An Earl's Desire

[tamgreen]

Ambrose kept his eyes tightly shut as the sharp blade skated across his scalp, over and over. He'd never allowed a blade so close to him, not willingly. His heart pounded; it was exhilarating. Or was that, too, because of the laudanum?

He made a low scoffing noise at Thomas's mention of an apprenticeship. If he had such employment, surely he would never have been desperate, starving, darting across the shadowy streets in the grey of pre-dawn, already half dead on his feet before the lord's horse had even collided with him.

His eyes opened at the servant's next remark, obviously surprised, and not only at the suggestion that he might not actually be returned to the streets whence he came.

"This... isn't a manor?" he mumbled, his eyes darting around the room. He could scarcely imagine even a palace being more sumptuous, and this wasn't even the lord's usual domain!

As pretty as a maiden.

At this, Ambrose's expression turned baleful. There was no way he could envision such a remark as anything other than mockery. It wasn't so very different from the jeering of the other boys on the streets, that he'd been running from what seemed like his whole life.

"Hang you for that," he muttered, as his thin hands reached up to investigate what had been put on his head - was it something ridiculous, to emphasize the mocking? Or just an ordinary hat? Ordinary to some, perhaps - he'd never had one before, and it felt singularly odd against his freshly bared scalp.

 

[haremfaery]

Thomas chuckled at Ambrose's naivety. "I supposed you were asleep or knocked out when Lord Camberwick brought you in. This," he waved the razor around to indicate the building. "Is my lord's London house. His manor is up north. He comes here to attend court, but mostly he gambles and fucks what takes his fancy." He cleaned the razor.

Ambrose's fierceness and muttered threat surprised Thomas. But then the youth had shown some spirit when he walked on his own to the chair to be shaved, despite his obvious pain even with the laudanum. But then, if we was living on the street, he'd need to be fierce, thin as he was.

"I wasn't mocking you. It's just without hair, your eyes seem very large and pretty. And your skin is pale--from the pain, no doubt. It bring out the blush in your lips." Thomas shrugged a bit. "I expect you might be handsome if you fattened up and grew a beard.

"The hat is felted wool. It will keep your head warm now you have no hair. If 'tis not enough, I can have someone bring you a coif."

Lord Camberwick snorted himself awake. "Damn me, I've got to take a piss." He rolled off the bed and walked to what looked like a small chest in the corner. He lifted the lid and pissed into it for a rather long time. he sighed with relief, then adjusted his clothing. He turned around and took in Ambrose.

"I hardly recognize you Ambrose. What a fine lad you are." He nearly clapped him on the shoulder but turned it into a gentle pat as he remembered the lad's bruises and broken rib. "Do you need to sleep, or shall we play cards?" He poured himself some wine.

"Thomas, I'm sure you have other things that need doing. I'll ring if I want anything."

Thomas took that as his cue to leave. He put away the shaving things, picked up the basin and towels and left.

 

[tamgreen]

Ambrose didn't know how to respond to someone commenting on his appearance, especially not in an apparently complimentary way, so he ignored the comments from both Thomas and Lord Camberwick and just stared dreamily out the window, now and then idly running his fingers over the hat that had been placed on his head.

He did not miss, however, the lord relieving himself in a box in the corner, an event that somewhat startled and confused him.

He took some time to consider the lord's question, his thoughts still clouded by the laudanum and moving as slowly as poured molasses.

"I am quite tired," he acknowledged, still staring out the window and trying to ascertain what time of day it might be, "but I don't know that I could sleep. Don't know any... cards."

He managed to turn his head enough to see the lord from the corner of his eye, without causing his cracked ribs any extra pain.

"All the money in the world... and you piss in your own bedchamber?" he mused. "Are lords all so lazy?"

 

[haremfaery]

"All the money in the world... and you piss in your own bedchamber?" he mused. "Are lords all so lazy?"

Orson struggled not to laugh out loud, but his bright blue eyes twinkled with amusement. "'Tis a privy. A chamber pot is under the seat in the box. A servant come to empty it. Use it when you need to. He leaned on table and sipped some wine. "Did you know that when King Henry was on the throne courtiers pissed in the fireplaces and against the walls in the hallways. Catherine of Aragon--his first wife, put a stop to it. I may be lazy, but at least I don't piss against a wall like a dog." This time Orson did laugh.

