by JM Gryffyn
“Brock,” Emile said in his soft spoken, but direct way. “You cannot do this here. It is mochadi, unclean. It is not allowed.”
“What I do in my waggon is my business, Emile,” Brock said sharply, but his heart was heavy.
“It is not our way,” Galen blustered, stepping close to tower over Brock.
“It is my way, Galen.” Brock did not step back.
“And is there no other road for you, chal?” Emile asked gently.
“Nay,” Brock answered, looking past Galen to catch Emile’s gaze. The big drummer looked away quickly, but not before Brock saw the flash of pain in his eyes.
“Then you must go,” Galen commanded. “We will have no such impurity within our camp.”
“Yer a grown man, Brock, and a true Traveller—it is for you to decide whether you stay or go. But in one thing Galen is right.” Emile’s voice was full of sadness now. “If you stay with us, you must agree to follow the ways of our people. You are young, and so this one indiscretion can be overlooked. Once, but not twice.”
While he could ignore Galen’s bluster, Brock could not see past Emile’s quiet truths. The big man was right. This was his home. These were his people. If he was going to stay with them, he must be willing to accept their way of life, a way of life that did not accept a man loving another in the way he loved Will.
Brock winced at the choice thrust upon him by his own wayward actions.
“Make your choice quickly,” Galen snarled, his beady, dark eyes narrowing with malice.
“Yes, chal,” Emile said with a quick shake of his shaggy head. “Make your choice and tell it to the kris when it gathers tonight.” At Brock’s nod, he grabbed Galen by the arm and walked away toward the communal fire.
Brock stood there, watching the men go. He was thinking so hard, he startled when Will called out his name.
“Are you all right, a ghrá?” Will added and took him by the arm.
Brock made to duck away, but the bigger man held him easily. Will looked down at him, looked hard into his eyes, and then pulled him close. And Brock let him, even knowing as he did that there was no privacy in the camp, that all would observe and have an opinion.
His fate was sealed as he melted into Will’s embrace.
He shook free long enough to finish buttoning his shirt and straighten his vest. Then, head held high, he walked out of the camp with William.
THEY were halfway to the road when Brock plunked down on a huge pile of stones that made a likely perch for a tired shepherd. William wasn’t surprised, as his steps had grown heavier with every step they had taken away from the Traveller camp. Brock slumped against the craggy outcropping, so Will sat down in front of him and waited for him to speak.
“Your father will be looking for ye. You need to go on home,” Brock said sharply, and Will’s mouth dropped open in surprise.
“I’ll not go anywhere without you,” he responded.
“Why?”
“Because I have no wish to do so.”
“Don’t be dense, William. There is no place for us together in this world.”
The pain in Brock’s eyes made Will want to look away, but he knew somehow if he did he could lose him for always. So he met Brock’s gaze.
“What’s this talk of place, Traveller?” he asked archly, then he cocked his head when Brock’s eyes widened in surprise. “We don’t need a place in the world, Brock,” he added gently. “You of all people should know that. All we need is each other.”
Brock gasped, staring at Will with a puzzled look.
Will merely shrugged and smiled ruefully. It took a few moments, but as he watched, the expression on Brock’s face turned from anguish to resolve.
“William, when you leave for America, can I go with you?” the young man asked in a small, choked voice.
“Aye, laddie,” Will crooned. “Ye’d have to kill me otherwise, for I’d not be fit company for man nor beast without ye.” He pulled Brock into his arms and kissed him tenderly, tasting unshed tears.
PULLING his army duffle out of the wardrobe, Will began selecting things to put in it.
“Master William, there are men in the yard asking to see you,” one of the maids spoke tentatively from the door.
Will nodded, and she vanished like a frightened hare. Damn, this was all he needed: another complication, another duty.
When he’d met his father on his way into the big house, the senior O’Sullivan had merely looked hard at him. Thank God he had no way of knowing what his son had been doing or he would have had plenty to say besides, “Get in and get changed. I have some work for you, boy. Something that will keep you too busy to be out all night carousing.”
