Riordan and Elise

"I would like a woman to love me," Riordan mused, between sips of his drink. His friends could tell by the glaze in his eyes that he was tipsy. It didn't stop them from pouring him more wine.

"You've taken them all to bed," Andrew said, stoically, "and they aren't impressed."

Riordan only looked into his cup and sloshed the fluid around a little. "I'm tired of women."

"Perhaps you should try men," Ernest suggested, slyly nudging at his young companion, who blushed a deep red.

Riordan said nothing as the banter continued and the talk about sex and lust expanded into a verbal orgy. He put his cup down, leaned into the couch and closed his eyes. Despite the terrible loneliness that pressed into his chest, he felt comfortable—even content—around his friends and their garbled speech. He let himself fall into a light sleep as words buzzed around him.

When he woke up, the crowd had cleared and only Andrew sat in the couch across from him.

"So you're finally up?" Andrew reached across the space between the couches to pat Riordan on the knee, "There's a good fellow."

Riordan shifted, "Where is everyone?"

"It's almost daybreak, everyone's in bed."

"Daybreak?"

Riordan jumped up, and then grasped his head as dull pain closed over it. "I have business to attend to!"

Andrew just laughed.

"Where is my horse? Get my horse, boy!" He sprung up again, and grabbed his doublet which he had taken off earlier because of the heat, "Go make ready!"

When Andrew did not move, Riordan marched towards him, and cuffed his ear. "Get my horse, boy," he said angrily, "Unless you want to feel my whip."

Suddenly Andrew's face was serious. "Sir, you have no business today, it is Sunday."

Realization poured over Riordan's face, and he slumped back down into the couch. "Is it Sunday, boy?"

"Aye, sir, it is ."

"I'm sorry."

For a while they sat in the awkward silence, then at length Andrew spoke, "Shall I get you breakfast, sir?"

"Please."

Riordan watched the boy leave the room and knew he loved him.

***

It was Riordan's birthday and he was alone. His horse was climbing up the hills of Gabel Manor at a hearty canter, and he could feel the flush rise to his cheeks. His nostrils flared with the scent of ripe flowers on the air, and his eyes devoured the pinks and oranges that strayed from the rising sun and diffused through the sky. As he drew the reins back and his horse came to a halt, he thought of Andrew and he missed his company.

Andrew had been away for the night, entertaining the company of some young girl he fancied. Unlike his master, he preferred to court girls, and was slow, if not reluctant to take them to bed. It was this one fact that gave Riordan hope.

When he approached the doors of Gabel Manor, Andrew was waiting outside; engaging in conversation with the hostler. Beside the tired old man, Andrew's youth and charm were even more apparent. His skin was flawless and creamy, and he wore a haphazard smile on his face. "Good morning, Master," he greeted jovially as he caught the reins that Riordan tossed to him.

"Back later than usual," Riordan commented as he dismounted, "Your young honeysuckle must be very dry by now."

Andrew blushed and the hostler smiled knowingly as he led the horse away and let the master and servant speak. A breeze came and swept Andrew's dark curls over his milk white skin. He seemed like an angel to Riordan, and master could not help but pat the younger boy on his arm, "I only tease, lad."

"I know sir."

"You missed a splendid morning ride," Riordan told Andrew, "You should have seen the morning delicacies," he paused, "but you were no doubt gobbling up your own treats."

Andrew shifted away, "Jealousy does not become you, sir."

Riordan raised his voice, "Jealousy?"

"Aye sir, a master ought not to be jealous of his servant."

"I most certainly am not!"

"Please don't deny it Riordan, I know you too well."

Despite their friendship, Andrew rarely called his master by his name. This time, it made Riordan stop in his tracks.

"You don't know me at all."

"I know your mind, sir."

"You do not know—" and before he could even finish his sentence, he could feel his hand gaining momentum as it passed through the air and hit Andrew squarely on his cheek.

