The Low Road

by James Lear

  Again, I was quiet for a while. Perhaps Alexander was right. That was enough - at least for tonight. I would find out more. I had all the time in the world. Many more nights like this ahead when, as the trust between us grew, he would tell me all he knew. I felt again the gentle probing of his fingers, groped around until I felt his still-hard cock, and guided him into me.

  Chapter Three

  The following morning Alexander quitted my bed early, returned briefly to his appointed room to rumple the blankets (I doubt whether anyone was fooled by this ruse) and made his way to work. I remained where I was, enjoying the sunshine through the open windows, sprawling lasciviously on the stained sheets where, only a few hours before, Alexander and I had enjoyed our most ecstatic coupling to date.

  I lay on my front, revelling in the slight soreness of arse and cock, both of which had been thoroughly abused the night before. The heat of the early morning sun made me drowsy; after all, I had not been sleeping much. My buttocks felt hot, as if they had been spanked. Pushing my groin into the mattress, I spread my legs and felt the sun on my tender little hole, so lately plugged with Alex’s fat prick. Trying to revive the memory, I reached a finger round and teased it open. Within a few minutes I was happily fucking myself, and turned over on to my back to enjoy an easier ride.

  My cock sprang up, the sun illuminated the golden fluff above it, and I was just ready to finger myself again, when I heard a noise at the open window. I froze. Nothing? My cock was demanding attention, and I pumped it. Again-a noise, a cough, just yards from where I lay. I grabbed the sheet, wrapped it around my waist and jumped out of bed. There, standing at the window, quite shamelessly looking in, was MacFarlane, the part-time labourer who helped out on the estate when we were short-handed.

  ‘MacFarlane! What the hell are you doing?’

  He said nothing, touched his cap, looked directly at the blatant pole concealed - but barely - by the cotton sheet. It was difficult, under the circumstances, to play the Squire.

  ‘Are you spying on me?’

  He coughed again, cleared his throat, continued staring. He wasn’t much to look at: grey hair, a lined, weather-tanned faced, shabby clothes and big, calloused hands. I thought him ancient; I suppose he must have been about fifty.

  ‘What do you want, MacFarlane?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, sir... A beautiful morning, sir...’

  ‘How long have you been standing there?’

  ‘I’ll trouble you no further, sir. Excuse me.’

  Before I could stop him, he had scuttled across the lawn towards the house. MacFarlane had no business there; estate workers dealt only with the steward, a remote figure who ran the Gordon acres from an office in Portnacroish. The oddness of MacFarlane’s behaviour, however, was of less immediate interest than the awkwardness of my position. At the very least, he had watched me wanking; well, good luck to him. The idea of being spied on, even by such an unattractive specimen, was not entirely without its charms. But even to my lust-addled brain, other, severer possibilities presented themselves. He had, perhaps, seen me with Alexander. That was a horse of a different colour.

  I washed and dressed quickly and sat in my room in a dither. I wanted, of course, to run straight to the stables and tell Alexander what had happened. On the other hand, such a course might fuel any suspicions against us; if MacFarlane had been spying for anything other than his own pleasure, it was likely that others were watching too. My mother, for instance. It was her displeasure that I feared above all. Alexander had said how much she suffered; was this the cause of her misery? The drip-drip of sordid gossip, brought to her ears by paid informers like MacFarlane? And who was behind it? Ethel? Hardly; Ethel was such a prim soul that she could never contemplate anything so shocking. Then who? Enemies in the village? Enemies of my father?

  An hour passed in dismal contemplation of my predicament, during which time I had almost decided to collar MacFarlane and force a confession from him. At any moment I expected to hear footsteps pounding down the passage, a hammering on my door, angry voices raised in denunciation. But the house was strangely quiet. I dimly heard a carriage crunch up the drive, heard the stamp and jingle of horses, the slamming of doors, and the sound of departing wheels; a delivery to the kitchens, most likely. Perhaps after all MacFarlane was a harmless old fool who had stumbled innocently on the sight of me with a finger up my arsehole and had been unable to tear himself away. In my vanity, that seemed the most appealing explanation.

