you as well, bello mio.”

  That lit Percivel up into brilliant laughter.

  Mark winked at him and went to greet the Lord Gremville, feeling it impolite to ignore the old man.

  When Lord Gremville tried to push gold coins into his hand, Mark refused and turned his dry old fingers back to his own pockets, excusing himself as politely as possible.

  Gabriel was starting to escort everyone into the room to hear the music Margaret was going to play. She met Mark and took him aside. “You will tell me, of course, why it is you know all these people, and with a familiarity no less.”

  Mark smiled very sweetly at her and said, “Or I may not tell you.”

  “Oh!” She nudged him like he was a naughty little boy.

  Like a shark is drawn to bloody meat, Baron Abel made for Mark again and this time gripped his velvet elbow with all his strength to drag him out of hearing range.

  Tripping over his own feet, Mark was tugged down the passage near the room where he'd had his beating with the switch so very long ago. Next Mark was shoved against a wall rather violently.

  “You tease me. I do not like it,” that low masculine voice growled before it made contact with Mark's mouth.

  As delicately as possible, Mark turned aside from the kiss. “Respect my wishes.”

  The baron cupped Mark's crotch with a very firm hand. “Are they not the same as mine, you beautiful creature?”

  Holding his breath, Mark knew he needed to be tactful whilst the baron was holding onto something that could create pain if he said the wrong thing. “Of course. You know how I felt about you on our last meeting.”

  “But?” The baron massaged the handful sensuously. “Do not deny me. You in your Venetian clothing, you drive me mad!” He reached up to dig his hand through Mark's hair and the ribbon untied and drifted to the floor soundlessly.

  “I am weak, baron, I cannot perform well for you,” Mark breathed softly.

  “Weak? Why? You look fine to me.” Baron Abel stepped back and glimpsed down at him.

  “No. I have just recovered from an illness. One in which I had a fever. Only today I feel well enough to be clothed and out of bed.”

  Eyeing him suspiciously, the baron leaned closer to see into Mark's face. “Are you being serious with me?”

  “Certainly. I know you remember my feelings for you after the act. How can you doubt for a minute my word?”

  The baron softened his hold on Mark's crotch and took a step back, his hand still lightly caressing Mark's anatomy through his tight breeches. “When ... when can I have you again?”

  “Can I come to you? Will you allow me to decide?” Mark tilted his head slightly, giving this man his most fragile expression.

  The baron clenched his teeth in frustration. “I do not like being told I need to wait. Baron Abel waits for no one!” He kissed Mark's lips roughly, lingering, pressing him back into the wall, gripping Mark's cock, then parted reluctantly with a groan. “Make it soon. I will be furious if you don't.”

  “I will try. First I need to get well completely. Please ... per favore.”

  At the Italian words, the baron acted as if he felt a surging in his loins so powerful he almost could not bear it. “You ... you will talk like that for me ... during ... during...”

  Mark laughed softly. “I will do what I can to please you.”

  Like Mark had whispered the magic words, his genitals were released finally. Mark took a deep breath and bowed his head.

  “Soon.” The baron pointed his finger at Mark in warning. “Don't keep me waiting or I will come looking for you. And if that is how it happens, I will be very rough on you. So, you make sure it is very soon.”

  “Yes, I will try.”

  Mark watched that masculine strut as it vanished down the hall to meet the others. After the intense contact, Mark waited until he calmed himself down before he joined them. All he wanted was a simple life. Yet, the memory of such exquisite pleasure, made the choice so very hard. Mad rushes flashed over him of being held down by that man, assaulted, and then ultimately pleased by him. Life's paths were never easy. There had to be something more to living than being paid for the act. There had to be meaning. Mark had almost clasped his fingers around it once. He held onto that love with all his might and knew it meant something to him of deeper significance. It was so much more than physical love with Francesco. It opened his eyes to a new way of thinking.

  What were his choices? He knew them. He knew them very well. And he chose now what he thought was the wisest for his mental health.

  Bending down to the floor, Mark lifted the blue ribbon. Instead of trying to get it into his hair once more, he stuffed it into his pocket and made his way back to the party.

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  * * *

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Bello mio,” Mark cried. “Why is it I cannot get over you? Why must every day your memory pass like a shade before my eyes? Will you ever forgive me, tesoro mio? Your Catamito is forever in your shadow.”

