This story follows "The Company of Men," and contains references to episode 1.15 (or rather, concerns things referenced in 1.15?), in which Philipe Nardin appears.

Essays in Idleness

He was never supposed to see Philipe Nardin again.

Since returning to his old life, reclaiming his place as Dauphin and Mary's rightful bridegroom, Francis had hoped to put to rest the man he had just begun to reinvent himself as away from court, and was just beginning to feel successful.

So why this reminder of it now? On his honeymoon, of all places? At the chateau of a lord who had nothing to do with the name Nardin?

Thankfully Philipe had the good graces to pretend he and Francis had never previously met. He smothered Mary with enough praise to seem genuinely smitten, and enough charm so she wouldn't catch the penetrating glance he shot her husband over her shoulder. Francis could only pray he caught and smothered his own startled expression at their "meeting" before anyone other than Philipe noticed it.

He hoped that would be the end of it, but alas, it seemed he and Mary ran into the count everywhere they went within the chateau, and far too often for Francis to believe it was merely coincidental. Whether it was passing through the same hall at what just happened to be the same time; or Francis leaning in to share a tender kiss with his wife, only to see Philipe, conversing with the chateau's master across the room, just chance to glance Francis's way at the right moment for their eyes to meet.

And at supper: "Won't you sit beside me, Your Grace?"

Out of all the chairs at their host's long table, all the distance that could be put between them, the count had to sit beside Francis's wife. And Francis did not miss the blush that colored her cheek when Philipe held her chair for her.

"And why haven't we seen you yet at court?" Mary asked him over the second course—leaning far too far in the count's direction for Francis's liking.

"As it happens, I've spent much of the past few years out of the country." And Francis had to smile and nod at Philipe's stories of Italy and Morocco that followed as if he hadn't heard them all before. The eager way Mary drank them up, and with genuine interest on her part, was almost enough to make Francis lose his appetite.

"Life abroad doesn't leave one many opportunities to search for a wife—"

"It would help," Francis couldn't help adding, "if one were actually searching."

"Francis," Mary chided him under her breath. But Philipe came to his defense: "No, he does have a point. Until recently, I haven't pursued the matter with the seriousness it deserves."

"Surely there must have been plenty of prospects in Rome," Mary tried helpfully.

"There were . . . options—" A light laugh, as though at a private and amusing anecdote. "—that came my way. But there's something about Italian women that doesn't exactly make me eager to take one to the marriage bed."

The fact they were women, perhaps? But Francis held his tongue.

"It wouldn't overly concern me if my father hadn't suddenly taken ill. Between us, I suspect it's nothing more than a cold spell," Philipe said to the two of them in lower tones, as if to win them over to his side of whatever larger filial feud he was resigned to, "but it is a reminder that he isn't getting any younger—neither, for that matter, am I—and that does make the issue of finding myself a wife a bit more urgent. Father has made it a condition of my inheritance that I marry, you understand, and soon. Naturally, he wants to make sure the family name will be preserved."

And as long as he gets grandchildren, he turns a blind eye to his son's unusual appetites? Francis remembered a different angle to the story the last time he was told it.

"But I'm sure the two of you are no stranger to pressure of that sort," Philipe said to Mary, who rolled her eyes in sympathy, assuring him, "That we certainly are not!"

It was pressure of a different sort that was bothering Francis now, however, thoughts of making heirs pushed firmly from his mind. And he was sure, by the cockiness of his smile whenever they passed, that Philipe Nardin was well aware he was applying it.

Francis could not even take Mary for an intimate sleigh ride around the grounds without being stopped by that man first. "Do you really want to venture out in this weather? The snow is falling thicker by the minute."

"We'll be sure to bundle up," Francis told him, looping an arm about his wife's shoulders. "Besides." He made a point of peering deep into her eyes as he said it. "We'll have each other to keep us warm. Won't we, my dear?"

Surely, by the grin Mary returned him—which promised all sorts of exciting ways of keeping warm beneath the blankets and furs they'd have heaped on them until they were nothing but a shapeless mass from the chins down—victory belonged to Francis this round.

Until, that was, Philipe cleared his throat disappointedly, and piqued Mary's curiosity. "Pity," the count said, "because I was thinking of warming up with a round of tennis and could use the company. There will be mulled wine for the spectators, as well."