  A little after nine, I strolled across the fields to the stable. Alexander would agree with me - MacFarlane was just a randy old goat, and if he enjoyed watching two fit young men fucking, good luck to him. We’d laugh, he might even be sufficiently piqued by the idea to initiate a quickie over the saddle-rack.

  I was one hundred yards from the stable when I realised something was wrong. A strange horse was standing in the exercise yard, a beautiful black stallion that I had never seen before. One of the steward’s horses, gone lame, perhaps, and waiting for the blacksmith? I walked on again, and stopped in my tracks. The strange horse was joined by a strange man-a tall, grey-haired character in a dusty blue livery who emerged into the yard and tossed a blanket over the black stallion’s back and led him to the trough. Of Alexander there was no sign.

  I broke into a run and reached the stable in seconds.

  ‘You!’

  The man looked up at me and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Who are you?’

  He said nothing, shrugged, carried on ministering to the stallion. I pushed past him. Starlight and the others stood patiently in their stalls. Otherwise the stable was empty.

  I emerged, blinking and alarmed, into the sunlight. ‘Where is Alexander?’

  Another shrug in answer.

  ‘Damn you, I asked you a question! Where is Alexander?’

  ‘Alexander...?’ The man pointed vaguely towards the house, shrugged again and returned to the horse.

  Alexander’s family home was only a mile away; perhaps there was trouble, and he had returned to his parents. I ran there in ten minutes.

  The cottage door was open, but I knew at once that there was nobody home. I shouted, I cried, I banged on the walls with my fists. The cottage echoed an answer. A few scattered goods, the signs of a hasty departure, were all that remained of Alexander and his family.

  Panic was rising in my throat. What had happened? Who had betrayed us? I knew immediately that, somehow, this disaster was connected with MacFarlane’s visit to the house. To my mother.

  I ran back home and arrived panting in the hall. It was a moment before I could catch enough breath, but then, with an almighty bellow, I called my mother.

  My voice broke foolishly. I felt near to tears.

  Silence. I wiped my nose on my sleeve, smoothed down my hair and rubbed the sweat from my forehead. Exercising a little more control over my voice, I called again.

  ‘Mother!’

  The drawing room door opened slowly and my mother stepped out, her carriage unusually erect, the bearing she reserved for church appearances and admonishing the servants.

  ‘Charles.’

  ‘Mother, what is going on? Where is Alexander?’

  ‘Everything is quite all right, my dear.’

  ‘Where is he? What’s happened?’ I felt reckless. Confronted with the truth, I would not have denied it. Alexander at that moment meant more to me than anything.

  ‘Charles, I want you to meet someone.’

  ‘What? Did you not hear me? I want Alexander!’

  ‘We have a... a visitor.’

  I became conscious of a person standing just behind the drawing room door.

  ‘Who?’

  Mother quickly smoothed my hair and wiped a smut from my cheek. ‘Charles, this is your new tutor, Monsieur Lebecque.’

  The door glided open and, with a soft swoosh, a dark figure slid into the hall. My downcast eyes took in first the black leather pumps beneath a long, black garment that skimmed the floor. A row of bu
ttons fastened it from the hem to the neck, as my eyes travelled up the otherwise unrelieved expanse of black serge. The hands were clasped behind the back. It was impossible to tell what kind of creature was concealed beneath: male, female, fat, thin, young, old. It was only when I finally, sulkily deigned to regard the face that I could tell, most emphatically, that this was a strong, strong-willed man of perhaps thirty.

  He stood, quite motionless, and looked down at me, a good six inches my superior in height. Black hair was brushed back off a pale, square forehead. Thick black eyebrows met above brown eyes. A strong jawline; the only movement I could perceive was the rhythmic working of the jaw muscles, betraying a hint of uneasiness. A large, slightly curved nose of the aquiline type. A firm, full mouth, a cleft chin, a look of determination.

  We beheld each other for a few long seconds. I was not disposed to be polite; somehow, I connected this interloper with Alexander’s disappearance. I must have been scowling; Mother made a nervous cough and tried hard to catch my eye. Lebecque, on the other hand, was unperturbed; if anything, he seemed to find me an object of amusement. His left eyebrow flickered up slightly; there was the hint of a curve at one side of his mouth, quickly suppressed. He extended a hand and waited for me to reciprocate. We shook; his grip was firm and very dry. My hands were sweating from my run - and perhaps from fear.

