Petfly. You know the drill.

Previously published in The Alternate Sentinel.
The modern translation of the Middle English term suffisaunce can be rendered as "a sufficiency" or more simply, "enough." It was frequently used to describe an ability that could be stretched to prove equal to a difficult task or for making do with what was to be had. Thus, a suffisaunce may reasonably be regarded as the bare minimum required to fulfill whatever need lies at hand. Frequently in the harsh times of the Dark Ages, there could be no hope for more.

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A Monk ther was, a fair for the maistrie, .....
This ilke Monk leet olde thynges pace,
And heeld after the newe world the space.

(There was a monk, an extremely fine and handsome one; / This same monk let old things pass away / And followed the customs of modern times.)

--Geoffrey Chaucer, Canterbury Tales I (A) 165, 175-176 (General Prologue)

"Who's telling this story, you or me?" A more or less indignant squawk erupted into the quiet of the darkened loft, underlain with tolerant good humor.

"You are." Jim Ellison smiled up at the darkened ceiling of the bedroom he now shared with his lover, caressing his shoulder.

Mollified, Blair Sandburg settled into the crook of Jim's arm. "Just because I think we'd have loved each other in any time and any setting, and you asked for an example, that doesn't give you license to poke fun."

"So you're a monk." Jim gave in good-naturedly, inviting Blair to resume his fantasy.

"Yeah." Blair nodded. "An Augustinian Catholic monk, in Ireland, in the Dark Ages. And you're a big buff peasant, working in the monastery fields."

"Friar Blair O'Sandburg, the world's original long-haired gay Jewish Roman Catholic Irish Augustinian monk." Jim felt laughter shaking his chest again. "The Pope is gonna have a fit."

"Fuck historical accuracy. I'm no medievalist historian. Just shut up and let me tell the story."

"Make it a good one, Chief. Danger, intrigue, forbidden passion."

Brother Blair stretched painfully, lifting his head from his copy work for the first time in over an hour. The archaic Old English words took great concentration to reproduce properly, but it was a pleasure to delve into these works, puzzling out their meaning as he copied. Of course, it meant that the work went slowly, but there was always more work to do and there were always more books to read and to copy, and that was well. His lack of speed was more than compensated for by his accuracy.

The next chapter would begin with an illumination, so he set aside space in the margins before dipping his quill again, his script flowing neatly across the page in careful, measured strokes. Each stroke formed a devotional act yielded up to the god he truly served: knowledge and its preservation. So much was lost to the ravages of time! Not too long ago, monasteries were pillaged by attacking foreigners with depressing frequency, and many manuscripts had burned. Others were crumbling, fragile vellum pages slowly sloughing away from the edges inward.

His work here was what he truly felt was holy, though he gave the ritual prayers proper lip service. The unacknowledged bastard son of an unknown Scottish nobleman, Blair had persuaded his mother to leave him with the monks when he was still a lad, longing to learn the mysteries of reading and writing. He'd always been happy here, accepting the religious obligations he'd undertaken as the small price he paid for initiation into a wondrous world of knowledge. There were things that he missed, of course, but the books made up for that. And there were always more. Including the secret, quiet ones that he wrote himself, meditations on theological fallacy and the value of learning and personal observations on nature and humanity. They lay hidden under the flat straw mattress in his barren cell waiting for him to write in them at night by the light of stolen candle-butts.

Thunder growled in the distance, startling him-- he lifted his head in perfect unison with two dozen others, staring at the wooden walls as though a window would miraculously form and show them the state of the sky. As they gazed, a young novice raced in. "The haying's only half-finished and ill weather's brewing. We must all go out into the fields and tend to the wheat!"

The clerics quickly trimmed their quills, blew out their tallow candles, and abandoned their books, following in his wake. If the hay spoiled, their cattle would starve, and the monks themselves would have little to hold them through the winter, even less than their vow of poverty mandated. Not to mention the disaster that would follow if they lost the wheat and the barley that would make their meager bread. There had been a fine yield this summer; Blair had looked into the small granary yard only that morning and seen the exposed, vulnerable stacks of un-threshed grain standing on the stone staddles, not yet covered or thatched into water-shedding safety. Only a fraction of that vulnerable bounty could be carried indoors in its current un-threshed state; the rest must be protected.

He joined in the outward rush, buffeted by the larger men that moved around him. The western sky was heavy and dark, jagged forks of lightning crackling on the horizon. There were already men swarming up the wheat ricks, pinning down cover cloths over the vulnerable sheaves.

Blair stopped, his eye caught by a lone figure working amidst the barley-- a broad-shouldered muscular peasant laborer, one of half a dozen or more hired by the monastery to work during the height of the harvest. He'd seen this man before, noticed him on more than one occasion. He frequently worked at hire for the monks in exchange for foodstuffs, accomplishing various difficult manual labors that the more sedentary scholars could not accomplish so efficiently.

It had been a temptation not to linger and watch him at his work, but Brother Blair could not risk being condemned for affliction with the dreaded English Vice. The man was definitely a magnificent human animal, lavishly gifted by God-- or by nature, as Brother Blair so often secretly amended to himself in silent but heartfelt heresy.

He realized he was rushing forward now, toward the man, and shrugged mentally-- he could hardly be held at fault for working to protect the harvest. There would not be enough cloths to cover all the ricks; most of the wheat would be safe but the barley would suffer unless the stacks could be thatched before the storm arrived. He couldn't carry the heavy wheat sheaves as well as the burlier brothers and all the rick-cloths were already in the hands of other monks. He would be able to give of his best by performing this service.

"Bring me the reed sheaves," the laborer called as Blair arrived next to the barley rick, and he snatched one quickly, darting up the ladder and putting it into the laborer's hand. He watched for a bare moment as the man stuck the long iron lance of the ricking rod deep into the stack to support it, then drove in a spar with the thatching beetle. He took the reeds and Blair hurried down for more, quickly falling into an exhausting rhythm. His companion, bare-chested against the day's heat and deeply tanned, was sweating hard, his body gleaming bronze in the fitful light as he worked against the coming of the storm.

