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"His majesty is expecting you, my lord."
Sir Thomas More did not recognize the boy who so addressed him—just another young man from a good family sent to curry favor with the king, but the boy kept his eyes cast down, indicating proper respect. "I don't know you," he commented.
"No, sir," the youth stammered. "I've arrived recently. Philip Osmore, sir."
Thomas frowned. He couldn't immediately place the name, but the king had summoned him, and such details could wait for later. "Should I go in?" he asked politely, because the boy had not opened the door for him.
The youth took the hint and reached for the door handle. "Of course, sir. The king particularly said you were to be shown in immediately."
"Thank you," Thomas murmured. He had much to discuss with Henry; the recent draft of Henry's latest project greatly disturbed him. Its tone did not seem to Thomas to show the proper respect due to the pope. He had taken the wrong tack—he saw that now. He had been too direct, and Henry's honor had been pricked. If he could just rephrase it, make Henry see reason—
A sight he had most emphatically not expected greeted him. The fool page! Philip Osmore was obviously new. He should know better than to take orders like "show in Thomas More immediately upon his arrival" literally. Thomas refused to believe the king would have his old tutor sent in only to witness—this. He backed toward the door just as Philip shut it behind him. A small, intelligent-looking man held a metal bowl at the height of Henry's waist, his face politely averted, as Henry rubbed vigorously at the hard member in his hand, keeping its head pointed toward the bowl. It was eminently clear what Henry was doing.
"I beg your pardon," he stammered, trapped. "Perhaps another time—"
Henry looked around at Thomas, who immediately regretted speaking. He should have just left the room quietly. "My dear fellow," Henry said, pausing. Thomas saw that he was sweating, and he felt his own skin heat up, presumably out of sympathy. "Please, if you will wait just a moment. The physician must have what he wants." Was that bitterness in Henry's voice, even as physical excitement made it breathless? Likely he was still searching for strategies to get a son, although Thomas had heard rumors the king had not sought Catherine's bed for months. "I do not do this for pleasure—not pleasure alone. You may leave if this sign of human frailty makes you uncomfortable," the king continued.
"Yes, your highness—I mean, no, your highness," Thomas said awkwardly, but Henry had turned away and hadn't heard him.
Even near the pinnacle of human fleshly pleasure, as the king clearly was, he was able to toss a well-aimed barb at his old teacher and mentor. He knew just what Henry would say if he left, and rather than turning and permitting one of the pages to let him out, Thomas instead forced himself to walk into the room. He sank into a chair set near the wall, with an oblique view of Henry, who had returned to his job: providing a sample for the doctor whose steady hands held the bowl. Thomas found that he could not even marshall his usual arguments against self-pleasure. Clearly the king did this at the request of his physician and therefore on behalf of the state, and any comment Thomas made would likely result in an argument.
Henry wore only an open dressing gown, likely to expedite his task. Thomas carefully stared into space a foot or so in front of the king. He still felt hot. It was Henry; his body cast heat. He could sense it from here, a yard or so away. When he'd taken his seat, he'd noticed that sweat stood in droplets on Henry's chest, and Thomas had to force his eyes straight ahead to stop himself from looking. To his horror, he felt his own groin warm. He bit hard on the inside of his lip. Such thoughts were deeply wrong, he knew that, and yet his body was unruly, as always. Flagellation did nothing to help; nor did lying with his wife.
Henry's free hand reached out and grabbed the side of the table, the movement so fast and desperate that Thomas's eyes flickered to his king, only to take in the red, throbbing member, foreskin sliding back with Henry's hand, testicles heavy beneath. Thomas's teeth bit deeper into his lip as the physician made a low crooning noise, as if encouraging Henry.
"Ah," Henry gasped, and Thomas's eyes flew to his face.