  Italian ... barbaric of him to speak it. But he did. And though he knew he was mad to come back to this spot, Mark had to. He was drawn to it as if to say his final goodbye.

  It was dimming toward twilight when Mark began to recognize where he was. The row of brownstone homes gave way to the Mayfair district. Posh mansions appeared in the gas light's glow passed the squares and mews and the grandness of Hyde Park.

  Cock's Lane.

  Mark needed one last look at that doorway. One last chance to remember the man he could not forget.

  As the twilight began to throw shadows along the cobbled streets, Mark wondered why he had chosen this detour. Surely it was just to torment himself.

  The carriage halted.

  Sitting up, Mark leaned out the window. They had indeed arrived in the district known for its whores.

  Climbing out, Mark avoided the sneer of the coachman, shouting, “I shall be right back.”

  The doorway was empty. What had he expected?

  Approaching it, standing where his Italian lover had stood so long ago, Mark touched the worn sooty stones, trying to feel some spirit or soul that may be left.

  A noise woke him out of his daydream. Men descending the staircase. One voice was English, high pitched, nervous. The other! The other voice?

  “No!” Mark felt his chest tighten. “I am imagining it!”

  As the door opened and an English gentleman appeared, Mark stepped back. The man had a look of horror at being spied exiting from the place.

  Mark wanted to shove him out of the way, get his view of the man behind him.

  When Francesco Cavella appeared, Mark nearly fainted. “I am dreaming!”

  “Mark!” Francesco wrapped his muscular arms around Mark and lifted him into the air. “Amor mio!”

  “How is this possible?” Mark gripped Francesco tightly around his neck, still in shock. “I saw your mother mourn! A hearse was bearing a coffin in front of your home.”

  Francesco set Mark back on his feet, digging his hand into Mark's hair. “No, Catamito, it was not I that lay in that coffin.”

  “Who?”

  “My brother, Guido.”

  The relief Mark felt was unimaginable. “Wait. Wait here. Do not move!” Mark raced to the carriage and took out his traveling case. “Here!” He stuffed some coins into the driver's hand. “Go!

  Without another look, the man coaxed the horses to leave.

  The sound of their hoove's echoing on the wet cobblestones, Mark spun around to see his lover standing in the doorway, waiting for him. His heart was exploding in his chest. Hurrying back, Mark nodded for Francesco to climb the narrow stair.

  Once they were alone in the dark room, Francesco lit a candle to shine some light. />
  Mark dropped his bag by the door, reaching out for Francesco anxiously. Blowing out the match, Francesco joined Mark on the small bed.

  “Mark, you cannot believe how long I have searched for you. I had no idea you were here, whether you had been killed, nothing.”

  Savoring Francesco's touch, those large fingers combing through his mane, Mark tingled from head to toe. “I love you! I cannot believe you are in my arms again. I am touching you. Francesco, my lover, my prince. If you knew how much I mourned. My beautiful man, please, tell me what happened, Francesco. You tell your tale first.”

  “What is to tell?” He shrugged. “You know Guido brought the authorities to the house. You know as well, I had to fight them.”

  “There were two men, Francesco, two bravos that came to my aid.”

  “Yes. They were from the Contessa Masson.”

  “The contessa?” Mark held Francesco's hand. “You never said a thing about them.”

  “No. I did not. I am sorry. She insisted.”

  “They made me believe you were dead. They ushered me out of Padua. I ended up with Alessandro. He got me a carriage and I left Italy.”

  “Ah.” Francesco nodded. “I did not know. I checked everywhere, but I did not think to go back to the castrato.”

  “How did you end up back here?” Mark gestured to the small flat.

  “I'm afraid after the incident with Guido, my family chased me away. And worse, His Excellency's bravos were out for my head. This much I knew. I assumed you had been killed, Catamito. I was crushed.”

  Mark kissed Francesco's knuckles to comfort him.

  “What choice do I have?” Francesco's lips curled to a frown. “I come back here. I cannot live in Italy, and I always wonder if you do live, one day I can see you again.”

  “Oh, love. I cannot believe you are here next to me. I mourned. For weeks I mourned. I was convinced you had died and I ran like a coward. I hated myself for not defending you, not dying with you.”

  “Again you blame yourself?” Francesco laughed. “So? You were headed back to London to bed the rich?”

  Mark cupped Francesco's rough jaw. “Yes and no. I had intentions of going back to Italy eventually to avenge your death. I just had to form a plan. I needed to kill Guido.”