The boy stepped back. "Sir—"

"Andrew!" Riordan looked back at his hand, and his palm was red. Grief washed over him as he ran to his servant. "My boy, I'm so sorry, I—" but even as he reached out for Andrew's arm, the boy backed away. "Don't walk away from me Andrew, I am your master, and don't you forget it."

"Sir, I am not frightened of you. I just don't feel the same way."

And at this Riordan's heart broke. He was almost too frightened to ask, "Feel the same way about what?"

"I know you are not proud of me for my lack of activity with women. I know you want me to be like you, and I—" his eyes were cast down, and his cheeks were red, "I admire you sir, and respect you but the womankind are too fragile, and too delicate for me to break. I can not…"

"I'm not upset that you don't want to fuck women Andrew, and if you are fucking them, I'm not jealous that you are."

"I know sir, you're jealous because I have someone that loves me and you do not."

A pang of deep and agonizing pain ripped through Riordan's chest, and he clutched briefly at his heart as he staggered forward. "You're in love?"

"I am sir."

"I should have known, my boy, a good master ought to have known."

"It isn't your fault, I was discreet. I am sorry I upset you, lordship, and perhaps this is not the appropriate time but," he paused, and looked up at the taller man, "I am asking permission to marry her, lordship."

You may take your little whore and run away, Riordan thought, but even as the phrase came to mind, it disappeared. "I would like to make her acquaintance and know her family, and then, lad, we will together decide."

"Sir, I know that my heart belongs to her."

"I don't doubt you, I just wish to know if her heart is in the right place and her dowry is suitable."

"She will please you."

Riordan smiled. He thought about the virginal bride, and how he would fuck her and break her for his revenge, but when he looked back at Andrew and the little birthmark on his chin, and the light in his eyes, he knew he could not hurt him, "This is only a formality, Andrew, my boy, I want you to be happy."

They walked through the manor's halls in silence. It was his birthday, and instead of offering him a present, Andrew had taken all that Riordan had and crushed it in his blind, love-stricken path.

***

The list of friends, companions and acquaintances that attended Riordan's birthday feast was nothing short of spectacular. The familiar faces from drinking parties migrated close to their friend, making sure that his cup was never empty. Some men brought their women along; though very few of their consorts were actually their wives. Most were mistresses and lovers: young girls, who he would have thought as children, if it weren't for the coquettish smiles wrapped around their baby faces. He knew his friends too well; they were rich and loved to dress their pretty whores in scarves and silk blouses, and in the attire of young, flat-chested maidens.

            Among the chatter in the parlor, he felt alone. He searched the room for Andrew but his loneliness only spread when he saw the young boy talking closely with a petite brunette girl. She must be his honeysuckle he thought. He elbowed through the crowd, murmuring haphazard responses at the greetings and shouts thrown at him, until he came to the corner where his valet and his lover stood.

            "Good evening, my lad, and my lady."

            Both snapped out of their daze and turned towards him abruptly. He was surprised at how beautiful the girl really was. Her light hair clung around her head in imperfect ringlets, framing a truly warm face. Her eyes were light brown and her smile was instant and caring.

            "Good evening, lordship!" she exclaimed, and curtsied, "I wish you many happy returns."

            Andrew and his girl were a beautiful couple—an angel boy and a pixie. Riordan could see the mischief beaming out from under her eyes, and the joy in her lips.

            You must be Andrew's whore, he tested in his mind. He wanted to hate her, but her eyes were just as beautiful as her lover's. "I've heard of you, but I don't know your name, Miss."

            "Heard of me?" she looked at Andrew from the corner of her eye and squeezed his hand, "I hope in good favour."

            "Nothing but the best."

            Andrew smiled, "Master, allow me to present Miss. Laurette Harbinger. Miss. Harbinger, as you know, this is the famous Lord Riordan Abergale."

            "Aye, I do sir. Perhaps one day, I shall come to live in your home."

            "You are quite forward, young Miss. Harbinger, I am not found of mischief-makers," but Riordan's tone was teasing.

