He frowned. “I suppose I did. I can barely remember that. I suppose I wondered how you would appear if you were a woman. But then my cock ceased to care.” He shrugged.
“I thank the Gods for your blind cock,” I said sincerely.
He snorted. “I thank the Gods daily that you are blind.”
We regarded one another and I felt as close to him as I ever had.
“You are loved,” I whispered.
“As are you.”
I sighed happily and considered the future until such thoughts made me frown.
“What?” he asked with concern.
“If we can put this behind us with the assistance of the king—a thing I truly doubt though it is insulting to the Gods to do so…” I sighed and shrugged. “Where will we live? I suppose I shall have to learn Dutch.”
“Until you anger them,” he teased.
“The Dutch have colonies in the West Indies.”
He frowned. “Do you wish to return to the tropics?”
“Is this stone floor cold? Do you wish to spend the rest of your days wearing wool? I would like to feast my blind eyes upon your body at all hours.”
He chuckled and shrugged. “Dutch Protestants are a dour lot. I suppose that might be mitigated in the tropics.”
“There is always the Orient.”
“With five children, two wives, and who knows how many others?”
“Pete might marry Chris, yet; and then we would have one wife—who has a wife.”
“And—Gods willing—is the mother of your child.” He shrugged. “I have been thinking that perhaps I should marry Yvette if Pete marries Chris.”
I thought that a fine idea, still… “How long have you been thinking that?”
“Weeks. Months, perhaps.”
“And you did not feel it fit to share?” I teased.
“I did not think we were going to live.” His words sobered him and he looked away.
I sighed. “I cannot believe the Gods would be so cruel… now.”
He gave a wistful smile. “I would not think the Gods cruel if I died this day. I have had you. I have gained far more than I ever dreamed. I would only regret that I left you alone.”
“Do not say that,” I said with dread. “Not while we still sit in the house of a madman who wants you dead merely to make me miserable.”
He nodded with an apologetic mien and looked to the ceiling. “Please, though I am happy, I do wish to live so that I can keep Will happy, and raise our children, and do good in the world.”
“I do hope They feel that a worthy request,” I said. “Else I shall lose faith.”
There was the sound of a hissed disagreement beyond the door, and we tensed. I could not make out the words or voices. Then the cellar door was flung open to crash into the wall. We jumped to our feet.
A hunched figure with a cane entered. I knew who it was; though I would not have been able to recognize him without the context of our location and circumstance. It was Shane.
I had hoped not to see him. There was nothing I wished to say to him anymore, and I knew I would never hear what I wanted. Now, a thousand emotions and memories roared in and crashed upon the rocks of my heart, only to leave me slick with a feeling I could not name.
This was not the dark-haired, pale-skinned, and often dour boy of my childhood who had granted me a grudging friendship. Nor was this the slender youth with the sad brown eyes and the soft full lips of my adolescence who had offered me my first taste of love and passion. And this was not the twisted visage of drunken, demonic fury who had tormented the last days of my youth with violence and hatred. He was now a stooped, scarred, and bloated caricature of a man, with bloodshot eyes, sallow skin, and a silver mask over half his face; and he was peering at me with wonder.
“Shane?” I whispered.
He took a long shuddering breath. “Marsdale? It’s you. My God, it’s you.” His words had the soft slur of heavy wine. He stepped closer. “I heard…” He looked about with sudden concern and spied Gaston. He froze with an unreadable expression.
I glanced over and found my matelot regarding my supposed nemesis with surprise and curiosity.
“Shane, this is Gaston Sable; Gaston, Jacob Shane,” I said.
Shane looked to me. “You have given up everything for that?” The visible half of his mouth twisted into a sneer. “I’ve had better.”
“Aye, you have had him,” my matelot said flatly.
That wiped the sneer from Shane’s lips, and he regarded Gaston with recrimination. “Aye, I’ve had him.”
“And lost him,” Gaston said with the same lack of expression.
