An Earl's Desire

[haremfaery]

It was very late at night, or rather very early in the morning when Orson Fitzherbert, Earl of Camberwick rode through the streets of London to get back to his apartments after a very long night of drinking and gaming. And losing. It was so early in the morning that merchants were setting out their wares for market day. Being lesser nobility had its perquisites. He had a house outside of the palace. he could come and go as he wished and not at the queen's pleasure. The queen never included Camberwick when on progress--it was too small a shire to be significant to her, so he never had to spend himself into debt to house and feed the court for a month. He did need to start seeking an appropriate wife at some point but he was still young and there was no pressure to do so just yet. Life was good.

Orson was still quite drunk. He droused and let the horse do the work of getting them home. They reached a stretch where the horse could go faster. His gelding was also anxious to get back to its stall. They rounded a corner just as something darted out, the horse reared and snorted. Orson jolted wide awake and sober. He fought to rein in the horse. Some animal must have spooked the horse.

He was ready to move along when he heard a loud whimper. "'Sblood!" He jumped from his horse to the moaning mound of ragged clothing at the side of the street. "Are you hurt? Where are you hurt? Can you talk?" He gently lifted the youth's head. "What in the name of God were you doing running into the road? I could have killed you!" He let his hands roam over the youth's body to see if there were any broken bones. 'Sblood, the lad stank. But he also had fine features and smooth skin. He could be quite fetching if he were cleaned up.

He couldn't just leave the lad there. He picked the youth up. "Can you sit?" He put him on the gelding and mounted behind him. He let the lad lean back against him as he clicked his tongue and got the horse moving again.

 

[tamgreen]

Market day was a promising day for the many young opportunists who populated London's narrow, winding alleys and sundry shadowy places. The city was haunted by vagrants, variously seen as objects of pity or scorn, or ignored altogether. On this day, many hungry eyes were on the vendors and their carts, though there was scarcely yet enough light to see by. Others would wait for crowds together, providing ample opportunities for pickpocketing.

Ambrose was at a disadvantage, as he always seemed to be - even the bloody children seemed to run roughshod over him, behaving no better than curs and gulls who will go on the attack for any meagre scrap. Although a young man now and by no means a child, a lifetime of malnourishment and perhaps simply weak blood had left Ambrose slower and softer than most others. Like animals in the wild, only the strong, the persistent, perhaps even the brutal would survive here, and he struggled to understand how so many others managed to find these elusive qualities. Perhaps also contributing to his failures was his unwillingness to resort to acts as low and desperate as others. Ambrose wouldn't wallop a child over a crust of bread, and he wasn't yet quite desperate enough to do what his mother had, God rest her soul.

"We do as we must," mother used to say to him in that vacant, jaded tone she tended to use that always disturbed him. "Ain't no shame in a living, wherever you find it."

Another day, and who knew how desperate he might get? He'd managed to briefly hold down a job at a roper's, but he'd been sacked a few days ago for collapsing on the job. He needed something to eat, just a little something in his stomach, and then maybe he could pull his head together and force his limbs to work long enough to find other employment. Was it worth even hoping for? Ambrose was beginning to wonder about the purpose of this persistent survival instinct. Already, as he huddled in a shadowy alcove watching the silhouettes of the vendors and their carts pass, he was beginning to feel like he might just close his eyes and give up.

A gentle but distinctive thump made his eyes widen and perked him up a little. A small paper-wrapped item had fallen or been dropped. It rolled down the street, kicked aside by several rushing feet. Ambrose waited for an opening and darted forward to grab whatever it was. It felt like meat - he needed meat, badly. He could have almost eaten a rat by this point.

Was it a gift from God, an accident of fate? Perhaps a vendor had taken pity and dropped it on purpose, feigning an accident to avoid judgment from those who accused bleeding hearts of encouraging theft and vagrancy. Whatever it was, Ambrose was grateful.

Then several ruthless hands pulled him back into the shadows, back into the nearest alley. He hadn't been the only one nearby, watching and waiting, and now there were three other boys clawing at him to get the package. He tried to hang onto it and squirm away, but he had little chance of success. Even if there were only one of them, they were determined not only to take his prize but also to make him suffer. He didn't understand why, but as he spotted their dirty faces in the slowly rising light of dawn, he recognized them. He'd run afoul of this trio before, many times, and for many years. They were brothers, he thought, and they used to heckle him on the streets, telling him he looked like a girl and mockingly calling him Rosie; other times whore or whoreson, and other much worse things.