He had heard an automobile pull up outside, heard the voices of authority inquiring after him.
Leaving his packing, he made his way wearily down the stairs and out the front door. There stood two men in crisp wool uniforms. Not Black and Tans—newer recruits who didn’t merit the full uniform of the Royal Irish Constabulary and had to make do with their old army khaki pants. No, this was the real thing, clad from head to toe in dark green. One of the men turned from petting one of the sheepdogs.
“Will, William O’Sullivan. Good to see you.” The man greeted Will cordially, holding out a hand to shake.
Will obliged him, vaguely remembering the man, an acquaintance of his father, from the time before the war.
“Mister Hyde, would you care to come in?” he asked politely, gesturing toward the house.
“Nay, lad, not this morning. I’ve much to do, but I thought to come see you and extend an invitation to join us.” Hyde gave him a bland smile.
“To join the Black and Tans?” Will asked bluntly, tired of niceties.
“Oh, I think we can do better than that for one such as you, Lieutenant O’Sullivan.” It was the other man who answered him.
“Ah, you mean I’d rate a complete uniform.” Will had to fight to keep the sneer from his face and voice. Still, he did not think either Hyde or his companion was duped.
“I think the Constabulary has a place for someone with your leadership abilities, Master William. Should you be interested, come see me in Dublin,” Hyde said without a hitch, extending a calling card. Will gave a terse nod and accepted it. The two men then took their leave, getting into a sleek black car and driving away down the lane.
Peter appeared in the doorway only moments after the car left the drive.
“Damn leeches,” the older man snarled in the direction of the road.
“I thought you approved of the RIC,” Will said in surprise.
“They’ve become a blight on the land, and that is what I care about, Will. The land and the economics of our country. Not damn fool politics.”
Well, this was one thing they could agree on.
“Go to Dublin, son. Find your brother for me. He’s at risk there from more than his own lunacy. I fear for him,” Peter directed, nodding with his chin in the direction the car had gone. “Dublin is not a safe place right now.”
“Ireland is not a safe place, Father.”
Peter sighed. Suddenly, he looked quite old to Will’s eyes. “The world isn’t safe, but you know that for yourself, I’ll wager. Bring Timothy home, with or without the girl. I don’t know why I’m fighting the boy on this. You’re going to marry Ceara Kelly, continue the family line for me. What do I care who Timothy marries?”
At Will’s astonished look, Peter quirked a grin. “I heard she kissed you at Antrim’s yesterday. The two of you will make fine, bonnie babes.”
A cold sweat broke out on Will’s body at his father’s callously spoken words. He opened his mouth to speak, to object, but he could get nothing out. Peter smiled broadly, completely mistaking Will’s stunned look and gaping mouth.
“Go get your brother, lad,” Peter O’Sullivan directed. “And we’ll plan a wedding when you get back.”
Will went inside and finished packing, choosing carefully from his things. His mother’s golden locket
and his grandfather’s watch given to him before he left for the war, pants and shirts, a thick woolen jumper. He would have liked to have packed his great coat but could think of no way to explain its bulk. He realized as he put it aside he was packing to leave for good. He had no intention of ever coming home again. Crossing to the window, he looked out over the expanse of land that was to have been his legacy. The hills were lush and green under the morning sun. Sheep dotted one hillside, and at the edge of the uplands he could see the dogs, Tip and Snippy, scrambling over the rocky soil. This was his home. He loved it and he wanted away from it with equal fierceness. He brushed away hot, angry tears as he turned from the view and shoved one last jumper into the bag.
There had to be sheep dogs in America.
HE HAD painted and carved the interior of his waggon himself. Would Doreen burn it when he left, as they burned the possessions of the dead? Brock ran one finger along a painted flower that graced the little alcove in the back of his waggon. It was meant to be the bed of a child. If he went with William, he would never have a son or daughter. Beyond the top of the bisected door, he could see a gaggle of children dodging between waggons, playing hide and seek or some such. He would miss the little ones, telling them tales, teaching them the way of the people as every adult Traveller was wont to do.
