Amat In Idlenesse

by Tym Greene

A fox priest finds an unorthodox way to ease his leopard lord's guilty conscience.

The robins had not yet begun their twittering, but I was already well-awake. Wiping myself clean with a handful of the straw kept in a basket beside the wooden seat—polished through long use—it was easy to reflect on the improvement in my station. A castle garderobe was far more convenient (not to mention more comfortable) than the long trek to the necessarium outhouse at the monastery where I’d spent so many of my years.

I stood and patted down my tunic, smoothing the fur of my tail and ears, listening to the first notes of the birds’ dawn chorus floating through the privy window. Soon it would be dawn proper and time to ring the bell for lauds. A fox’s work is never done, I thought with a smile. I slipped past the sheets hung across the garderobe’s entry—for the double purpose of giving privacy and to use the privy’s noxious fumes to kill the mites thereon—and hobbled my way to the chapel.

Another blessing of my station. In the course of my day I naturally had to make many trips to the chapel, both for the services I led and to ring the hours, but the closeness of that holy room to my own small chamber made for much shorter walks than had formerly been required of me. I pulled the bell cord just once so as not to wake any sleepers or disturb My Lady, then stood before the altar to recite the Psalms of the service: 66 and 50 to begin, 75 and 91 given that it was a Friday, and 148 through 150 to finish, all as required by the Rule. I omitted the remaining hymns, versicles, canticles, and the like, as I was no singer and didn’t want to offend the deity’s ears with my howling.

Instead, I spent the remaining two hours in dusting and polishing the altar goods: the gold candlesticks, the silver chalice and paten, and the fine linen cloth that draped so pleasantly across the rough-hewn stone. All the little touches that made the chapel like unto the temple of Solomon—bedecked with as much richness as could be reasonably afforded, balancing the manor’s wealth with the lord’s piety. I swept through the rushes of the floor and added a handful of new lavender blooms and mint sprigs to refresh the scent until the next day’s usual cleaning, when all would be replaced in preparation for Sunday.

As always, I moved slowly, with deliberation born of my disfigurement and cultivated by my cloistered youth, turning every motion into a little prayer, a small obeisance.

Then I looked out the glazed window to watch the sun rising above the fields of My Lord Le Mains’ demesne; the bleating of the sheep in their fold wafted with the morning breeze over the hedgerows.

Soon enough I rang the bell for prime—louder this time, to wake up any sluggards still abed—and said the Psalms required. Then I crutched myself back to my chamber and prepared my break-fast: a hunk of bread from the previous day’s baking, a few smoked herring, and a mug of watered wine. I savored the crunch of tiny bones and the bite of the wine with the same deliberation I spent on polishing the chapel’s candlesticks, and a small prayer of thanks. My Lord allowed me to keep this small store of food in waxcloth-covered jars in my chamber, to prevent me having to go as often down the long stairs to the great hall and kitchens.

The bright midsummer light was ideal for reading, but as I brushed the crumbs from my whiskers and brought my breviary to the window seat, my mind was elsewhere. So I sat, claw marking the day’s unread page, eyes staring unseeing at the countryside before me, and recalled the vague forms of parents who had given me up to the monastic life. Oblation was the kindest charity they could have done me, given that I was born with a clubfoot and was their fourth (or possibly fifth—my memories of childhood are as insubstantial as cobwebs) living son. No knightly life for me.

Though I remembered not their names, I trusted that God would know whom I meant when I daily prayed for the souls of “Mother” and “Father” and “kin,” daily thanked Providence for crippling me in such a way that I might find my true calling among the books and hours of the monastery, the alternating schedule of silence and song. And now this newest blessing, a position, a home as priest to My Lord Le Mains’ household.

At that thought, I heard a rap at my chamber door and rose from my seat. Lifting the latch, I saw the angular head and thick body of the leopard himself. “My Lord,” I said with as graceful a bow as I could manage, thankful that I was wearing the fine linen surplice he had given me at Christmas, and hoping my breath reeked not of my small repast. “How may I be of service to you? Perhaps more prayers to blessed Saint Margaret of Antioch? Though it be not yet time for terce, I would gladly accompany you back to the chapel—”

He held up a hand, fingers thick and claws blunted from years of training for and laboring at the sword. A cloud passed over his spotted visage, knitting his brows and squinching the pale bluish gold of his eyes. I tugged at my whiskers in concern: perhaps our previous prayers had been in vain.

