The Low Road (22 page)

For a while, I stood at the side of the bed and looked at him. He was certainly appetising. Dark nipples stood out of his smooth brown chest like organ stops; I licked my fingers and teased them, pulling on them until he sighed with pleasure, then I rubbed the head of my dick over them, leaving a trail of slime over each one. He lifted his hips off the bed, begging me to pay some attention to his arse, and so I gave him a finger, then another, and fucked him that way for a while. God, his arse tugged and pulled at those fingers! I added another, and went as far as I could go; it was far enough for neither of us. How much more satisfaction I would get with my prick, longer than my longest finger by a good four inches.

And then there was his hard, silky cock lying against the taut skin of his stomach, framed by a little tuft of hair. I lifted it and played for a while with the loose foreskin, pulling it back to expose one of the best-shaped heads I have ever seen. I couldn't resist it: I bent down and ran my tongue over it, then placed my lips around it and kissed it. The boy was muttering a string of obscenities in a half-whisper. He hated me, of course, but he loved what I was doing to him.

I stood up and stripped, watching with delight the look of hunger in his eyes as he took in every inch of my body. He was accustomed to the English generals; I would show him the body of a true Highlander, and he'd see what his treachery had cost him. He was transfixed - as, in truth, was I by the sight of him bound and writhing on the bed. I could hear the heavy footsteps of the soldiers as they pounded up the stairs and along the corridors to their own chambers. Between us, there was a pregnant silence. I wanted nothing more than to fuck him.

I clambered over the foot of the bed, in between his legs, and
lay at full length atop him. Our cocks pressed together; our mouths locked, and with one hand I caressed his head while with the other I brutally fingered his arse. Then inspiration struck. I leaned over and blew out the fat tallow candle that was burning on the night stand. We were in total darkness. Now, he must have thought, he was going to get what he wanted.

I pulled the candle out of its holder, pinched off the wick between finger and thumb and spread some of the molten tallow over the other end, where it had been cut down slightly to fit into the candlestick. It was just the right size: as fat as my cock, and a little longer. I hoisted the boy's legs in the air and shoved the candlestick up his arse. He groaned and writhed in ecstasy at first, then spat in disappointment.

‘What the fuck are you doing?'

He was too late. I had used those few seconds to bundle up his clothes. I put on my own shirt (his I had used to tie him to the bed) and stuffed his mouth with a scarf. He would look a pretty sight when the soldiers found him.

I slipped the package of letters out of the purse, dressed quickly and quietly and crept into the passage, just in time to see Blair, my lover of the evening, disappearing into his room.

I went to his door.

‘Blair! Blair!' I whispered, doing my best to impersonate the messenger boy's sneering tones.

‘What is it?' He was clearly drunk.

‘He's waiting for you.'

‘Wha --?'

‘The schoolteacher. He's waiting for you in my room. He wants a good fucking, although I suggest you light a candle first.'

I heard Blair stumbling around, and made my escape down the stairs before I saw him leave his room.

Well, if both were willing, the messenger boy would get fucked, and Blair would get a piece of arse. Only I would leave the inn
unsatisfied. But I had something far more precious: the letters and a new identity.

I left the inn as quietly as possible and stole a horse. By the time Blair discovered my deception, and the messenger had dared to confess that I had tricked him so easily, I would be well on the way to Glasgow.

Dear Charlie

 

 

You must by now have assumed that I am dead or disappeared for good. Perhaps you spare the odd thought for me and wonder what became of your old tutor. Perhaps these letters never reach you at all.

To my astonishment, and maybe yours, I am still alive, no longer in prison, living in relative comfort and safety although not, I am afraid, enjoying my liberty. My situation now may be more dangerous than before, but at least I have a bed to sleep in and a bowl to wash in.

You will see from the address that I find myself in Carlisle, way down over the border in England. Charlie, I hope you never have cause to venture this far south; it is a dismal place, squalid and dark in comparison to the glorious open spaces of the western Highlands. My lot, however, could be worse: I am billetted in a handsome property just outside the town, and have almost forgotten what hunger feels like. The flesh is returning to my bones, and I am even able to exercise outdoors.

