Brethren Read online

  I did recall once discussing the subject of men loving men, in relation to some writings, and learning that Rucker did not favor men in the least. However, he was fond of the idea of men living together away from the distractions of women and children, that they could engage in pure discourse for the sake of intellectual development. To Rucker, sex was an unfortunate byproduct of our basic animal nature, and the need for it was something to be overcome if one wished to engage in the pursuit of knowledge. When this talk occurred, I had been in the bud of my adolescence and had just discovered the interesting things my member could do when aroused. Thus I had thought he was full of manure. My cock has always held a great deal of fascination for me, such that I could never be compelled to ignore it.

  Rucker now lived with his sister and brother-in-law, in a modest house in a pleasant little shire. The brother-in-law was a pewtersmith and well respected in the village. They had five children. When last we spoke in person, Rucker had been pleased with his living arrangements, but unhappy with his employment. He was not a man prone to marriage, and despite his vocation, truly abhorred young children. He preferred older students who could engage in discourse and be taught something of use beyond manners, enunciation, letters, and basic arithmetic. Thus he had despised teaching in the local school, where any child reaching adolescence was plucked away and sent into the fields or a trade.

  I had visited him often after his dismissal, and seen him a mere month before I left. Still, unlike my uncle’s housekeeper, Rucker’s sister did not recognize me when I arrived; not even my name. Despite the lack of knowledge of my person, she seemed keenly interested in the fact that I was a gentleman coming to call, and immediately asked if my visit was in regard to some form of employment. As I waited for the maid to fetch him, I wondered how long Rucker had been without a position.

  At the sight of me, tears filled his eyes; and he embraced me as heartily as my uncle, though he was half the other man’s size. I had forgotten how diminutive he was, and I realized I might have gained a few inches in height after my departure after all. When he pulled away, he looked me up and down again and said quietly, “Lord Marsdale, look at you, you are a man now. Truly. I am overwhelmed. I wondered if…”

  A throat was cleared, and we turned to his sister, still standing in the doorway to the parlor. Rucker explained that I, the Viscount of Marsdale, was the Earl of Dorshire’s son. She immediately ordered the maid to bring refreshments. Rucker pointedly chose that we should take our tea in his rooms. The sister seemed dismayed by this; but I was assuredly relieved, as I did not wish to converse with her.

  I followed him up the stairs, to a small garret room with a window overlooking the garden – not that one could get close to the window, with the great piles of books on the table before it. Every flat surface that could be used to support paper was overflowing with some form of it. One can forget how books smell until one is surrounded by them in a stuffy space. On the whole, it appeared exactly as his quarters had in my father’s house, only smaller.

  He cleared a seat on a chair for me, and I sat.

  “I was wondering when and if I would ever see you again,” he said as he perched on the corner of the trunk at the foot of the bed, within an arm’s length of me. The room was so small I thought we would have had more space if we both sat on the bed. Though it was little more than a cot, it took up much of the floor.

  “You received my letters?” I asked. “I believe I wrote six.”

  “With great delight. I have them still. I am sorry I did not respond with more than two; however, I knew not what to say, really. You were the one seeing things, and it was not as if we corresponded regularly enough to engage in discourse.”

  “True. I am the one who should apologize, for both the infrequency of my writing and its relative brevity. Often months would pass, and I would find myself in another season quite to my surprise. And so many things occurred that I did not know where to begin; and I would have had to write books to describe them. And, also, much of what I was engaged in was best not written down in the event my correspondence was apprehended.”

  “Do you have time to talk now, or…”

  I waved him off. “For the time being, I am at your disposal, good sir. And I have much I wish to tell you. I have no place I must be. My uncle knows where I am, and will send someone if a matter arises that…” I sighed. “Other than my uncle, I have not seen my family yet, and am not sure of their reception.” I shrugged. “I can take a room at the inn. We are limited only by your own duties.”

