His father was gazing upon me as if I were either daft or a saint and he could not decide which.
“I wish to know that all I have ever attempted in my life was not in vain,” the Marquis said at last.
I smiled at him. I had truly not expected so honest an answer.
“I wish to know that I yet have an heir worthy of the title,” he said, his gaze on Gaston.
My matelot nodded solemnly.
“I wish to know I have an heir who will carry on the family traditions and name,” the Marquis said, this time his gaze was aimed at me.
My smile thinned considerably. “We know he would have to marry.”
The Marquis held up a placating hand. “I see how you are a boon to my son’s well-being and happiness. I am not… suggesting you be parted. I am merely concerned that the presence of someone to whom he is so very close would impede the formation of the loving bonds of marriage.”
I was incredulous. “My Lord, you are indeed an idealistic man. Many would ask what love has to do with the production of heirs, but I suppose that could be viewed as yet another reason most of the nobility are as jaded and amoral as they are.”
The Marquis awarded me a compressed smile of agreement.
I glanced at Gaston: he nodded.
“Gaston wishes for children,” I said. “He is fond of them; and in dealing with the necessity of my marrying, we have discussed the matter at length. He has, of course, been concerned that any offspring he produced would be mad, but we believe there might be a way to mitigate that now.”
“How?” the Marquis asked.
I suppressed a sigh: I did not wish to offend the man now by bringing into question all he had done for his wife. “We know how we deal with his madness, and we think it likely that if a child was raised learning to deal with any possible madness in that fashion, they could be taught to manage themselves far better than Gaston had the opportunity.”
He thought on that and at last nodded. “I, too, have been concerned that any children of that bloodline would be mad.”
I continued quickly. “Prior to deciding that the madness might be mitigated in a child, we had thought I would father any children we would raise. That is the primary reason we have found the wife my father sent so unacceptable. She appears to have no qualities we wish to see in a child, and we fear any child she bears might somehow inherit her… hatefulness, and perhaps even her love of rum. So, we had been planning on… putting her out and procuring a more suitable mother for our children. If Gaston is now to marry, we would wish for him to marry a woman that would be a fine mother and have qualities that we wish to see in a child. We would want her to be accepting of our relationship as well, and hope that perhaps there could be respect, if not fondness, between all parties.”
The Marquis frowned. “Would you intend to bed her too?” His tone was somewhat chiding.
I sighed. “Non, non, I would not.”
He glanced toward the table where Sarah, Striker and Pete sat.
I sighed again. “My sister, and her husband, and his matelot, have a, while not unique, definitely a rare relationship, and I do not feel it is one that could easily be emulated, or perhaps should be emulated.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “So she does bed both of them?”
“We are discussing my sister, sir,” I said with a slight edge to my tone.
He winced apologetically. “I meant no offense.”
“Do you already have alliances that you wished to make through the marriage of Gaston’s half-brothers?” I asked.
He shook his head sadly. “That is all gone now. And with what is known of Gaston among many of my peers, I do not feel I could procure a match that would be as suitable as I would like.”
I tried not to smile at that. It was very likely anyone the Marquis might wish to marry Gaston to was related to some school bully my matelot had struck or even maimed.
“I will wish for the girl to be of noble blood, though,” he added. “Noble French blood.”
I sighed. He was saying Agnes was unacceptable. I supposed I could still marry the girl and we could bring her along to France.
And then I was struck with the breadth and scope of what I was thinking of so casually. My heart skipped a beat. We were mad to pursue this. Things did not become very confusing in the light beyond the cave as Gaston had said; nay, they became very clear, and thus we could see them for the insanity they were. In the cave they were nice, safe shadows upon the wall.
“I am sure some suitable candidate can be found,” the Marquis was saying. “As long as you will not impede the marriage.”
Visions of all the horrors I had ever wished to avoid with a lover came to me, such as his having to sneak into my bed in order to hide our relationship from his wife.
I found myself saying, “I will do whatever is necessary to make Gaston happy.” I would, and I did not feel it would lead to the horrors I imagined, because I did not feel living in that situation would make Gaston happy either, at least I prayed it would not.
The Marquis was studying Gaston, and my matelot met his gaze with level resignation.
“You appear to be… less mad than your mother,” the Marquis said carefully.
“I cannot judge that,” Gaston said.
The Marquis nodded and gave a little sigh and moue. “I do not know if I can judge that.” He shrugged. “Your mother could not manage her own servants, much less a household. Yet, you are trusted by men to heal them and fight alongside them. You can take orders and maintain yourself such that those around you do not fear some outburst or action that would cause them trouble or harm. That is more than ever could have been said of your mother.”
I kept my lips tightly sealed and watched Gaston. He was not wearing any mask, and he appeared regretful and somewhat guilty.
“That has not always been so,” Gaston said. “And not all trust me now. But, I am far better now than I was three years ago.”
I squeezed his fingers lightly. He glanced at me and smiled ruefully. My smile was as reassuring as I could make it. He would be as he was, and his father would accept him or not.