Orson realized Ambrose was dreamy from the laudanum. It was impossible for the lad to think clearly, let alone play cards. The lad struck something in Orson, he wanted to coddle him and comfort him, but Ambrose didn't make it easy. But when had Orson ever had to do anything that was difficult?

"Let me move you to the window seat so you can drowse there. 'Tis my favorite spot to read. If you have need of anything tell me and a servant will fetch it for you."

 

[tamgreen]

Ambrose's eyelids began to droop. Everything was taking on a dreamlike atmosphere, and he couldn't be sure that he actually was awake when Orson, Lord Camberwick, told him about courtiers' old pissing habits. An odd smile appeared at his lips. Rich, lazy men pissing all up and down the walls of sumptuous manors and castles. It was quite a thought. Quite an image. Despite his expressions of disgust over Orson pissing in a privy in the same room as the bed, Ambrose was suddenly finding this crass imagery to be amusing, and maybe even a little exciting.

He barely noticed what the man said next, and was still smirking distantly when he felt himself being carefully lifted and moved over to the same place where he'd first awoken, the sun gently warming the cosy, cushioned alcove. He didn't resist now, nor did he insist on trying to move himself. The laudanum had taken the fight out of him.

"You never pissed on a wall?" he whispered, letting his eyes close completely. The sun was so pleasant, as were the fine clothes he now wore. His fingers idly toyed with the fabric of his tunic.

"Never... ever... ever? Don't all men and boys piss on walls? You're to do it... outside."

The subtle smirk at his lips widened. "If you pissed on your walls... or even, all over your bed... they'd just smile and clean it up for you, would they not? All your... servants."

 

[haremfaery]

Orson smirked at Ambrose's glazed eyes and silly smile. The laudanum had definitely taken effect. He settled the lad in the window seat with plenty of pillows to make him comfortable.

"You never pissed on a wall?" he whispered, letting his eyes close completely. The sun was so pleasant, as were the fine clothes he now wore. His fingers idly toyed with the fabric of his tunic.

"Never... ever... ever? Don't all men and boys piss on walls? You're to do it... outside."

"Of course, I've pissed on walls. Outside. And on trees. Why, I've even pissed on the rose bushes in the queen's garden at Richmond Palace.

The subtle smirk at his lips widened. "If you pissed on your walls... or even, all over your bed... they'd just smile and clean it up for you, would they not? All your... servants."

Orson feigned indignation, "What? You think me a savage? The streets of London are bad enough, I would never befoul my own home. And I would never do something like that to my servants." Did the lad think nobles were so uncaring? He treated his servants well. They were well compensated for their work. The peasants working his land came to him with their problems, he lowered their rent when there was a bad harvest. He took injured guttersnipes into his home rather than let them die in the street.

He walked to a cupboard as he spoke and took out a lute. "Do you like music?" He tuned the instrument then played a popular love sonnet set to music. His voice was a rich baritone, quiet and soothing.

 

[tamgreen]

"Music...," Ambrose echoed, thinking of his scattered experiences with music. Most of them were whatever off-key, drunken caterwauling jangled forth from the open windows of inns as he wandered the streets, or the occasional rather distant strains of occasional itinerant minstrels passing through the cleaner parts of London, where folk might actually have coins to toss to them. Not places where a lad like Ambrose would often dare to haunt.

And then there was music, right here in the room next to him, like some divine miracle. He could feel the thrumming of the strings all the way through him, dextrous and resonant, smoothly paired with the deep, soft, dulcet voice of the lord. Was this really for him? It was like nothing the young man had ever experienced.

Ambrose slowly turned his head and forced his eyes open so he could watch the musician, and not only listen. Soothing as it was, and as much as it made him want to drift away and sink into pleasant dreams, Ambrose did not want to miss this. He wanted to see the nimble fingers that worked magic upon those strings, and the lips that formed the words of the sonnet. Whether it was more the unexpected beauty or the newness of it, Ambrose couldn't say, but his vision was soon blurred by the rise of emotion.

 

[haremfaery]

Orson paid more attention to his fingering than to Ambrose. The lad should be asleep by now, and he could go about his business. But when he looked up, there was the lad was looking at him. Were those tears? Was the pain so bad even with the laudanum? But, no. Ambrose's face wasn't the face of pain. Orson's heart ached for the boy who lived on the streets and yet was moved by a simple love song. When was the last time Orson had been moved to tears over anything? He suddenly wanted to do more than make the lad healthy again. He wanted to protect the lad. To give him things he never had. To see him smile.

