“I do not think they will give us much chance at the wharf,” I whispered as we worked.
He shook his head with resignation. “They will be very careful, and no one will come.”
“I thought of that last night, and I feel it would be best for those we care for if they did not. And that is supposing they do not think we have escaped.”
He smiled. “Oui. It is…” His smile fled and he met my gaze. “Perhaps we are not meant to escape. It is like it was on Île de la Vache; only, the Gods have now done even more to insure we will meet whatever fate They have in store for us.”
“What are you saying? We should not try when we can?”
He grimaced at my expression. “Remember when we spoke on the beach, and vowed to seek to kill no more, and you spoke of the Gods steering you away from biscuits They did not wish you to eat?”
I did recall that conversation. I sighed at the implications. We had chosen not to kill except in defense; but by the Gods, he could not think killing men in our attempt to escape was wrong. “But… So… Do you feel this,” I raised my wrist and thus its chain and our captivity, “is an arse slap from the Gods for killing those men? I feel this would have happened whether we surrendered peacefully or not. I cannot believe the Gods would condemn our actions in trying to escape… where this leads. And my talk of biscuits was in seeking to harm my father and not…” I gave up with frustration.
He sighed patiently and nodded. “My Horse does not like it, either.”
I was perplexed, and a frightened anger kindled in my heart. “So we are to go like lambs to the slaughter, or martyrs to the lions? That is madness, my love, even for us. We are not deserving of punishment, or whatever you might think this is about.”
He was obdurate, and his small smile spoke much of letting me rant until I finished. My Horse wished to kick him: to make him run with us, to do something other than wait for the wolves to close in: the damn snarling wolves I had once pulled from the cave and we had trampled: the shadows of fear, torment, and pain.
“I cannot,” I breathed. “I would rather die than face my father’s cruelty again.”
He took my hand and pulled me to him. I buried my face in his shoulder.
“I do not see this as punishment,” he said softly. “I do not think the Gods are angry with us. I do think this is a hated test. The Greeks and Romans did not believe in Hell as the Christians do, oui? But they did believe in bad men being tormented for all eternity. Being chained away from you in this hold would break me. Being chained away from you for all eternity is not something I can face. I would rather suffer anything in this world for a short time—be it days or even months—than lose you in the hereafter. If this is what the Gods wish of us, then we must stand and be judged.”
“By my father?”
“Non,” he said patiently. “By the Gods.”
“Oui, oui, but by my father as Their instrument?”
“Will, I cannot speak for the Divine, I only know They have brought us here and where this leads. I feel we must accept it and resolve to… be true to ourselves and Them in the face of whatever we might face.”
I wished to rail that he had spent far too long in a monastery and that he still clung to Christianity, but I said nothing: I was overwhelmed by the light in my heart. I could not look away. We stood in the light. The wolves came from the cave. Did I truly believe in the light—and the Gods? That was Faith, was it not? Would I not do anything to be with Gaston? Did I believe there was a hereafter, or did I not? Was I a holy man with strength and conviction, or was I as much of a charlatan as any priest I had ever hated?
“Love and Faith,” Gaston whispered. “They are our weapons, against…”
“Darkness,” I said. “And the shadows on the wall.” The wolves.
He pushed me away enough to cradle my face between his hands and peer into my eyes. I saw green reflections of myself. I appeared quite large.
“I am Hercules, and you are Chiron,” I whispered.
He smiled. “If that is so, then perhaps something has angered the Gods, or a God.”
“Oui, as it seems my entire life has been a series of tasks.”
“And what have you always striven to do?” he asked. “What have you been tasked with?”
“Love.”
He was nodding thoughtfully and he released my face. “Hera was hateful of Hercules because He was born of one of Her husband’s affairs.”
“Oui, and though my father could be considered to have cast himself as Hera in my life, he is not a God: nor was my mother.”
“Oui, but perhaps he angered a God or a Goddess, and…” He sighed. “I feel he did. My father realized…” His brow furrowed anew and he met my gaze earnestly. “My father did not hate me, he hated that I came from my mother: that I reminded him of my mother, whom he loved.”
I nodded. “If my father were anything like yours—which I do not feel he is—then perhaps he hates me because I remind him of someone he loved—surely not my mother.” I sighed. “This is a thing we have considered before, perhaps he did love Shanes’s father, perhaps another; but we cannot know.”
“Oui, we can,” Gaston said, “because the Gods are arranging things so that we might ask him. So, once we are in his presence, we must ask him how he angered the Gods.”
I laughed. I could not envision that; or rather, I could not imagine he would tell the truth: even if we held red-hot tongs to his privates and it was not the other way around, which I was afraid it would be.
My matelot was still serious. “Perhaps he angered Venus, the Goddess of Love. Perhaps She gave him a great love to cherish, and he spurned it, and thus spurned Her.”
“And She has thrown trial after trial at me because I remind Her of him?” I laughed again.
He smiled. “Perhaps She wishes for you to show him the error of his ways. Perhaps She wishes to insure you appreciate Her.”
That I could believe. It rang very true in my heart.
My Horse still did not like it.