Blair was aware of other groups similarly occupied; the monks were not so good at thatching as his unknown companion, neither so strong nor so skilled, but they labored earnestly, each knowing that their winter table would suffer if they failed. More sheaves were coming in from the fields by the moment, being piled and cared for. The entire monastery seethed like a kicked anthill, helpless under the face of God-- or nature, Blair amended automatically with a secret, wry smile.

Blair and his companion finished one rick and started on another. This one was harder, for they must build it up first. Blair helped heft the heavy barley sheaves off the carrying wagon and hoisted them up to the laborer, who stood atop the ladder and stacked them. When the rick was built, the man resumed thatching again and Blair gratefully gave over the heavier work to help carry reeds once more. The lightning was flickering closer now and the sun had gone in completely behind the lowering clouds. A wind came up, rustling the trees and stirring the heavy heads of the exposed grain.

"Have a care for lightning," the peasant man grunted, but Blair didn't see what he could do-- the iron poniard used as a ricking stick would indeed draw lightning; he'd observed the phenomenon before, but there was nothing to be done but hope that fate would protect them. He simply kept carrying reed sheaves until the first fat drops of rain fell and the stack was finished. Looking away he saw that more cloths had been fetched and fastened over several of the ricks, and that most of the others were at least partly thatched.

They descended the ladder one after the other. As the large peasant neared the ground, thunder clapped and lightning stabbed, shaking the very earth violently, and Brother Blair darted forward as his companion flinched, bringing his hands to his head and nearly tumbling off the last few steps of the ladder. He steadied him and helped him withdraw toward the granary, where the monks and their helpers were gathering under the eaves.

The wind freshened, coming out of the heart of the storm, whipping at the trees and teasing ominously at the precious cloths. Brother Blair talked softly to his companion, steadying him until he recovered-- he seemed oddly upset for a mere storm, and the monk thought that perhaps he might be afraid of the thunder and the lightning.

"James has never been fond of storms," one of the other peasants commented, nodding wisely. "He says they hurt his head." Blair nodded, keeping a hand on the big man's arm but leaning forward to listen. "He can hear one coming long before it strikes... it was he who warned us we should cover the ricks." The thick provincial accent didn't disguise the man's fond amusement, or his ability to use the language properly. He sidled closer to Blair, speaking in a low, confidential voice. "The fathers didn't listen to him, or we'd have finished this task long ago. I know you can't foresee the will of the Lord, but he's almost always right, our James."

The rain picked up abruptly, spattering harder and then roaring its way down in a sheeting downpour, drowning out further conversation. They stood pressed tightly together, flinching back as the wind drove rain and spray in through the open door. Blair squinted out at the covered wheat, watching the wind whip between the stacks, and flinched suddenly as a corner of one of the cloths flew up, whipping wildly. He darted out into the rain without thinking, rushing to reattach it.

Lighting sizzled and thunder battered him viciously. Instantly cold rain soaked through his thick brown linen habit, slowing his movements. His sandals gummed in the mud, slowing him further, but he caught the corner as it whipped into reach and hung on like a terrier. The wind howled like the angry demons of myth, tearing at him like a thing possessed. It took both hands just to hold the cloth-- how was he to reattach it to the spar? The thick canvas jerked at him, dragging him forward when he wouldn't let go and threatening to toss him about like a puppy in the jaws of a lion. He fought it, his feet scrabbling at the thickening mud.

And then other hands were there, bare arms wrapping around him to catch the thick tarp, a hard strong body bracing him against the fury of the wind. He glanced quickly over his shoulder to find James there, powerful muscles straining as he held the tarp, and Blair felt a surge of relief. He caught the rope that should have held the cloth and bound it once more to its stake.

Together they went about the stacks in the rain, using James' thatching beetle to drive the stakes deeper into the muddied ground. Blair sadly watched rain driven into the unprotected sides of the thatched stacks; the wind was cruel and the wheat and barley would be reduced in value, but the majority of it was saved. He laid his hand comfortingly on James' broad back as the thunder hammered at them, having a strange feeling that his touch helped the other man focus-- James seemed to work faster and more confidently when Blair touched him, at any rate.

At last the storm subsided, and the monks emerged, staring at Blair and James with appreciation, awe, and a little amusement; Blair realized he was soaked to the skin, the dyes in his robe running and staining his throat and hands. James seemed to notice too, reaching for Blair's wrist and turning up one of his palms; it was chafed raw and cut in places by the unaccustomed manual labor.

The man gave him an inscrutable look and then reached into the pocket of his soaked homespun smock, drawing out a small carved wooden box and pressing it into Blair's bloodied hand. "A salve to heal the skin," he explained softly, then stepped back as the brothers moved in to praise Blair for his bravery and to congratulate themselves on their success in saving the grain.

That night Brother Blair did not work on his writings. Instead, he lay on his hard pallet and rubbed the sweet-scented, soothing ointment into his abused palms and stared into the darkness, thinking of James. He wondered how it could be that James might know a storm was coming that nobody else could hear or see. Then he remembered how strong and sure James' hands were as he wove the thatch on the barley ricks, and last he thought about how warm and strong and solid James' body had pressed up felt behind Blair's. James' arms had been solid and protective and comforting as he helped Blair hold the rick cloth.

No one had embraced Blair or pressed their body against his since his mother hugged him and left him at the monastery. The monks always held themselves rigidly separate even when bestowing the kiss of peace. But James' whole body had been against his back-- his deep chest cushioning Blair's shoulders, his pelvis against Blair's buttocks, his thighs behind Blair's thighs. He'd been hot and living and silky wet with rain...

Blair hadn't realized how sterile and dry and lonesome his life had become, how far he had projected himself into the vicarious worlds contained inside the books he copied. Not until today's startling reminder of what for other people was an everyday reality-- of what his brother monks would call sins of the flesh.

He'd been here so long he usually took his celibacy and scholarly life for granted, not missing creature comforts, not thinking of what it might be like to live as a regular man with a wife and family. But James' body... James' body had taught Blair a new lesson in reality. It had taught him in mere seconds that the vows he had made in order to gain access to books were unnatural, that he was not meant to be celibate and solitary and spend all his time with his hand on a quill and his nose in a book.