Ambrose was already faint from hunger, and it didn't take long for them to steal his breakfast from him. But that wasn't the end of the encounter - there was bad blood here, for whatever reason, and boyish mocking had somehow, over the years, escalated into genuine desire to harm him. Like dumb beasts, they were instinctively inclined to pick off the weaker member of their population. They snarled out their hatred and desire to kill him, and in a panic, he kicked and hit everything he could reach, pulling and twisting against their hateful grips. They landed several blows, bruising him and splitting his lip open.

Two broad-shouldered merchants soon stepped into the alleyway in response to the commotion, shouting to get their attention.

"Break it up, y' good-fer-nothin's!" barked the larger man, and in response, like pigeons, the bullies scattered.

Ambrose fell in a heap onto the cobbles, his head spinning. He ran a sleeve across his face and it came away bloody. He looked up to thank the merchants, but they were already gone.

On legs that felt about as steady as those of a newborn foal's, Ambrose struggled to stand and staggered back in the opposite direction the villains had gone. He held out no more hope of finding sustenance here and just wanted to find some quiet place to rest, out of reach of those who wished to harm him. But he didn't get far before he noticed those same boys trailing him, lurking behind and seeking to finish what they'd started.

As they increased their pace, Ambrose increased his, fear granting him a little strength when he thought he'd been sapped already. Faster and faster he ran, barely looking where he was going. Darkness was seeping into the edges of his vision. His burst of strength would not last long, not when it had been so long since he'd had a meal.

He didn't understand what happened next, but then there was a massive black shape, and something a great deal harder than fists slammed against his shoulder and chest - the hooves of a large horse. Ambrose tumbled to the ground, the wind knocked out of him, aching all over.

He only had a thread of consciousness left, just enough to keep him struggling to find his breath again. The words of the man standing over him scarcely reached his ears. His too-long hair, filthy and now sodden with both sweat and blood, was plastered across most of his face, and he didn't see who was suddenly lifting him off the ground as if he weighed nothing.

Can you sit?

Could he? Who was speaking? Ambrose was surprised to find himself astride a horse, and a sturdy body sat behind him. Finally, he relaxed, his head lolling weakly, chin resting on his thin chest as his back propped against the broad chest of the man who'd picked him up. Nothing made sense, but it didn't matter now - no one was trying to beat him at the moment, and that was enough reassurance that he quickly lapsed into unconsciousness in the stranger's arms.

 

[haremfaery]

The lad's clothes would have to be burned, Orson mused. He must be crawling with lice. He shook his head and sighed. What possessed him to pick up the lad? His mother had said that everyone loved him because he had a soft heart. Soft head, more like.

The gelding stopped in front of his house. A groom ran up to hold the horse. Orson stirred the lad enough so that he could sit unaided while he dismounted then gently took the lad in his arms. The groom looked at the urchin but said nothing. He led the horse away to tend and feed him.

Orson thumped on the door with his foot. A servant opened it almost immediately. Poor Wilson, he had probably been sitting at the door all night waiting for Orson's return.

"Lord Camberwick," He took in the dirty waif Orson was carrying. "My lord--"

"Find some clothes to fit this lad and ready a bath in my chamber. Have cook make breakfast for two and send it up as well." He paused and looked down at the lad noticing the blood in his hair. "And send a runner for a physician."

Orson carried the lad up to his room. The rush mats on the floor sent the smell of meadowsweet into the air as he stepped on them, but it did nothing to cover the smell coming from the boy.

He laid him in the window seat then took off his own cloak. He set about undressing the lad wondering if he should have gotten one of the servants to do it, but for some reason he felt protective of the lad. He took a cloth and wet it in a basin and began washing to the lad's face. Orson hoped the cool water would bring the lad around.

 

[tamgreen]

The boy's exhausted sleep was as thick and dark as treacle, desperate and dreamless. The man had been working on him for some time with the cloth, wiping away layer upon layer of grime from his face, before he began to rouse. He remained deep in his heavy slumber until a small burst of pain pulled him out, flashing brightly in the darkness. Despite the gentleness with which the washcloth was handled, a tender swipe across his swollen, bleeding lip caused him to wince. His eyelids fluttered, and he squinted against the light shining through the window beside him. That was the direction in which he looked first, confused by the clear pane of glass.