Shane recoiled and studied the floor. “I didn’t lose him. He left.”
“Aye, because you drove me away,” I said with calm. I had nothing to lose and nothing to fear. “I loved you, and you repaid me in violence and shame. Why? Because you wanted my father’s love more than mine? And what has that gained you?”
He regarded me with the hurt and lonely eyes of the boy who had come to share my life all those years ago. It tore at my heart and finished shredding all the veils and curtains I had hung in order not to look where he truly stood in my past. I had glimpsed through them here and there since beginning to heal in Gaston’s arms; but now there was only truth and light, and my memories of Shane stood exposed—good and bad.
His old anger flashed, and my Horse recoiled in surprise.
“Your father,” Shane growled. “I stayed and earned him.”
I calmed my Horse and stood my ground. “Earned him? What a fine prize, Shane. Look what he has done to you,” I said softly. “What you have let him do to you. You have let him twist you into a miserable and bitter man like him. Is that—this—the best life has to offer?”
“This!” He indicated his mask and cane. “This was done by your damn sister. Nay, this is not the best of life. I’m ruined, aye! Even the blind know it. Nay, before this, I was a better son than you. I became a man in his eyes: not some damned mewling sodomite! He wanted me as his son. He lamented my being born to another and you to him.”
He was not saying anything I had not heard from him: he had thrown the same words and justifications in my face before I escaped; yet, I was surprised he still believed it. I was surprised I had.
“Nay, I think he lamented you not being another—namely your father,” I goaded. “I think he loved your father more than my mother.”
He froze, surprise and doubt in his eyes.
“I have a theory,” I said. “I think my father was once much like us. I think he loved men. And I think someone told him it was wrong. And I think he abandoned his love for the sake of propriety, just as he demanded you do. And I think he wishes for us to be as miserable as he became. What do you think of that?”
He did not respond. I saw fear in his eyes.
“Or perhaps I am wrong,” I said. “Perhaps you never loved me. Perhaps I am just a damned mewling sodomite who wants to believe everyone is like me in order to justify my beliefs.”
He took a ragged breath. “I loved you! It was wrong. It wasn’t what a man does, but I loved you.”
It hurt; and yet it was a great relief. “I loved you, too. That is why you are not dead after all you did to me. I have killed many men since for far less. But you, nay, I ran from you because I was heartbroken that you would treat me as you did when I loved you so.”
Shane sat heavily on a barrel. “He, he… He said men didn’t do that kind of thing. He said boys sometimes have foolish notions; but men grow beyond them. He said if he ever learned I did such things, I would have to leave—he would send me to an orphanage and I would have nothing because I would deserve nothing. He said you were weak, but he couldn’t be rid of you because you were his flesh and blood: but he had faith in me, that I could overcome such moral weakness.”
He met my gaze. “But Marsdale, I still wanted you. It was the beast in my soul. No matter how much I drink, it is always there. I cannot drown it, and then… And then
when I drink it gets the best of me. It always has.
“I am sorry,” he whispered.
I could scarcely believe I was actually hearing those words from him. I had dreamed…
“I forgive you,” I said. “I forgave you… I do not know when, but at some moment in these last few years, I forgave you. I blame him—my father—our father. He set out to tear us apart. Maybe because he truly believes it was in our best interests: I know not.”
Shane sobbed—once. It was a forlorn and choked sound, and then he threw his head back and swallowed it down. When he looked forward again, his gaze settled on Gaston for a moment and quickly darted to me.
“He’ll kill him,” he said. “Nay, worse, he’ll make you kill him. That’s what he wants.”
Once again, I could not suppress my surprise at the monstrosity of it. I shuddered.
“He’s expected me to…” Shane shook his head.
“He has expected you to kill your lovers?” I asked with further horror.
Shane snorted. “I’ve not had lovers,” he said irritably. “How could I? Nay, he’s expected me to be discreet—to clean up my mistakes and leave no evidence of my drunken stupidity and sinfulness.”