Slowly Blair reached underneath his thick, scratchy wool blankets and took himself in hand, completely disregarding the rules that had structured his life since he was a lad of ten. He closed his eyes, summoning the beautiful picture of James' broad, bronzed back, his muscles gleaming and playing in the fading afternoon sun.

He didn't see James after that for a long time. The harvest represented the ending of summer, and summer's end heralded the onset of autumn. The auxiliary laborers were sent away, and the monks cared for their own cattle while the fields lay dormant. The cloister was quiet and cold throughout the long winter, but Blair secretly preserved a cachet of summer inside himself. He cared for his chapped lips and hands with the slowly dwindling store of James' ointment. Each time he took a bite of hard dark bread, he felt a cozy warm feeling growing in his belly, his mind sliding to the clear picture of James' straining body at work, or to the gentle remembrance of his protective arms.

He tended the fields of memory while at rest, holding the cold at bay with the heat of his fantasies... which he had to admit were quite vague. He had heard horrified whispers of the English Vice, knew the Biblical and Latin terms for sodomy, but his notions of the attached act were quite vague. Having seen farmyard animals copulating didn't help a great deal, nor did having entered the monastery before his puberty was well and truly begun.

All he knew was that James comprised his only definition for physical beauty, and that his moment inside the big man's arms had felt different from anything Blair had ever experienced before. He longed to be back there as he took himself in hand every night, quietly releasing the tensions of his desire. He tried not to think about whether James might feel the same-- ludicrous to pretend that a chance meeting, a fleeting moment in time, might mean anything to the other man.

He was completely unprepared when the Abbot called the monks to assemble and he spotted a nervous sandy-haired peasant man twisting his cap in his hands, scanning them all. The man looked faintly familiar and Blair realized he'd seen him before, spoken to him-- learned James' name from him.

"That's him," the man's finger came up and singled Brother Blair out, and the Abbot beckoned him, then dismissed the others with a wave. Blair approached cautiously, his stomach rolling over with fear; his fantasies just couldn't be linked to this! There was no way anyone could have discovered them...

"Brother." The aging Abbot greeted him with a cordial half-bow. "The Ellisons have worked for the Abbey for generations. I have known the family since Stephen's father William was a lad." The Abbot laid his hand on Stephen's shoulder illustratively. "And now they have come to seek our help after giving theirs to us for so long."

Blair nodded, his alarm growing sharper. Surely nothing had happened to James?

"The eldest son James is ill, and his family remembered how the two of you worked together to save the barley ricks, and hoped that you might consent to come and tend him in his affliction."

"I will," Blair managed to respond steadily, inclining his head respectfully. His hand moved to a deep pocket concealed in his habit, palm closing around the half-full container of salve James had given him. Anxiety shot through him-- plagues had often ravaged the countryside, and even strong men had been known to die of coughs and grippe produced by the persistent wet cold.

"I will send Stephen with you to fetch your traveling cloak. Return to us when you may." The Abbot laid his hand on Blair now, in blessing, and turned, shuffling away.

"What ails James? A plague or cough?" Blair voiced his fears softly as he led Stephen through the quiet, damp halls.

"Neither of those things, Brother. It is... difficult to explain." Stephen flickered worried, doubting eyes at Blair. "James spoke of you often. He is... he has been blessed by God with many gifts--" Stephen crossed himself hurriedly-- "But life is hard for him. That day at the ricks you eased his burden, and he remembered that. Sometimes he... he prays, and loses himself, and cannot be roused. He has been like this now for days. You are a man of God, and one he respects-- we hoped you might be able to help him."

"I will do my best," Blair promised quietly, bundling clothes and books into a parcel and tying it shut. He slung it under his traveling cloak and set out with Stephen toward the Ellison cot, the two men slogging through a crisp crust of new snow.

Within the hour they arrived at the Ellison cot, a small but neat holding tucked up against the side of a rolling hill. The home had apparently once been a dugout, but had expanded upward and back, a second story braced on sturdy stone foundations, and now the original house clearly served as a root cellar. There was a small sheep fold and barn and a new hay barn and granary, evidence of the strong labor of William Ellison and his two sturdy grown sons.

"I live here with my wife," Stephen explained. "We care for father; mother died in childbirth while I was still young. James has no wife," he added as an afterthought, and Blair pushed away an absurd flicker of relief.

The inside of the dwelling was small, low-ceilinged, but blessedly warm and cozy. A woman sat at the table preparing dinner, and there was a stooped figure in a sturdy chair next to the fire. Brother Blair stripped off his traveling robe and left his bundle by the door, reassured against rats by the presence of no fewer than four sleek house cats prowling the domicile.

Two moved to investigate the newcomer; another sat with the old man next to the fire, purring, enjoying his lap and having its ears fondled. Blair realized the man must be William, James' father. He turned his face vaguely toward Blair, blinking hazily, and Blair understood he was almost blind. The fourth cat, a large pitch-black tom, lay on the bed next to an inert mound of blankets and gazed at Blair without moving, slitted blue-green eyes watchful.

"I've brought the brother," Stephen announced in the sort of loud but respectful voice one used with the aged and slightly deaf. "Maybe he can help James."

"Maybe." William's face pinched with hostility, his voice seeming to say that Blair could do no such thing. "Or maybe the whole household will be burned for Lollards!" Stephen's wife dropped the potatoes she was peeling and pushed away from the table, her white face pinched with fear, one hand on her slightly-swollen belly. Blair realized she was pregnant and gave her a reassuring smile.

"I think not," Blair responded gently, moving closer to the old man. "I'm not looking for heresy, and I don't believe in possession by demons. There are many illnesses that we don't understand, and I think they often have explanations other than religious ones." He believed it firmly; all too often the cures of physicians failed, but there were others that took almost miraculous effect. If only people knew more of their causes, they might be treated...

William met his sally with a loud harumph and returned his gaze to the cat he scratched. Its vibrant purring filled the room during a long, uncomfortable silence. "Where is James?" Blair asked at length, eyes darting toward the bed, and Stephen nodded.

"We put him to bed. He has been sharing with father, since he never moves when he is like this. He seems to be resting, but..." Stephen hesitated and gave a helpless shrug.