My Lady, wife of My Lord these past several years (well before I joined his household), was once again with child, and had taken her chamber. As was proper I now daily said special prayers for the sake of both mother and unborn child, most usually at terce and compline, the better to ensure that the aegis of the saints covered all hours of the day. My Lord Le Mains often joined me in the chapel for these—as often as he could, given that the duties of his demesne didn’t halt at the word of his wife’s impending labor; what work of man could stop the stars and planets in their dance?

I waited while he thought, and I could almost see the pages of Vegetius turning in his mind, reviewing different strategies and tactics as he would before a battle of great import. The mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “As you know,” he began, then shook his head.

With the patience of a penitent, I sat again on the padded window seat, hand still clutching my breviary, letting the morning sun warm my fur. And as I waited, I examined My Lord, idly wondering if there might be some clew, some thread to guide me, Theseus-like, to the core of his perplexity. He stood, as ever, a foot taller than me, with thick limbs and trunk built on the battlefield and fed at the banqueting table. His fur, I noticed, was mussed, as though he had not thought to brush himself without a wife’s prompting. There the long left sleeve of his herigaut had begun to fray, and his head was uncharacteristically uncovered.

In short, My Lord Le Mains looked unkempt and older than his forty-and-two years. An inkling tickled the back of my mind, and I shifted in the window seat, turning so the sun was more fully upon my shoulders. “My Lord, perhaps it is confession you seek?” His eyes flickered, stared at me with a predatory intentness, then his whole mien relaxed as though a binding cord had been cut. “If it please My Lord to shut the door, you are welcome to unburden your soul. And,” I added, suspecting something lurked behind that guilty auric gaze, “of course the confessional seal will keep anything you say safe-locked between us two and God, who hears all things.” I smiled a little, to soften the liturgical tone of my words as much as to underscore that I was sympatheticus.

Obligingly, he closed my chamber’s door, knowing it was more expedient for him to do so than to have me hobble across again. When he turned back to face me I could see tears glinting at the corner of his eyes. Already his body begins its expurgation, I thought, recalling my instruction in the Sacrament of Penance, that weeping and sighing were as important as the words of confession themselves, all serving to expel sin as surely as vomiting could clear a belly full of putrefaction.

I gestured for him to kneel, given that my seat placed me at roughly the same height as standing and not knowing how much unburdening would be required to alleviate his dismay. “Tell me, my son, what weighs so heavily upon you.” I had to stifle a smile: I was nearly fifteen years his junior, and naturally beneath him in the grand hierarchy of creation, and yet my duties required that I sometimes take on a fatherly role. The hand I placed upon his shoulder solidified this—when else would I have been allowed to touch his person?—as well as the massy bulk of his muscles beneath the delicate drape of green satin. His body was as warm as the sun on my back, and his eyes as radiant when they met mine.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned…” Again the incongruity of role with reality, but the stock phrase gave him confidence to continue. “I have lusted—in thought if not in deed.” His voice was low, a purring growl that underscored his power and always made my tail fluff up. Again I could see the tears at the corners of his eyes, though now I wasn’t so sure they were tears of repentance; perhaps instead they were indicative of frustration.

I gestured for him to go on, but instead of elaborating on his sin, he digressed. Clearly the noble mind had many weights upon it. “Today is the Feast of St. John,” he said, as though I wasn’t well aware of the year’s various red letter days, “and tomorrow begins the battle season.”

I nodded, knowing that—for those men not doubly-blessed as I had been, namely those un-marred by injury or infirm birth and not under duty to the Church—the battle season began after the twenty-fourth of June and continued for the forty days due by any vassal to his lord. I also knew that My Lord Le Mains, by virtue of his being himself vassal to the Marquess of Wessex, was due on the battlefield to fulfill his yearly obligation.

“When I return, I plan to hold a tournament in honor of my child’s birth—” then, as he realized what he had said, he rapped his knuckles on the wooden floorboards and added quickly, “by God’s Grace.” After all, in this world nothing but death and the deity are certain, so it was entirely possible that some, or none, of the parties involved would survive to the proposed celebration. Concern assuaged, he went on to describe his intent, with jousting—his favorite form of hastilude—figuring high on the list of events.