“Will gives me focus, and mitigates my interaction with others,” Gaston said. “Without him…” He sighed and met his father’s gaze again. “I used to spend several months a year sitting on a ship with other men, not talking to them or allowing them to talk to me. I was like a vicious dog they let lie until we reached the Spanish, then… I would attack the enemy until my rage was spent, and sometimes, I would not be able to calm myself and the men I roved with would truss me and lock me away for their safety until I became quiet and withdrawn again.
“When I felt particularly sane, I would visit Doucette and learn from him. I never showed him my madness. I could go for months sometimes hiding it from him before I at last needed to flee again. He is… was, incapable of seeing the signs of it for what they were.
“When I could stand the company of no man, I hid myself away on the Haiti and lived as a wild hermit. I cannot always remember what I did during those times, but I lived, and eventually I always emerged and took my place among men again. And that is how I spent the first ten years I lived in the West Indies.
“Then Will arrived, and for the first time I had someone to talk to about my madness, someone who will stand by me and speak for me when I am at my worst, someone I care enough for that even at my maddest I will attempt to control myself for his benefit.
“I have not gone raving in the wilderness for a year now, or needed to be chained in some dark place until I calmed.” He frowned. “And I have the respect of friends, and I am able to use what I learned from Doucette for the good of others.”
I suppressed a wince at the irony of his words. In Porto Bello, Striker, our dear friend, had chained him in a dark place when there had been no need: because I had gone mad, not Gaston.
“And I feel I will become stronger yet,” Gaston continued. “But, the madness always looms, like a storm on the horizon. Your arrival
cast me from the calm we lived in into a maelstrom. Yet, Will feels I am doing well, and you seem to think I am saner than my mother.”
The Marquis’ face had fallen with disappointment while Gaston talked. “So your sanity, such that it is…” He frowned. “Is a recent acquisition?”
I suppressed a sigh as I saw Gaston struggle with that answer, the resignation deepening its hold on his face. He would never be sane enough for his father. How many years must Gaston act sane before his father would be able to say he was capable? And what did it prove? That Gaston was able to act sane like other men? How sane were they?
I experienced an epiphany. It came blazing out of the light at the cave mouth, and then I realized I was not standing in the cave anymore, not even in the mouth. We stood in the light as we had often surmised. Centaurs stand in the light. There were trees and grass and flowers, and our cart stood there on a road leading to only the Gods knew where.
“Non,” I said firmly, and they regarded me with surprise. “His sanity is as it has always been. He is no more sane or mad than he was as a child. And he has always possessed the ability to control his madness. He has merely spent most of his life in situations that did not warrant that control; situations in which he has been thrust: such as battle, or roving for months crowded together with other dangerous and sometimes inhospitable men – men no more sane than he because they were cast here like refuse just as he was – or in schools where he was badgered and beaten for being different, and he learned to fight in order to survive. His madness is what has allowed him to survive.”
The Horse of his madness was the truth of his soul as we had long known: the cussedly stubborn part of him that just wanted to live; that was angered when he was told he could not be as he was born, that he was evil, that he must be punished.
The Marquis was frowning at me as if I had gone mad, and I almost laughed. Gaston was regarding me with wonder and rapt attention. I grinned at him.
“There is madness that is… surely mad,” I told them and sighed as I realized I needed to explain much much more. “I once had a friend named Joseph. He saw and spoke to people others did not see. That… that is madness of an order…” And then I realized something of that matter. “But we all see people who are not real: we all see shadows on the wall of our memories and...” Joseph had just taken it far further than was comfortable.
I took a deep breath and tried again. “Are you familiar with Plato’s allegory of the cave?” I asked the Marquis.
He began to nod and then shook his head. “Perhaps you should…”
“It is the allegory in which he speaks of a man being chained in a seat in a cave. All he sees of the world are shadows cast on the cave wall by the real images of things that exist in the light beyond the cave. He does not see truth, only the representation of truth.”
The Marquis nodded and spoke with surety. “Oui, God is the light of truth, and unless we turn to see him we are ever chained in the dark.”
I was momentarily appalled he had been taught it in that manner. I supposed that was one interpretation, but it was so… limiting. I struggled to find a way to convey my original intent, or perhaps use his thoughts to prove my own.
“What if I said we were speaking of something more profound than God?” I asked.
He stiffened, and leaned back in his chair with a foreboding frown.
“You would say I blasphemed, or that I was mad,” I quickly interjected.
He nodded tightly.
“You would say that, because I do not perceive the same shadows on the wall, or make the same interpretations of them that you, or most men, do.”
He became angry. “I have spent much of the last years learning to turn in that seat and see God and accept His light as I am able.”
That explained a great deal, but I pushed it aside.
“So have we!” I said earnestly. “It is the same thing. It is… I say it is more profound than God, because we are not seeking God in the light as some rarified deity, but the answers to the mysteries of our souls that God gave us. We are seeking truth.”
He shook his head and gave me a troubled frown.
“I am mad,” I said.
His frown deepened, such that he looked very old and not at all wise.