            "Oh, then how is it that you can tolerate my dear Andrew?"

            The three of them laughed, but Riordan's stomach was clenching. He was surrounded by beautiful women. He was so close to Andrew, and yet they were worlds away. Even as they spoke Andrew's eyes were on Laurette's, and the only time they skimmed over to Riordan was to see if he approved. And how could he not approve? Andrew was the most beautiful when he was happy. He was no solemn angel but a cherub that brought brightness to a room when he smiled. As much as he wanted to, he could not hurt his Andrew. He could not hurt this Laurette whom Andrew loved so much.

            Yet, at the end of the conversation, Riordan's stomach was in knots and bile kept rising to his throat. He washed it down with shots of brandy, as he made his way through to familiar faces. Ernest met him halfway through the crowd and squeezed him arm,        "Riordan!"

            He turned on his heel. "Ernest? Is that you?"

            "Too drunk to recognize your dear friend?"

            Riordan blinked a number of times, until the multiple figures blended into one blurry shape. "Ernest,"

            "Have you found a woman yet?"

            "I just want someone to love me. I want a Laurette…"

            But to Ernest, the murmur was slurred and unrecognizable, "Riordan, old chap, when the crowd clears, the boys and I have the surprise of a lifetime for you."

            "A Laurette?"

            "We can play roulette if that's what you want, old fellow. It is your birthday, after all," and Ernest lifted his glass and shouted, "For here's a jolly good fellow!" The room was in an uproar as voices poured into his ears from every which direction and hands with cups and chalices shot up into the air. They were celebrating him, and hailing him, but never before had he felt so sick and lonely.

***

            Riordan was sick twice that evening, and by the time the crowds had cleared, and an intimate group of friends had gathered, he was incredibly dizzy and tired.

"I want to sleep," he told them, but no one paid him any heed. They were all whispering very loudly about a big surprise. He didn't really care; his head kept flopping back and all he wanted to do was lie down, but each time he tried to, men would drag him to his feet and shake him. Someone tossed water all over his face.

            Riordan tried to punch his attacker but missed and fell on the floor. When he opened his eyes to see who was trying to pick him up, he saw Andrew on one arm and            Laurette on the other. "Sir," Laurette said softly, "You need some cold air, it isn't good to sleep."

            "Whaddya mean it's not good to sleep, you been slepping with my Andrew, here, hav'n't ya?"

            She blushed and moved away as Andrew pulled his Master up. "Let's go for a walk."

            "Git yer hands off of me you traitor," he slurred, pulling his arm from Andrew's touch, "and git that slut away from me."

            "He's too drunk," Andrew offered apologetically, "He needs to cool down."

"I don't needa cool down, you the one that's been fucking her."

            "Andrew!" Laurette's voice was edged with panic.

            "Yeh, I'm not a fool, this lad, eres been telling me how you part your legs for him. He's been sucking that honeysickle clean, that's my boy, Andrew."

            Laurette was stunned. The men in the room gathered round as the drunken bumbling continued.

            "And what a pretty little whore," one man commented, as he patted her bottom. She squirmed and moved away.

            "A slut in an angel’s body," another man added as he brushed his hand over her breast.

            Andrew jumped in between them and pushed them away. "If you idiots don't stop right now, I'll—I'll" but he was too upset to finish.

            When another man approached Laurette, Andrew's fist sailed into his stomach. Protectively, he lunged towards Laurette, and pulled her towards to him. Almost instantly, she broke away from his grasp.

            "I can't believe you're spreading spiteful stories about me," she whispered loudly, tears burning in her eyes.

            "No, Laurette, I would never—"

            "I heard it with my own ears," Riordan jumped in, "how he opens your thighs and takes a good drink—"

            And with that Laurette burst into sobs and ran from the room, pushing away at men who tried to touch her as she went. Andrew glanced at his master furiously, and even through the blurriness, Riordan could see the repulsion in his eyes. Then, he ran after Laurette, leaving Riordan alone in a circle of equally drunk men.