"Does this happen often?" Brother Blair moved to sit on the bed, meeting the hostile gaze of the black cat. It rumbled a low growl of threat, and Blair extended a cautious hand, slowly letting the beast take his scent.

"Yes." The word sighed out of Stephen on an exhalation of defeat.

"And this is why he has no wife." Blair guessed, watching the cat's whiskers twitch as it sniffed him.

"He married. Caroline left after a year. She never even bore him a son to care for him in his age." Stephen's eyes were filled with pain. "No one knows where she went, but he is wed in the eyes of the Church and may take no other bride."

Blair nodded absently, feeling a pang of sympathy mingled with annoyance at the unreasonable religious convention and the woman who had condemned James to a life of solitude. He kept his eyes on the cat until it relaxed and resumed its lazy position of guard, obviously satisfied. "There," Blair smiled and reached forward, pleased when the tom let him scratch its ears. "I'm here to help James. You know that, don't you. No need to protect him from me." He returned his attention to Stephen for a moment and spoke in calming tones. "I'll tend him. Go, see to your wife. I believe she's upset. Let her know she has nothing to fear from me. None of you do."

Stephen surveyed him for a long moment, then relaxed just like the cat, making Blair smile.

Blair sat for a moment after he left, feeling a little uncomfortable, as though Stephen and William and Stephen's wife and even the cats were watching him suspiciously, all except for the big black tom that had begun to purr and arch into his careful scratching. Stephen talked to his wife in low tones, soothing her; eventually she calmed. Even William seemed to forget his presence, staring moodily into the fire, and Blair turned his attention to James.

The big man lay on his side beneath layered bedding, arms and legs positioned awkwardly. His blue eyes were open and sightless.

"James?" No response to the monk's query, so he got up and moved to the other side of the bed, into James' line of sight. The cat shifted to watch him, moving to the pillow and keeping an eye on Blair. He sat for a moment, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of James' chest under the thick blankets. He could almost hear what Stephen had said during the harvest: "James has never been fond of storms, but he can hear one coming long before it strikes..."

Well, there was every reason to expect that he could be heard, so he began to speak. "James. It's Blair. I'm a brother from the monastery where you work in the summertime. You helped me when the rick cloth would have blown away, and I haven't forgotten you. Your brother says that you speak of me, and he hoped that I could help you." He remembered how James had steadied when he touched the bigger man, and his hand slid out and stole along one blanketed arm and shoulder, then slid down, inside the blanket this time, finding warm skin. It made Blair shiver, but he kept his voice steady.

"I know you can hear me, and I want you to listen. Focus on me, James. I don't know what has happened to you, but Stephen says you have come back from these spells before. Can you come back for me, James? Listen to me speaking to you, and follow my voice. Come back, James." His hand found the broad muscled chest and stroked, lingering over the slow-beating heart. He kept speaking, a low steady stream of words, reassured by the constant rhythm of the beating heart under his hand.

As he spoke, he felt a powerful, growing assurance-- almost like he would have imagined the sensation of laying hands on the sick and commanding them to walk. "Look at me, James." Blair bent forward, knowing somehow that he'd succeeded, feeling the heart begin to beat harder beneath his palm, and the long-lashed eyes stirred and then focused confusedly on his own. One big hand stirred and rose stiffly to clasp his wrist.

"You're the monk from the storm," James observed in a low, dry-throated voice, brows pulling down in a frown.

"James!" All of a sudden Stephen was at Blair's shoulder, clapping a welcoming hand on his brother's arm. His wife followed behind, wiping her hands on her smock, and even William stirred from the fireside, abandoning his tortoiseshell cat, to her great affront.

"I'm Brother Blair," Blair whispered, feeling shy that this moment of James' awakening was being observed by so many, uncomfortable that his hand visibly lay on James' chest beneath the bedding. It was like a favorite fantasy sprung to light, only under the watchful eyes of strangers. "Your family asked me to come and tend to you in your affliction."

Abruptly James' hand released his wrist and the big body surged up, bringing blankets with it. His eyes grew hooded. "It happened again? How could you bring someone else into this?" He snapped the words at Stephen irritably. "The risk to the family--"

"James, you were gone for over five days this time--"

"There's no risk," Blair promised earnestly, silencing Stephen's protest, and James' eyes swung to him, measuring him with a knife-sharp regard. "I will tell no one of what I have seen... or may yet see... here." He reached without meaning to, laying his hand earnestly on James' bare arm, and their eyes locked. "You helped me during the storm, and I will help you now. I will offer no manner of harm to you or yours." The words had the taste of an oath far deeper than those he had spoken so lightly when he entered the brotherhood as a child. They engraved themselves in his mind even as he spoke them, and the certainty he felt communicated itself to James through touch, its impact visible in James' clear blue eyes.

Blair suddenly felt as though James could see into him and through him, as though the piercing blue eyes could discover everything he had ever believed and done. He shivered, but not unpleasantly, his face warming slightly as he remembered some of the things James might see if he could truly see through Blair and know him. At last James nodded. "I trust you," he spoke softly, and a thrill of relief and pleasure surged through Blair, finding expression in a widening smile.

At James' insistence, Blair stayed in the Ellisons' home for more than a week, coming to know the man and his family, gradually entering into their world, watching over James to do what he could against the return of another spell. He was unsure what his presence accomplished, but James seemed content and the Abbot would not expect Blair to return until the illness had passed, so he stayed, quietly conducting his own ritual devotions. He knew the family expected them, and so he did not shirk, occasionally aware of James' or Stephen's eyes following him.

Living with a family was an eye-opening experience for Blair, who was used to the sheltered solitude of the cloister. They laughed frequently and bickered often, telling tales over meals, tending their livestock and performing family chores, caring for one another as best they knew how. James was usually quiet, and Blair observed that he did a great share of the work around the house, helping Irene silently while Stephen tended their father's comfort. He also assisted his younger brother in accomplishing the barnyard chores. It surprised Blair that the younger man seemed to lead the household, but perhaps it was to be expected. Stephen had succeeded in his marriage and his children would carry on the Ellisons' family name whereas James had failed in his and the state of his mind and health were suspect at best.