I recalled Sarah mentioning a young sodomite who had disappeared from the village on the estate. I wondered how many times Shane had raped and killed in the name of drunken and twisted logic. It sickened me; and filled me with pity—for everyone involved—even him.
“Our father has made you into a monster,” I said sadly.
He took a shuddering breath. “You were always the smart one.” He stood on shaky legs and thumped his way to the rack that held the wine. He selected a bottle with care, uncorked it with practiced ease, and drank deeply. “I hated you for being smarter than I was,” he said as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He snorted. “I hated that bastard Rucker for… Nay, I was jealous.”
“I am curious,” I said with resignation. “Did you say something to have Father discharge him?”
Shane nodded and took another drink.
I thought of all the other things he had done or I had suspected he had done. Anger flared when I came to Goliath.
“Why did you torture my horse?” I asked.
He winced and grimaced. “Jealousy,” he whispered.
“Because he was mine and you could not ride him?”
“Because he was yours and you did ride him.”
He was an abomination—and he had loved me. Nay, he had been turned into an abomination for his love of me. What was I to think of that? He should have been stronger, perhaps.
“I cannot forgive you for Goliath,” I said. And then, because I would know: “Did you plan to do the same to Gaston?”
There was a quiet gasp from my matelot.
Shane grimaced with guilt and shook his head tightly. “I did, but… Nay, not now that… I’ve seen you, and…”
There was a commotion beyond the door. We tensed at hearing our father demand Jenkins step aside.
“Do you love him?” Shane asked.
I regarded him with surprise, and he pointed at Gaston.
“More than life,” I said.
With lambent eyes, he nodded and set the wine bottle aside.
The door burst open and my father appeared: coatless and wigless, pistol in hand.
“No damn king will tell me how to…” my father was snarling.
He glared at Shane with surprise, and then tore his gaze from him to pass over me with disdain and settle on Gaston with malice. His arm rose, bringing the pistol to bear on my man.
I could not say whether he would fire or merely threaten. It did not matter. The maw of death at the end of that piece could not be pointed at Gaston. We were dead if it was.
Time slowed and nearly stopped. Gaston’s eyes filled with alarm and he slowly began to hunch down and aside. I had started moving when I saw my father’s intent; but my love seemed a million leagues away across the cellar, and I knew I could not reach him fast enough to push him aside or stand before him. I could only pray my father took the time to say some angry or pithy thing before pulling the trigger.
A shot reverberated through the cellar, ringing in my ears and returning the flow of events to their normal speed. The sound had not come from the pistol I watched with horror. And then I was plowing into Gaston and knocking him flat.
“You will not!” Shane cried.
I tore my gaze from my father’s wavering pistol, and saw Shane’s steady and smoking one. Above it, my cousin’s eyes were full of determination and old pain.
My father stood with surprise pushing the rage from his face as red blossomed on his white shirt. Then the rage returned, and his arm straightened again. This time he was not aiming where we sprawled on the floor, but at Shane. This time I saw his weapon buck in harmony with the roar of its discharge. Then Shane grunted and leaned heavily on the wine shelf.
The cellar reverberated once again, not from another pistol, but with the very human sound of my father’s incoherent bellow of anger and pain. He sank to his knees, his left arm thrashing to push Jenkins away. He extended the pistol toward Gaston and me.
“It is spent,” Gaston breathed. I was not sure who he was trying to reassure.
“I say NO!” Shane roared, and lurched forward to dive atop my father, a knife flashing above his head in the yellow light. My father fell beneath him with another cry of anger and pain.
No longer attempting to intercede, Jenkins and the other man at the door pulled back with horror on their faces. They were mirrors of Gaston and me, who still lay in a heap on the floor, staring and unable to move as the combatants thrashed, twisted, and grunted, their arms punching and stabbing into one another.
My father finally began to extricate himself, squirming from beneath Shane, pushing his would-be son toward his lap. His eyes were full of more terror than anger as he changed his grip on the dirk in his hands and struck a final time, driving the blade straight down between Shane’s shoulder blades. Shane twitched and stilled.