            "Why is Andrew mad?" Riordan asked.

            "Because you said his lover is a whore."

            "Who said that?"

            "You did."

            "I did?"

            And then Riordan began laughing. He laughed so hard that he keeled over on the floor. Doubled over, he shook until his guffaws became huge racking sobs.

***

            When Riordan woke up the next morning, his head throbbed madly. Groaning, he turned in his bed and stretched. He thought he heard sobbing, and he forced his eyelids open, though they tried desperately to stick together. When his vision finally cleared, he saw two wide, gray eyes full of panic. He screamed and scrambled out of bed.

            "Who are you? Get out of my bed! GET OUT!"

            He watched her face distort as she tried to get out of the bed, and ending up rolling off and falling to a heap on the ground. She must have been drinking too, he decided. He couldn't remember anything from the night before, he couldn't remember meeting her or what he had done with her, but he suddenly felt dirty. "GET OUT!" he screamed again, but each time she tried to get up, she kept falling down.

            Furious, he stomped over to her, and yanked her arm up. As he jerked her up, he saw that her wrists and ankles were manacled. His grip eased immediately when he saw them. What had he done? He tried desperately to remember to remember who she was but no memories came. He tried to pry the cuffs of her wrist, before realizing he needed a key. He didn't know where he would find one.

            She was shaking her head and crying.

            "Who are you? What happened last night?"

            She opened her mouth, but only sobs spilled out. He turned sharply on his heel and pulled the bell for Andrew, then he threw his door open and yelled down the corridor for the boy.

            Despite the events of the prior night, Andrew came almost instantly. "What is the matter, sir?" he asked, grasping Riordan's arm when he saw the panic in his master's eyes. "Master, master!" Andrew shouted, as he shook Riordan, and forced him to look into his eyes, "What is the matter?"

            "I have done something terrible Andrew, I have raped a girl. Help me, please, help me."

            Andrew's eyes widened. "Is she in there?"

            Riordan only nodded, and the boy pushed passed his master and entered his bedroom. A girl in a thin nightgown was standing beside the bed; she was looking down at the floor, her dark hair clinging to her face, and her breasts heaving as she cried. Although he did not recognize her, Andrew felt for her. Her fragility reminded him so much of Laurette, and his first instinct was to cover her. Quickly, he pulled off his overcoat and drew it across her shoulders. At his touch, she looked up.

            "Are you cold Madam?"

            She nodded.

            "I'm not here to hurt you. My master was drinking last night; he does not remember what happened," his voice was soft and coaxing, "can you tell me what happened?" He took her hands and gently examined the cuffs, then glanced around the room. There were some keys on the small writing desk in the corner. He tried them in the hole, and was relieved when the cuffs slid from her wrists. He unlocked the manacles on her ankles, then led her to the divan by the window, so that she could sit. He knelt do in front of her. "Can you tell me what happened, Madam?"

            "He did not touch me."

            He breathed a sigh of relief. "I am glad of it."

            At that minute the door flew open and a dishevelled Ernest burst in. "Morning my lad," he greeted jovially as he pulled Andrew up by the arm, "I see you've found the surprise. A word alone, Andrew."

            Andrew gave the girl a look and stepped aside with Ernest. "What have you done now, Ernest?"

            "Your master wants a bit of loving, and so we got him this lovely piece of work." He tilted his head in the girl's direction, "She's a beauty, isn't she."

            Andrew's jaw dropped. "You brought Riordan a whore?"

            "Better," Ernest said, grinning, "a slave."

            "A slave?"

            "Close your mouth little one," Ernest said teasingly, "It wasn't illegal. We bought her from a perfectly beautiful little island where slave trade still proliferates."

            "It is illegal, Ernest! How could you?"

            "He needs something he can own!"

            "She is a woman, not property. You cannot own a person."

            "Bullshit, your owned by him, aren't your Andrew? Now she is too. Don't be jealous there is enough space in Riordan's bed for two bedmates."