  He smiled. “Which are none and nothing except for the tasks I choose to set upon myself, which currently involve writing and corresponding with the few friends I have.” He grimaced. “I do not mean to sound maudlin.”

  “So you are no longer teaching?”

  “I was dismissed, for… filling their minds with unnecessary hog-wallow. That was the mayor’s words to my person, not the nicely worded letter they sent. Apparently I would be allowed to teach them only if I swore not to teach them to think.” We chuckled.

  “As you always taught me, men who think have proven to be the most dangerous of all over the course of history,” I said.

  “So, have you been a dangerous man?”

  I laughed. “I would like to think so.”

  “Have you returned here to be dangerous?”

  That gave me pause. “Aye, but not in the manner you mean.”

  He appeared saddened by this. “Why have you returned?”

  We were interrupted by the arrival of our tea; and I used the distraction to consider what I should say. By the time the maid left, I had decided on the truth. So I told him of Florence, and political machinations, and Teresina, and even Alonso and all that had happened in the end, including Vincente’s death and my part in it. I alluded to the intimacy of my relation with Alonso without stating it, and I sensed that he understood. And then I told him of the final discussion I had with Alonso and the decisions I reached that led to my subsequent leave-taking.

  When I finished he was sitting with arms crossed, regarding the corner. I knew from times gone by that this posture was contemplative, and not indicative of negativity toward my tale.

  He finally looked at me. “May I ask… several questions?”

  I nodded.

  “When I left your father’s employ, you seemed rather taken with your cousin. I recall being dismayed that you would give so much credence to him, as it always seemed to me that he treated you with great reserve if not coldness. I wished better for you, but I assumed that was the nature of things. A lord’s sons must be discreet and all. So my question is, are, were you intimately involved with him, and what occurred to make you leave?”

  “Aye. I loved him. I think once he loved me as well, when we were very young. Later, he deplored his desire for me. He was ashamed. Yet this did not stop him from forcing himself upon me. I stayed at first because I harbored the hope that he would overcome these internal conflicts he seemed obsessed with. Then there was that last straw, and I felt I had no other recourse than to kill him, so I left.”

  I was rather proud of myself; I had managed to say all of that without bawling. He fished a bottle from a drawer in his nightstand and handed it to me. I took a long pull and found it to be brandy.

  He took a drink after I did. He was contemplative again.

  “My Lord, there was nothing you could do, was there? May I ask why you did not kill him? Obviously you would have faced arrest and trial and… Well, obviously you could not. Unless you ran as you did, but then you would never have been able to return. So there, I may have answered it.”

  “Nay, I thought none of that at the time. I was confused. On one hand, I still loved him and could not simply take his life unawares; and on the other, I did not think I was capable of winning a duel with him. All of those days I spent reading, he spent practicing more martial pursuits.”

  “And now?” he asked: curiously, without censure.

  “Now I believe I posses
s far more experience than he could have gained in actual combat. I have not heard that he has been in the military; and even if he had, officers often make the worst duelists. If he had engaged in the things I have, he would have been forced to leave as many cities as myself.”

  “Hmmm, an excellent observation, I think, though I know nothing of combat myself. And now, what will you do?”

  “I have oft fantasized about challenging him and running him through. Yet…”

  “That would allow him to destroy your life completely.”

  I nodded, as he had just put into words the thing my mind had been dancing around for days. “It is a hateful irony. I met eight boys on the road between London and my uncle’s. Orphans and castoffs, they were homeless and unwanted. I could have slaughtered the lot of them, and even if someone by some odd chance ever traced the crime to me, I would not be punished. But in truth, they would never trace the crime to me, as it would not be seen as a crime, but more as clearing vermin. Yet, my cousin could do what he did and I cannot bring charges against him, because of the nature of the offense and because of our station. And I will be hounded out of England and hanged, if caught, for taking the matter into my own hands”.

  He smiled sadly and handed the bottle to me again. “I am sorry.”

