Wolves

by W. A. Hoffman

  I repeated that prayer with more fervor as I read the next paragraph. The Marquis said Christine wanted nothing to do with the infant and had left her to the midwife without even a glance. As of his writing, she had not taken the babe to her breast. The only time she had wanted to hold the girl was for the christening where she had been determined to be recognized as Gaston’s wife. The Marquis had not allowed it, and though the girl had been christened, it was as a bastard. He admitted his local clergy were quite upset with his decision on the matter, and that he did not know what should be done. His doing as he did left Christine free to take the baby from his home, and she was planning to do so as soon as she was deemed healthy enough and the child old enough to travel. The Marquis was delaying that as long as possible, using the coming winter weather and Christine’s difficulty with the delivery and her still-weakened state as his excuse.

  The girl had been christened Marie Eloise Christina Danielle Vines. Thinking of the boy here who had been dubbed Apollo, I wondered at a divine appellation for this child. The God Apollo had been born—along with his twin sister, Artemis—of Zeus’ affair with a daughter of Titans, Leto. And though my matelot’s two children were in many ways twins of different mothers, I did not feel the name Artemis was appropriate. I could not think of Christine as an avatar of the long-suffering Leto, who Zeus’ wife Hera denied the ability to give birth on land. Nay, Agnes—secretly born of Titans in a sense—had been driven from one island to another to find a home amongst Brethren wolves. She, I could see as Leto. Perhaps someday she would give Gaston an Artemis.

  But for the girl child at hand, I thought Athena a better name. Athena had sprung from her father’s head after he had devoured her mother. I knew some might think the girl should have been named Dionysia or some such thing, as the divine offspring Dionysus had sprung from his father’s thigh. But the pairing that produced this little girl had not been one of lust, but of madness; and I felt it better represented by Athena’s origin. Gaston had felt Zeus’s mighty headache, such that he had split his own head asunder; and out of it had come a motherless child.

  My eyes were hot and moist as fear and frustration gripped me. What were we to do to save this child? How would we get our hands on her once she was spirited away to some house of Verlain’s? I supposed we could always go and abscond with her…

  “What?” Gaston asked with concern.

  I shook my head and continued reading.

  The Marquis’ appraisal of the political situation was indeed troubling. I was both pleased and dismayed when the Marquis apologized to me directly for the matter of Gaston’s marriage eclipsing his attempts to aid in my situation with my father: pleased he cared, and dismayed he felt it warranted an apology. I had forgotten about my letters to the House of Lords and my father, and that the Marquis had planned to insure their delivery through his acquaintance with the French ambassador to England. In light of what my father had now done to me, my paltry letters seemed very trivial. I needed to tell the Marquis not to pursue that course: if I was going to have to kill my damn father, we did not need attention drawn to the matter. Things had progressed too far for there to be anything gained by airing my family’s laundry in Charles II’s court.

  And as for the matter of the purported marriage to Christine… The Marquis professed to blame himself for our woes and apologized profusely to his son for the entire scenario: saying he wished he had not asked Gaston to marry: and he wished for the sake of his son that he had spent more time in his King’s court currying favor. He was not sure what to do now. He wished very much to know what Gaston desired, and to know what Agnes had given him as a grandchild. Then he stated emphatically that his first concern was Gaston’s happiness and the production of a legitimate heir. He did not feel either would ever result from legitimizing the marriage to Christine.

  Then he went on to bemoan the state of French politics. Speaking of how appalled he was that so little mattered now beyond the maneuvering and backstabbing in the halls of Versailles. He had apparently been dismayed and embarrassed to discover that it no longer mattered how good and noble a man was. He apologized for chiding me about my poor opinion of the nobility, and said he had been the naïve one.

  In closing, he repeated his prayers for our wellbeing and the like, but my eyes were too full of tears to read further. I handed the letter to my matelot, who was watching me with concern. “There is nothing here that engenders ought but love from me for the man,” I assured him. “But there is much to engender our further dislike for Christine.”

  Gaston came to me and wiped a tear off my cheek before accepting the letter and beginning to read.

  I turned away to let him read in peace and found Theodore regarding me anxiously.

  “I will read the letter he wrote to you in a moment,” I whispered.

  He shook his head. “I feel very few will be happy no matter what occurs. I am sorry, Will.”

  “We must consider the children first,” I said. “They should not suffer for the sins of their fathers, as… we have.”

  There was movement behind me, and I turned to find my matelot had sunk to the floor with tear-filled eyes. He was still reading, though.

  I turned back to Theodore. “Would you leave us alone, please? There is much we need to discuss.”

  He nodded and clasped my shoulder as he passed. When the door was safely shut behind him, I went to sit beside Gaston and take his hand. He entwined his fingers with mine and squeezed gratefully.

  “I envision him crying when reading of the boy here,” Gaston said. “I have ruined everything.”

  I wrapped an arm about his shoulder and kissed his temple. “He loves you still.”

  He sighed and forced a smile to settle on his mouth. “Why am I cursed to be adored by people with poor judgment?”

  I turned his face to mine and kissed him sweetly. “It is a cross you must bear.”