“I am mad,” I said, and nodded encouragingly.
He sighed. “You sound mad. I can see where it is merely different words for the same thing, but your words sound blasphemous.”
I grinned. “All men are mad who do not perceive things, or speak of them, as others do,” I said carefully. “But if one stands in the light, one sees that most men are still chained in those seats, seeing shadows on the wall, shadows that are not truth. And… It is very difficult to call that sanity, but since it is a lie shared by so many, the few are judged as being mad, and the many as being sane.”
Gaston nearly toppled me from my chair in diving atop me. His mouth closed over mine and his kiss was short and sweet. He released me and I found green eyes glowing with happiness.
“We are centaurs,” he whispered.
“We cannot hide in caves,” I whispered with a grin. “Or watch shadows on the wall… anymore. It is a thing we have known, I have simply not seen it in this manner before. Much like the revelation you delivered to me by saying I was not a piss poor wolf, but something else entirely, a centaur.”
He nodded enthusiastically and stood with elation. “We must think on it.”
I looked back at his father, who seemed quite bemused.
“When Gaston is mad, he speaks or acts from the truth of his soul, and he has a very big and sensitive soul that hears and sees things clearly that other men find quiet or dim. The more he lives in harmony with that truth, the more control he exercises in his dealings with other men. But in truth…” I grinned. “He will always be perceived as being mad by you and others. Because to think and feel and act as others do, to accept their truths, he would have to sit in the cave again and be chained in his seat. And even by your interpretation, that is not what God wants, is it? And that way leads to true madness, in that the more he tries to be a thing he is not, the more the truth within him fights to be free.”
I took a deep breath. I felt I was walking in the clouds hearing the chorus of angels, and it was with great difficulty I brought my thoughts back to earth.
I smiled at him. “You might decide that that renders him too mad to be your heir, to accept the sacred duty of being the Lord Tervent. That is your decision. There is nothing we can do for it. We are going to go now, to the tailor’s, to have proper clothes made so that Gaston can attend the party.”
Gaston was fairly bouncing with excitement. He seemed disappointed when I delayed being away from there even for the moment it took to stop by the other table to snatch a handful of bacon. I gave my sister, Striker, and Pete – who were obviously curious as to our agitation – each a kiss on the head, and hurried out the door.
Gaston pulled me into his arms and kissed me again with great relish. It was a thing of sanity of such an order I could no longer comprehend how anyone could say that two men kissing on the street because they were happy was madness.
“We are mad!” Gaston proclaimed, and we giggled like boys.
“But I feel we shall never be lords,” I said when the wave of mirth passed.
This sobered him, but he did not lose his happy expression. “And rule over sane men?”
“More like shepherd over them.” I sighed. “I became disillusioned with herding sheep with the men of the plantation. I do not now believe that sheep can be herded to any meaningful destination. The best one can hope to do is give them arms and thus make them dogs, who then behave like wolves.”
He thought on this for a time as we began walking toward the shops of Lime Street. “Is not a shepherd’s duty to merely keep them from being eaten by wolves or falling off cliffs?”
I grinned. “And keep them orderly when they are to be fleeced.”
“Just so,” he said with amusemen
t. “I suppose I do not wish to be a shepherd.”
“So we are once again at the question: what do centaurs do?”
“Practice sophism,” Gaston said with a sly smile.
I laughed and reminded him, “It is only sophism if it serves no practical use.” And then I sighed for comic effect. “Of course, we are sophists, and unless we are lords, we serve no practical use.”
“I wish to be a physician,” Gaston said. “And we should serve as guides for creatures other than sheep.”
“So you said at dinner,” I said. “I have always felt that is a wonderful thing you should pursue; you are ever at your best then. But what is a guide for other creatures? Or is that not the definition we decided on of a centaur: a mythical being that comes from the caves to dispense wisdom and healing?”
He grinned. “Just so. A madman.”
This set us laughing again. I thought the Gods laughed with us in this: as They were beings of the light, They surely knew the difference between madness and sanity enough to laugh at it.
Fifty-Nine
Wherein We Run Wild On the Chessboard
We stopped at Massey’s, the gunsmith’s, on the way to the tailor’s. We were somewhat surprised and quite pleased to find our pistols there waiting for us. We thanked him and gave him some coin for both his trouble, and to give to the men who had delivered our pieces.
That happy matter behind us, we forced ourselves into the tailor’s. He was delighted to make our acquaintance, of course, but dismayed as to the amount of time we gave him. After much discussion of what I had available in clothing and what he had partially completed on hand, it was decided that he would make a coat for Gaston for the party, which my matelot would wear over one of my shirts and a pair of my breeches. And then at a more leisurely pace, he would make Gaston two suits of matching jackets and breeches.
We were pleased to note that, though his cloth selections ranged from wool to velvet, he did not make his coats with the full lining and padding a similar piece would require in England. At my inquiry, he assured me one of his apprentices would have time to remove much of the lining from the coat I would wear for the party. I was much relieved I would not be as hot as I had been at the prior formal functions I had attended here on Jamaica.
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