  I shook my head. “Thank you. There were those who could have… interceded, and did not, but that is another matter. You were gone before the situation became… well, before it escalated into a war. Looking back on it all, it was always intolerable after a fashion. I was just too naïve to know.”

  “So what will…” He stopped and thought. “What did you do with those boys you met? Did you toss them a coin and ride on?” His gaze was almost predatory, and I recognized it from the classroom. He was testing me.

  “I spent the night with them in an abandoned barn, shared what food I had, and left them with some silver and a pistol. I do not know if I did them any great service by that. It was all I could conceive of at the time to ease their situation.”

  He chuckled ruefully. “I feel you have to arm a great number of sheep before they can save themselves.”

  “As do I.”

  “If… you are not irreconcilably estranged from your family – not Shane, but your father – then you will inherit his title, will you not?”

  I took a long pull on the bottle and felt the fool, as the epiphany exploded through my mind and soul. Many would find it very hard to believe, but I had truly not perceived the situation in that light in a very long time. I remembered thinking as a child that, when I grew up and became Earl, then my father’s peasants would be treated differently. But then so much had occurred to make that seem a hollow promise. Cynicism had taken hold, and I had watched men of that station get destroyed by monarchs and their own peers whenever they dared challenge the status quo. Yet, one Earl could positively affect the lives of at least his own people. If I were my father, or for that matter, even in his good graces, I could have found a place for those boys. I might not be able to make a difference in the lives of sheep everywhere, but I could save one flock. That was truly the duty and responsibility of my birth that I had forgotten.

  I smiled. “I have been told that I am not irreconcilably estranged from my father unless I wish to be, that the matter is perhaps in my hands. I will not know until he says he wishes to see me and we talk. And besides, I am his oldest and only son, even were he to adopt my cousin. So I will inherit... someday, as long as I outlive him, and fail to give him geat cause to be rid of me.”

  Rucker smiled. “I spend my days writing essays and political tracts, a dangerous pursuit in itself. Yet you may be by far the greatest contribution I have ever made to the welfare of others.” He looked stricken at his words. “I… What hubris I have.”

  I laughed. “You have shaped me well. I wish I could repay you in some fashion.”

  He shook his head. “You owe me nothing; and as we have discussed, I feel you will someday.”

  “Do you have any prospects?”

  “Nay, I spend much of my time writing and reading. There is much afoot in the world.” He sighed. “I have a small stipend from my father’s estate, and it serves to pay my way here.” He frowned at me, then smiled. “If you were able to gain some sort of stipend from your father and wished to donate to a worthy cause, I know of many.”

  “I would be delighted; but though I know he will support me, I do not know what allowances he will make for my personal expenditures. And I may not stay, depending…”

  “Ah. Where will you go now if you leave?”

  “I have been invited to accompany my uncle to the New World, to the colony of Massachusetts.”

  “Truly?” This seemed to excite him greatly. “If you go, you will have to write me detailed letters concerning the English treatment of the Indians there.”

  “Of course,” I muttered. I had forgotten there were Indians there, and my uncle had made no mention of them.

  “Aye, aye,” he said and dug through papers. “I have been corresponding with a professor at Oxford and a Jesuit priest in France concerning the absolutely deplorable treatment of the Indians of the West Indies and the Spanish Main at the hands of the Spaniards. And there has been much discussion of finding some way to ameliorate the English treatment of the Indians in our new colonies. We must behave better than the Spanish.” With that, he dumped a handful of tracts and pamphlets in my lap, and I knew immediately what I would be doing for the next several days.

  I felt more content than I had in months. I still did not know what would occur with Shane, but I had a new sense of purpose; and I vowed I would make the attempt to reach an understanding with my father.

  Perhaps the Gods had a plan for me.