  “Oui, and I bear it gladly.” He sighed again and pawed his tears away. “She cannot be allowed to keep the child.”

  “I concur,” I said.

  “What are we to do?” he asked forlornly and met my gaze. “I am sorry, my love. I thought the road would be uphill for a short distance upon coming here; and then it would level out somehow. But it seems I am asking us to pull straight up a cliff.”

  “Well,” I sighed, “I feel we must lighten the cart.” But I could not see how.

  “I do not wish to choose between them. And I feel I am being asked to choose between you and my father—where there is no choice—and I resent it.”

  “You said we came here for the children,” I prompted him gently.

  He nodded earnestly. “Oui, Will, but I am a fool. I do not know what I thought would occur with the one in France if I was not married to Christine. I thought perhaps Christine would simply leave the babe with my father. I hoped she would want no part of it. And according to my father she does not, but if she takes the child with her, that girl’s—my daughter’s—childhood will be as miserable as mine.”

  I realized there was an answer: it would cause no end of trouble, but there was an answer.

  “Accept Christine’s claim of marriage,” I said.

  He regarded me with incredulity. “How? Everyone has said it is false. It is false.”

  “I am thinking…” I was trying to recall who had witnessed his marriage to Agnes. Anyone not there could claim they were misled: that others had lied to them about the marriage. But those people who were there—and therefore would purportedly be doing the lying—would include Theodore and Rachel, Sarah and Striker, the Marquis, and of course Agnes—and possibly a dozen or so more of our good friends. Could we convince them all to tell the priest they had lied? It would be unfair, though; even if they would: it would tarnish their names. I was willing to be branded a liar: I had nothing to lose, but…

  “We tell them we lied—to them,” I said quickly. “That… That you married Christine in secret. And then you realized she was unsuitable; and so you… ha
d the marriage annulled—or tried to. Or… we paid the priest to have it annulled and he agreed. The Catholic fathers might believe a good father of the English Church is a greedy parson with no scruples. And considering what apparently did occur with certain marriage records, they might well be correct.”

  I rushed on. “We could take the blame ourselves. We could say none of the others knew. You put Christine out, and we bribed the priest so he would annul the marriage and perform the ceremony with Agnes for your father’s benefit. And that ceremony was not even in a church,” I added.

  My matelot was not regarding me as if I were mad: and I considered that a good sign. However, he did seem to be aghast at my proposal.

  He closed his hanging mouth and asked, “Why would I take her back if Agnes bore me a son?”

  I grasped at straws. “Because of my father’s meddling. Because we cannot win politically. Because… Agnes’ child is not yours. But that would tarnish her reputation.” I sighed.

  “Could we say he is yours?” he asked.

  I grimaced, but there was an odd feeling of inevitability with that solution. “I could marry her, I suppose—if we can find a priest to do it: not that there seems to be any sanctity in that, or that anyone seems to care.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Oui, this course could save them. The babe in France would be mine by marriage, and Christine would have to leave her in my father’s care if she wished to escape his household. And if Agnes is married to you she cannot run off with my son. We will have both.”

  “I do not feel Agnes would run off anyway: she has nowhere to go.”

  “What if the boy looks like me and could not be mistaken as yours?” he asked.

  I was momentarily concerned, but then I laughed. “It will not matter. Everyone we know will know the truth.”

  “If that many know, then someone will surely expose us.”

  I shrugged. “What will Verlain and Christine do: say they lied? They already know they are lying. We will be giving them what they want. Why should they cross us?”

  “Of course,” he said with relief only to quickly frown with worry again. “But Will, my father…”

  “We lied to him, too. He was as duped by our ruse as the other witnesses. And, truly, I think he knows even now that he is fighting a losing battle to deny Verlain and Vines. We will be giving him a plausible reason for his earlier denials.”

  “Oui, we will protect his name, but I will have tarnished the family.”

  “My love, do not be offended, but you already have.”

  He sighed and finally smiled weakly. “True.” He grew quickly sober again. “But Will, he will be very…” He shook his head. “Non, it does not matter. You are correct: we cannot carry the children and my inheritance and everything else up the cliff. I did not…” He met my gaze. “When I thought on the matter these last months, I came to know that I would no more inherit than you will: that it would be too onerous for us. And hearing Theodore today confirmed it. But I still wish to hurt my father as little as possible.”

  I found his words did not fill me with relief as they once would have, but with validation that my love and trust had been so well placed.

  I kissed him. “I am sorry you must surrender it—or disappoint him.” And I truly was.

  He shook his head. “I am not. And I know I must. It is just that when I am confronted with my father’s feelings on the matter, I still wish so much to please him. But I cannot; and someday he will hopefully forgive me. The name Sable will die with me. I swear by my love for you that I will never get an heir on Christine.”

  “Perhaps she will meet with some misfortune,” I said with an innocent shrug. “And leave you free to marry again.”

  “You would kill her?” he asked seriously.

  I considered it. “Non, I would not wish to; and I cannot conceive of doing it in cold blood; but… I feel no guilt in praying the Gods will assist us in some manner.”