“How is your Horse on this course of action?” I asked.
“Angry and scared,” he said sadly. “I feel I am betraying all He has ever done for me. But in truth, He has only rarely managed to prevent my suffering. He may be the truth of my soul, but He is an animal, and He only sees what is before Him. He does not see beyond the next rise.”
“Oui,” I sighed. “If we let them decide everything, our Horses would lead us ever to the easier road. We achieve so much more when we climb. It just… It hurts. It can hurt. It will hurt.”
He toyed with the chain between his wrists and spoke with a furrowed brow. “I understand your worry that I am not… considering this matter correctly.”
“How so?”
“I do feel I must atone… For Gabriella. I allowed her to lead me astray. I knew what she asked was wrong. I know I meant well, but even with the best of intentions, some things are still wrong. And Chris as well.” He met my gaze. “But it is not punishment I seek. It is…not redemption… I have forgiven myself. I do not feel I need absolution granted from anyone…” He sighed and struggled with the words, finally choosing them with conviction. “It is a chance to prove myself—to myself, and to the Gods. It is a chance to prove I can be at my best in the face of adversity, instead of my worst. I feel that has always been the crux of the tasks I must perform or fail.
“But perhaps it is madness, because I felt much like this when I knew my father would come that morning. And… I passed that test, Will. It is the little things since then that I tripped on every day as I always had. Always allowing my Horse to fight me because… I needed His protection, because I did not know how to stand and face my enemies as a man.”
I was profoundly moved. I felt the painful eruption of epiphany.
“It is not madness,” I said. “It is becoming a man. Not the relinquishing of adolescence and the acceptance of responsibility; but truly becoming a man in the greatest sense of the word. It is claiming our birthright from
the Gods to not be a beast. We must love and trust the beast in our soul, but in the end, oui, the Gods expect us to become men, to behave like men: to prove we can walk a path and not shy at every breeze in the bushes or become distracted and drag our carts across fields trying to trample snakes. And the Horse part of our souls might stumble and fall, but it is the man that finds the will to stand and try again.”
“Just so,” he whispered with tears in his eyes.
I nodded tightly. “I still… My Horse is terrified. My Man is terrified. My Wolf is even afraid; yet, we must band together and stand to face this. So… We will let them take us to my father. I do not know if I can bring myself to thank them for it, though.”
He chuckled weakly. “When we become old wise men, we will be able to do that.”
I wished to say if, but I told myself that was just the whining of a child. We could become wise old men in an instant.
I took his hand and moved to sit beside him. “So shall we frolic to England?”
“As much as we are able,” he said with a warm smile.
I did not frolic immediately. I turned within and stirred through memories and traced the threads that knotted throughout my soul. They formed patterns: in my early life, the same patterns again and again with different strings; and then I came here and there was the brilliant eruption of new thread that was Gaston, and the patterns changed – and kept changing. Nothing remained the same except for the threads from my childhood and youth, and though they did not change, I now used their dour colors to bring relief and contrast to the new design; and in doing so, I made it easier for me to examine and appreciate them.
I had once styled myself Ulysses, but until now, there had truly been no home for which I must fight my way back. Nay, I had been more like Penelope: weaving a burial shroud for a love that she prayed was not dead; and then tearing it apart every night to reweave it again to buy herself time. Then my love—my king—returned with Gaston, and I could weave whatever I wished.
Even if my father killed us, I would leave a fine tapestry behind.
They did bring us food later in the day. They emptied our waste bucket with little complaint, and they did not spit in our water. We were always under watch, but the men were not intrusive—though we did not feel like amusing them with any sort of carnal antics. Several days later, the Lilly was moved to the wharf and they loaded their share of the treasure. They stacked crates high about us and left us a little cell beside the hatch steps, but the rest of the hold was filled.
The deck was canted as the Lilly ran north with a strong wind across her beam when Norman at last graced us with his presence. To our delight, he had our bags and he tossed them to us.
“You can keep those if you cause no trouble,” he said with little humor as he studied us.
We did not immediately rummage through them to see what was missing.
“Thank you,” I said. “Though we are pleased to have those, there is another thing I would ask of you. First, what is the date?”
“The Sixth of March, by my reckoning.”
I looked to Gaston and smiled. He frowned.
“Might we trouble you for a bottle of brandy or rum?” I asked Norman. “Yesterday was my matelot’s birthday.”
Norman snorted, but his grin was appreciative and he walked forward and poked around in a crate. He returned with two bottles of Spanish brandy. He handed me one and uncorked the other. He took a sip and then offered it to us. I accepted it gratefully, as did Gaston after I took a long drink.
“So where are we bound, Jamaica?” I asked.
“Nay, straight to England. We laid in the provisions for it, and I put all the men not willing to sail there on other ships.”
I frowned. “Why the hurry to deliver us, or am I placing far too much importance upon us?”
Norman snorted congenially. “Nay, you are the cargo.”
“Truly, Modyford and Morgan place that much faith in my father’s political sway?”
He shrugged. “That would be part of it, but nay, your father offered a fine reward.”