Turning away from the door, Brock began pulling his rings from his fingers. The sale of two prize horses only a week ago had brought him several new ones. They would go a long way toward making Doreen’s life easier once he was gone. He fingered the circles of gold, then slipped two of them into a carved wooden box. Doreen would know they were for her when she found them under his pillow. He wrapped the rest in a kerchief and stuffed it deep into a carrisack, then followed it with his spare shirt, vest, and trousers. There was room for his jacket, so he shoved that in too. That was it—a Traveller lad traveled light, always. And he really was a Traveller; he was simply taking a different route than that of most Gypsies. His mother knew it was the right path for him, Brock was sure. But it didn’t make his heart ache any less as he left his waggon. He carefully closed the top half of the door as well as the bottom. It looked like rain, and it wouldn’t do to get the bedding soaked.
PADRAIG had brought ’round the Crossley 20/25, Will noted in surprise as he went out the door of the house. Somehow he had expected to go to Dublin in the horse-drawn buggy, but his father’s pride and joy was obviously there for him. As Will climbed behind the wheel of the automobile, Peter strolled out of the house and came up to the side.
“Take good care of it, Willie. It’d be hard to replace,” the elder O’Sullivan said with a nod of his head. “Had to go all the way to London to get it.”
Will nodded back, unable to speak. He wanted badly to get away from this man who assumed he knew him, who made decisions concerning the lives of his two sons as if they were part of his prize flock and not men fully grown. He didn’t hate him, no. Yet he couldn’t stay here and be one of his father’s sheep. So he nodded his farewell and drove off in the automobile.
He discovered Brock walking along not a mile up the road. The youth turned as the car came to a stop, and once again, Will saw pain and resolve written plainly on Brock’s face. He did not argue or remark but simply leaned over and swung the door open for Brock to get in.
When they reached Dublin, they left the Crossley parked near a churchyard and put the top up before they began their search. The city was teeming with people on this fair Saturday afternoon.
Will shot Brock a weary grin as they turned down yet another crowded street. He tried not to grimace, but he hated the congestion of so many people. Perhaps it was the smells, or maybe all the noise, but he already had the beginnings of a headache. He could only hope they would find Timothy quickly. He snorted to himself, causing Brock to turn back toward him. When he shook his head, Brock resumed walking a few paces ahead of him.
Will watched Brock for a bit, taking in the easy grace of his strut. Then he made himself go back to his own reconnaissance work. After all, he was the one who knew his brother’s haunts. Would that they had not changed too much in three years.
Dusk came, and they had seen nothing of Timothy. At Will’s insistence, they ducked into a likely pub to get a bite to eat, and there they heard Lena’s unmistakable laugh. Brock led the way though the throng of people, and Lena’s face lit up and then fell at the sight of him.
“I’ll not leave him,” she said fiercely, glaring over Brock’s shoulder at Will.
“Not leave whom?” Timothy asked, turning toward her and following her gaze up to his brother. “Oh.”
Will grabbed a chair, spun it around, and straddled it nonchalantly.
“Father says come home,” he told Timothy directly.
“I’ll not,” Tim said quickly. “You can’t make me, Willie. We are wed. We found a cleric to do it.” He caught Lena’s hand and brought it to his lips. “I’m going with her.”
Will turned away at the sight. He had planned it all in his head. He would come and get Timothy, kidnap him if he had to, talk him out of this nonsense, convince him that what he was feeling wasn’t love but lust. He was going to convince his brother to go home and take his proper place as son of the manor. Take Will’s place as heir. Timothy would be the one to make their father happy—because he certainly couldn’t.
Looking at Timothy’s beaming face, Will clenched his jaw tightly against the pain of his own illusions dashed. It was a choice now, his happiness or Timothy’s. They could not both have happiness. Will wanted nothing more than to lower his head to the table and weep. But, of course, he did not. Instead, he leaned forward and clasped his hand over Lena and Timothy’s hands where they rested together on the table.