As if sensing the stress of his regard, Henry's pale eyes opened, and Thomas found himself, shamefully hot and hard, staring into his king's eyes as the faint metallic sound came of Henry's seed hitting the side of the bowl, again and again, jet after jet. It was beautiful—Henry was beautiful, his old student, the brilliant, unfocused scholar, sheened with sweat and experiencing pleasure so extreme that he had been reduced to a wordless blue gaze. Thomas could not move while Henry's eyes held his. He could only exist, stretched fine, ready to snap if plucked—or to ring a single note that would ascend to the ear of God himself. He had never shared a moment like this, somehow transcending the base body even as Henry's flesh convulsed. For several long, shining moments, they were two minds thinking as one.
"Very good," the physician said approvingly as Thomas tried to blank out his mind. He felt as though if he moved, flesh pressing against flesh by the mere act of standing up, he would spasm, and his mind and soul would ascend.
Henry turned his eyes away, releasing Thomas, and said, "Go, and return with good news." He dropped his shrinking member and braced himself against the table with both hands, gathering himself as he breathed hard. A page bustled up and wiped Henry off with a moist linen cloth, dabbing gently. Henry did not acknowledge the service.
To have that body next to his in a bed, Thomas thought. His mind's eye could easily imagine it: Henry laid out on his back, dressing gown open wide, there for Thomas to touch with fingers and tongue. He would open the king's mouth with his own, and the king would not speak. Instead, he would submit. They would share breath, and once again, they would be in perfect accord, master and student.
"Thomas, you are here to discuss my latest treatise, I take it?" Henry said Thomas jerked his mind back.
"I am, your highness," he said, striving to make his voice even. He could now meet Henry's eyes. Henry again inhabited himself. He had returned from the far-away place he had been—the place he had shared with Thomas in a moment more intimate than any Thomas had shared with his wife, or the young men he found when he could no longer deny himself, although the penance he set himself after such slips was severe. He forced the image of Henry reclining on a bed from his mind's eye. Neither he nor the king was worthy of such thoughts. He was pleased when his words came out calmly. "I had some ideas about ensuring that your audience would remain receptive. If I might suggest a less frontal attack, a more circumspect—"
He broke off. Henry had interrupted by the simple expedient of laughing at him. "I wish to attack—to go on the offensive," he declared, pushing himself away from the table he'd been using to support himself.
"Such a tactic will ensure that your words are banned, not read," Thomas said severely. They were on familiar ground now. He could gather himself and think of something else—something other than his king in extremity.
"All the better. It is the best way to make sure everyone reads it." Henry shook out the sides of his gown, then closed it and loosely did up the sash, wrapping his body within. "Still, if you wish to discuss my rhetorical strategies, I always welcome your opinion, my dear teacher."
Typical Henry. He would agree to talk, but he would not agree to change. Still, Thomas had to try. The shocking contents of Henry's writing could not be taken seriously, of course. No one could think that a king had the qualities of a pope. Conscious that his body still betrayed him, Thomas temporized: "Perhaps if I make an appointment with your secretary, we can go over it in more detail later, with a copy in front of each of us." It had suddenly become his dearest wish to leave. In the comfort of his own rooms, the lash would tame his disorderly flesh.
"I doubt you need a copy in front of you," Henry declared. To Thomas's dismay, he strode over to Thomas, who still sat in an ornate backless chair. He set one hand on either arm, effectively trapping him. He was horribly aware of his own body's betrayal. The king bent to look him in the eye, and Thomas's member jumped even as he sought to look cool and collected. "After all," Henry continued, voice now very low, as if the two shared a secret that the gentlemen of the privy chamber, courtiers, and pages in the room should not know, "your memory is legendary. I have no doubt you can quote back to me every word that you find distressing, along with compelling arguments in favor of your point of view."
"Your majesty honors me with his high opinion of my memory," Thomas responded evenly.
"More than a high opinion of your memory. A high opinion of your opinion. But I'm afraid that my mind is quite made up." Henry cocked his head slightly, as if puzzled. He had not blinked. "Do you feel quite well? Your eyes are dilated. You seem flushed. Should I call the physician back?"