Ambrose inhaled carefully through his nose, and his nostrils twitched. He was confused by his surroundings, in particular by the symphony of what he thought were floral scents around him. Against this fragrant backdrop he could smell himself heavily, and became acutely aware all at once that something - everything - was wrong. Wherever he was, it was the wrong place. The only places he could imagine being transported unawares were a gaol or hospital, if any fool would care enough to drop him at the latter. This place seemed nowhere close to either, though in truth he had no conception of what the inside of a hospital looked like.

He finally looked to the man leaning over him and squinted at the unfamiliar face. He knew the appearance of wealth, at least, and instinctively averted his brown eyes as he tried to shrink away from the presence that was much too close to him.

When he tried to sit up, however, sharp pains radiated through his chest, causing him to cry out and fall back again. He touched his chest and found it bare. Panic crossed his features, and he reached down to his waist, finding his belt also removed. He'd had a small, grimy canvas pouch attached to his belt containing his personal effects - to most people its contents would look like rubbish, but it was everything he owned and he reached out to either side of him, trying to find what was lost.

"My things!" he huffed in a low, hoarse voice, lashing out to push away the hand that attempted to reach down and calm him. "You've robbed me - I've nothing, damn your blood, and still you take it from me!"

 

[haremfaery]

"Easy, lad." Orson pulled back and ran his fingers through his hair. "I don't mean you any harm. Your pouch is safe. Your clothes, however, I plan to have burned. Now," He looked over at the steaming copper tub by the fire. "Are you able to get into the tub and have a proper bath, or shall I carry you?"

The lad was still flushed with anger, which seemed better than his ghostly pallor from before. Orson felt awkward. He didn't know what to say to reassure the lad. He didn't know what to say at all. He knew how to treat his peers and his betters. He knew how to treat his servants and her lessers. He didn't know how to treat a boy that his horse ran down in the street.

He huffed out a sigh, "Forgive my rudeness, I'm Orson. What's your name? Do you remember what happened?"

 

[tamgreen]

Ambrose glared at the man, and then turned his head to stare at the window again. He felt like a prisoner, and the fact that his clothes were to be destroyed only reinforced that idea. Another idea rose up, and he felt like a fool for not realizing sooner what this probably was. Abducted by a rich man, his clothes taken, forced to bathe. Of course this would only be one thing.

He swallowed back a bolt of fear. Plenty of women did this every day, and so did a fair number of young men. He'd learned enough from observing his mother a few ways of protecting himself, at least, and it would have to start with drawing a few lines, or at least attempting to. He was well aware he had no power here.

"I remember a horse, I think," he murmured before trying again to sit up, refusing help as he struggled against his faintness and the pain that flashed across his chest.

"My name isn't important," he continued. "I don't care what you call me."

He avoided looking directly at the wealthy man as he forced his aching body to stand and shuffled awkwardly toward the tub.

"You'll pay fairly," he added, a little of the nervousness inside him coming through despite his attempted bravado. "And... if you make me bleed, I'll make you bleed, you understand?"

 

[haremfaery]

Orson watched the lad sit down in the tub after his ultimatum. He was so thin. It made Orson's heart ache for the lad. It took a moment for him to register what the lad was saying. When it did, he let out a loud laugh.

"My dear, dear lad." He laughed again. He ran his fingers through his hair. "You think you are to be Ganymede to my Zeus?" He shook his head. "I prefer married women and single men. And all of them smell much better than you." He walked to the tub and sat down next to it. "I did not abduct you. My horse struck you and I brought you to my home to see you properly cared for. You are injured. You are in pain. Let me help you." Orson's deep blue eyes searched the lad's face. Damn and blast, why did he give a flying fig about this ragamuffin?

 

[tamgreen]

Ambrose gripped the edge of the tub tightly, suppressing another grunt of pain that every movement of his upper body caused to flare up. He lifted one leg in and gasped as his foot met very warm water. Like most common folk, his only 'bathing' had been the occasional cursory wipe with a damp and not especially clean cloth, and the even more occasional dunk in a not especially clean stream. Immersion in heated water was a luxury he'd never been anywhere near.

He took his sweet time getting his body into the tub, gasping several times over at the singular sensation. The warmth wrapped around him and seemed to seep into him, all the way to his bones. He relaxed back against the side of the tub, resting his head and letting his eyes shut. He nearly slipped into exhausted sleep again in response to this incomparable comfort.