You will be wondering how I find myself in such comparable comfort. When last I wrote I was chained to the wall like an animal in a stinking dungeon, my only comfort another prisoner who contrived to escape from
the castle (at the cost, I fear, of a corrupt soldier's life) and gained freedom. I pray that he has found his way home to his wife and child and that no accident has befallen him along the way. He was a good man, if violent.

My status in Fort William was, as you know, extremely parlous. There were those who wanted me killed without delay; word had obviously reached them that I was not an innocent priest, but some kind of French agent at large in Scotland. But my clerical garb served me well and I was spared that time. My heart sank, however, when I was once again summoned to the Governor's office. This time, I felt certain, the die was cast. I was interrogated again; I was silent in response. Certain accusations were made; I did not reply, although I was impressed at their accuracy. I was a spy sent from France to help high-ranking Jacobites, they told me. I said nothing. A rescue party had been sent from France, they said, and was thought to be on these shores. I hung my head; indeed, I still know nothing of the truth or otherwise of this allegation.

They dared not kill me, that much was dear; I suppose the fear of reprisals was a major consideration. Instead, however, I was to be transferred from Fort William to an undisclosed destination. I was placed, bound and blindfolded, in a dosed carriage among sacks of meal and bundles of firewood that had been ‘requisitioned' from the Highland farms, and taken under guard on the road out of Scotland. The arrogance of the redcoats never ceased to astonish me as they stopped and searched every traveller they met. It was only the patience and dignity of these persecuted Scots that avoided outright violence.

Finally we passed through Lanark and over the Lowther Hills, across the border and into Carlisle - or so I gathered from the shouted conversation of my escorts. At least I was fed and watered regularly, and on the third day one of the soldiers suffered me to have my eyes uncovered.

I was unloaded alongside the rest of the cargo outside the garrison at
Carlisle where, had it not been for the thick cords that bound my hands (I was tethered to a railing like a horse) I might have slipped away. Instead I was transferred to an impressive coach and driven alongside a surly, taciturn redcoat to my current address - Leigh House, a well-proportioned red-brick edifice, perhaps fifty years old, obviously the work of a successful, status-hungry merchant with money to burn. The only thing that marked it out from a normal burgher's house was the high wall around the park, the deadly-looking railings atop them, and the armed guard patrolling the perimeter.

I was escorted into the main hall, where my host, Mr William Leigh, awaited me. I disliked him at once: his long, grey hair, his shiny, smooth forehead, the plump, perfumed jowls and white hands that had never done a day's work in their lives. I guessed that his father had made the family fortune, and that the incumbent enjoyed a life of idleness. He greeted me in a brocade dressing gown and a smoking cap with a tassel dangling foppishly from the top; his feet were shod in tiny, delicate chamois slippers.

‘Oh, for heaven's sake, take his boots off!' he squeaked when I was pushed forward on to the Turkish carpet. The guard obliged, and I stood barefoot in my prison rags, a sorry sight to see.

Leigh looked me up and down, circling around me for all the world like a Roman patrician about to purchase a slave. I expected him to prise my mouth open and look at my teeth.

‘Well,' he smirked, ‘you're my little boy's new tutor. I suppose you'll have to do. I don't know what they think they're sending me these days.' He rolled his eyes to heaven. ‘But I suppose we shall have to make the best of a bad job.'

Leigh, I guess, is one of those infamous types who benefit from civil strife, who offers his services and influence to the governing powers in
return for financial and business favours. Leigh House had been converted into a kind of private prison, where awkward cases like myself could ‘disappear' for any length of time under a guise of respectability. So, I was to be a tutor once again. The contrast between my two pedagogical appointments struck me at once.