"It is not necessary to trouble yourself. I am quite well." Thomas strove to make himself feel as composed as his voice sounded.
The king still hadn't blinked. "I assure you. It is no trouble." His voice changed. Instead of low and intimate, he now loudly stated an order for the ears of the others in the room, although he spoke to Thomas's face. "I wish to speak to my old tutor alone. Leave us."
"Your majesty—" Thomas began as the room immediately began to clear, but Henry immediately said, "Shhhh," as he leaned in and finally, finally blinked.
"I have upset you with what you saw," Henry continued. "I have become used to it. I forget that some things are perhaps better done in private. The physician wishes to analyze my seed twice a week. I assure you that any pleasure I felt is quite incidental."
Thomas felt the warmth of Henry's sweet breath on his face, so close was Henry to him. He fought away the image of himself bridging the small gap between them, to take Henry's mouth, and instead said, "It is difficult sometimes for teachers to understand that their students have grown up—and grown up to exceed them, only to be faced with such a reminder of their—their—" He frantically sought for an appropriate word. "Mortality," he concluded.
"Mortality," Henry repeated, sounding dubious.
"Humanity, rather," Thomas essayed. A thought struck him. "It is perhaps this mortality—this humanity—which ought to temper your arguments—" He broke off because the door shut firmly behind the last of Henry's staff, leaving only two people, Henry's trusted and intimate body servants. Henry now laid his cheek against Thomas's. Thomas's heart gave an aborted leap, as if attempting to flee from its casing.
"I prefer not to temper," Henry whispered. "As you well know."
"Your majesty," Thomas began, but Henry's mouth now touched his ear, briefly moving against his earlobe in a gesture that Thomas found not only intimate but erotic. He was glad he could not see Henry's eyes, because he feared the knowledge he'd see there.
"Just Henry, I think, if you wish to address your old student," Henry breathed. "Long have I longed to see a response from you, dear tutor, that is not proper or right. Your perfection brings out the worst in me. I long to break that perfection, to show you to be just a man."
Thomas blinked at this. He'd not known that his attempts were perceived in such a way. But of course others could not see him as he failed, and failed again. They saw only the man in black who upheld right. They could not know the personal cost, the agonies he'd gone through as he'd sentenced men to death.
"Perfection is not possible in this world," Thomas gasped. He could smell the king's skin, laid next to his own. The king ran his lips along Thomas's ear, and Thomas shuddered, his member twitching. "Nor have I attained it," he admitted, the truth terrible.
"But you try," the king noted, his voice mere breath.
"But I try," Thomas echoed. "Yet I am only a man."
"To try, and to always fail?"
"That is the nature of man," Thomas said.
"'I perceive, Raphael, that you neither desire wealth nor greatness; and, indeed, I value and admire such a man much more than I do any of the great men in the world,'" the king declaimed. Thomas recognized the words immediately: they were his own, from his Utopia. The king was quoting to him from his own book. Henry's voice became his own again. "And so I do, your faults notwithstanding. Your faults are so few. And yet so interesting."
"Release me," Thomas commanded, appalled at how strangled his voice sounded.
The king chuckled low, an intimate sound that Thomas had never heard. Instead of obeying his tutor, he moved his lips from Thomas's ear to the soft flesh behind, pressing a kiss there. Thomas felt the touch of Henry's tongue, and he drew in a breath, only to shudder, because his response was unmistakable. With the pleasure came a rush of shame and despair.
"No," the king said. "I have found a chink in your armor." He knelt between Thomas's legs. One hand released the chair's arm, only to touch between Thomas's legs, pressing his hardness.
"Don't," Thomas said desperately.
"Obey your king." Henry pulled back so that he could push aside heavy cloth, and a moment later, he was undoing Thomas's hose.
"I beg you, if you love me, do not do this," Thomas pleaded as the constricting clothing was moved aside.