  ‘Delighted to meet you, Monsieur Charles.’

  He pronounced it ‘Shaarl’, in the French way - and it was obvious from the moment he opened his mouth that he was as French as his name suggested.

  I mumbled a reply and pulled my hand away.

  ‘Monsieur Lebecque will be taking up your, er... your interrupted education, Charles,’ said my mother, crimson with embarrassment. ‘He has come from Paris. Please, as the man of the house, my dear—’ She checked herself. ‘Please make him welcome.’

  I was silent for a moment, surveying the foe.

  ‘Are you a priest?’

  ‘Yes, my son.’ Again-I thought - that ghost of a smile. It was impossible to know what he was thinking. Insufferable Jesuit!

  ‘Are you to teach me, then?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Very well. I must submit; I am not yet twenty-one. Now, if you will excuse me for a minute, I wish to speak to my mother.’ Lebecque raised his eyebrows and caught my mother’s eye. ‘In private,’ I added.

  ‘Now, Charlie, there’s no secrets in this household, are there? I think it would be better if you showed Monsieur Lebecque the library, and took him for a walk round the grounds, it’s such a lovely day -’

  ‘Very well, mother, if you wish it I shall ask my question in a stranger’s presence.’ I shot what I thought was a damning glance at Lebecque, who remained impassive, as motionless as granite.

  ‘Not now, Charlie. Run along.’

  ‘I am not a child, nor to be treated like a child. I am my father’s son, mother.’

  ‘Yes, dear boy, of course. But our guest—’ She made to leave the hall, and I detained her with a hand - none too gentle, I fear - on her arm.

  ‘Mother, speak to me. I demand an answer. Where is Alexander? What has happened?’

  Quick as a snake, Lebecque grabbed my hand and wrested it from my mother’s arm. The shock made me gasp, and I stood like a fool.

  ‘Please excuse me, Monsieur,’ said my mother, close to tears. ‘I must attend to your rooms. Ethel will see to your man. Until dinner.’

  She hurried out of the hallway, leaving me alone with the stranger. For a priest, I reflected, with a rueful rub of my sore wrist, he was remarkably strong.

  ‘Come, Monsieur Charles, show me your home.’ He extended a hand and pushed me none too gently out of the hall and into the courtyard. ‘Your Scottish air is indeed very bracing after a long, tiring journey.’

  I was in no mood to discuss the charms of the climate, delightful though the day was. ‘Who are you, Monsieur?’ I asked, aping his sarcastic politeness.

  ‘Excuse me. I am Benoit Lebecque, theologian, from Paris, born in Rouen. I come with the highest recommendation of the Bishop of Paris, who has been gracious enough to find me a place in the household of one of the noblest of all Scottish families.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Of course, to teach you. A tutor was required, was it not?’

  ‘Yes...’

  ‘And a tutor has been found. Perhaps we can discuss our academic future when you have been kind enough to show me Gordon Hall.’

  In the face of such stone-faced resistance, there was little I could do but oblige, although with bad grace. Conducting the tour at an uncomfortably fast pace, I whisked Lebecque through the ornamental garden, around the coppice and down to the shore of Loch Linnhe, where I had a good mind to push him in. I walked quicker and quicker; Lebecque was never behindhand, never out of breath. In a race, I felt sure, he could beat me. He met each of my offhand observations with an intelligent, sympathetic question to which I was obliged to reply. Within twenty minutes my hostile first impressions had crystallised into a most cordial hatred.

  Finally we reached the west end of the estate and came into view of the stables. All of my misery returned; Alexander gone, our friendship betrayed. With the self-regarding logic of youth I blamed Lebecque for everything. I stopped in my tracks.

  ‘Monsieur, I do not wish to be rude to a guest in my mother’s house, but I am afraid that I must ask you a question.’

  ‘Of course. You must always ask questions about that which you don’t understand, my boy. And I, as tutor, will endeavour to answer them.’

  ‘Very well. Where is Alexander?’

  ‘Ah. Alexander...’

  ‘Yes. You know where he is, I take it?’