"I only know love ballads and bawdy drinking songs." Orson said as he played another lament watching Ambrose. "I thought to lull you to sleep. I had not meant to upset you. Should I play something more ... cheerful?"

 

[tamgreen]

Ambrose's cheeks turned a deep shade of pink. He raised a hand to partially cover his face, embarrassed by his own emotions. Surely this was just because of the wine and laudanum.

But no, it went deeper than that. This was a new experience that moved him with its beauty. Perhaps he oughtn't to dismiss it so easily.

"Not upset," he said huskily. "Play anything. Anything you please. I care not what. I'd rather not sleep through it - it's too lovely."

One of his hands found a pillow, which he pulled against his thin chest and embraced.

 

[haremfaery]

Ambrose's blush not only gave him a glow of health, but added to his looks. Orson noted how fine the lad looked with his delicate features. Ambrose was indeed as pretty as a girl when his features softened.

"A good bard must be able to make people laugh and cry and put them to sleep." Orson grinned and kept playing the lament. "I won't take offense if you nod off. Listen if you will Sleep if you must. 'Tis not as if I will never play for you again. If you sleep, I will play again when you wake. I've nowhere to do today." He played another lament, but was tired of melancholy. His next song was "Gathering Peascods," a lively tune but short. Then to lighten the mood further, he played "My Thing Is Mine Own" and sang in a falsetto since it was a woman telling of the various men trying to woo her.

 

[tamgreen]

Ambrose soaked in every note, every word. He took it in like he'd taken in the meal earlier - presented with a feast the likes of which he'd never seen, all he could do was devour every scrap he could, lest he never have another opportunity.

The man singing in the manner of a woman was somewhat amusing, but by this time, Ambrose was beginning to succumb more and more to the effects of the laudanum. His eyelids were too heavy to remain open any longer.

Pain and hunger were behind him; sweet rest and ease were before him. He held onto the ethereal strains as long as he possibly could before slipping away into serenaded dreams. One hand still rested near his mouth as he fell asleep, a finger at his lips as if to quiet himself.

 

[haremfaery]

Orson put his lute away and stretched. He checked on Ambrose. Yes, the lad was sound asleep. He could use some sleep as well. He answered some letters, worked on some poetry, and had Thomas bring up a light supper.

"Not going out tonight, my lord?"

"I am far too tired. I was up all yesternight and lost far too much money. It's early to bed for me. I'll ring when I'm ready."

Orson finished eating and checked on Ambrose. The lad slept soundly, his breathing easy. A good sign.

He called for Thomas who removed his clothes and helped him put on his night shirt. He thought that Ambrose would tell him how lazy he was that he couldn't even undress with out help. It made him smile.

Thomas banked the fire and put out all the candles except one near the privy seat. He pulled down the bedclothes then bowed himself out.

Orson went to the windowseat. The moonlight limned Ambrose's face in silver. If he left him in the window seat, he might roll over and fall to the floor.

Orson picked up the lad and laid him carefully on the bed. Ambrose murmured something then groaned when he rolled onto his side. He shifted and then settled.

Orson climbed into bed on the other side. It wasn't long before he was sleeping as deeply as the boy.

 

[tamgreen]

Ambrose was floating in his drugged-up dreams, finally free from the constraints of his station. It was a vague and abstract mess of fantasy, woven throughout with music and plenty of food. But soon a bodily need reached into his dream and began to drag him out of it.

He awoke in a dim room, lying in a warm, soft bed. He could hear someone breathing nearby him - was he sleeping in Orson's bed?

He tried to move and stifled a groan. The pain around his ribs was starting to return. But that wasn't what had awoken him. He reached down beneath the covers and cupped his genitals. He had to piss rather insistently.

When he finally looked around to see what small source of light might be nearby, he noticed the candle gently illuminating the box in the corner, where the lord had pissed - he couldn't remember the word "privy". In Ambrose's head, it was just the piss box.

