| |
It was a vaguely L-shaped cottage sitting next to a river, nestled among trees that curved at their uppermost part over the cottage like a canopy or arch. Malcolm was struck at how closely they resembled those he had encountered as he’d first entered the village. A series of windows ran along the front of the cottage, just to the side of the doorway. They were mostly crude, glassless openings that were shuttered against the night air. But at the end facing east, there was a set of large mullioned windows, inset by stone, their glass pocketed and wavy and looking ancient. Through these windows, Malcolm saw that another set of similar making took up space on the opposite wall, and between the two he saw a large panel of shimmering color.
“The loom is kept there,” said Daniel, noting how he studied. “The windows are set thusly so that they catch as much light as possible for working by.”
The fire in the hearth burned bright and warm, unusually so, in fact. Malcolm wondered how it could be going so strong and tidily, left alone for so long.
“Do you live alone?” he asked.
“I live with my grandfather,” said Daniel. “Why do you ask?”
“Only the fire.”
"Ah, yes. He must have built it up for me before he left. On nights like this, he stays out. Nighttime is what he likes best—you needn’t worry about him showing up.”
Malcolm took in the sleeping area by the fire—one large bed, covered in a well-made counterpane and two stuffed pillows. Nearest him was the cooking and dining area. He let his hand rest on a thick, crudely carved table that had two matching chairs. In the shelves above there were many books, their spines not easily read, some of which appeared to be ancient, possibly nothing more than collections of hand-scrawled leaves strung together with ribbon. Beside them sat all manner of herbs and dried flowers.
“Are you an herbalist?” he asked.
Daniel smiled. “You see much. It is a skill I learned from my mother, but I am hardly a master.”
Taking up the longest length of the cottage was the workspace with all of the weaver’s accouterments. At the far end by the windows was the four-poster loom, a length of cloth in progress, strung across its workings. Just behind the threaded heddles, through the glass of the window, Malcolm could see the forest trees swaying. The space between him and the loom was scattered with shuttles, some empty, some already loaded with spun bobbins, bags of cotton which sat beside the grand spinning wheel, its large round reaching towards the ceiling, a thick strand of thread peeking out from its end. And then more shelves, filled with glass jars and clay pots. He could identify a few containing chunks of indigo or the dried husks of madder roots—all used for dyeing. One, in particular, caught his eye and he approached, lifting it from the shelf. Inside the dusty black pearls toppled as he turned the glass jar.
“Cochineal?” he asked.
Daniel leaned against the table and smiled, studying him.
“Indeed,” he answered. “You seem to know and notice much about trade. Most men whom I’ve taken as visitors barely glance at the loom.”
Malcolm replaced the jar on the shelf.
“I suppose it has a special place in my heart. My mother was a weaver, you see.”
Daniel crossed his arms across his chest, and his mouth opened in surprise.
“Your mother? A weaver?”
“Of a sort. More bobbins and delicate thread than any sort of loom. She did fine work with lace. That's how she met my father. He and his mother visited lacemakers in Nottinghamshire to see about commissioning a wedding dress for his older sister, my aunt. His mother had very specific ideas on how she thought it ought to look. And there he met my mother, who had been working lace since she was naught but knee-high. He fell in love with her and schemed to marry her. His parents didn't approve, naturally, but my parents-to-be wrote letters to each other for nigh on a year before his mother and father relented and allowed him to begin courting. My mother was much below their class, of course, but eventually, they married.”
“Why did your grandparents relent?”
“Because of my aunt.”
“Of the lace dress?”
Malcolm nodded.
“She was jilted by her fiancée. He absconded on the day before her wedding with her lady's maid. It followed that my aunt fell into such a state of black melancholia that her family never thought she would recover. So I believe my grandmother was only determined to see one of her children married happily and thus weakened in the battle against my mother's social shortcomings.”
“And did she recover? Your aunt, I mean.”
“Never entirely, no. By the time I knew her she seemed much older than her years and she died still a spinster. Not long before my own mother—she died of the wasting sickness, you see, when I was very young.”
Daniel gazed at him with soft, kind eyes and Malcolm felt a tug at his chest. He did not like to think of his family, most especially his mother, but when this man's attention was upon him it was as if he could hold no secrets. Daniel laid his hand on Malcolm's and traced the skin across his knuckles.
A shimmer ran through Malcolm and made him heady. He cleared his throat. “And you,” said Malcolm, wanting to talk not of himself. “What of your parents?”
“My parents?”
Daniel’s arms fell by his side. He blinked and, standing straight, walked over by the fire. He leaned against the mantle and stared into the flames, silent for a few moments.
“No one has ever asked about my parents before.”
Malcolm came closer.