By the way Mary's grip on his arm tightened in excitement, Francis knew he would not be able to beg out of this. Though he supposed a cup of warm wine was agreeable compensation for having to watch a match or two.

At least, so he thought, until they arrived at the indoor court and, instead of a goblet, Philipe thrust a racket into his hand. "You play, don't you?" he asked to Francis's stunned expression. And Mary, no help that she was, answered for him, "Of course he does. It was practically compulsory at court growing up. Wasn't it, Francis?"

Francis vowed to get his revenge later. "It's been a long time—"

"I'll go easy on you—at first," Philipe teased him; and Francis feared that, unlike Paris, here anyone could hear the intimacy in it. "It'll come back to you quick enough. Just like riding a horse."

He must have known how his taunting would only fire up Francis's competitive side. And though Francis didn't want to give Philipe the satisfaction of knowing he had gotten under the prince's skin, he wanted to give Philipe the satisfaction of winning even less. As Francis rolled up his shirtsleeves, it was to Mary he looked for favor and luck. It was for her he vowed to beat Philipe soundly. He could not allow someone to make a fool of him so easily in front of an audience, let alone the impudent Count Nardin.

Yet as the match progressed, it was Philipe who was constantly striving to snatch Francis's attention. He danced around his side of the court far too much, so that Francis could barely concentrate on the trajectory of the ball in front of him. Each swing of the racket pulling Philipe's shirt against his body—a shirt more clinging and translucent with perspiration the longer their match went on—accentuating the count's narrow waist and broad shoulders. Each lunge revealing the contours of his backside through his hose. As though daring Francis to recall the flesh beneath it with which he was already acquainted, the sheer masculinity of Philipe's naked body as he arched beneath Francis, bracing against a bedpost—

A particularly loud grunt of effort at the smack of racket against ball, and Francis quite forgot where he was. Even if it was only for a second, it was long enough for the ball to fly past him, and for him to only realize belatedly, blood pounding in his ears, that he was supposed to hit it.

Twirling the racket in his grip, Philipe took the moment to catch his breath. There was a knowing grin trying to form on his panting lips as he turned in Francis's direction, and Francis thought he knew then how horses felt when they were about to be broken. "Trouble keeping up? Should we let someone else have a go?"

They asked for the score, and though it wasn't as close as Francis would have liked, he was certain he could make up the difference if he put his mind to it.

Not to mention, he wasn't going to let Philipe Nardin scare him into backing out of a fight. "Let's dance," Francis shot back through his teeth, executing a courtly bow with racket outstretched, and a glare that left no doubt as to his intentions.

But Philipe just laughed at it, pushed a stray lock of hair from his eyes, and readied himself to receive Francis's serve.

It was a humiliating defeat, if only for Francis (for some reason, being beaten so soundly only seemed to make Mary dote on him more in the immediate aftermath). And he blamed Philipe's tactics of distraction entirely for it. The count didn't need to make so much damned noise every time he hit the ball; it didn't take that much effort to swing a racket. Nor did his grunts and shouts have to be so suggestive in nature. Francis was sure he couldn't have been the only one to notice it, either. The way Philipe's voice echoed off the tennis court's paneled walls with each slap of the racket was obscene—a reminder of that night Francis had almost succeeded in forgetting, broadcast in front of everyone.

Including Francis's wife.

Though if Mary had picked up on any of that, she gave no indication. "He was only being competitive," she said to soothe Francis, surprised that his loss had unnerved him so much. "And there's nothing wrong with a friendly competition between two well-matched men—"

"Why would you say that?"

Francis's heart leaped into his throat, and it felt to him like all the blood had left his face to rush under his arms. How much was Mary aware of? Had someone told her—had she sent spies to follow him while he was in exile? To report back on him?

"You're both too obsessed with victory for your own good," Mary explained, however, curious why what she'd said would leave Francis looking so harried. "In fact, you were both so passionate about trouncing one another, as if no one else in the world existed, for a few moments I was almost jealous."

Francis could have laughed with relief. So, that was all it was. He was worrying over nothing if he thought anyone could have deduced what had transpired between him and Philipe in Paris from just a tennis match. "You were jealous of Philipe Nardin?"