Bracing himself against the pain, the boy carefully rolled onto his front, and then worked his feet free, lowering them until they made contact with the floor. He gradually worked himself upright, wincing at the stabbing sensation with each breath. He shuffled on bare feet over to the corner, where the candle was, and carefully opened up the box. He could faintly see the chamber pot within. Well, he supposed he would be pissing in a box in a lord's bedroom.

He shut his eyes to concentrate as he aimed his penis, sighing with relief as he loosed his stream into the pot, long and slow and satisfying. Finally, he shook off and shut the box, making his way carefully back to bed.

Radiating pain. Stabbing.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to lower himself slowly, but a bolt of pain through his shoulder caused him to slip, and he hit the mattress hard with a cry of agony he didn't have a chance to stifle.

 

[haremfaery]

Orson sat up wide awake at the cry. He took a moment to orient himself. "Ambrose, what happened?" He got out of bed and padded around to Ambrose's side. He was wearing a night shirt that came to his knees. The front was untied and revealed a hairy muscled chest that showed the earl didn't spend all of his time drinking and eating. He helped the lad get comfortable. "I'll get you more laudanum."

Orson smiled ruefully as he turned away. Usually if he had a bedmate, they would spend the time between first and second sleep lovemaking. Instead, he was playing nursemaid.

Orson lit a taper from the fireplace and lit a few candles in the room. Then he put a poker into the fire so he could warm the wine. "Seems you had a good first sleep. Until now. The laudanum has worn off." He put the poker into the wine to warm it and poured a cup for Ambrose and himself. He dropped the laudanum into Ambrose's draught and brought it to him. He sat next to Ambrose and put an arm around him to help him drink.

"Are you hungry? I can ring for food."

 

[tamgreen]

What happened? Ambrose didn't bother answering the question - how could he explain that he'd simply failed in his attempt to quietly lie back down again after going for a piss? It didn't matter anyway. It was obvious that he was in pain, and the lord was already going for the laudanum and wine.

The lad couldn't tell how long he'd slept, but it felt like a very long time. After all, it was night - and hadn't it only just been morning?

The heaviness of a long rest still clung to him, and he accepted whatever was happening now without struggle or argument. He accepted the man's arm around him, accepted the cup, accepted everything, even leaned a little against the warm body next to him. He was in a frame of mind that he could begin to appreciate someone caring for him, rather than remain suspicious and contrary. Was he just too tired for resistance? Had he had pleasant dreams? Was the laudanum good medicine?

He drank from the warm, soothing cup and sighed softly. It certainly was a fine experience to awaken in the night without any biting pests, sundry dangers, biting cold, rain, dogs barking, babes shrieking, drunken wastrels raving or having yelling fights with one another. Just safety, a soft bed, and a warm, soothing drink - even the breathtakingly sharp pains, before they were dulled by the draught, didn't seem like such a bother, even if they greatly inhibited his movement.

"You needn't awaken anyone just for me," he decided, "though I am hungry. Been hungry for weeks - my stomach can surely wait 'til morning."

His eyes roamed, curious about the lord's sleepwear. His gaze glanced over the hairy chest, the visible musculature. How did a man who had everything done for him all day and night manage to be so well built?

 

[haremfaery]

"You needn't awaken anyone just for me," he decided, "though I am hungry. Been hungry for weeks - my stomach can surely wait 'til morning."

"Nonsense. If you are hungry, you should eat. You are far too thin." He remembered not to jostle the lad when he stood up. "Besides, I am hungry as well." Orson went to the bellpull. "This calls for Thomas. One pull means 'come as you are able.' Two pulls means 'come right away.' Three means for someone to come immediately. If I am not here and you need something--Just pull the cord. Thomas will be up with food shortly. He knows if I call at this time of night that's what I want."

He walked back to the bed. "Tell me Ambrose. How old are you? Do you have family or a master to return to? I don't want anyone thinking you've been kidnapped." That was less the issue than Orson not wanting someone showing up and wanting payment for the lad. Though from the circumstances he found him in, it seemed Ambrose was living on the streets. Once the lad was healed, he'd find a place for him in his household.

Orson found his slippers and put them on, then took a robe from his cupboard and shrugged into it. He was pouring himself some wine when Thomas came in with a tray of food and another jug of wine. He set the tray on the table and went to tend the fire.