Jarring him back to full consciousness was the jangling laughter of the man who was soon sitting next to him. Laughter? Why was he laughing? Ambrose's brow furrowed and his eyes slid over to examine the wealthy man. Was his conclusion so absurd? Perhaps so to a pampered bloke like this, ignorant of the streets.

"Charity then," Ambrose muttered, seemingly disgusted by this. Angrily he turned away, closing his eyes again and slipping beneath the surface, immersing his hair and letting the warm bathwater begin to soften the matted places. He wiped his face with his hands and surfaced with a deep breath that radiated more pain through his ribs.

Ambrose rubbed at one of his arms, watching with fascination as layer upon layer of filth left him, causing his flesh to turn several shades lighter. And he hadn't even used soap yet.

The sound of footsteps signaling another presence made him tense up. He turned curiously, and immediately his nose caught the smell of food. His eyes grew wide and his breathing hastened in an almost feral imperative to feed.

 

[haremfaery]

Orson restrained himself from helping the lad. As much as he wanted to, it was clear he wanted to do this by himself and touching him would only confirm the lad's suspicions.

He unbuttoned his doublet to get more comfortable. "Not charity, you stubborn git. I thought my horse killed you. When I saw you were alive, I brought you with me so I could have you tended to." He ran his hand through his hair. "If this doesn't sit well with you, then finish your bath, break your fast. My valet will bring you fresh clothes anon. Then you may go back to gutter where I found you." His words weren't harsh, just matter of fact and a little frustrated.

A maid entered with breakfast: cold leftover chicken and bacon from the night before, fricassee of eggs with apples, bread and butter, and small beer in a pitcher. She set the tray on a table and curtsied.

"Thank you, Mary. Send Thomas up when he has the clothing ready."

"Yes, Lord Camberwick." She curtsied again and glanced at the boy in the tub before leaving.

Orson turned back to the lad. He handed him soap and a cloth. "I've sent for a physician. I can see you are in pain every time you move." He stood up and poured beer for them both and handed the cup to the lad.

 

[tamgreen]

Lord Camberwick.

This man wasn't just any rich bloke. Ambrose had been picked up off the street by a lord. He glanced back at the woman who had brought the food, as if for help, but she was already departing, shutting the door behind her. Ambrose in no way belonged anywhere near this house - was it a manor? - injury or no injury. Whether he'd been hurt or killed, he would have expected a man like this to just ride on. Perhaps he was the type to throw some scraps to the guttersnipes every now and again and go home to his palace feeling like a hero.

A bath, breakfast, new clothes, a physician, and back to the gutter - surely they would both be relieved at that. Except for that small matter of the caitiffs who were after him for God only knew what reason. He touched his swollen lip, which was still quite painful, but no longer bleeding. It would certainly not stop him from eating. With food in his stomach, surely he would have more fight in him upon his return to where he belonged.

He looked ravenously, almost predatorily, at the tray on the table, but instead he was handed a cloth and what Ambrose assumed was soap. Of course, he didn't know that food was for him - it looked and smelled far too grand. And he certainly wouldn't be allowed to touch anything until he was proper clean. What would be a lord's standard of clean?

Before he could figure out what to do with the block of soap, however, a cup was pressed into his other hand. He didn't bother examining it closely - he just drank. His body needed something, anything, and he quaffed the entire cup in one shot, without breathing. He only considered the taste of it after he'd finished, breathing in short, ragged gasps. Beer, but not a strong one. It was refreshing and obviously fine quality, certainly the finest thing that had ever crossed his lips, but it only seemed to sharpen his hunger. His hand quaked and he dropped the cup inadvertently. It clattered and rolled across the floor, and then his other hand trembled and the cloth and soap dropped into the tub. He looked stricken for a moment.

"B-beg pardon, m'lord," he stammered, which seemed like about the right thing to say. However he felt about this lord, Ambrose was loath to risk compromising his chance at a meal.

Ambrose reached down into the bathwater, which was already clouded with the dirt that was steadily coming off him. He eventually found the cloth but the soap was more difficult to grab hold of. He chased it around the bottom of the copper tub, grasping it and losing it a few times before finally getting his hand around the slippery block.

He tried to be quicker about his work now, sliding the soap up and down his arms, his chest, his neck, coaxing more and more dirt away. He tried working on his hair, not entirely sure he was doing this correctly. He rubbed the soap block against the matted bits in his hair, which accomplished very little, and soon he dropped the soap once again.

