Authors: JM Gryffyn
W
ILL
left the waggon just as the first fingerlings of dawn brushed the horizon, a smile on his face soft as the mist that hung in the air. Dew collected on the toes of his brown leather boots as he walked, but nothing could dampen his mood. Upon reaching the top of the rise where the manor house stood, he looked back to see the circle of waggons sprawled below. The scent of the oil they had used clung to his clothes, sweet oil and sweat, and sex, and a smell that was simply Brock. Will was smiling still as he entered the house and made his way stealthily to his room. There he flung himself on his bed, and, falling asleep instantly, he had only peaceful dreams.
He awoke to sunlight streaming in through the window shutters and his father’s bellow in the yard below.
“They’re wasters, ye know, both of them!” The senior O’Sullivan’s words came as a roar, and Will sat up with a jerk.
Good Christ, his father knew! Someone had seen. Someone had told.
“Complete savages, they are. Both Michael Collins and that American-born whelp, de Valera!” O’Sullivan blustered on.
“Ach no, Mister O’Sullivan, I think not,” Padraig cut in. “The Republicans might have stolen the vote back in December, but the Constabulary will not let them win the war.”
Will flopped back on the bed in relief. That again. Would it never end, this running debate between the Nationalists and the Republicans? Now that the Republicans were coming more and more in line with the Sinn Fein and the Sinn Fein was becoming more powerful, it was doubtful the Royal Irish Constabulary efforts would do anything more than muddy the political waters of Ireland.
Just as long as they didn’t bloody the waters. Oh, but they already had, Will acknowledged to himself, and they would again. Aye, he’d come home from fighting in the army of the English to find Ireland torn by internal war. It mattered not whether it was the blood of innocents spilled on foreign lands or on his own Mother Country by feuding countrymen, it was still war—and he’d had his fill of it.
“William! Timothy!”
Will shoved his head beneath a pillow, knowing it would not block out his father’s voice but wishing for a moment’s more peace.
Peace was a blue-eyed boy on a hillside.
The thought startled him.
Ach, he was insane, he was.
His father bellowed his name again, and Will reluctantly dragged himself up. He shucked his soiled clothes and washed up, then donned clean garments and headed downstairs.
Timothy was nowhere about, and so it fell to Will to do his father’s bidding, which was to pick up a newly purchased racehorse from a neighbor over east in County Kildare. But it had been a while since he had ridden horseback. Even though Will was enjoying the ride, he knew that, on the morrow, he would pay for it with sore leg muscles and equally sore buttocks. Following the road, he kept an eye out for the occasional lorry or motor car that might spook the gelding, but he caught sight of nary a one.
As he turned round a hairpin curve, he glimpsed a lone horseman riding a pony through the tall grass of an adjacent meadow. The rider’s long curls floated out behind him, loose shirt and baggy trousers fluttered in the wind. Will could not keep the daft grin off his face as he guided his mount into the field to meet the lad.
“Going to Curragh to bring home the new racehorse for yer da?” Brock said by way of greeting.
Off his horse and over to the pony in a heartbeat, Will reached up and hauled Brock from the pony’s broad back. Pulling the slender but strong body of the smaller man close, Will searched out full, moist lips for a kiss that left them both breathless.
“You missed me,” Brock chortled when Will released him, then he reached up and pulled Will’s face down for another kiss. He slid his tongue into Will’s mouth and explored its depths, flicking over gums and counting teeth until Will pulled free with a laugh. “Don’t laugh. If you are a-going horse-trading, you’ll need me,
Gorgio
.”
“
Gorgio
?”
“You might be the landowner’s heir,
a chroí
, but to us Travellers yer nothing but a lowly
Gorgio
,” Brock explained.
“Ah, how could I have forgotten,” Will said with a laugh. The term was used by Gypsies for those not of their ilk.
“Have you forgotten how to ride a horse as well,
chal
?” Brock asked with a gleam in his eye. “I can see how yer wincing even as ye stand here, and you can’t have been on horseback long.”
Will shrugged. “I haven’t forgotten. I’ve just gotten out of the habit. I had no need to while I rode in lorries and tanks.” He grimaced at the memory. “And the mules that hauled the artillery hated to be ridden. Brock, what’s this word,
chal
?”