Nights were oddest of all-- Blair had never shared a bed before, but the Ellison house was small and while he was here, there was no other option. William had one bed and Stephen and Irene took the other. James and Blair had only a pallet near the fire, James sharing his own blankets with Blair, for the family had no more to offer. During the second night, Blair awoke to soft sounds in the darkness: a gentle rhythmic rustling of the straw ticking in a mattress, the sound of shifting cloth and staggered, irregular breathing-- then a low cry of pleasure from Irene, followed by a gasp from Stephen. Blair's cheeks flushed crimson as he finally realized what must be happening, his heart speeding guiltily as his blood surged in vicarious arousal. Conjugal relations-- and for pleasure, not for procreation, since Irene was already with child.

James' warm hand slid onto his arm, patting him softly, meant to soothe and reassure Blair-- but it did the opposite, enflaming him, hardening his flesh. He turned away from James before it might be felt, staring into the low-burning coals of the fire, curling into himself. Stephen and his wife soon subsided, but it was a long time before Blair slept, lying still, his mind replaying those soft, heated sounds, his body focused on memorizing the sensation of warmth and comfort from the man who lay sleeping behind him.

The next morning he rose when James did, scrubbing his hand over his face, noting the need to shave himself. Bundling himself in his warmest things, he followed James out to the barn to care for the livestock.

"When it is warm enough, I sleep in the hay barn," James commented, perhaps thinking of Blair's discomfort in the night. "It's quite comfortable, and much quieter."

Blair flushed, handling the iron winch-handle through his sleeve to protect his hand from the bitter cold. James tipped the filled well-bucket into the empty livestock watering pails as Blair turned the handle. Reminded of James' own marital fortunes by the unspoken topic of Stephen's, Blair decided to speak. "Stephen mentioned Caroline," he admitted after a long moment of watching his breath steam in the still, frozen air. "It must be very hard for you."

James directed his eyes downward, falling silent, his jaw setting. "It was her choice to leave. Who is to say that she made it wrongly?" A muscle in his jaw jumped, twitching with tension, and his voice was cold, forbidding.

"Stephen mentioned that you could hear storms coming, that you were almost never wrong." Blair sensed that James had no wish to discuss his absent wife, so he changed the subject quickly. "He also spoke of you falling into prayer, of losing yourself, but that doesn't..." he hesitated. "I think he spoke out of fear," Blair ventured finally. "Fear that I would think you were possessed of a demon?" He tried to make the words into a joke, but they fell flat.

"I don't think that at all," he reassured James quickly, watching the older man's eyes grow shuttered. "I'm not the kind of man who resorts to the supernatural to explain everything that he does not understand, not the kind of man to whom a mystery is also a threat to the security of my beliefs." He stopped turning the handle as the last bucket rose to the lip, filled. "I like to think about things I don't understand, and often I can begin to figure them out. Do you think that your special gift might contribute to your problem?"

James lifted his eyes to study Blair, then hoisted the filled buckets and moved to carry them to the barn. Blair took two on his own and trotted in behind the older man, tipping them carefully into the ox's trough as James watered the pigs and the goat. "You said you trusted me," Blair prodded at length. "A man's word is his bond."

Ellison flicked a cool blue glare at him upon hearing that, and led him toward the well again to draw water for the sheep. Blair took the handle again, arms pumping faster as his enthusiasm waxed. "I think that if you can really hear so well, it might be possible to lose yourself in everything that you hear. Why just now, I can hear the sheep bleating and the goat drinking and the wind blowing in the thatch on the eaves. There is a raven cawing in the woods, and I believe Irene has awakened and is moving pots to make our breakfast inside the house. What can you hear, James?"

The sober blue eyes fixed him again and James fell silent for a long moment, failing to take the bucket Blair had winched to the mouth of the well. "All those things. All those and more." He turned his face toward the woods, frowning slightly. "The raven is scolding a fox," he reported, returning his gaze to Blair. "There are mice in the barn, working to chew into the bins after the potatoes and the grain," James whispered at last. "And everything... breathes, and moves, and I can hear your heart and Irene's... and Stephen's. And my father's. And the baby's..." his eyes went vague, almost unseeing, his voice trailing off into silence.

"James!" Blair moved forward sharply, releasing the winch handle, and the full bucket fell into the well with a clatter and splash as the windlass unwound. "Come back, James." He reached up and patted the man's face, rewarded as James' hazy eyes abruptly focused again. "You almost... went away, it almost happened, didn't it." His heart was racing. If he hadn't been here, hadn't called James back, the man might have frozen to death before anyone found him, or toppled into the well-- or if it had happened while he was working on the ricks, tending the monks' barley, he might have fallen. Blair pulled back on the reins of his thoughts, returning them to reality, meeting James' startled gaze. "You almost got lost in everything you could hear."

"Yes." James dropped his eyes, and then snapped them up again, surprised. His face grew thoughtful. "I guess you're right," he admitted slowly.

Blair broke into a thrilled grin, looking up into James' face. "Of course I am. So-- now that we know the cause, maybe we can stop it from happening again!"

Slowly, like the sun coming out from behind winter clouds, James' smile grew to match Blair's own.

When he returned to the monastery, he reported that James Ellison had been struck a blow on the head, and that it had damaged him. In the aftermath of his injury, he was prone to losing the track of his thoughts and falling silent and still in his mind, but Blair's prayers had helped him, reinforcing the family's faith. Eventually he might recover completely. The Abbot was pleased by Blair's report, and told him to go help William Ellison's eldest son at need, an edict which pleased Blair greatly.

He spent the remainder of the winter and the spring tending his copy work, which he still loved, but enjoying the interludes he spent with the Ellisons even more. He went as frequently as the weather permitted, helping James learn to deal with his gifts, building up a firm and steady friendship with James and his family.

James remained the subject of his secret desires and solitary nocturnal fantasies; it shamed him that there was something he dared not share with the man who was swiftly becoming such a close friend, but he dared not speak. James was so much to him that he'd never known; father and brother and friend and trusted neighbor and more. Beloved and precious to Blair in so many ways, the living symbol of a life he'd sacrificed for learning but was growing to know and claim only after years of believing that he'd never have more than his books.