Frustrated, and increasingly feeble with the gnawing hunger pangs that grew worse with every minute he had to sit here in the same room with food he couldn't eat, Ambrose went limp and closed his eyes, leaning weakly on the edge of the tub.

 

[haremfaery]

"Blast it all!" Orson lifted the lad out of the tub before he drowned himself. He wrapped him in a linen towel and laid him on the bed. He yanked the bell pull for a servant then chafed the lad's hands.

The servant of the chamber, Thomas, arrived. "M'lord?"

"Is the runner back yet? Where is the damned physician?" He continued to chafe the lad's hand and stroke his face.

"Yes, m'lord. The physician should be here anon."

"Bring him up immediately when he arrives." Orson stood, found the dropped cup and filled it with more beer. He brought it to the bed and tried to revive the lad by lifting him up.

"Here, drink this." He said when the lad stirred. He didn't care that the lad's wet hair was soaking his doublet and shirt. It would have to be cut to get rid of the mats. And the lice. He thought offhandedly. "Are you able to eat? I can feed you."

 

[tamgreen]

The world was spinning around Ambrose. He floated in a sea of warmth, slowly tumbling. Up was down, down was up, and the smells of food and beer still tickled his nostrils. He was unaware of being wrapped up and carefully propped into a sitting position on the bed, but the cup at his lips brought him back, faintly. He accepted the cool liquid into his throat and his eyelids fluttered.

The young man's eyes half focused, and he found the lord's perfectly groomed visage very near him, holding the cup, his other hand, so smooth for a man's, cupping his jaw to keep him in place. Ambrose had no fight left in him - he accepted whatever this was, and drank.

"Please," he whispered to the offer of food. "Please."

Soon there was a small bite of bread at his lips, and Ambrose nearly took the man's fingers into his mouth in his eagerness to get that morsel inside him. He chewed a minimum of times to get the bread down his throat, and only noticed afterward that it was buttered bread. Butter - such a luxury. The sort of thing he might fantasize about as a small boy.

The more he was fed, the more life crept back into his body. He focused on the bread first, amazed by the butter, feeling it melt on his tongue and licking the smoothness from his lips. He finally noticed the plate and the variety there, and his hand moved as if of its own accord, closing around a leg of chicken. He took the meat in his fist and pulled it to his mouth, sinking his teeth in and devouring with the intensity of a feral cur inhaling discarded scraps with desperate haste before any other beast could snatch it from him.

 

[haremfaery]

"Whoa, lad. Take it easy. You don't want that chick to come back up. Take your time." Orson soothed. "You can have all you like, just go slowly." He reached over and placed a piece of thinly sliced beef on a piece of buttered bread and took a bite. He finished the bread and realized he was nearly as hungry as the lad. Usually he was a bit hungover of a morning and ate but lightly.

He looked the lad over, the color was back in his cheeks though still pale. He'd need another bath, maybe two. And that hair. It might have to be shaved, or at the very least cut short to remove the mats and lice. He'd get one of the maids to apply a remedy and do the nitpicking. He'd probably need it himself, but at least he didn't see any crawling on the lad.

Thomas knocked and entered the room. "Lord Camberwick, Doctor Nash is here." He stepped aside to allow the man entry.

The physician was an older man with graying hair. He carried a satchel with his powders and potions and other implements. "I was told someone was injured." He looked at the boy in the bed then back to Orson, the doctor was nothing if not discreet especially if he wanted to be highly compensated for his services. "What happened?"

 

[tamgreen]

Ambrose attempted to slow his ravenous eating, but this temporary resolve could not win out over so many years of scarcity, particularly since he'd been on his own. The pleasure of feeding went hand in hand with the panic of it ending - it was as natural as breathing to eat as much as possible while it was in front of him.

After devouring the chicken down to bare bones, he sampled generous portions of everything on the platter and then came back to the buttered bread. The smooth, rich luxury of it was irresistible. He was licking a mixture of butter, chicken grease, and salt from his fingers, not willing to waste even the tiniest morsel, when the doctor arrived.

The lad's appetite finally waned. He knew what to expect from a doctor, at least based on talk on the streets. They were often referred to as cutters, and would bleed people dry, when they weren't dosing them with poisons that were worse than the disease.

He paused, waiting to hear the lord's answer, but the question seemed to have been posed to him. He gave the man a suspicious look and pulled up the towel around himself in a protective gesture.