“Surely,” he said gently. “You must have parents.”
Daniel nodded.
“Only it has been so long I barely remember their faces.” He took the stick and poked at the fire, sending a shower of embers upward into the chimney. “I remember my mother had a very warm smile, and I was always very happy to see it. She taught me all her gifts—she had a hand for dyeing and showed me all the ways to work the dyes to give the best colors. She was a very strong woman and she had a head for many things. She could read and write and even sometimes acted as a midwife for the women in the village.”
“The herbs,” said Malcolm.
“Yes. She was the most remarkable woman—person—I have ever known. She seemed to be able to master anything she tried. Of course, any woman who is too intelligent or too capable has a hard time in this world. Still, she had an iron backbone—unbreakable even until the end. And she could work cloth like no other.”
“Both your parents were weavers then?”
Daniel leaned against the wall.
“Yes,” he said. “It runs in the family, on both sides, for generations back.”
“Have they also both passed away?”
Daniel nodded. “A very long time ago now.”
“You must have been very young when they died.”
“Young enough,” he said with a shrug.
“After which you came to live with your grandfather? Did he also help you develop your talents?”
Daniel gave a sad smile. “What talents I have are his.”
He shed his coat and bent to undo his boot laces.
“My parents were murdered,” he said matter-of-factly.
Malcolm blinked in surprise. “Murdered? Both of them?”
“Yes.” Daniel kicked off one boot and then moved on to the next. “They were falsely accused by some villagers of a certain crime. They were tortured. When they did not admit to the charges against them, they were both hanged. Or they were meant to be. My mother was to be hanged first but when they came to retrieve her, my father attacked the guards and was run through by their long knives. My mother died alone on the rope.”
“My god. How horrid.”
“Yes, it was,” said Daniel softly as he stood. “But I suppose for the best.”
“For the best?” exclaimed Malcolm.
“For my mother, I mean,” said Daniel, moving across the room towards Malcolm. “The torture left her crippled, her hands mangled. If she had lived, the rest of her life would have been a torment. Being kept from the ability to do the things she cherished would have driven her mad. She was not a woman to be still and silent.”
Daniel was in front of him now. He shrugged off the braces over his own shirt and let them fall to his sides. He reached up to tug at Malcolm’s coat.
“Come now, my handsome stranger, I did not seek you out to wallow in misery. Not on a night like tonight. We must enjoy the beauty of the moon and its pull.”
His hands settled on Malcolm's waist.
“Do you not feel its power work in your own nature?”
Malcolm certainly felt his body respond to Daniel’s touch.
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Good,” said Daniel.
He took Malcolm by the hand and led him to the bed where they both sat. Malcolm bent to make quick work of his boots and when he sat back up Daniel began to undo the buttons of his waistcoat. While the young man’s fingers worked, Malcolm finished removing his cravat, already loose from the evening’s frolics.
Daniel swiftly removed the waistcoat and ran his hands down Malcolm’s arms, feeling the hard knots of muscles there. Daniel tugged at Malcolm’s shirt, loosening it from his trousers, and pulled it up. He ran his hands underneath the material, his fingers playing against the lines and curves of Malcolm’s chest. Malcolm hissed an intake of breath, the touch like fire against his skin.
Malcolm reached out and pulled Daniel’s mouth to his own. Their tongues danced together and he heard Daniel moan slightly. He released him and nipped at his bottom lip, smiling.
“You are not at all afraid,” said Daniel, smiling himself.
“Afraid of what?”
“Of me. Many men are very wary when they come to my home of an evening.”
“I assure you, I am not afraid of such things. I have spent many an evening with a man. Though few as lovely as you.”
He ran a finger down Daniel’s cheek and Daniel smiled.
“I have no shame in how I conduct my affairs,” continued Malcolm. “But I am well aware of the discretion society demands. And the danger. But fear? It serves no good.”
Daniel began to pull Malcolm’s shirt over his head.
“Yours must be a very gilded existence not to worry about such things,” he said. “Most do not have the status or wealth to protect themselves.”
“Perhaps so. I admit I may have more influence than most. But it is still dangerous. No man is completely immune from the law nor the rabid crowd.”
“You seem almost proud.”
Malcolm wrapped his arms around the young man and pulled him close.
“Why should I not be proud? Even if they burn me at the stake, they cannot take away my soul. No matter what little spells they spill from those scrolls they call religion. And if my soul can never be taken, that is all that matters. I will continue to own myself.”
There was a waver in Daniel’s expression that Malcolm could not read. But it vanished as he kissed Malcolm again—a kiss sweeter than any Malcolm had ever tasted.
“Fine words,” said Daniel. “That might change if you felt the flames licking your calves.”