 

[tamgreen]

Ambrose leaned carefully back against the bed's headboard, a pillow tucked in the small of his back, as he sipped at the warm laudanum-laced wine and waited for the relief and euphoria to take effect. His eyes followed Orson around the room as he first pulled the bell, later stepped into his slippers and wrapped himself into some outer garment that Ambrose wouldn't have known the name of.

"No one will miss me," he assured the lord. "Except... those who would want to finish murdering me. I only ever had my mum, and she's dead some years now. Certainly no master. As for my age..."

He took another slow sip from his cup, contemplating the question, which to many he supposed might be a simple one. He didn't have things like birthdays or years or numbers of any kind in his head.

"...I think... somewhere close to twenty. I cannot be certain. I was born on a day of first snow, that much I know, or was told, but I haven't in any way marked the passing of...."

His voice trailed off as Thomas entered with food and drink, and then Ambrose could hardly pay attention to anything else. Despite his assurance that he could wait a good long time to eat again, the mere presence of food naturally called to him, after a life of scarcity. His nostrils twitched, trying to find the smell of whatever had been presented.

 

[haremfaery]

"Murder you? Is that why you were running? 'Sblood! 'Tis a good thing my horse ran into you. By nearly killing you, I've saved your life." Orson chuckled.

Twenty? He had thought the lad was much younger. He was so small and thin. IT made Orson want to protect him. To keep him safe. He didn't understand why. It wasn't like him to care for someone like this.

Orson saw the change in Ambrose when the food was brought in. Orson knew that look well. It was the picture of lust.

Thomas set the food down on the table then went about lighting candles. He tended the fire and tidied a few things. "Is there anything else, m'lord?"

"No. Thank you, Thomas."

Thomas bowed himself out. Orson made a plate of hot meat-filled pasties, cheese, and more bread with butter. He set it on the middle of the bed near the pillows. He poured himself some wine then climbed carefully on the bed so as not to disturb the plate.

He held out a pasty to Ambrose. "Eat your fill. Upon my word, I will see that you are never hungry again."

 

[tamgreen]

By nearly killing you, I've saved your life.

Ambrose hadn't considered this angle. Could it actually be true? So often it seemed that, although he was born and raised on the streets, he was ill equipped to handle them. He'd been face to face with Death many a time and risen to fight another day, but perhaps he had indeed been in truly mortal danger, with those villains after him, having already bloodied him, and with his body weakened with starvation.

Gone were the villains; gone was the gnaw of hunger. For now. Here came another day, and this time he didn't have to fight for it. It had been brought to him quite literally on a silver platter. Eventually he'd have to return, but perhaps he could have a better chance at some employment after a few days' worth of rich meals. And laudanum.

He took the offered pasty and brought it to his lips, taking in the warmth and rich scent. It was fresh, and fat with meat - what a life, to have this presented to him on a whim, even in the dark of night.

Upon my word, I will see that you are never hungry again.

As Ambrose sank his teeth into the flaky, meat-filled pastry, his eyes flicked to find Orson's. What had the man meant by such a promise? He contemplated the words as he made his way through the pasty, eating heartily though not with as much frenzy as he had been seized with earlier. The meat was tender and flavourful, and he found he could appreciate it so much more now that he wasn't in a ravenous panic.

Nevertheless, it wasn't until he finished the pasty that he could manage a reply.

"Surely you don't think yourself a god," he said as he reached for a thick slice of buttered bread. "You mean well, of course. You cannot have your servants feed me forever."

 

[haremfaery]

Orson watched Ambrose eat. The lad savored every bite. It made Orson realize how much he took for granted. He was seeing the world through Ambrose's eyes. It made him want to show all the good things the world had to offer.

"I am not a god. But I am an earl. And my servants will feed you for as long as you wish." Orson told Ambrose in a matter-of-fact way. "Certainly until you are properly healed." He took a pasty for himself and bit into it. Still chewing, he said, "I have been thinking. You have no family. You are not apprenticed. You have no one to answer to." He swallowed. "I would like you to become part of my household. You will be paid, of course, and have a roof over your head. I will feed and clothe you. We shall see what sort of work you're suited to. But all that can wait until your ribs are mended."

Orson was not one for introspection. He wanted to see the lad happy and healthy. He didn't need to ponder why. He took another bite of the pasty attempting to savor it the way Ambrose did.