"Just a bit, ah... run down by a horse?" he said uncertainly. His eyes flicked in the lord's direction, nervous and hesitant. Did he sound like he was making an accusation? Accusing a rich man could easily come back to bite him, even if he were in the right.

"Accident... my own fault. Clumsy. Bit bruised, that's all. I haven't no diseases."

 

[haremfaery]

"I"m not sure what happened exactly. I was riding home and drowsing on my horse. The next thing I knew, the horse spooked and the lad was lying in the street." Orson doubted it was the lad's fault. He was the one not paying attention after all. He moved away from the bed and took the tray of food so the doctor could examine the lad.

"I need to examine you. Lie still." The doctor ordered. He looked in the lad's eyes and mouth, felt his forehead, then poked and prodded his limbs, chest, and back with little regard to his patient's pain.

He turned to Orson. "It's possible he has a broken or cracked rib, maybe two. Probably from the horse. Although the other injuries look more like he was beaten. His eyes are clear. I expect his head is fine. He's pale and cool to the touch, s no need for blood letting. Feed him warm food and drink. I'll leave you some laudanum for the pain. Add it to mulled wine. That is, if you plan to keep him under your care." The doctor couldn't understand why the earl would take in an urchin even if the earl was at fault. Better to let the lad die in the gutter than give him a look at the life of his betters for a time and then send him back to where he came from. The doctor shrugged mentally. "I expect he has a preponderance of yellow bile. He is in no condition to dance, but merry music may hasten his recovery."

Orson raised an eyebrow. "Merry music, wine, and laudanum." He snorted a laugh. "A far better confinement then when you bled me and had me eat nothing but broth for nearly a fortnight."

The doctor took out a small bottle from his satchel. "A few drops of laudanum in warm wine for pain. I will stop by in a few days to see how he progresses. Send a runner to me if anything changes."

Orson took the bottle. The doctor waited patiently with a pleasant look on his face. Orson smirked and fished out a few coins. The doctor smiled and nodded. "Thank you, milord, thank you." He bowed himself out of the room just as a servant arrived with an armful of linens and clothes.

 

[tamgreen]

Ambrose had endured the examination without comment, albeit a few half-stifled grunts when the doctor prodded at his ribs and rolled him over. He felt like livestock when it was done, but was relieved no knives had come out. In fact, the doctor didn't seem to have done anything but leave behind a tiny bottle. He didn't know what laudanum was, and he was confused that anyone would want to give him anything "for the pain". What difference was it to anyone if he was in pain?

"You really... need not... go to such trouble," Ambrose stammered, gazing curiously up at the lord. His surroundings were getting to him, and now was trying hard not to sound like an ignorant, illiterate nobody, even if he was one.

His eyes shifted over to the new servant, carrying in what looked like clothing. Was this the lord's launderer? How many people did he have coming in and out of here throughout the day?

 

[haremfaery]

"Francis, put the clothes on the bed. Send up some boys to remove the tub. Have the kitchen send up more food and a pitcher of wine." He paused and scratched the stubble on his cheek. "And send Thomas up."

What was he going to do with this lad? He could move him to the guest room for now. Once he was healed he could set him out on the streets again. But that seemed crueler than if he had just left him in the first place. What had he been thinking? He hadn't thought. He was too drunk and tired to think it through at the time. The lad had no schooling, no training. He supposed he could have him work in the stable. It didn't take much to learn how to muck out a stall. He could take him up north when he returned to his manor. There were plenty of jobs the lad could do there. That is, if the stubborn git even wanted to go. He sighed. There was plenty of time to make a plan as the lad healed.

"You can dress if you like. The wine will be here shortly and I can give you the laudanum for your pain. It may make you sleepy." Orson removed his doublet and tossed it on a chair. He untied the laces at his neck revealing a smattering of dark hair on his chest.

 

[tamgreen]

The lad's eyes followed him. He could not begin to imagine what life must be like for a man who never lacked for anything, and had a seemingly endless supply of servants to complete every little task for him. It seemed beautiful and revolting at once. From the looks of him, the lord was quite lean for someone who lived a life of such excess. Ambrose curiously peeked at the chest partially revealed by the loosened shirt, and then looked down to compare it to his own. He hadn't much in the way of hair, the lack of which only seemed to emphasize the unsightly bruises from both the encounter with Orson's horse and his earlier beating, as well as a scattering of old scars from a multitude of misadventures. He'd never noticed most of these scars before, and now they seemed to scream at him. Although he had never been cleaner, Ambrose had never felt so ugly.