“Father says to bring her home with ye. He says, since I’ll be marrying Ceara, it doesn’t matter who ye wed.” Then he rose, trying not to hear Brock’s strangled protest as he made his way out of the building and into the evening air.
“Will, Will.” Brock caught up to him, grabbed him by the wrist, and swung him around. Will let Brock move him, but he would not meet his eyes. Instead, he stared down at the paving stones of the walkway. Timmy’s words from three days past resounded in William’s ears: “I can only pray that one day you’ll understand.”
I understand, Timothy. Oh Good Christ, how I understand.
With Brock looking up at him, Will made himself wipe all emotion from his face—and imagined he could feel his own heart breaking. Brock’s face blanched then, and his blue eyes filled with tears.
But as Brock turned away, William realized he couldn’t do it. He could not lose this man so easily. Reaching out, he caught Brock by the arm and dragged him down the sidewalk, back to where the Crossley was parked. He did not let up his bruising grip until he had him all the way to the auto. Will opened the back door of the car and pushed Brock into the seat and crawled in after him. Before Brock could question him or protest, Will swooped down and kissed him deeply, desperately.
It was quite dark in the car with the top down and the windows drawn closed. Will could feel Brock’s erection against him, and he got no protest as he plundered Brock’s mouth. They arched against each other, both wild with need. Will’s own tears nearly choked him as they kissed. Clothes were opened and shoved down, and hot flesh was pressed together. Will cried out at the delicious feel of Brock’s stiff cock rubbing against his own.
“Hush,” Brock warned, and Will was surprised the man could speak, as he surely could not. He grabbed Brock’s upper arms, urging him closer, wishing he could take him, penetrate him, here in the car, this one last time. Will shoved the thought away as he thrust against Brock. Hard and hot and devastatingly final, he shuddered through his release and then felt Brock’s seed splash on his belly. The smaller man collapsed over him, whispering, “A chuisle,” in his ear.
It was then that Will cried.
After a time, his sobs abated. By then the windows of the car were fogged with steam. The smell of sex and sweat and te
ars permeated the air. With a deep groan, Will eased away from his lover. He took a big kerchief from his back pocket and cleaned first Brock and then himself. Slumping against the car door, he fastened his rumpled clothes as Brock did the same. Will watched the younger man’s shaking fingers work at closing buttons, saw beads of sweat form on Brock’s upper lip, in that tiny dip beneath his nose, saw his pink tongue whip out to lick parted lips.
The sight was so beautiful and hurt so very badly. Will shook his head, opened the car door, and tumbled from the vehicle. Brock clambered out after him, and they stood together in the cool night air, saying nary a word.
A strange sound cracked in the night air—something like an automobile backfiring. It was followed by harsh shouts and a piercing scream.
“That way.” Brock pointed, and Will was off and running back toward the pub with Brock following close behind. As they rounded the corner, Will stopped, throwing out his arm to keep Brock from barreling into the intersection and into the path of a large vehicle. Half-car, half-lorry, it passed right in front of them, the back filled with men holding rifles. Someone on the opposite sidewalk threw what appeared to be a wine bottle. It sailed into the bed of the lorry, hitting with a dull popping sound. Fire and screams erupted from the truck bed as men scrambled over the sides and into the street. One man’s clothing was on fire, and others hastened to smother the flames. Rocks and pebbles peppered the air, propelled by the angry citizenry that now filled the sidewalks.
Will dropped his arm from in front of Brock’s body and darted across the street toward the sidewalk in front of the pub. He shoved through the crowd, Brock still close on his heels. A wine bottle flew past him and hit something behind him with a meaty thunk. Will slid to a stop and whirled around just in time to see Brock’s body slumping to the ground. He made a grab, reaching out to catch him before he collapsed totally. Cradling Brock to his chest, Will could barely make out the blood welling from a jagged wound on Brock’s temple.