            Red blushed into Andrew’s pale cheeks, and he turned quickly on his heel.

            “Now, now, Andrew, be careful,” Ernest said, “You may disapprove of me as much as you please, but I am still your better. Don’t you dare turn your back to me.”

            Andrew stood still for a moment, contemplating turning around and bowing to the old fool to appease him. Instead, he walked to the girl, ignoring Ernest’s slew of brash vulgarities.

            “If you’ll come with me, Madam,” he whispered kindly, “I will take you away from these madmen.”

 

***

 

            Andrew put her in a small room in the attic. The east wing’s bedrooms were usually empty but because they were currently occupied by the sick and hung-over guests of the previous night, he thought it would be safer to stow her away from sight. He put her in a dingy attic room, with its dramatically sloped ceiling and the limited light from a small dormer window.

            “I do not mean to make you a prisoner,” he told her kindly, “but there are morons about the house, and it will not do to have them bothering you. Rest here today, and I will find you a more comfortable place tomorrow. Make yourself comfortable.”

            She had gotten steadier on her feet, but her legs were still stiff from being chained for so long. She staggered over to the bed and sat down unsteadily.

            Andrew started a fire in the stone hearth. “Now, I’m sure you’ll want some sleep, so have some rest and I’ll bring a tray for you.”

            She nodded and smiled weakly. “Thank you,” she whispered.

            He smiled back, “What is your name Madam?”

            “Andrine.”

            Andrew bowed to her. “Have a good rest Miss. Andrine,” he said with a nod, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

            Andrew stormed back to Riordan’s bedroom, where Riordan was now sitting on his bed, looking pallid and unhappy. Ernest was at the desk—he looked like he was in the middle of a story from the way he was laughing and gesturing. As soon as Andrew entered, Ernest shot up, and scowled.

            “So you no longer knock?” he shouted angrily, and walked towards Andrew.

            “Don’t touch him,” Riordan ordered quietly.

            Ernest turned towards Riordan, “My dear lord Riordan, if I had such an insolent boy in my house, I would box his ears! This young one needs a good whipping.”

            “My dear lord Ernest,” Riordan said softly, “I would sooner kneel under your whip then deliver this innocent boy to you. Now, sir,” he bowed deeply to Ernest, “Will you let my boy and I alone?”

            Ernest shook his head. “You forgot your friends too quickly, Riordan.” But he left anyway.

            Andrew shut the door.

            “Thank you Andrew,” Riordan said. His voice changed, and it began to quaver, as he plopped down onto the bed, “for taking care of the girl, and for—”

            But Andrew raised his hand abruptly, and his master fell silent.

            “Sir, I have made a choice. I am leaving this house, and renouncing your protection.”

            Riordan opened his lips, but Andrew kept speaking.

            “Laurette has gone away to the mountains. Her mother wishes her to marry another within the week, and I am certain she will obey.”

            Riordan’s face fell into his hands and he began to weep. What had he done? He knew he had done something terrible last night, but he couldn’t fully remember.

            “Do not cry, my lord,” Andrew said coldly, “It is I who has lost my love, not you.”

            Riordan wept more bitterly now. How little you know, Andrew, he thought. I have made us both loose that, which we treasure most deeply.

            When Riordan did not lift his head, Andrew sighed and knelt before him and took his hands, so he was forced to free his face and look into Andrew’s eyes. Riordan looked into Andrew’s dark pupils, set in his dark irises, and instead of compassion he saw Andrew’s pity. Suddenly anger rose to his throat.

             “I will not let you leave Andrew. If you go, it will not be with one of my horses, or any of my coins in your purse. Remember, my boy, even the clothes on your back belong to me. You are nothing without me.”

            “Sir, make no mistake, you have been very kind to me over the years,” and Andrew’s voice became patient, and understanding—as if he had expected this response from his master, “You have fed and clothed me and educated me, but I am nothing without Laurette, and I must go. I am not leaving because I am angry with you but I must find her.”