Brock’s mobile mouth half smirked at Will. “Aha, so you know
a chroí
but not
chal
?”
“If I’m not mistaken, they are two different languages.”
Brock only shrugged his shoulders and grinned. His long-fingered hands sought the buttons of Will’s shirt, but Will reached down to bat them away.
“No, no. Not now. I have to be at Antrim’s stable in just a bit. I can’t go there looking like I’ve had a roll in the hay, now can I?” Will shook his head even as his body urged him otherwise.
Brock stepped away from him, and for a moment Will feared the Traveller lad would mount his pony and be away on the wind. Instead, a throaty chuckle came from Brock as his hands went to the string that tied his baggy pants. Slowly, he shed his trousers and then his shirt. Carefully folding them, he bent to stack them neatly on a tussock. He stepped closer, reaching for Will’s buttons once again. Then he paused, waiting.
Will could barely breathe as he took in the sight of Brock standing in the nip before him. Christ, he was so beautiful. Though slender of build, his shoulders were broad and his chest held a fine sprinkle of hair that left no doubt that he was a man and not a boy. It was thickest around his small, brown nipples and ran down his belly in a thin line to the thatch at his groin.
At a loss for words, Will barely managed to nod his assent. Soon his clothes were in a neat stack alongside Brock’s. Will leaned forward to kiss him and was surprised to see Brock staring up at him, his blue eyes filled with trepidation. This was the first sign of reticence Will had seen in the brash young man, and he wondered at it.
To his dismay, Brock sagged to his knees in front of him.
“No, no,” Will said softly and knelt before him. He reached out and touched Brock’s cheek. “Do not look at me that way,
a chroí
.”
Brock’s big eyes widened at Will’s use of the endearment. His mouth gaped open, but no words came out.
Will pulled him into the circle of his arms. “I admit it. You are that. In one day and night, you are
mo ghrá-sa
.”
“My own love,” Brock whispered the translation. He leaned against Will, and together they tumbled down onto the grass.
They flattened wide patches of meadow grass as they romped and rolled, biting and sucking and, finally, coming together in glorious abandon. Afterward, Brock sprawled bonelessly on top of Will. And though William could feel a thistle sticking into his back, he did not move. Here was peace and contentment. Here was everything he’d ever wanted. Yet, even in this blissful state of being, darkness crept into his mind. There was no way that this would go on past the Traveller’s leave-taking in a week or two. So Will remained very, very still, enduring thistles sticking into his back, holding Brock close, breathing in his scent. Collecting for future reference the cadence of his beating heart.
T
HE
racetrack at Curragh was quiet, and it took Will and Brock very little time to wind their way back to Andrew Antrim’s training stables.
“Me oh my, if it isn’t William O’Sullivan in the flesh,” Antrim said as he put out a meaty paw and pumped Will’s hand cordially. “I heard you were back. And who do ye have with you? A new stable boy?”
“Sure.” Will nodded, though behind him he heard a stifled exclamation from Brock. “Show me this new horse my father has purchased, Mr. Antrim,” he said, at the same time managing a wink at Brock.
“He’s a beaut, boyo. A fine thing, this colt. I tried to get your father to let me keep him here so as I could train him myself, but he would not hear of it. Maybe you can change his mind, Will. Padraig is a fine stockman, mind you, but he’s not a racehorse trainer.”
“My father has it in his head to train the colt himself,” Will explained, watching Brock begin to examine the horse, raising each hoof so as to get a look at the condition of the animal’s feet.
“Oh aye, I imagine so,” Antrim said with a sigh. “He’s trained a steeplechase winner or two in his day, I must admit. Not lately though….” A commotion broke out across the stable yard, causing the man to turn away. “Aw feck, I needs see to that,” he told Will. “I’ll be right back, boy. There’s a saddle over there if you care to ride the wee beastie.”
“Thank you, I might do just that,” Will returned. As soon as the stable owner was out of earshot, he raised an eyebrow at Brock. “So what do you think, stable lad?”
Brock grinned at him, and Will sucked in his breath at his body’s quick response. As no one was about, he reached over and stroked Brock’s cheek. The younger man turned his head and nuzzled his full lips against Will’s palm. Will trembled in response to the exquisite caress.