"I did say 'almost'," Mary corrected him. "It's not as though you two were past lovers."

—

Supper that evening was followed by a dance, in honor of the newlywed guests. Yet even then it seemed Francis was not allowed to have the company of his bride all to himself.

Philipe's rakish smile was back—though, to be fair, it never seemed to go away—and a goblet was in his hand as he approached them at the edge of the dance floor. "The Dauphin wouldn't mind if I borrowed Her Majesty's company for the length of a song or two, would he?"

And the words were out before Francis knew they were on their way: "He would, actually."

Which earned him a surprised laugh from Mary. "My, a bit territorial lately, aren't we, Francis? It's not as though Count Nardin is going to whisk me off to Rome for an annulment if you let go of me for a few minutes. Though he's certainly charming enough, I might be tempted to let him try."

They enjoyed a good chuckle at that, though Francis's was forced. He wished there had been more wine in Philipe's cup to drown his laughter in when it was pushed into his hand and Mary swept away.

If Francis hadn't known what he knew, he might have been one of those jealous husbands ladies tsked about, scheming on the sidelines while his wife danced with a nobleman whose physique was decidedly more statuesque than his own. Not to mention, the count displayed an admirable amount of skill at the various dances for one who preferred his partners more like himself, and that while the musicians kept up a demanding tempo.

Philipe was quite good at coaxing a laugh from Mary as well, with but a few choice words that, though he couldn't hear, Francis was certain were concerning himself.

To his credit, the count seemed genuinely taken aback when Francis gently took him aside after the festivities.

If by gently taking him aside one meant dropping in on his quarters uninvited and pinning him against the back of the door.

Though judging by Philipe's bemused grin, he was anything but intimidated by Francis's meager show of force. "What's this all about, then?" he said through a startled laugh.

"Funny," said Francis, though he didn't feel much like laughing himself, "but I was going to ask you the same thing."

"What do you mean?"

"What game are you playing at, Philipe? Ever since we arrived you've been ingratiating yourself with my wife in what, I must say, is an embarrassingly transparent ploy to get closer to me. Arranging things so we'll casually bump into one another. Trying to remind me at every turn of that one night—one night, mind you—"

"I was there, Francis. You don't need to remind me how it went. And I'd say we both kept our ends of that bargain. I don't expect anything more from you than you've already given."

"Is that so? Then why have I felt your eyes on me all evening?"

"Because you're used to being the center of attention and a bit of a narcissist," Philipe had the answer ready, an easy shrug to go with it. "Not that I can fault you for the way you were brought up. I hate to shatter your delusions of self-importance, Francis, as endearing as they are, but if I had designs on anyone, it was the young man in the corner all evening playing the vielle à roue. You know I appreciate a man with a supple wrist."

Yes, Francis was sure he did, the suggestive rise of Philipe's brow as he uttered that remark not escaping him. And the memory it jerked to the fore of his mind, of having Philipe's cock in his hand in what had been a highly circumstantial moment of generosity, must have been intentional. No matter how he may wish to, Francis could never undo the reality of their one night together in Paris, nor deny his own role in it as willful participant.

Nor, thanks to the count, would he ever again be able to watch the wheel fiddle being played and have it only conjure up thoughts of music and dancing.

"Ah. I see what this is about." While Francis loosened his grip, Philipe stepped forward for the riposte, until it was Francis who was trapped, his backside suddenly abutting the edge of a table. "It's flattering, actually."

"Wha-what is?" Francis tried at nonchalance and failed.

Though the thigh inviting itself between his certainly had something to do with that, as well as the count's loins pressing against his hip. And what embarrassed Francis most was that he, Francis himself, was the one who seemed to be the more aroused by it. Not at all how he had imagined this confrontation unfolding.

"That you can't stop thinking about me," Philipe murmured, just close enough for his breath to stir Francis's hair. "Or, perhaps to be more precise, that night. What we shared."

"It was . . . exciting. I cannot deny that." Certainly an unforgettable experience, despite Francis's best efforts to forget it. "But I'm happily married now."

"Then why are you here with me and not with your wife?"

Francis straightened, as best as he could around that intrusive leg. "Because she's, er, indisposed at present," he said, not even sure why it was something that needed to be shared, unless to justify why, despite all reason, he was still here.