I could well understand his anticipation, as just the mention of the event was enough to conjure up visions of the festival atmosphere: storytellers, minstrels, and acrobats vying for space with horse dealers, armor makers, and vendors of sweet and exotic foodstuffs. Besides the joust there would be stone-throwing contests, wrestling matches, dice games, and dancing; finishing with candlelight feasts set on groaningly overladen trestle tables outside the tents and in the town streets. An exciting prospect to be sure, but one that seemed unrelated to his need for confession.

“You said you wish to confess your lust, my son,” I prompted, causing him to grimace.

“Yes...with my wife being laid-in, I...” And here the leopard kneeling before me—reputed to be a lion on the battlefield—seemed more a whipped cur, as unwilling to meet my eyes as he was to speak his mind.

“I see,” I said, divining his unspoken meaning. After all, the body has its humors just as the soul, and an imbalance is an imbalance. It struck me that, if I remembered my Galen aright, My Lord being unable to release himself these past months might thereby have resulted in an overabundance of phlegmatic humor. This would need to be brought back into balance for him to regain his composure, let alone triumph on the field of battle.

Some might contest my decision, might say it stemmed from a sinful self-interest, but truly if my position is the care for the souls of My Lord, his household, and all in his demesne, then it falls to me to consider his physical as well as spiritual health. For, I reasoned, if he remained unbalanced and thereby fell in combat, the whole manor would be thrown into upset—possibly even resulting in the loss of My Lady and her unborn child. Then, with no heirs, the demesne would be parceled out—for so prosperous a prize would not long sit unowned—thereby destroying the communal cohesion My Lord had worked so hard to attain and preserve.

Those were my thoughts as I sat with the sun on my back and My Lord Le Mains kneeling before me, and with those thoughts I placed my other hand upon his other shoulder. “What will ease your distress, my son?” Seeing the anguished indecision crumpling his noble face, I added: “the seal of confession still holds, My Lord. I am bound to silence on whatever you might here say.”

I expected there to be some scullery maid or neighboring lady who had caught his eye and now resided in his fancy, the more stubborn for being illicit and unattainable. The fingers that rested on my un-mangled leg were therefore a surprise. I looked down at the black-spotted golden fur against the clean white of my surplice, then back at My Lord’s face. “Whatever I say...or do?” he asked with mingled hope and fear.

“Of course, my son,” I replied, knowing that this would to most counts fall beyond the normal sacrament of confession. But my Abbot had always held that acts had greater power than words, which might have explained the silence that rang through his monastery as well as the small mute gestures of kindness so valued among his monks. I thought back on the small sprig of spring flowers someone had placed beside my bowl in the refectory, the smooth stream-polished stone—cool and calming to touch—resting upon my pillow one night. One night we all awoke for matins to find that our sandals had all been cleaned and polished, with no clue as to which brother had performed the service.

In response to my answer, the hand upon my leg slid higher, raising hackles beneath the fabric and sending chills along pathways unused to such pleasure. I must confess, at that point a lusty sigh escaped me and I placed my hand on his. “My Lord...” I whispered, uncertain how to finish the sentence.

His hand rounded the curve of my hip, drawing his body closer to mine. His other hand pressed against my chest, gliding down the surplice as though trying to count my ribs. Those bones, however, were not his interest. Instead he found the tenting, hot and pulsing, between my thighs.

Since he was often enough upon his knees in the chapel, this view of My Lord Le Mains from above was not unusual...until he lifted the hem of my garment. His whiskers trailed against my bare fur, his breath steamy as he snuffled his way towards his first target. I held very still, letting him call the dance and set the tempo; after all, this was for his relief—and ultimately the fitness of the whole demesne—so it fell to him to take charge.

As his mouth engulfed me, I felt the passion rising, threatening to overwhelm and inundate me, so unused was I to this amorous touching. I clung like a drowning sailor to any flotsam thought that might help me stave off my own climax. The thought, fitness of the demesne, floated again through my mind, recalling the image of My Lord’s older brother Pepin.

He had contracted mange while on Crusade many years ago and had left the manor and its charge to his younger brother Drogo, to go live out the rest of his days at an asylum. This was well before I was brought to the demesne to replace the aged and sickly priest, but the old badger had told me of how the younger brother had despaired, and then had steeled his resolve to take charge of his duty in Pepin’s stead.