One day in early summer he went to visit James on a friendly call, but Stephen snapped his head off twice in succession over nothing as he stood in the farmyard waiting for James to finish his work. Blair was considering whether he should leave and return another day when James tossed away his spade, abandoning a hill of half-tended potatoes decisively, and came to his rescue. "It's a fine day. Too fine for working," he announced, lifting his chin stubbornly at his younger brother.

Something passed between them and Stephen gave in wordlessly, turning away toward the house and banging the door behind him. Blair watched him go, unspeaking, and turned worried eyes to James.

"Let's go to the river glen in the lord's wood," James suggested, and Blair nodded.

"I don't know how to swim," Blair warned, a little nervous at the prospect of immersing himself in water.

"I will teach you. And maybe you can teach me something in return... how to read?" Jim asked shyly, and Blair beamed, nodding happily, thrilled that Jim wanted to learn.

They moved to retrieve Blair's swaybacked mare, an aging plowhorse who'd been judged too old to work in the monastery fields, and James unexpectedly hoisted him up onto her back, ignoring Blair's surprised yelp but grinning a little to himself. Half amused, half-indignant, Blair caught himself by clinging desperately to her mane. James led the mare out of the farmyard, leaving her saddle in the barn, and Blair sat captive on her back, hanging on for dear life.

"Stephen is in a poor temper," James explained casually. "The heat is troublesome for Irene in her condition, and she isn't sleeping well. When she doesn't sleep well, Stephen doesn't sleep well, but he won't join me in the loft of the hay barn. He keeps hoping she'll--"

James fell silent suddenly, uncomfortable, and Blair took a deep breath, taking the plunge with great daring. "Permit him his right to initiate conjugal relations?" The formal clerical language fell off his tongue naturally, but it made James blink and then chuckle deeply.

"That's one way of putting it. He'll be as cross as bees swarming from a disturbed hive until he..." James shrugged a little, uncomfortable again. "Gets some sleep," he finished lamely, after an awkward silence.

"He should make the acquaintance of his good right hand," Blair informed James breezily, feeling exhilarated by the bright sunlight and the open countryside.

"What would a monk know about that, anyway?" James laughed again, a little too loudly.

"More than you would care to hear," Blair responded earnestly, and James fell silent, walking easily, leading Blair's mare by the bridle. "The vow of celibacy is a troublesome burden," Blair commented, feeling the need to make James understand. "I convinced my mother to let me join the monastery as a child, because I wanted to learn from books-- I wanted to be taught to read, wanted to discover what was hidden inside those things that interested the clerics so much. I... didn't yet understand what I was forswearing." He spoke soberly. "Perhaps I still don't." Blair fell silent, thinking for a moment of how Stephen touched Irene so gently and so easily.

He suspected there was more to it than simple conjugal relations; there was an intimacy and comfort to such things that he'd only glimpsed, a stolen sampling vouchsafed to him only infrequently. He'd felt it once when James had held him as they struggled with the rick cloth, overheard it once when he overheard Stephen and Irene's quiet noises in the night, and known a shadow of it on the few times when he'd felt James' body next to his as they slept by the fire during his first winter visit. Those memories tormented him now when he lay in his narrow bed by night, and his good right hand was no longer enough. Perhaps it would not suffice for Stephen, either.

"Many monks have a reputation for breaking their vows of celibacy." James nodded quietly. There are Benedictine friars wandering all over the countryside who are suspected of spoiling the country girls and goodwives, and there are bastards in plenty to prove it." Blair flushed uncomfortably as he listened, remembering his mother and his own origins. Perhaps one such girl had been his mother.

"Sometimes I miss Caroline." James admitted suddenly. "Stephen is a lucky man." He quickened his pace, tugging the mare along briskly. "You are an unusual man, for a man of the cloth." James changed the subject abruptly. "I have never heard a man of God advise anyone to make acquaintance with his good right hand!"

Blair laughed by rote, but he didn't feel it honestly. "Perhaps I am just a man," he spoke with false lightness. "Maybe many monks find that they are merely men." He rode in silence for a time. "I held a woman only once, in my memory. My mother, when she hugged me before she left me with the Abbot." He hesitated. "In promising to love none, you promise to love all... but as a consequence of loving all, you must not love one." He shook his head fiercely. "I must admit, James, that I do not understand why it must be forbidden for a clergyman to love one."

James nodded soberly, his eyes rising to Blair's, filled with sympathy. "I think that there are worse sins than to break that vow," he ventured slowly, watching Blair carefully for any sign of disagreement or condemnation. "There must surely be worse things in this world to trouble God than to break a vow for love."

Blair suddenly felt his heart beat harder, his head swimming dizzily in the heat of the sun. "The mendicant friars who prey on women are surely worse than that," he agreed. "For they break their vows in lust, not in love."

James looked at him sharply, then bestowed a sharp nod of approval on his statement. "Yes," he said softly. "And to make a vow against the will of nature is to ask for defeat. A man is a man-- if he does not find a wife or make use of his good right hand, then his body will find its release without it."

Blair nodded quietly, pushing away the moment of giddiness, admitting the truth and the logic of James' words, not wanting to embark on the standard theosophical dogma negating James' observation, which meshed quite closely with several of his own private beliefs. They had spoken frankly before, developing a deep and strong friendship over the months, but this topic was more dangerous than others. He was well aware that this time, they had been treading perilous grounds, traversing the boundaries of heresy.

James and his family were not alone in needing to fear honesty; Blair himself might be condemned and possibly even executed horribly by the church he served. He embraced that thought perversely, trying to hide from the sudden image that rose in his mind unbidden: James' own good right hand. Servicing its owner's pleasure, strong graceful fingers clasped around the organ that he had in common with every other man, be he monk or king or Pope or the lowest serf.

Blair took a deep, shaky breath, swaying in the heat, and James pulled the mare to a stop beneath the shade of a tall oak, clearly concerned for him. "Why do you come out of the cloister to visit us so often?" he asked softly. "I've learned not to lose myself any more. Should I stop asking you to come to visit me, stop encouraging this temptation to break your vows and sin for love?" James' voice fell, very gentle, almost sad. "You spoke of `one.' Who is the woman you want? Is it Irene?"