"And you thought," Philipe said as he leaned in, "since I was so kind to you once before—"

A hand on his shoulder stopped him an inch from claiming Francis's lips. "Don't—" Why it mattered so much to him, Francis would not have been able to put into words; only that to kiss Philipe now would seem like a sacrilege. Maybe not so much in the eyes of God, but certainly a betrayal of his promises to Mary.

Thankfully, Philipe understood well enough. "Right. As you said, you're a happily married man now, and I suppose you feel the lips that spoke your vows are the sole property of your wife. But what I don't understand is why you don't think this—"

Philipe cupped the front of his breeches, and Francis hissed in a breath through his teeth. He could hide nothing from the count, and he wasn't entirely sure anymore he wanted to.

"—is as well," Philipe finished.

"Because we're both men." The words slipped out of Francis unthinking, as he stood there tense, refusing to writhe against the weight of Philipe's hand despite how much he wanted the friction. This couldn't possibly count, not when he needed it not to so much. "We understand each other. We know this isn't about love or fidelity." It was purely physical.

Philipe's grin widened at the admission, as if he had been waiting to hear just that. "No, it isn't," he agreed, sinking to his knees before Francis. Making quick work of his fly. "But what you have with Mary is. And your conscience is all right with that?"

"My conscience is fine so long as not one word of this leaves this roo—Oh, Christ—"

Biting down on a moan, Francis braced himself against the table as his legs weakened beneath him. And here he had almost forgotten what it felt like with Philipe, how instinctively the count seemed to know what drove Francis delirious with pleasure. "How—how can you be so good at that?" he breathed, though he already knew the answer.

He could feel the pull of Philipe's grin against his flesh. "You might as well ask a nightingale," he mused, between a press of his lips to the base of Francis's cock— "why he's so good at singing" —and tongue dragging up his length to draw him in.

"Or ask your viellist how he got such a supple wrist?"

Philipe got his revenge for Francis's gentle ribbing. A chuckle bubbled up in his throat, and the sudden vibration of it around the head of Francis's cock pushed him close to the edge.

Francis cursed the count under his breath, as though the blame for his present situation weren't really his. As if reading his mind, Philipe gripped his cock at the root, just firmly enough to draw Francis back from that precipice. Now that he had the dauphin here at his mercy, of course he would want to make sure Francis did not get away again so easily. He knew just how to make Francis suffer; and, fingers tangling urgently in Philipe's hair, Francis knew he deserved every second of his punishment. For wanting this still when he should have had everything he needed in Mary. For surrendering to such a base desire so readily.

But it was precisely because it was so base, Francis reasoned, so purely carnal, that he stayed. That he could not find it in himself to be ashamed when a moan of delight, of encouragement, escaped him. Philipe tugged his hose down further, trailing his open lips, his breath coming hot and moist between them, across the side of Francis's shaft; while his palm massaged Francis's sac in slow circles, as though in parody of the viellist's turn of his instrument's crank.

Not that Francis minded being played. The masochist inside him shivered at the harsh caress of Philipe's beard against the underside of his cock, and the sudden press of a wandering finger upon the strip of sensitive flesh behind his scrotum. Francis tightened his grip in warning, dreading where Philipe might be planning to go; but that finger went no further. Only massaged the new little source of pleasure it had found until Francis was quite glad for the table beneath his backside, for he was not so certain of his knees' ability to support him.

He wanted to feel the count's mouth around him again, to feel its particular tightness. He wanted to come to the beating of that skilled tongue, pressed against the length of his cock. Nor did Philipe need to look up into his eyes to understand. Francis's body was enough of an open book beneath his hands: his wants writ clear in the trembling of his flesh, in the hard edge of each exhalation.

Francis did not have long to wait for gratification. Philipe's tongue swirled around the head of his cock as he took it in. He let Francis move his hips as Philipe knew he longed instinctively to do, albeit with a hand spread flush against Francis's belly to keep his thrusts slow and measured. All the while that tongue kept traveling, seeking out Francis's most sensitive places, matching its pressure to the stroking of Philipe's fingertip.

Until there was nowhere else for Francis to go. His breath caught in his throat as his orgasm spilled over him, the contraction of Philipe's swallows mirroring the contractions deep within his loins. And while the count drank him through the last ripples of his bliss, Francis thought he finally understood the reason they were all taught from boys to think these acts were blasphemous. If it was enough to make a man go looking for a certain pleasure he couldn't find in his own marriage bed . . .