I had been sent to the asylum with a parcel of Christmas beneficences my first year here: a finely-spun wool tunic, cakes baked with damsons (just as he’d liked them growing up), and a bottle of the town’s distinctively sweet ale. The man in bed seemed more like a bedraggled demon from some “Temptation of St. Anthony” church painting than the elder brother of My Lord Le Mains. Partibald, emaciated, and half-delirious from scratching at the crusting lesions that spangled his body, as though he were trying to scrape off his old spots and replace them with new.

The leper bell lay silent beside his low bed. I could not linger long, but presented my offerings along with a few kind words from some in the household who missed him. I could not tell if he even heard when I said a prayer over him: as I left his cell of a room, his eyes were whirling and his fingers weakly clawed the air as if the whole world had mange too.

Despite, or because of, my efforts, I was able to hold off the inevitable climax long enough for My Lord Drogo to have his fill of cockflesh. Now he rose to his feet again—panting, disheveled, licking at a runnel of drool that clung to his whiskers—and gestured for me to rise from my seat at the window. I stood, wobbly without my crutch and panting from the arousal that throbbed beneath the uplifted hem of my surplice. As I made room, he knee-walked like a penitent until his torso rested where I’d so recently sat, his noble face cradled in crossed arms. His tail lashed above the striped hose that so well showcased the muscular shapeliness of his haunches.

He couldn’t possibly... “My Lord, are you—”

“Yes, breed me like a spring filly.” The insistence of his command would brook no argument. Even as I stood he reached back an arm and undid the girdle of his hose where they attached to his brais, and pulled down the whole bundle, exposing the pale rump and firm orbs close-drawn between his thighs. The fur was matted-down by his close-cut garments, but still looked soft to the touch. I shed surplice and tunic, leaving me naked as any other fox on the day of Creation.

As his fingers clambered around his fundament like Aesopian monkeys, I plucked a small pot of linimentum from its spot, tucked beside the jars of herring and wine. The combination of goose fat and basil had first been concocted by the infirmarer at my monastery to relieve the ache in my leg, and I’d had the kitchens prepare more to his recipe since joining the Le Mains household. I plunged my finger into the congealed concoction, and delicately smeared it upon My Lord’s hole.

Another swipe sufficed to slather my shaft, mixing with and thinned somewhat by the lingering leopard saliva. Seemingly fueled by this strange alchemy, my pulse quickened and the red spear jumped in my hand, as eager as I was hesitant. Closing the distance, I pressed my tip against its target, eliciting an impatient grunt. I felt the barrier relax like the neck of a bag uncinching, welcoming me in.

My Lord has done this before, I thought as I slid in, meeting little resistance. Perhaps the bawdy tales told before late night tavern fires, about knights and lords and their vices, held some kernel of truth. Or perhaps Drogo was unique among their number. Whatever the case, after a few tentative thrusts I was soon enough hilted like a sword in its scabbard.

Guided by his moans and soft mewling I began working like a fuller’s cogwheel, in and out, up and down, resisting the impulse to attack wildly like the beasts of the field. My pulse quickened and my vision narrowed, until all I could see was the spotted tail flashing before my muzzle, the sun glinting across the back of his green satin herigaut. I could feel the blood engorging my shaft, a sensation I had been taught to ignore, to push back, as being counter to my life’s focus and therefore not worth pursuing to its completion. A shift in sensation made me glance down: the base of my shaft had swollen like two rose hips and was being pressed between My Lord’s velvety buttocks and my own sheath, each squeeze spurring me to further heights.

Then, with the suddenness of a dam breaking, my enfeebled leg gave way, dropping me onto—and into—his hindquarters without ceremony. But for all that Drogo only sucked air through his nostrils, his strong body supporting us both so, like some perverse retelling of Isaiah, the fox lay atop the leopard. He clenched around me, his muscles trembling with effort as much as with stimulation.

“Fuck, Charle,” My Lord grunted through clenched teeth as he braced himself against the window, “Is that—nngh—how they teach you to breed in those closeted cloisters? Stripe me...”

For a moment I hesitated, thinking to withdraw, but the grip of him around my shaft’s base was too snug, too pleasant, too unyielding: Drogo knew what he wanted, and what he wanted was fox. The weakness of my leg—unused to such endeavours—and the firm hold upon my root prevented me from thrusting as I had begun, but with the first jiggling hunch I realized that’s not what was required.