"To see you unguarded? To see you as you are?" Henry's hand stroked his now-bare member, and Thomas briefly shut his eyes at the exquisite touch. "I cannot but love you, my dearest teacher and mentor. And so I cannot leave you like this. I find I must take pity on you."
"Please." He didn't know what he was saying—yes, or no?
"Must I command you?" Henry asked, bending his head. "Ah. I see not." He laid back the foreskin, baring the head, and he pressed a kiss on the tip. Then his mouth slid down. Thomas grabbed the chair's arms, the pressure and heat overwhelming him. Henry raised his head and admonished, "Slowly, Raphael," at Thomas's response.
He'd known, of course, that Henry took men into his bed, often Charles Brandon or William Compton, and likely both at once, to enjoy the woman or women they shared, but if it had occurred to him that the men sported with one another, he had never thought of the physical reality of it. Now, faced with compelling evidence to the contrary, he found he could easily imagine Henry's mouth on Brandon or Compton, the men twined together nude, the women watching—
"Oh," he said at the mental image. Henry responded by increasing his mouth's pressure, and Thomas let himself forget everything but this moment. Emboldened, he touched Henry's head, the short hair rasping against his hands, and pressed. Henry did not seem to mind, and Thomas found himself lifting and pushing even as he began to thrust, using his king to increase his own pleasure. He found he was grunting as he thrust. He felt the fire running through his veins, erupting from his chest and his groin. Henry took it within himself, just as he took Thomas's slick, hard member, thrusting in, harder and harder, until Thomas fell over the precipice, shouting joy. Ecstasy washed over him as he spurted. He felt every pulse, every throb, through his entire body. Release had never been so total, because he had never before bared himself to the one man who could understand. The king had been with Thomas when he had reached the pinnacle, and he was with Thomas now.
"Holy God," Thomas gasped, collapsing back against the wall.
The king released him and sat back on his heels. One of the remaining servants suddenly appeared, bowl in hand, and Henry leaned over and spat Thomas's seed into it. He wiped his mouth with the inside of his wrist and accepted a goblet of wine from the other servant. He spat the first sip out, then drank deep and handed the goblet back. Thomas ignored the servants, just as they ignored him. All eyes were on the king.
"Thomas," Henry said, rising up so he could kiss Thomas full on the lips, as he had done many times before. "Raphael," he added, and the next kiss was a kiss he might give a woman, intimate and deep, tongues touching.
"Are you satisfied, your highness?" Thomas managed when Henry again sat between his legs, leaning against Thomas as if this posture were entirely natural. One hand stroked his leg. Thomas felt heavy. He knew that when he left, full realization would descend on him, and he would reach for the lash. This hadn't been a boy he could use in Westcheap and fling a few coppers to as payment. Yet he couldn't have stopped.
"I am satisfied that you are as human as any of us, and no saint," Henry said. "I am satisfied that you will submit to me." His hand continued to stroke idly. "Yet I do not think it is because you think I am right. I think it is because I am your king, and you love me."
"Yes," Thomas whispered. "I will support you in all things, save breaking the church."
"Mmm." Henry smiled. "Of course. Save that."
"There is a higher right." Even as he said it, Thomas was aware of how ironic it sounded, considering the sin the two of them had just shared. How could he strive for perfection, for utopia, when he always fell so pitifully short, and when a thing he knew was wrong made him feel the closest thing possible to heaven on earth?
"So must we all believe," Henry agreed. "Yet the instruments the Lord chooses are so frail." His hand moved over Thomas's still-bare member.
Thomas laid a hand on Henry's head, feeling the hair as stubble. The gesture, meant as a benediction, evoked instead Thomas's loss of control as he'd pulled on Henry's head, thrusting uncontrollably into his king's mouth. Everything now would be overlaid with new meaning, a kiss of greeting turned into something almost obscene, and yet still, it stirred him.
"So frail," he agreed.
So very frail.