And feel less guilty than he ought to about bending his vows.

"I suppose Mary will be wondering where I got off to," Francis said in a small voice after the count had gotten back to his feet. He was not entirely sure whom it was meant for.

Philipe wasted no time moving to the washbasin to tidy himself up, fixing his tousled hair by his reflection in the silver jug with the practiced nonchalance of someone who made a living of encounters like this. Though the bulge behind the front of his breeches did not convince Francis of his detachment quite as well.

He smirked at Francis's comment. "I'm sure she is. And I hope this puts an end to these silly accusations I'm trying to seduce you—"

"Of course," Francis was quick to assert as he gingerly tucked himself back into his hose. "I got the answer I was searching for—more than I was searching for, in fact. . . ."

He hadn't been prepared for the count to touch him the way he had, in such an intimate place among intimate places, and it brought a particular question that had been rattling about in the back of his mind ever since their time in Paris to the fore. "I just wonder . . ."

"You wonder?" came Philipe's impatient nudge when he hesitated.

"Does it really feel that good? To have another man inside you, I mean."

Philipe snorted at that, but concentrated on the glass of wine he was pouring himself. "I did look as though I was enjoying myself, didn't I? You don't think I was putting on a show just for your benefit?"

Francis certainly thought the count had enjoyed himself, as he recalled how enthusiastic Philipe had been to receive each of his thrusts. And Francis had to admit, if it were really unpleasant, there would be little reason to want to keep repeating it.

Philipe's grin stretched wider as he watched Francis draw his own conclusions. "Are you asking because you want to find out—"

"No," Francis said quickly, blushing. But that wasn't entirely the truth of it. "That is, even if I were curious—just to see what all the fuss was about—I wouldn't ask you to show me." Even if Francis did have the utmost confidence in the count's experience.

But Philipe nodded in sage agreement. "Of course not. As you said, you're a happily married man. Something as intimate as that ought to be shared with someone you care about very much."

"You're not suggesting I ask Mary," Francis asked in jest, but Philipe's steady stare indicated that was precisely what he had meant. "You can't be serious."

"Why not?" Now it was Philipe's turn to look incredulous. "She isn't one of those wives who insist on relations only being conducted in one boring position, I hope. For your sake as well as the nation's."

Francis laughed aloud at that, at once scandalized that the man who had been so genteel to Mary in public an hour before could now speak of her so crudely, and amused at the thought of what look Mary would surely have given Francis if he ever suggested the same thing within her earshot. That defiant, puffed-up look she gave him whenever she didn't know whether to be proud Francis had thought her one kind of woman, or offended he did not think her another. Philipe would no doubt think Francis mad for adoring that look as much as he did.

And it was all the impetus he needed to return to Mary's side post-haste. "I assure you she isn't," Francis told Philipe, "and that my wife's preferences in bed are none of your business."

Of that, Philipe assured him, he did not need reminding.

It was then that a knock sounded at the door; and, after a cursory check of both their appearances assured the two there was no visible trace of what had transpired between them, Philipe bid the knocker enter.

The young man in an entertainer's style of dress who let himself in was not someone Francis remembered seeing about the chateau. But the vielle à roue under his arm cleared up any confusion.

At least for Francis. The viellist started when he saw the prince, however, begging his pardon with a nervous bow and asking Philipe uncertainly, "You had mentioned something about a private lesson, my lord?"

As if Philipe's "The Dauphin was just leaving" was not enough of a hint that Francis should excuse himself, the eagerness in the count's eyes, as they raked over the newcomer like a starving lion's over a gazelle, promised all manner of things that Francis was certain he did not want to stick around to see to fruition.

Notes: Vielle à roue is an older name for a hurdy-gurdy, and the proper name for the French incarnation of the instrument. You can see videos of it on the internet. Also, hose are just a style of breeches (yeah, I know it sounds weird, but they're not tights; it comes from the German, what can I say).

Thanks also to everyone who read "The Company of Men." This is a two-parter, and the next part should appeal to M/F fans a little more than what I've been publishing in this fandom so far. Please look forward to it!