Blair blinked at him, startled into unconsidered speech by the openness of the final question. "I... want no woman," he choked, then crimsoned. James' eyes widened with shock; Blair dropped his gaze and clamped his lips shut, cursing inside himself, the curses of childhood and of the coarsest serfs and laborers who'd worked the fields under the supervision of the Christian brothers, the worst curses he had ever heard. James would guess, James would know. He would go to the Abbot in horror, denounce Blair for the sinner and the lecher he was, and Blair would be punished, stripped of his robes and his rosary and sent away in disgrace, or perhaps tried secretly and condemned to be hanged or burned in a barrel--

He sat very still, trembling, unable to flee or speak, then collected himself with an effort and mustered his courage, raising his eyes to meet James' stare. Paradoxically he felt as though a great burden had lifted from him, leaving him free-- if he were to die, he would die knowing that he was finally an honest man.

James simply looked up into his face for a long moment, pale blue eyes inscrutable, then nodded and resumed their quiet progress, tugging the mare behind him. The dull clopping of her shod hooves on the dirt road echoed through the quiet countryside, the silence otherwise broken only by the drone of bees and the calling of birds, especially thrushes digging in the fields for worms.

They entered the outskirts of the woods, the heat of the sun pleasantly reduced by the constant shade, light playing in emerald dapples on the forest floor. Blair began to breathe easier, but his chest still felt tight; he couldn't take his eyes off the back of James' neck. He couldn't imagine what James might be thinking, and wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know.

They arrived in a cleared space next to the river; luxuriant meadow grass grew beside a still pond that had formed when someone dammed the river just beyond a natural conclivity in the land. It was a peaceful dell, enclosed entirely by trees, pastoral and secluded. The grass was brilliant green, studded with clover and forget-me-nots.

"Nice hot day. Good day for a swim," James spoke calmly, and reached to tug his smock over his head, his sweaty body revealed suddenly, shining under the light of the sun. Blair froze, eyes locked to the muscular back displayed before him, and was unable to tear them away when James stepped out of his rough trousers and kicked off his boots, revealing heavily muscled, round buttocks. He sat quite still, fingers knotted in the mare's mane, heart hammering frantically in his throat. Was it possible James hadn't understood...?

James turned, apparently unembarrassed by his nudity, and held out his arms to Blair. "Need a hand down?" His eyes were very calm, very deep, completely unreadable.

Trembling, Blair forced his cramping fingers to untwine from the mare's mane, watching his hands diligently as they moved, and felt himself lift his arms, as though in a dream, to reach out for James' support, letting himself be pulled from the horse's back.

"There's nobody around for miles." James' voice was rough and low in his ear, and James was trembling too, and Blair was pressed up against that broad shining chest, feeling its heat, hanging there with his feet dangling, his arms around James' neck. Slowly James settled Blair's feet to the ground and Blair tipped his head back to look into James' face. Blair opened his mouth to speak but no words came out of him. Then James was bending forward very slowly and the world narrowed to nothing but James' hot mouth covering Blair's, his tongue darting in to touch Blair's, their lips moving together clumsily in Blair's first kiss.

James' arms flexed and his body cushioned Blair as they tumbled into the grass together, and soon Blair found himself on his back, looking up into his best friend's desire-hazed expression, licking his lips nervously, his heart overflowing with terrified elation. James struggled with the thick, unfamiliar layers of his cassock, unbelting him, casting aside his rosary and his belts and peeling away his loin wrap.

"Kiss me again," Blair begged, his voice breaking, and James yanked apart his thick homespun undershirt and laid his broad, hot chest down onto Blair's, obliging him. Blair moaned, writhing at the unfamiliar, wonderful sensation of skin on skin, his arms wrapping around James' shoulders frantically. He hung on for dear life, kissing James back without skill but with wholehearted enthusiasm, everything abandoned in the heat of the moment, his entire world focused on the ecstasy of intimacy with James, on the taste of their kisses and the inferno of desire James' touch kindled in him.

James tore at the layers he wore, stripping him out of them roughly, and Blair stared up into his lover's eyes, dazed and suddenly shy when he lay bare under the sun, his robe spread out on the grass beneath them. James pushed up and knelt over Blair's body, his eyes raking over Blair's pale, sun-starved limbs hungrily. "Why does it have to be wrong to want you so much?" he questioned hoarsely, eyes glittering with need and pain.

"Feeling this much love can't be wrong." Blair caught James' forearms in his hands earnestly in hands made square and powerful by years spent writing and drawing, lifting and carrying books, supporting the weight of the world's accumulated knowledge. "I don't care what any man says. I don't care for a god that says this is wrong. The Greeks and Romans wrote--" but James was bending forward helplessly, kissing him again, hot and tender and slow, and Blair forgot speech in the sweetness of it.

James drew back after a long moment, breathless, and searched Blair's face. "You don't believe, do you?" His voice was thick, husky with passion. "Not in the vows you took, not in the prayers you speak, not in the God whose name you serve."

"I don't believe in small-minded men who make laws to defend and preserve their own fears and say they come from gods." Blair gasped, arching as James' hand slid down his flank, trailing sweet fire in its wake. "Twisting the truths that any man could see--" he broke off, gasping again James' hand slid between them.

"I don't know what to believe," James admitted, kissing his way along Blair's throat. "Not anymore. I don't know whether anything is right, other than this..." his tongue slid along Blair's collarbone, lapping up the sweat that beaded there. His seeking hand closed around Blair's hardened flesh, moving slowly, and Blair cried out, his head tipping back, eyes dazzled by the brilliant sun. He came hard, spurting helplessly against his lover's belly.

Blair sagged back for a long moment, eyes blinking open when a grasshopper flitted against his cheek. He stared fuzzily up at James, spots of color blooming on his cheeks, and reached to touch his lover's mouth with wonder. "If anyone learns of this, you'll be... we'll be-- "

James hushed him, sliding his warm wet palm over Blair's mouth, and Blair fell silent, then opened his eyes and licked tentatively at the wetness there, tasting the salty bitterness of his seed mingling with the sweat on his lover's palm. James' eyes darkened with passion. "Then let us take care that no one learns." He moved his hand and leaned in to taste Blair's seed, licking tenderly at his face.