 

[tamgreen]

Ambrose sank his teeth into his thick slice of bread - hearty yet soft, slathered with rich butter. He was fascinated with the way the butter melted on his tongue, and he licked every scrap from his fingers. Before long this good, solid food would stick to him, filling out his thin frame, erasing the dark hollows where his bones stuck out and the sunken, haunted look around his eyes. For now, he was simply content to have something delicious to put in his mouth, while the wine and laudanum dulled the aching around his cracked ribs and lulled him into an almost euphoric happiness, and the cheerful fire and many blankets and pillows kept him warm and comfortable.

The revelation that the lord - the earl - intended to employ him was a shock to the lad. He quickly swallowed his latest mouthful and looked sharply toward the man, searching for signs of guile.

"You wish to... give me work?" Ambrose stammered. His eyes seemed to well up, just as they had while Orson was singing.

"I've been sacked from any brief employment I had," he added quickly, trying to push past the unsteady emotions made worse by the drink.

"You may regret employing me. I'm not sure I could stay if it is a matter of guilt or pity. I'm not good for much, truly."

 

[haremfaery]

"I do feel guilty, because I am. 'Twas my fault my horse ran into you. Had I been fully awake, I could have reined the horse in." Orson was sincere. "I want to help you Ambrose. Please don't turn down my offer to help. I am not a religious man, but I give to the church. I cannot feed all the poor. I cannot take in every urchin. But I can help you. Please let me. We'll find something that you can do once you've healed." He ate while he talked.