“Words matter far less than conviction. And they hardly ever align, for better or worse. And,” he added with a wicked smile, “if I sin by the sword then I die by the sword. If I am to fall, then by the sword is the preferred method.”
Daniel shook his head, amused. He moved to the floor and began to undo the fastenings of Malcolm’s fall front.
“Hopefully you are more skilled in swordplay than you are in wordplay.”
“Was that so terrible a pun?”
“Yes. Terrible.”
He pulled Malcolm’s trousers and small clothes down below his knees and leant in, taking Malcolm into his mouth. It was an exquisite sensation and Malcolm arched back onto his elbows, letting a loud moan escape his lips. He peered down at the man with the skilled mouth, and behind him, the light of the hearth seemed to fill the room as bright as daylight. He turned his head as he fell back onto the bed, and his eye caught a fold of crimson material nearby. He wondered for a moment at how difficult it was to achieve such brilliant shades of red. The light from the fire spilled over the silken wool and it seemed to shimmer and ripple in the darkness like the flames of the devil. All thought quickly dissipated as he was again awash in the wave of pleasure brought on by Daniel. Malcolm closed his eyes and gave in to it.
Ϟ
Afterwards, they lay on the bed, a pillow beneath them and the counterpane tangled about their legs. Malcolm rested his head against Daniel’s chest, playing with a necklace Daniel wore. It was a band of silver, plain except for an engraved design of what appeared to be a rowan tree in its center, which Daniel wore around his neck on a piece of plain string.
“What is this ring?” Malcolm asked, twirling it in his fingers.
“Too long a story to tell,” Daniel said, clasping his hand over Malcolm’s and stilling it.
Malcolm turned to the hearth; as still yet it burned bright, its warmth reaching far across the room.
“I have never seen a fire burn so heartily,” he murmured.
Daniel stroked his hair and hummed; the humming turned into a soft song.
“Ay! I did see a great lad I once loved,” he sang.
“There by the roadside stood his smiling face,
A sight I should thought I twould ne’er be graced....”
“That song,” Malcolm interrupted. “I know it well. My nanny used to sing it to me when I was young. On the line, Oh but his curls were lovely and silken, she would sing the word ‘milky’ instead of silken.”
“Milky?”
“Yes, it was her pet name for me. First from Malky then Milky Malky.” He smiled, remembering her sing-song voice calling out little rhymes and games.
“It is a sad song though for a nursery, is it not? The lad with the silken locks dies at the end.”
“Well, she was Irish, after all.” Malcolm gave a little shrug. “She brought it with her from back home, she said. I am quite surprised you know it.”
“These folk songs do travel. I'm sure it is centuries old by now, re-written many times over.”
“Yes, probably so.”
“Did you love your nanny very much?”
“Oh yes, very much. I suppose it is a hackneyed story. Young boy loses his mother and turns to the nursery for a caring bosom.”
Malcolm paused.
“I believe, in a way, it was easier for my family. They never talked of my mother's humble background and, in fact, my grandparents invented an entirely new history for her that her death sealed as fact, not myth. I was taught never to speak of her to others, and soon, I felt as I had begun to forget who she actually was. She became like a woman of myth—remote and mysterious, powerful and beautiful, but only seen in my dreams, not the real world. Even now I only really think of her when I am alone with my own thoughts.”
“You too have known much sorrow.”
“Have I? I suppose so. But it is only life and its workings. We muddle our way through it.” He reached up and ran his hand along Daniel's cheek. “I cannot imagine how you bear the sorrows you have suffered.”
Daniel kissed his fingertips.
“I find that the longer you live, the easier it is to forget them.”
“Really? I find exactly the opposite to be true. They are not the same stab of pain as they were years ago but the memories stay and sometimes arrive at the most unexpected of times to confuse you.”
They were silent for a moment.
“I have never talked on my feelings of my mother and family with anyone,” said Malcolm. “But with you, I must admit, it feels like confession, as if I were listing my life for absolution.”
“Perhaps it is only the drink,” said Daniel, moving in to kiss his neck. “Or the warmth of the fire.”
Malcolm pushed back against his tightly muscled frame and craned his head, exposing the full length of his neck.
“Or the warmth of your body against mine,” he said, his voice heavy.
“Or that,” said Daniel.
He fluttered kisses against Malcolm's neck and then traced the line lightly with his fingertips.
“Such smooth, beautiful skin,” he whispered as his touches moved past Malcolm’s neck and circled around his chest. “So soft and unlined.”
Malcolm hummed in reply, his eyes closed and a smile on his lips.
“Sleep now, dear Malky,” said Daniel. “You have exerted yourself muchly tonight. Rest.”