  Three

  Wherein I Return To My Place of Birth

  A letter arrived from my uncle two days later. My father was staying with a friend, as was Shane. My father wished to see me. He would return to the family estate, Rolland Hall, before the Christmas twelveday. He wished for me to join the family then. At the moment, my mother was the only member of the family in residence at the manor, as my sisters were in Hertfordshire at the home of Elizabeth’s betrothed. It was now late in the first week of December. I informed Rucker I would remain with him until a week or so before the holiday. Thus I spent most of December in peace and relative tranquility, and learned a great deal about the New World and the colonies: so much so that I was determined to travel there. I urged Rucker to accompany me, and he said he would think on it.

  The day finally arrived when I could wait no longer, and I knew I must make the journey to Dorshire. The day dawned bright, but a steady wind heralded another storm. I made excellent time to my uncle’s. Of course, when I reached him, he insisted on accompanying me; and suddenly we were an entourage with a small wagon and several servants. I stifled my initial annoyance; and spent the much slower ride that followed, and the evening, in an inn, pleasantly discussing my uncle’s pending journey to the Massachusetts colony.

  After another slow day of travel, we at last reached my birthplace, just before sunset. I gazed upon Rolland Hall from the road beyond the south pasture. I quickly realized I was regarding it with the eyes of a stranger. The great house, adjoining structures, lawns, gardens, and surrounding countryside all looked the same, as if I had never left; but the entirety of it was as if I were remembering a dream. I recalled it all quite clearly, but felt nothing other than a purely rational recognition, with no emotion at all. I was thankful for this.

  The servants did not make as much of a fuss over my arrival as my uncle’s had. Any who would have fussed over my arrival, such as my nanny, had departed before I did.

  I was informed there were other guests for the holiday: my mother’s sister, the recently widowed Dowager Lady Graeland, and her son, the new Lord Graeland, who I had always known as a sallow youth named Percival. They had often visited when I was young. Percival and I had not been friends. In the days before Shane, when I had been starved for compan
ionship, I had talked poor Percival into climbing a tree, and he had broken his arm. I had been strapped for it, and not permitted to play with him again. He was apparently now as much a grown man as I, and married. His bride, the new Lady Graeland, was with them.

  To my amazement, my bedchamber was exactly as I had left it; well, a little cleaner. I shooed the maid out and immediately performed a habit I had learned in this very room: I slid a chair to the door and under the knob. Its legs settled into the grooves in the floor they had made one night when Shane had tried kicking the door open while in a drunken stupor. I was apparently home.

  On a whim, I tried on several coats from the closet, and found that none of them fit me. I had indeed widened markedly across the shoulders. They were woefully out of fashion, anyway. The court of Charles II was a modern one, and the fashions were more in keeping with the rest of Christendom now. I dressed for dinner in the clothes I had purchased in London with Teresina’s money.

  My uncle knocked on my door. “I thought you might not wish to go down alone,” he said quietly.

  “I do not wish to go down at all, but I thank you for your company.”

  He watched me strap on a sword belt and my favorite rapier.

  “Marsy, you will not need that here.” The look I gave him stopped his words.

  He shrugged. “Shane will remain in London.”

  I was equally relieved and disappointed, but I had expected as much.

  “Lovely, I am sure that will cause some amount of bitterness,” I said. “I care not what Shane feels about that matter, but I am concerned the others will hold ill will over it. He has, after all, been the good son.”

  “Would you prefer him to be here?” he asked with concern.

  “Nay, nay, we will leave him there, thank you. If I am not to kill him, I would rather not see him.”

  We were down before many of the others, except for my mother. She sat on a settee, a skeletal figure swathed in pale pink satin that managed to be more deeply hued than her white skin. She regarded me through a haze of laudanum, while her nurse tried to explain who I was. The understanding that I was her son finally dawned; and then that look of disapproval I remembered all too well pinched her features. I paid my respects with a forced smile and the exceedingly clear enunciation I use for idiots and drunks. She managed to glare at me. She said nothing, however. I recalled being told at a very early age that the nanny whose lap I dearly loved was not my mother and this cold and hideous woman was. I had been disappointed, more so when I became old enough to understand that other mothers loved their offspring. I hoped she ran out of laudanum before she died.