Blair moaned softly, feeling arousal surge through him again, sweat slickening his skin. "Love me again, James?" he asked softly. "I... don't know how often we can hide this, or how long...."

James nodded, hushing him again with a slow kiss that burned heat through Blair's body, rousing his flesh again. Whatever they could have would have to be enough. "We have already done so much that is sinful," James murmured with rueful humor, nuzzling Blair's ear. "I have heard of a thing, and always wished that Caroline might try it, but she never did..." he moved with sinuous grace, sliding down Blair's slippery belly. Lifting his lover's gleaming penis, James examined it for a long moment, stroking it with his fingertips, reawakening it quickly. "I never thought I would find such a thing so beautiful," he spoke in a hushed voice, and then his mouth opened and covered Blair's straining hardness, sliding down the wet shaft.

Blair's breath exploded out of him in a low scream, his hips surging upward involuntarily, and James struggled to accommodate him for a moment, then settled Blair back onto his opened cassock and laid an arm across his hips, pressing him down. He began to move, taking the head of Blair's shaft deep in his mouth and then sliding back till it breached his lips and taking it in again, over and over, lush wet heat alternating with the cool of the air on Blair's wet shaft. Pausing, he glanced up at Blair's wide eyes, and then took him in again, sucking with sudden fierceness.

Blair cried out, thrashing and tearing at the grass with his hands, incoherent with pleasure, his mind exploding, spiraling in an almost unbearable upward gyre toward the annihilation of bliss. James worked him persistently, encouraged by his constant moans and whimpers, learning quickly. His tongue darted around the sensitive head of Blair's erection and Blair writhed, feeling his body tighten again, incredibly fast-- "James!" he cried, tugging at his lover's head. James pulled away just as he spilled, wiping his mouth, watching hungrily as Blair spasmed once onto his stomach and then collapsed blissfully, the sunlight catching in the short-cropped curls of his hair.

James lay down next to him, holding him and stroking his side lightly, nuzzling at his neck, ignoring his own erection. Blair had been a virgin, completely inexperienced with the ways of the flesh even with women; he was to be granted consideration. As Blair recovered, his breathing evening out, James rocked against him gently, his hardness enjoying the contact with Blair's warm, hairy thigh.

"James, you haven't...." Blair struggled to sit up, contrite. "I didn't think, I--"

James gently wrestled him down again, kissing the sturdy jaw. "Where do you think you're going?"

Laughing softly, Blair subsided, letting himself be kissed, rocking against James now, matching his lazy motion. "There must be more things that men can do together," he theorized thoughtfully. "We should try them." He flushed suddenly, a smile threatening to break free nonetheless. "I'm brazen, aren't I?"

"I think you might be," James admitted, chuckling softly. "But you're mine."

"Yes." Immediately serious.

"Good." James pushed Blair over onto his back again, covering the pale sturdy body with his longer one. Blair's body was soft from a life of prayers and writing, his muscles undeveloped, but he felt solid beneath James, solid and vital and welcoming. "You know that a man enters a woman's body," James ventured thoughtfully.

"Yes. I have seen barnyard animals accomplish this," Blair responded dryly, eyes sparkling with amusement. "They copulate publicly, without shame."

"I think that I could do that with you, if you let me." James' hand lingered at Blair's hip. "I think that is what is meant by--"

"Sodomy?" Blair supplied the word when James hesitated, half ashamed. A rush of lust sizzled through him at the scandalized but desire-filled look on James' face. "So many have risked so much for its sake," Blair commented, considering, his tone wicked. "There must be more to the act than is readily apparent." He met James' gaze, humor falling away. "Yes," he spoke softly. "I will let you."

James shivered, his lashes sinking shut sensually, tongue darting out to moisten his dry lips. "Blair..."

"Move, James." Blair pushed at him gently, and James let him free, watching as Blair turned to his belly, his legs parting, offering access to the only entry he had. He trembled as Blair settled back to the ground, pillowing his head in the cradle of his folded arms, sighing with pleasure at the sensation of the sun beating down on his exposed back. "Take me," Blair requested simply. "I will give you everything you want, and more."

Jim nodded and gathered Blair's arms tenderly, reverently. He knew that they might have only this moment in which he could take everything Blair offered.

If it must, it would suffice.

"And they lived happily ever after."

"That's it?!" Jim's eyes flew open with outrage. "You're stopping there?"

"Yeah." Blair snuggled contentedly close to his lover.

"That's not good enough, Chief. How come you got off twice and I didn't get any at all? What did they use for lube? Did anybody find out? What happens to James? Does he get his own farm? How does he function as a Sentinel when he's just a serf on some monastic demesne?" Jim grew increasingly intense as the questions poured from him.

"Brother Blair still has the wooden box of salve James gave him," Sandburg informed him lazily. "That'll do for lube. And maybe James will get hired to be the reeve at the monastery when Brother Blair gets to be the Abbot. He can use his senses to look out for the monks and protect them from nasty merchants." Blair moved out of Jim's embrace, stretching luxuriantly. His erect cock bobbed invitingly, but Jim ignored it, his mind still focused on the story.

"But what about James' family, and the monks at the monastery? Maybe they could go to America together, emigrate or something." Jim's mind pursued the potential of the story relentlessly. "How long did the Dark Ages last? Has Columbus sailed yet?"

"James." Blair's laughing voice put a halt to the tirade. It commanded, invited... seduced. Jim looked, startled, and found Blair lying amorously on his belly, his strong narrow thighs parted in unabashed invitation. "Take me."

Jim caught his breath, abruptly realizing that he had everything the medieval James did, and so much more that he did not-- his independence, his freedom, his lover in his home and his life, Blair's warm willing body in his bed every night. "I will give you everything you want," he promised, heart suddenly full as he moved to join his beautiful lover. "And more."

End Suffisaunce by Cara Chapel: aaboe@mailme.dk

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