“Well now, if this isn’t a grand altogether. Hallo, Willie,” a woman’s voice greeted. Will jolted in surprise and turned to find Ceara Kelly eyeing him coolly from only a few paces away. How had she gotten so close without making a sound? Will looked quickly to Brock, but the Traveller lad had ducked around the horse and was now moving to get a saddle off the rack.
“I was going to say how I missed ye, Willie, and ask if you missed me, but I think I have my answer.” Ceara’s shrewd gaze cut into him as she pursed her lips in thought.
There had been a time when Will had sought those lips, a time when his father’s wish for him to marry pretty-as-a-picture Ceara had been his dearest wish as well. But that was four years and a war ago. He was no longer young Willie O’Sullivan, though some would always call him that.
“Ceara, I—” His voice sounded so rusty, he had to clear his throat and try again. “Ceara….”
“Nay, don’t say anything you might regret.” Ceara waved her small, delicate hand in front of his face. Then she moved closer and touched Will’s lower lip lightly, her eyes drifting past him to where Brock stood cinching up the saddle. “No,” she said, her voice low and intimate. “Just be careful that no one else sees, Willie. There’s bad trouble all about. Folk are being rousted from their homes with nary rhyme nor reason. Don’t give them an excuse to come at ye, man.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek, then smiled and said loudly, “I look forward to seeing you again.”
Will could do naught but stare at her dumbly as she turned from him and sauntered away.
“Mister O’Sullivan,” Brock said softly, “your horse.” The big bay colt, now saddled and bridled, stepped fractiously. Looking past the animal, Will saw two men wearing dark military-style coats and khaki trousers had come up and were watching with interest.
“Ah shite, I’d be mad to try and ride him. It’s been too long. You take him for a gallop, will ye?” he said with a nonchalant smile.
Brock grinned. “Wise
Gorgio
,” he said in a hushed voice. Will bent and offered his cupped hands and, when Brock stepped there, tossed him up into the saddle. Brock’s be-ringed fingers swiftly took up the slack in the reins as the colt jogged forward. With one quick look, Brock sought permission to move out. Will gave a nod, and Brock rode the horse from the yard and over to the downs where several lads were exercising their mounts.
“A fine rider,” one of the men in green coat and khaki trousers commented, as they watched Brock go. “Traveller lad, is he not?”
“Mhm,” Will admitted grudgingly.
“Ah, a pity then. He’d make a fine steeplechase jockey, elsewise,” said the second man with a superior nod of his chin to where Brock was cantering the colt in large circles.
One of the other lads beckoned, and Brock followed him to a line of fences. Will held his breath as he watched Brock point the bay at the first jump. In seconds, they were up and over the brush box and on to the next slightly bigger jump, both Brock and the colt taking it all in stride. Ha, Will thought, the colt at least had done it many times before. He had the makings of a grand steeplechaser, that was obvious, and Brock was handling him like a seasoned rider. Still, Will sighed in relief when Brock brought the horse back down to a trot.
It wasn’t long before man and horse were back in the yard, accepting the praise of the two uniformed men that flanked Will.
“I think your da will be most happy, Mister O’Sullivan,” Brock commented as he dismounted.
Will nodded his agreement, gazing on Brock’s flushed, happy face. He had to force himself to look away, Ceara’s words of advice ringing in his ears.
Horse trading done, and with Brock riding the colt, they were about two miles out of Curragh when Will spoke up. “You did well back there. You’re a
bréa
rider.” He gave the compliment, then looked up quickly at Brock’s huff of breath.
“I thought ye were angry with me!”
Surprised, Will shifted in the saddle. “Angry with you?”
“For taking liberties with your father’s race horse,” Brock cried out, his expression full of dismay. “Ye would not look at me, after.”
“Ah,
muirnin
, did you not hear, then, what Ceara said? I was afraid to look lest someone take notice.”
“Who, the Black and Tans?” Brock’s voice was still a bit strident, but he shook his head hard. “Aye, they had their eyes on you, but it had naught to do with me. It’s their plan to recruit you, ye know.”
“Recruit me?” Will frowned. “The Royal Irish Constabulary? What would they want me for?”
Brock snorted. “To do their bidding, eejit. They need ex-soldiers like you to help in the fight against the Sinn Fein.”
Will could not hold back a shudder. “No more fighting for me. I’ve had my fill of blood.”