  He sighed and sat studying the floor for a thoughtful time before gazing up at me with proud eyes and a happy smile. “You are a genius.”

  “Of deceit,” I agreed sadly.

  I retrieved the letter Gaston’s father sent Theodore and read it. It was a proper missive from a lord to a trusted servant. The Marquis mentioned none of his personal concerns or thoughts upon the matters at hand, but he did speak frankly about how politically untenable his position was in defending the marriage with Agnes. He instructed Theodore to maintain that Gaston was the Comte de Montren and Agnes was Gaston’s legal wife at all times, and to insure that all others of our acquaintance did the same—including us when we were found. And he very much wanted us found. I felt he thought the matter could only be defended by Gaston—much as Father Pierre apparently thought.

  “It is much like the other,” I said; “only to Theodore and not us.”

  My matelot had been lost in his thoughts while I read. He nodded absently as I handed him the pages. “I would have us tell Agnes and Theodore first,” he said.

  I nodded. “If there is time, I intend to tell everyone here before we tell the priests.”

  Gaston frowned. “But Will, they cannot all act. Their outrage will not be believable.”

  I grinned. “You are viewing it wrongly and worrying needlessly again, my love,” I assured him. “It does not matter. Like all truly great lies, this one need not engender belief, only doubt—and this one, not even that. Everyone involved will know it is a lie. It will only be useful for those who know little of the true situation.”

  He shook his head. His face was full of doubt—and a rueful smile.

  I sobered. “There are those that will be angry, but I do not feel it will be because we lied to them—they will know we have not—or rather they should know we have not. Non, there will be those who will be angry because we are pretending to lie.”

  “Those who take the vows of matrimony seriously,” he said.

  It was my turn to frown. “Do you? I mean… Do you feel we will be committing a sin against the Gods or our fellow man in this? Does it trouble you in that manner?”

  “Non… and oui,” he said thoughtfully, and met my gaze again. “I cannot place her above all others—that is your place; yet, I feel I did vow—to her—that she was my wife and I would care for her and take no other woman.”

  I gave his objection serious consideration, and found it lacking in context though it was very true in spirit. “You will care for her for the rest of her days. We will protect and honor her and do as we can to see she lacks for nothing: whether she is called your wife or mine – or neither. And you will take no other woman before her,” I teased with a reassuring grin.

  He considered that and at last smiled. “Oui, that is correct. I will bed no other woman. That vow I make to you.”

  I was taken aback. “Thank you, my love; but I will not hold you to it if you wish to have more children.”

  He awarded me a stubborn smile. “I will hold myself to it. And why would I want more? The three we have will surely cause enough trouble. Though, if the opportunity presents itself, perhaps you should have some. I think I would like a little Will running around with the little Gaston.”

  I found the thought strange and wondrous, and I was gripped by the notion of how fine it would have been to grow up raised by men accepting of me. But then a stranger thought occurred, and I chuckled. “What if they fall in love with one another?”

  He was stunned: his face contorting with protest.

  “They would not be related,” I said quickly.

  “They would if you father one on Agnes!”

  “True, true,” I had not considered that. I suppose she would be the logical choice. The argument that if there was another dam involved it would be acceptable was on the tip of my tongue – and then I remembered his sister and I blanched. “Non,” I said firmly. “Any children we have will be raised as siblings—as if we were a single father, no matter whom their mother might be. Jamaica will even be raised thusly.”


  He gave a brief huff of a sigh and awarded me a contrite grin. “I am sorry, I am…”

  I stopped his words with a light kiss. “I know. We are pulling up a steep hill and I should not be tossing gravel about. I am sorry. I just… Well, I thought of how it was between Shane and me when we were young: before he learned it was wrong. I thought of how I have often wondered what would have happened if you and I had met as youths. And I was overcome with how fine it would have been to be raised by men who knew love and accepted it. I did not think how it might trouble you. And, as usual, I never think of bedding Agnes…”

  He smiled and returned my kiss. “Our boys can bed Striker and Pete’s,” he said.

  I laughed. “And the girls?”

  He appeared appalled, and then thoughtful. “I truly do not wish to think of that at all,” he said.

  I laughed harder. “Throughout history, it has been the night terror of fathers the world over.”

  He smiled. “Non, you have been the night terror of fathers.”

  “Oui, that I have.” And then the humor fled as I truly thought on it. “Oui,” I sighed. “I would not want any daughter of ours to ever run afoul of a man such as I was.”

  “Or sons?” he teased.

  I did not find it funny: I thought of Thorp; and the breath became stuck in my throat. I was surprised at my reaction.

  Gaston was concerned. He pulled my gaze to his with gentle fingers on my jaw. There was great regard in his eyes. “You are no longer that man,” he whispered.

  I sighed. “And you are no longer a confused and naïve boy.”

  He took a long breath and held it before nodding with a small smile. “Let us not create men like we were.” He nodded again to himself. “That is what we are about this day, preventing that.”

  “Oui,” I said. “It does not matter how angry our friends become, as long as we win the children in the end. So feel no guilt over the matter. Our end justifies our means.”

  I felt the Gods would forgive us – even if none of our friends or family ever did.