  ‘Alexander, I believe, has been obliged to leave the service of the Gordon family.’

  ‘I saw him only this morning. He said nothing of it.’ My bravery was being seriously undermined by the danger of crying.

  ‘No. Sudden circumstances, I believe.’

  ‘What have you done? Who are you?’ I felt hot; I knew that my face had gone bright red.

  ‘For myself, I have done nothing. I am here only as your tutor. I advised your mother, perhaps, this morning over an issue that she found both painful and alarming.’

  ‘You mean, you and she engaged spies.’

  ‘Nothing so sinister, Charles, as espionage. Simply the discovery, easy to effect, that a member of the household had become... no longer dependable.’

  ‘Alexander had done nothing wrong.’

  ‘It is not his deeds that were dangerous, but his words. You will find from our study of history that it is always words that we fear more than actions. Now, please, show me to the library.’

  Words! Then that was it. We had been overheard discussing my father. Perhaps ‘they’ - my mother, whoever else — had known about Alexander and me all along, and didn’t care as long as it kept me quiet. But now that he had spoken for the first time of my father...

  ‘I must beg you, sir, to tell me more.’ Lebecque was striding ahead of me; I caught on to his gown and nearly tore it. He swung round on me in a fury.

  ‘Enough questions! Stupid, foolish boy! You little know the danger to which you expose yourself and those you love! Silence in these times is the only defence! Your friend is safe and well. That is all you need to know.’ His face, animated for the first time in my presence, now resumed its impassivity. ‘Now please, the library. It is, I believe, a famous collection.’

  The following weeks did little to improve my opinion of Lebecque. He was a fine tutor, certainly, a thoroughly learned man with the rare gift of communication. He breathed life into dead authors. He illuminated the dry polemics of history. He even indulged me with a few basic lessons in fencing. But the moment our conversation strayed beyond the appointed subject, his face closed like a trap and his eyes told me that I must ask no more. In his presence my mother was cowed and nervous, deferential in a way that did not become her, at least not towards a servant in the household
. Ethel hated him openly, referred to him as ‘that black crow’ and swore he was in league with Satan. Lebecque glided through the household with infallible courtesy to us all. Outside lesson and meal times, he closeted himself in his room or took long rides on his black stallion, sometimes staying away for days at a time. His man-servant, Girolle, lay low somewhere in the village, attending Lebecque only on rare occasions.

  My education was certainly improving, but in all other respects my life was miserable to me. I had become accustomed to Alexander’s friendship, to his company both in and out of bed, and I missed him sorely. Every day I hoped that a letter would arrive, that an assignation could be made and that we could escape together to begin a new life somewhere in the Highlands, away from prying eyes. Every day brought nothing but disappointment. While my mind gradually resigned itself to his absence, my body was not so easily assuaged. My appetites, sharp enough before I had learned how to satisfy them, raged day and night with nothing but my hands to relieve them. A few relics of Alexander - the old saddle from the stable, a shirt he had left in my room, the pot of dubbin-I rescued and secreted for my lonely reveries, but even they could not satisfy me. I walked around the house and grounds in a daze of lust. Even Lebecque became attractive to me, much as I hated him. The man was, after all... a man. Sometimes, to my utter disgust, his face replaced that of Alexander in my dreams.

  I took to swimming more frequently in the loch, hoping that the icy waters would give me some relief from the tormenting devils. The stretch of beach that skirted the estate was a favourite spot since childhood: fine, white sand, little dunes of coarse grass, bands of coarsely broken shells washed up by the tide. Jellyfish could be found on the wet sand after a storm; seals occasionally swam close to land and watched me through huge round eyes. Other than that, the only company on the beach were the seabirds that wheeled overhead, catching the last few flying ants of summer.

  Lebecque had swum with me once or twice shortly after his arrival, more to ascertain that I was not making secret assignations than for any great pleasure in the exercise, I suspect. To my amusement he left his long cotton shirt on in the water; as a priest, I suppose, he felt the need to suppress the body at all times. I delighted in stripping off all my clothes and running stark naked into the shallows. Lebecque said nothing, ploughed through the water with amazing strength, ran out, stood for a moment with his wet shirt dripping around his knees, then jogged back to the house to dry and change.