His stillness, and the meaning behind it that is recognized—even if never understood—by the lowliest creatures and the youngest babes, released me from my horrified torpor. I swore and growled and scrambled to them. My father grasped at the slick hilt of his dirk, his scared eyes upon me. He could not pull it free. I punched him. As he fell back, I tried to dive atop him, only to have Jenkins and the other man pull me away.
“You Gods-damned, despicable bastard!” I howled at my father as I fought with them. “I hate you! I will never become you! Never! You worthless piece of shit!”
My father tugged at the blade in Shane’s shoulders again, his eyes wild with fear, but now not toward me: he was looking up at Gaston.
Jenkins released my arm and yelled, “No, don’t!”
Gaston stopped, startled, his Wolf’s gaze turned toward the man with a frown, his hand reaching for the bloody knife my father still fought to pull from Shane’s back.
“Don’t touch them!” Jenkins yelled.
“I am a physician!” Gaston growled.
I could not comprehend what Jenkins was concerned about, but I was gripped by a sudden dread that my father would somehow strike with his dying breath; laying a curse upon my love if nothing else.
“Get away from him!” I shouted. “Please! Now!”
Gaston dove back as if my father had erupted into flames. He appeared bewildered, but he did not argue as he skirted wide around the bodies and came to my side. As I was no longer struggling, the other man released me and retreated before my matelot’s glare.
There was yelling and cursing coming from the kitchen, and several men were pushed back into the room so that they stumbled over Shane and my father. Another group of men charged in behind them, led by a large man with an eye patch. They too almost fell over the bodies.
Quiet descended as everyone stilled and contemplated the scene. The only sound was labored breathing: everyone was panting; save my father, whose breathing was shallow.
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“Where is…” Eye Patch began to ask.
Jenkins pointed at me. “They did not do it. Shane shot the Earl: the Earl shot Shane: and then they fell upon one another with blades.”
“Why did you not stop them?” Eye Patch demanded as he knelt and examined Shane and my father.
“I have no answer for that,” Jenkins sighed. “It was very sudden. We dove away to avoid being shot ourselves, and then… It was sudden. It seemed unreal.”
Eye Patch nodded as if he did indeed understand. “Shane is dead. We will need a surgeon for the Earl.”
“I am a physician,” Gaston said quietly.
“I did not want you to touch him before Captain Horn or his lord saw how they fell,” Jenkins explained and gestured toward Eye Patch.
“I do not want you to,” I said. The dread still gripped me.
All eyes turned to me. I shook my head vehemently as I met only my matelot’s curious gaze. “He will do some despicable thing even now if he can. Let him die. Let him suffer.”
Gaston regarded me with sympathy and patience: as he always did when he thought I was running wild. “That is beneath you.”
He was correct. I sighed. “Damn you, why must you make me a better man even in this?”
My man smiled and turned back to the bodies.
“You stay away from me,” my father snarled. “Keep him away from me,” he told a startled Captain Horn. “And that bastard there is not my son,” he wheezed. “You are not my son, you hear, boy?” he yelled with enough volume to cause him to cough wetly.
Hope blossomed in my heart for but a moment, and then I knew this was just some angry ploy. “I wish I were not, surely as much as you wish that was true,” I said tiredly.
Captain Horn held up a hand to stop Gaston from approaching any closer and looked down at my father. “No one will believe you, my lord. You might as well let it rest and let us tend you. I doubt you’ll live. Don’t take this hatred to your grave. Would you like us to fetch a clergyman?”
“Fuck you,” my father spat.
“You are an angry and stupid bastard, my lord, aren’t you?” Captain Horn said. He looked up at Gaston. “Here, we might as well tend to this poor soul.” He indicated Shane. “And once we move him, I can search the Earl here for weapons he might try and use against you when you tend him. Maybe he’ll die while we’re about it.”
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