I sensed that Leigh himself would have been quite happy to ‘lean' from me, such was the appraising manner in which he ran his piggy little eyes over my frame. He insisted on attending while I was taken to the bathroom and sluiced down by his ‘valet', a taciturn brute who I imagined was called upon for any number of intimate services. I tried to maintain my modesty while this creature rubbed me down, and while Leigh peeked around the door like a naughty schoolgirl, giggling and blushing when he saw my nakedness. There was little I could do, however.

Washed and issued with dean clothes, I was summoned to join the family in the parlour. Leigh was there, strutting around like a peacock in his dressing gown. His wife, a semi-cretin, sat in an armchair by the window petting a constipated-looking toy dog. The son, dressed head to foot in embroidered blue velvet, stood by the fireplace with his back very pointedly to the room.

‘Ah, Monsieur!' chirruped Leigh, as I noticed an armed soldier patrolling past the window, ‘how kind of you to join us.'

‘Monsieur Leigh. Madame.'

‘This is your charge, sir. Jonathan. Introduce yourself.' Leigh snapped like an old woman.

Jonathan, the young prince in blue velvet, turned lazily around and leaned against the mantelpiece and stared; he made no move to greet me. He was a tall youth, with a great flop of blond hair over one eye, skin as soft as a girl's and huge blue eyes fringed by absurdly long eyelashes. His mouth was startlingly red in his pale face, his bone structure as exquisite as any of the
porcelain figures that adorned the fireplace. I was fascinated and repulsed.

‘Bonjwaaaah,'
he drawled, in an exaggerated French accent.
‘Commong sah vaaaah.'
He extended one long, pale hand and held it out with the fingers pointing down, as if I should kiss it. I wanted to punch him.

Jonathan, behave yourself, you little... This is your new tutor.'

‘So I see, father.'

‘Shake hands properly.'

‘Very well.' Jonathan slouched towards me and took the hand I held out. His finger tickled my palm, and he moistened his lips.

‘Welcome to Leigh House, sir.' He stared into my eyes, trying to discomfit me. ‘I hope you will be very... comfortable.'

Leigh Senior clapped his hands. Very well! Enough! Show our new guest to his quarters. Double quick!' The soldier who had been my constant attendant snapped to attention and marched me out of the room. I was led upstairs to a chamber-a bed behind a screen, a small barred window looking over the lawns, a washstand, a press and a desk with writing materials. It was not dissimilar to my quarters at Gordon Hall, but there was one crucial difference; when the soldier left me, he turned a key in the lock behind him. I was still a prisoner.

Food and drink had been left on a tray covered with a linen napkin. I ate, washed myself and lay down to rest, but not for long. After half an hour the key turned in the lock, the door was opened and my young student was admitted to the room. The door closed and locked behind him.

‘I'm ready for my lesson, Monsieur.'

‘What am I to teach you, sir?'

‘Oh, I think anything would be an improvement. I'm terribly, terribly stupid. Which, when you look at my parents, is not surprising.' He was right; it was astonishing that his parents had managed to have a child at all, let alone one as fine-looking as him.

‘Do you have any Latin, sir?'

‘Latin?
Amo
,
amas, amat...
Beyond that I'm a complete dunce, and I have no desire to learn any more. Why should I? All this is mine one day, when those two die. I don't need education. I shall do as I like. Just as I have always done.' I detected a meaning behind the surface of his words, but chose not to acknowledge it.

And Greek, sir?'

‘I have little interest in the Greeks apart from what I have seen in my father's library.'

‘Ah, and what is that?'

‘Pictures of boys getting buggered.'

I had fallen into that one, and changed the subject.

‘Perhaps you would rather not keep up the pretence of lessons, then, sir.'

‘Oh, I'm afraid I must, Monsieur. Papa absolutely insists. You see, he's determined to get as much out of you as possible. Not that he doesn't get a decent amount of money for keeping you here, I know he does. But he thinks he can get a little extra for nothing. The last one painted Mama's portrait up here, and probably fucked her into the bargain, which would delight Papa as it would save him the trouble of such a distasteful task. She gets fractious if she doesn't get a regular fucking. I suppose that must be where I get it from. Thank God I didn't inherit anything else from her.'