"Do you like horses? Or falcons? There is always work to be done in the kitchen, with the added benefit of always having food to hand. But this is nothing to worry about now. First we must get you healed."

~~~~~~

The doctor came to see Ambrose every few days, to milk more money from Orson, he was sure. Then once a week. The laudanum doses lessened in how often and how much Ambrose was given. Orson was happy to see the lad with his eyes bright and not glazed over from the drug. But he found that he missed the way Ambrose sought his heat in the night and curled against him. The lad was more self conscious without the laudanum. Orson made no arrangements to move the lad to the servants' rooms, or even to the trundle that pulled out from the foot of his bed.

The lad filled out from having as much as he wanted to eat and how often. His face lost its haunted look. His cheeks plumped. His skin shone with the blush of youth. His hair grew to a soft stubble. In two months, he had a head of hair, although it was still very short. Thomas shaved Ambrose's sparse mustache. Orson gave him fours sets of livery, two for each season. Sea water blue for summer and Watchet for the winter. (The colors were chosen to bring out Orson's eyes.) No one who knew Ambrose from before would have recognized him.

Orson taught Ambrose to play Maw. The trick taking game was a bit complicated but the lad learned well enough for them to pass the time. They played for nuts or sweets at first, then Orson staked him with pennies. He taught him to play dice and backgammon. Once Ambrose was up to it, they went outside and played at bowls.

On the occasions where Orson went out on his own, usually in the evenings, to gamble or meet with one of the married ladies in the court, or one of the unmarried courtiers--he was a man after all and had his needs--he had his musicians play for Ambrose. Or asked Thomas to keep him company. He had hopes that the two might become friends since they were of an age.

He even hired a tutor in to teach Ambrose to read and write. That was something else to keep Ambrose busy when Orson had to go to court or had other matters to attend to.

 

[tamgreen]

Surreal laudanum-dampened days drifted into equally surreal clear-headed weeks and months as Ambrose was weaned off the drug and got more acquainted with his new life and, perhaps, his master. He continued to be bewildered by the drastic contrast between this existence and his previous one, and dubious that he might have a skill that would be of any value to an earl. He didn't have any more experience with horses or falcons than he did with kitchens, and he'd never felt like such a dunce as he had when the earl first brought in a tutor. He laboured over a lump of chalk to trace out large, crooked letters, while every other man around him seemed to have the ability to produce artful script the lad could never hope to emulate.

Games were more engaging for Ambrose, at least once he had learned enough numbers and letters to understand a deck of cards. He could wrap his mind around logic, strategy, and chance, and these types of games felt like equalizers, even if he did need frequent reminders of the rules. When he could have a little sport with the earl, even if he was still too shy and nervous to laugh and be playful the way Orson seemed to enjoy, Ambrose felt warm, fluttery, almost euphoric at times.

He did miss the laudanum, and the way it helped him relax. On laudanum, he could laugh a little. He could put on his fancy new clothes, look at himself in a mirror, and smile at what he saw. Off the laudanum, he held back, and when he looked in mirrors he was mostly bewildered at the young man he saw there, who seemed a stranger.

Days and nights when Orson was absent were lonely for Ambrose. His mood was usually downcast when the man left, even if Thomas was not bad company. Thomas was patient and honest with him, answering his many questions. Ambrose tried to use this time to learn more about the household. It took him some time to learn many things - the names of the servants (there were so many!), the names of all the different types of clothing and accessories in the earl's collections, what all of the daily routines looked like.

There was much more he wanted to learn, but he dared not ask anyone to teach him how to do their job, lest they presume he was a usurper. Ambrose's past experiences had taught him how dangerous a potential enemy could be. The lad was certain, despite the earl's assurances, that his position here was tenuous. He had the privilege of sleeping next to Orson, for now, but how long would it last? Maybe only until his ribs were fully mended, or until the man found some other waif to pity. Surely there would be others.

It was jealousy he felt, Ambrose began to realize. He was jealous of a hypothetical other lad who might draw the man's attention away. Or was it only that he was afraid to lose all the wonderful gifts and the sumptuous home he'd been granted so unexpectedly? Certainly there was that, but he was also certainly jealous. He hadn't forgotten Thomas's claim that his master's time in London was largely spent fucking what takes his fancy. This occupied far too much of his mind.

When Orson was out on a particularly late evening, Ambrose stood at the window in his new nightshirt, watching and wondering who the man was with. Would Ambrose be sleeping alone tonight?

 

[haremfaery]

Orson rode home with a broad smile on his face. It was five of the clock and he had a purse full of winnings. He was mildly drunk, the wonderful state where everything was amusing and his body was a-tingle.

His horse rounded the corner where he had literally run into Ambrose, so many weeks ago. Thinking of the lad turned him pensive. Ambrose was on the mend only using the laudanum at night if the pain flared up. He had turned into a handsome lad. Orson chuckled, he still called him a lad when he was was twenty. Yet he had a delicate beauty about him. Blond hair, blue eyes, and surprisingly unblemished skin.

Orson had thought to move Ambrose to the trundle bed at the foot of his own now the lad was doing better, and then eventually to the servants quarters, but he enjoyed the extra warmth and Ambrose seemed in no hurry to sleep elsewhere. He thought many times to slake his lust on the lad, but held back not wanting to re-injure him. Besides, Ambrose was as shy as a virgin, probably still was a virgin. Orson shrugged. It would happen or it wouldn't. There were plenty of other people to fuck.

He reached his home and had to wake a sleeping groom to tend his horse. A servant greeted him at the door and took his hat and cloak. It was clear the man had been asleep waiting on a chair by the door for whenever Orson returned from his nighttime entertainments. He asked for food and wine to be sent up to his room and took the stairs two at a time, his pensive mood replaced once again with exuberance.

Orson pulled back the bed curtains. Ambrose was asleep on his side holding Orson's pillow against his chest. Orson laughed and emptied his bulging purse all over the bed. "Wake up, Ambrose!" He pulled the lad upright and planted a kiss on his lips. "I won and want to celebrate."

 

[tamgreen]

Ambrose had been miserable and lonesome when he'd finally gone to sleep, cradling the pillow that smelled like his lord. He hadn't slept for more than a handful of hours when the man took his arms and pulled him up. He grunted at the dull throb of pain the movement caused, a sound that was quickly muffled by Orson's mouth on his.

The lad froze, his sleepy mind taking some time to comprehend what had just happened. His hand reached up, fingertips touching his lips as if to verify they were still there. He could detect a whiff of liquor on the man's breath and for a few moments looked caught between indignance and hurt. He wasn't sure exactly what to make of this, so he simply didn't acknowledge it.

"You smell like you've celebrated already," he murmured. "Pray you didn't run down anymore waifs."

Quickly Ambrose lowered his gaze in shame over his own scolding words, and then noticed the chaotic scattering of coins that had tumbled across the counterpane. He reached down to touch a few of them, his mouth hanging partially open. This was far more money than he'd seen all at once in all his years, and it was simply one night's sport for this man.

"God's mother," he cursed softly, running his fingertips across more of the coins. "This is what you get from a few games of cards when you play against courtiers? No wonder that you go out so much."