He moved himself gingerly down to the foot of the bed, trying to reach the stack of clothes without causing his injured ribs too much pain. He piled the covers around his middle, feeling an instinct now to stay hidden, though of course the lord had to have already seen everything.

"These are... for me?" he asked softly, drawing his fingertips over the smooth fabrics. They were simple, inexpensive garments most suited to the servant class, but still several steps above what he'd ever had. They were pristine and new-looking. He lifted a smooth hempen undertunic, breathed in the clean scent of the fresh, fine fabric, and brushed it against his cheek. The rich man seemed to quite willing to give him things in recompense for the accident, but would he really give these fine clothes as well, without any expectation of reimbursement?

"To keep? I... this is too much. They feel expensive. I have nothing."

In walked Thomas then, after a brief knock, followed by a group of lads that gave the boy in the bed a probing, curious look as they hurried in to deal with the tub. Ambrose avoided their gazes, trying to cover himself with the clothing.

"M'lord, the food and wine will arrive presently," Thomas reported, and stood to await further orders.

 

[haremfaery]

"Of course they are for you." Orson smiled. "Did you think to go about naked?" The poor lad made his heart ache. Had no one ever given him anything?

"M'lord, the food and wine will arrive presently," Thomas reported, and stood to await further orders.

"Thank you, Thomas. I'll be wanting a shave. And this one," He jutted his chin toward the lad in the bed and realized he still did not know his name, "Will need his head shaved, I'm afraid. To get rid of the lice."

Thomas bowed and left. A servant brought more food shortly after and a pitcher of wine.

Orson put a poker into the fire and when it was hot enough, he put it in the pitcher to warm the wine. He poured wine into a pewter cup and added a few drops of the laudanum.

"Will you tell me your name now, lad?" He handed him the wine. "Or must I give you one?"

 

[tamgreen]

Ambrose glanced guiltily about as servants continued to filter in and out of the room. Surely the lord knew he couldn't recompense him for any of this - a meal and medical treatment in exchange seemed far more than enough to make up for the accident, which may have been at least as much the lad's fault as the man's. Now, after the luxurious bath and meal, there was yet more food, and clothing that was too fine for him - it seemed clear the lord didn't expect some kind of payment, but the young man had already been surprised by a lot and he was not entirely at ease resting on presumptions. Still, if he spoke up and stated the obvious - that he couldn't hope to repay the man if he laboured the next ten years, scraping for farthings - he might just prove himself a dunce.

He took the wine cup with surprise and a bit of suspicion. The lord had given him only good things thus far, but could he trust what the doctor prescribed? He took the tiniest of sips, just wetting his lips for now.

"Ambrose," he responded after a lengthy pause. "That is my name. I needn't another."

He set the cup down and turned his attention to dressing, slipping on the undertunic, followed by a serviceable woolen tunic. He was examining the options for bottoms when Thomas re-entered with the shaving supplies, including a straight razor that glinted in the light and immediately made Ambrose tense up with nervousness.

 

[haremfaery]

"Ambrose." Orson smiled. A breakthrough at last. "I am Lord Camberwick. You really should drink that to help you pain. I can see it in your face very time you move. I cracked a rib in a joust once. Felt like a dagger in my side every time I breathed." He put his hand to his right side side over the scar.

Orson sat at the table and ate with gusto. He turned when Thomas entered. "Ah good," he scratched his cheek. He downed some wine and moved a chair to the window for better light. less pointed on the chin this time, I think." Orson followed the court fashions. He kept to the stiletto style of beard, with clean shaven cheeks, a neat pointed mustache, and a pointed beard on his chin. He rested his head on the back of the chair and tipped his chin up. Thomas put a hot damp towel over his lord's face and stropped the razor to sharpen it.

Thomas was anxious to learn the full story behind the young man in his lord's bed. Ambrose, he heard the youth's name as he had entered the room. Ambrose seemed young, thin and coltish--as skittish as one, as well, it seemed. But his eyes seemed very old. Thomas had thought him no more than a boy, but the more he looked at Ambrose, surreptitiously, of course, the more he thought they could be about the same age.