The cool satin of his harigaut, so unlike the coarse cloth of my garments, pressed against the nipples running down my chest, and my balls brushed against the soft fur of his thighs with each twitch and jog. The slightest touch stoked new fires within me, some blazing like any blacksmith’s, others cold as midwinter piss. My heart triphammered in my chest and as my lungs gasped, I had a realization.

If My Lord—if Drogo—is imbalanced from a few scant months, why have I not descended to the depths of phlegmatism: forgetful, low of spirit, with whitening fur. Why too, I thought with confusion, aren’t all those sworn to celibacy so visibly marked? Perhaps it suggested a fault in the Galenic ideal...or perhaps most celibates had found a way of rebalancing themselves.

I could think no more, however, for the leopard beneath me began to buck, muttering rapid French as his arm flogged his own root. “Lèche-cul,” I heard, and “téteux,” and finally the rondel “encule-moi mon étalon” repeated like a roasire. The nether grip became almost unbearable as Drogo’s boiling blood tried to melt me down; within my own gut I felt a swelling, a pressure, as though I’d drunk too much mead.

“M-my Lord,” I managed to stammer, my fingers digging into his shoulders as I hunched against him. The long and fluffy tail thrashed between my bare belly and his clothed back, and a series of very un-noble sounds came from both our mouths as I felt myself upended inside him.

A splattering upon the stone wall and wooden floor sounded loud as summer rain.

As we paused to catch our breath and regain our composure, a rich smell reminiscent of the preparations for a banquet filled the room, masking somewhat the sweat of our endeavors: the grease I’d slathered at the point of our union had warmed, setting us both to salivating with the unfulfilled promise of roasting goosemeat.

Though the fires of our passions had subsided, he remained joined to me, locked by the very instrument of our release. With a mighty grunt, My Lord Drogo Le Mains spun upon the window seat and my shaft like a pig on a spit, pulling me forward to better support him. Powerful legs enfolded my bare hips as he looked up at me. “Goddamn dogs,” he muttered without malice, “I always forget about goddamn dogs.”

He propped himself up on his elbows, the risen sun haloing the spotted fur atop his head as he leaned forward. He kissed me then: not the chaste osculum of friends and equals upon the cheek, but the passionate savium. His lips against mine, mouths parted, teeth and tongues dueling like massed armies, his breath filling me with fire. I felt my loins stirring again, twitching within his nether grip, but that soon quieted as his head slid to one side and his tongue began coursing through my cheekruffs and down my neck. The grooming seemed to calm us both with its familiar sensations, and before long I was able to withdraw.

I dropped to my cot, leg shaky from so much unaccustomed use, and watched as Drogo rose to his feet with an almost acrobatic jump. His shaft was narrower than mine, and a daintier pink, and had already begun its retreat as he cast around my small chamber for something with which to clean himself. Pointing out a rag I’d had on an upper shelf, I waited while he swiped before and behind, then tossed the halfused cloth to me. I absterged myself as he drew up his brais and the striped hose over them, re-knotting his girdle and smoothing out the front of his herigaut, the better to show off his thickly-muscled chest.

“My thanks, Charle,” he finally said, once he could no longer put it off by preening.

“My duty, My Lord.” I replied, then nodded. “I trust your spirit feels less heavy after your...unburdening?” His eyes flashed at me, predatory once more, clearly examining for any trace of joke or hint that I was storing up secrets to use for my own gain. Clearly he saw what was before him: a dutiful priest whose prime concern was the spiritual health of his flock.

“Aye,” he said with pause, then again, “aye.”

“Good. While you are away at battle, you must daily pray to Saint Margaret of

Antioch, as will I here, the better to aid your wife.”

“We all have our duties.”

Though I was behindhand ringing bell for terce that day, needing more than a moment’s rest to regain my strength for the walk back to the chapel, I doubted many would mark the delay. Would they notice an unusual jubilation in the ringing today? I wondered, reflecting on the confession as my body went through the motions of the Office, performing the duties made rote by a lifetime’s practice.

And later, as I strolled the minstrel’s walk that circled the upper level of the great hall for my daily exercitium, I happened to glance out the window and saw My Lord Le Mains riding astride his courser with retinue and baggage cart and massy destrier trailing behind. It might have been a trick of the light or the whipping of the liripipe tail of his hood, but it seemed that he glanced back as he galloped away to fulfill his own duty, the noble muzzle just barely discernible as a flash of speckled saffron in the swathes of sea-green fabric.

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