            “Go then!” Riordan shouted, “But go into the world, naked and poor and hungry. Leave my house as you came to it, many years ago!” He rose abruptly and knocked Andrew down as he did. He remembered years ago when a housemaid had brought to him a little boy in soiled rags, and he himself had been a boy, who had just lost his parents and inherited a household. And he himself had been frightened, and unhappy, and overwhelmed by the world—but he nodded to the maid, and took the pariah in and tried to treat Andrew the way his father had treated him. And now, that stupid, wretched boy had forgotten every good deed Riordan had done, for a stupid, wretched woman. It made his blood boil.

            Andrew picked himself up now. He was shaking, but he clenched his fists and bowed deeply to Riordan. The politeness in his actions, and his voice were strained, “Thank you sir, for your kindness over the years, but now, I must leave.”

            Riordan grabbed the boy’s arm, and his grip was iron. “I am not jesting Andrew, if you leave, you leave with nothing.”

            “I understand, sir,” and he pulled from Riordan’s grip and tried to edge towards the door.

            “You are a thief then,” Riordan said, “Take off these clothes, these are mine. You have nothing in your name.”

            “Sir, I assure you I will not take them with me.”

            “Strip!” Riordan demanded, rage rushing through his veins, and in a moment of anger grabbed Andrew’s sleeve and tore it off the shirt.

            Andrew looked at him astounded, but he was wanted more than anything to leave. He unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, and folded what remained of it and placed it on the floor. He then unbuttoned his boots and removed them. He slipped out of his breeches, so that he was simply in his underthings, and he stood before Riordan shivering. He made a move to leave, but Riordan grabbed him again.

            “EVERYTHING!” Riordan demanded.

            “Sir,” now Andrew’s voice was wavering, “surely, you will not make me suffer the indignity.”

            But Riordan’s eyes were now piercing, and unforgiving, and ashamedly, Andrew removed his undergarments and stood undressed before his master. His face had reddened, and his hands hung awkwardly about him, as if he was embarrassed, but didn’t know how to protect himself.

            Riordan looked at him, and suddenly all the blood drained from his brain, and to another part of himself. He could feel himself becoming very hard, and his heart was pumping furiously. He put his hands around Andrew’s neck and when Andrew’s expression warped from humility to fear, he pulled the boy’s ear towards his lips. “Don’t leave me Andrew,” but there was no anger left, only tenderness, and vulnerability.

            This made Andrew start violently. He tried to back away, but Riordan turned and pushed him violently onto the bed, and he pressed his mouth onto Andrew’s soft lips, becoming more erect as Andrew squirmed underneath him.

            Yet, despite the exhilaration from having warm, and naked flesh wriggling underneath him, he felt nothing of love from the kiss and he pulled away as quickly as he forced him on. At the release, Andrew leapt up and pulled the bedsheets from under Riordan, to cover himself. His trembling made the silk bedclothes ripple.

            The room was silent for many minutes. Not a pregnant pause from two awkward beings wanting to say something, but a barren, dried-out silence.

            “Take your clothes, Andrew,” Riordan said at length. His was shrunken and worn. “I want nothing of you.” He went to his desk, and unlocked a drawer, and pulled out a purse brimming with golden coins. He threw them at Andrew’s feet. “Take my best horse, take food from the pantry, take that stupid girl that they brought here last night. Take everything you need and want, but leave soon. I am soiled while you are still here.”

            Then Riordan left the room. Dazed from fear and betrayal and confusion, Andrew dressed himself. He played with the purse-strings for awhile, before he decided that despite his newfound hatred of Riordan, the money would help him get to Laurette faster. Feeling cheap, and used, and betrayed by the man he had served and trusted, Andrew went to his room and packed his few possessions.

            He left Gabel Manor that evening, on foot.

            Only after he had made a deal with a merchant, and had secured a seat on a trolley to the mountains, did he remember that he had left Andrine, defenceless, in Riordan’s care.