“So Morgan lied.” I was not surprised, yet I was amazed the damn bastard was so convincing. He truly was a worthy opponent in that regard.
“He was betting on a definite win,” I sighed.
Norman shrugged again. “I don’t care what the Governor and Morgan hope to gain. I am to deliver you and pick up the coin. I take my share and deliver the rest to them.”
“Will delivering me be more lucrative than Panama?” I asked with curiosity.
He laughed. “Oh aye.”
“What was each man’s share?” I asked.
“Came to about ten pounds per man.”
“Ten pounds? For all that?” I exclaimed. I supposed there were a great number of men it had to be divided between, but still, it seemed a paltry sum compared to the amount of treasure and ransoms—even if Morgan did not capture the galleon with the plate and coin.
Norman awarded us a sly and crooked smile. “Panama was better to some than to others.”
“Some?” Gaston asked. “Was it not shared equally?”
The sly smile remained. “There were things not considered part of the booty for all.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Well, like you for instance.” He shrugged and chuckled. “The bounty for you, and then there would be your shares and the money he was due as surgeon. It was thought you would not need it.”
“All became part of another pot of loot to be shared between… Morgan’s favored captains, perhaps?” I asked.
“I will not say one way or the other,” he said. “Think what you will.”
“I will think you cheated the men: that you all conspired to cheat the men—and the French, I suppose.”
He shrugged as if to say that went without saying.
“Well, the Way of the Coast is dead,” I said.
That wiped the smirk from his face, yet he said, “You’re naïve to think it ever lived.”
“Non,” Gaston said quietly. “There was a time when it lived, but it has been dying for years.” He shrugged. “It is a sad thing, but it is no longer Will’s and my concern. Even if we live, we will no longer live this life, and neither will our children.”
Norman snorted. “From what I hear, you two won’t be having children.”
I frowned. “We have five—if all has gone well in our absence. Has someone told you otherwise?”
He frowned and looked away. “Nay, I just assumed.” He shrugged, but there was guilt about his mien.
I was tempted to wonder if it could be exploited. He had been oddly confrontational yet conciliatory throughout our meeting: perhaps he was wrestling with his conscience. But nay, such thoughts were unproductive and their pursuit fruitless. I had to stop attempting squirm my way out of this trap. We were going to England. No matter what occurred, it would be for the best—in this life or the next.
“What happened to that girl who was dressing as a boy?” Norman asked.
We shrugged in unison.
“We do not know,” I said. “We can only pray she is safe and well.”
Norman’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “No one asked of you afore we sailed.”
“I would think not.”
He gave another snort. “No one’ll be rescuing you, either. Morgan told us how you say you escaped from the English your father sent. That won’t happen on my ship.”
“My dear Captain,” I said, “I hope much of what occurred on that vessel will not happen here. And nay, we do not expect a rescue. We are quite resigned to our fate. We have much to ask my father. So, we will not trouble you, if you—or your men—do not trouble us.”
“Good,” he said and stood. He paused at the base of the steps. “I hope things go well for you with your father.” He seemed sincere.
“Thank you,” I said.
With that he left us—with both the opened and unopened bottles.
“To you having graced my life for another wonderful
year,” I said and toasted Gaston.
He laughed and took the bottle from me to take a long pull. “Oui, happy birthday to me.” he sighed, and his humor fled, but his expression turned hopeful. “We will see what this year brings, oui? We should reach England before your birthday.”
That was sobering. I sighed and took the bottle back to drink more. “I will resolve not to view the matter as our being captured for your birthday and our being delivered to my father for mine. Though the Gods’ choice of timing is… questionable if we wish to perceive Them as benign.”
He chuckled, though his words were somber in implication. “I will view my birthday gift as the realization of what we must do, and yours will be the resolution.”
I could not but grin: the wine was tickling my heart; and, truly, he was correct if we were men of faith. “This year will bring much. I was nearly tempted to thank Norman for taking us on this journey, but… alas.” I sighed extravagantly. “I could not quite achieve that degree of magnanimity—perhaps by my birthday.”
My matelot laughed. “We have already achieved much. I was tempted to growl at him.”
“In truth, I was tempted to try and exploit his guilt to our advantage.”
He smiled at me with great regard. “I feel the Gods have granted me a fine gift: I have you and a life well lived, and the wisdom to know what I hold.”
One Hundred and Twelve
Wherein We Face Foes
Now that the hold was full and we were at sail, the Lilly’s crew did not come below except to retrieve victuals or tend to us. Norman came once a week or so and checked our bonds, but he stopped sending someone down to watch us. He had given us our things with nothing missing save our weapons—we had not had any coin in our bags anyway—and thus we had our blankets, our salves, and other personal items. We had privacy and peace. We frolicked. We exercised as our chains would allow. We grew our hair and beards since we could not cut them. I discovered Gaston’s hair was unruly even when short because it was curly. Given enough time, I was sure he would have a head of red ringlets for which the bewigged members of any royal court would die to obtain. We made love. We even engaged in Horseplay on occasion. Gaston found having me always bound amusing. He need only plant his weight on one section or another of our chains to pin me.
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