Thomas removed the towel and set about shaving his lord. When he was finished, Orson stood and stretched. "Now for the lad--Ambrose. Can you sit in the chair? Or shall I have Thomas cut your hair in bed?" He went back to the table and poured himself more wine.

 

[tamgreen]

Ambrose gave in and worked his way through the cup of wine as he watched the lord receive his shave. The razor looked extremely threatening to him, so it was quite fascinating to see it gliding so intimately along the lord's jaw and vulnerable neck. Even the sound it made as it scraped against the man's stubble made the lad's heart race.

Or was it the laudanum-laced wine that was affecting him?

His thoughts seemed to be moving in slow motion by the time the question was posed to him. He considered it through the dreamy haze that muddled his head and decided he would attempt to get out of the bed. This was all far too much decadence, and having a haircut in bed seemed a step too far. Plus, if things went sideways, he imagined he would be able to defend himself better sitting in a chair as opposed to lying down.

It was a slow, agonizing production to get himself standing, but he stubbornly refused any help. The stabbing pains had abated somewhat by now, but he still wasn't going anywhere in a hurry. He eventually walked over to the chair, taking keen notice of the way the new clothes felt on his body as he moved.

Ambrose sat very still but gave Thomas a wary look as the man approached him with the razor he'd cleaned off after his master's shave. "Your job is just... do what the rich man says, all day?" he asked softly.

 

[haremfaery]

"Thomas, before you start, remove my boots." Orson sat on the bed.

Thomas removed the boots grunting as he tugged each one off. Orson groaned with pleasure. "I should have had you do that sooner." He stretched out on the other side of the bed from where Ambrose had been. "I'm for a nap. I didn't sleep at all last night. Wake me for dinner, or you, or Ambrose, need me to anything." He turned away from the window and closed his eyes.

Thomas returned to Ambrose. "Your job is just... do what the rich man says, all day?" he asked softly.

Thomas chuckled quietly. "The rich man is Orson Fitzherbert, Earl of Camberwick. And while is no Robert Dudley," he referenced the queen's perennial favorite. "He is more than a mere 'rich man.'" He picked up scissors to cut the hair as close to the scalp as he could. "But yes, I am the earl's groom of the chamber, or valet, if you prefer. I take care of milord's person and other duties as he requires them. In exchange, I receive bed and board, clothing," indeed, his clothing was nearly as fine as Orson's. "And I am paid for my labors." Thomas smiled. You should be grateful. Another nobleman would have left you in the gutter." He shook his head at the horrible matted mess that had been Ambrose's hair. "Never fear, it will grow back and in the meantime, the lice won't bother you."

Thomas soaped Ambrose's head and readied the razor.

 

[tamgreen]

Ambrose was certainly curious as to what might be so special about this 'more than a rich man', a man who seemingly had everything served to him on a silver platter, who had servants to remove his boots for him, who could decide to lie down and have a nap on his huge, plush bed whenever he pleased. What could any man have done to deserve this decadent life? And yet, Thomas was right - another man would have kept riding.

The sensation of the scissors near his scalp was strange and foreign, making him tense up throughout, which his cracked ribs did not appreciate, despite the pain being more distant thanks to the laudanum. Even the soft metallic sound of the blades slicing through his impossibly matted, overgrown hair was nerve-wracking, but he managed to stay relatively still in the chair.

"I'm not bothered 'bout lice or hair," he murmured dreamily, "but have your way. Any man would've left me in the gutter, aye, and should've. But this one didn't. I'll go back to't soon as he please."

Ambrose closed his eyes and considered the even stranger sensation of the soap being worked into his hastily shorn and soon to be shaved scalp. He felt lighter already, and was feeling the warm softness of the lather all over parts of his head he'd never given a second thought to. It was almost... pleasant.

"What's 'grateful', sir?" he wondered.

 

[haremfaery]

"I'm not, 'sir.' Call me Thomas." He began to shave off the last of Ambrose's hair. "Grateful is thankful. Were you an apprentice somewhere?" He doubted it, Ambrose looked like a beggar. "If so, then Lord Camberwick will send you back to your master. If not ..." Thomas shrugged. "He might give you a place here, or at the manor. I don't think he'd throw you back on the street unless you give him reason to. Lord Camberwick has a soft heart."

Thomas wiped off the last of the soap and looked at his work. With no hair, Ambrose's features were more delicate, perfectly shaped head, large eyes with long long lashes. "As pretty as a maiden." He put a cap on Ambrose's head.