Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  That had made Pym laugh out loud once he had realized that all would be well, at least for a time, and then the man had calmly set about learning some of the French tongue as if he were a free man with nothing better to do, not that there was much else to do on this ship, unless they were given some task to do. Most of the men seemed to fill their time gambling at cards or dice though forbidden from exchanging coin, or else drinking or seeking another to…

  Until I release you or you die . Villon’s words still rang in James’ ears, causing him to shiver violently as if he really were back in the London cold. Unbidden, his gaze moved up and over, following an invisible, well-traveled line to the stern to a splotch of red in the midmorning sun, in the shape of a man. The shape moved, turning, and James froze as he was caught and held by a pair of dark eyes.

  Yards apart and he could still see the coldness in the man’s face, betraying not a hint of feeling. His heart seemed to stop at that look; he still had something to fear. A flash of bright light hit James full in the face and he closed his eyes immediately, grateful for the excuse despite the brief pain and blindness. He squinted and carefully opened one eye, then two, staring in surprise at a wavy reflection of a face, astonished brown eyes staring back at him without blinking.

  For a moment he thought it was someone else. His face had always been square but otherwise unremarkable, even forgettable, lacking colour or distinction. The thin strip of metal held an image of a square face, but one tanned from the sun and framed by hair that had been nut brown but which now after longer than a month at sea was streaked with lighter shades. He had seen this face when he had last shaved, well over a week ago, but had not truly thought himself so different. Perhaps it was the shading of beard on his jaw or his new thinness. Even with his spectacles on, he seemed much changed, and he lowered his brows for a moment as he studied the difference. But beyond the reflection he could not help but be aware of a piercing gaze, studying him similarly and no doubt finding him wanting.

  Scratching his neck at the spot of his healing wound, James finally put one hand over Ben’s smaller one and took the opened razor gently from the boy. Without looking up he lowered the blade and then turned stiffly on his seat on the railing to face Ben.

  He had known it would be the child; since Captain Carter’s…execution…the lad had seemed to need to keep an eye on him, and had in fact been something of a second shadow in the times when he was not distracted by his new life as acorsaire. He had even taken to sleeping near James down below, curled against his back despite the heat.

  A crooked smile was on the boy’s dirty face and James thought with a sigh that their new life as prisoner thieves did not seem to upset the child overmuch. He appeared to be thriving, and had in fact been dashing all around the ship for the past days with no sign of tiring.

  “This is a good blade,” James told him appreciatively and saw Ben blink as if startled before curving his mouth back into his former smile. The razor blade had been sharpened recently and had no traces of rust. “Where did you get it?” he asked curiously, wondering if he would be permitted to use it before it was returned to its owner. The blade was of the highest quality steel and someone was going want it back. It was a shame since he had been complaining last night about his growth of hair in the beastly heat down below the top deck.

  “The negro man,” Ben answered instantly, his smile widening. James felt his brows rise, and stared at the boy curiously. He had not met the man yet though he had seen him around the ship in much the same way that he had seen the few dark-skinned slaves following their masters through London.

  Deniau was the negro’s name, though he did not speak with the same accent as the rest of thecorsaires. And he was not a slave, but a free man, even daring to speak boldly to the Captain when few others did. James could recall his own stammering speech with nothing less than humiliation.

  “He let you have his razor?” James prodded Ben and blinked at his eager nod. “I asked for him for it for you.” The boy stopped to duck his head. “And he asked me who y’are, and when I told him he said you could use it if ye showed him what the words in tha’ book of yours meant.”

  “Book?” James repeated with no notion what the boy meant, since his bags had held more than one book before it had been taken, some printed at his father’s own stationer’s shop. The loss of those still stung him painfully.

  “It did start with a curving line.” Ben scowled and waved one finger in the rough shape of a ‘U’. “He said it was not in English, Master James.” He dropped his hand to his side and peered up at him, stepping in closer. “Can you read other letters too, then?”

  Sudden understanding wiped the frown from James’ face, and he did his best to smile before nodding. Ben’s eyes opened to their limits before he jerked his shoulders and dropped his gaze to the deck. He had watched him reading on the other ship, but had always been called away by Carter before James could suggest teaching him.

  If nothing else good came of their capture, the boy would be taught to read, James decided firmly, his smile widening. “Aye,” James answered him shortly and then flicked a glance to the steps leading down to the cabins, where Deniau was undoubtedly resting, recovering from whatever illness had created Villon’s need for physick. Odd that a killer would seek to aid a sick man, odder still that the man he had risked much for was a black man. But many things about this ship were odd…there James stopped, feeling his face heat until it burned. “Utopia,” he added softly to himself, suddenly eager to hold his book again, and see the familiar words. There was no such place on Earth, and nor should there be, but imagining such a haven had seen him through terror and fire and destruction and would most assuredly cure his unsettled mind.

  “’Tis in Latin,” he spoke loudly, for oftentimes the boy’s language had the sound of that great classical tongue, and turned back to Ben, grinning slightly when Ben only looked more confused, and curious, no matter how the boy tried to hide it. “Tell your friend I will show him,” he agreed to the deal, then shifted, glancing around but carefully not looking back to the stern. “Is there water I may use?”

  Ben nodded once, then shouted something at him in a strange mixture of English and his own Scots tongue as he ran off, returning moments later with a barrel lid filled with rainwater. James still had not found his sea legs, and doubted he ever would, but Ben managed not to spill a single drop, and James had to laugh at his effortless grace, as born to it as he had spent his whole life at sea instead of just a few years.

  His laugh seemed unnaturally loud, mayhap because he had not laughed in so long, or because he still imagined himself in Villon’s gaze, and he silenced himself quickly, fixing his eyes somewhere ahead and raising his free hand to feel his face as he commenced shaving, flinching at the first cold kiss of the knife.

  His face was still stinging in the brilliant glow of late afternoon, though he did not regret his action, enjoying the smooth feel of his jaw and feeling like himself for the first time in many days.

  Though he should have been working, he raised one hand to stroke his chin and neck with a contented sigh. Such a little thing to please him, but he was not the only one. He recalled the surprise on Pym’s face when he had had Ben sneak him the razor for his quick use as well, and he grinned openly. There had not been much of the water left, and the blade had been dulled, but Pym had not minded, and James marked to himself that he should be twice as diligent in his Latin lessons to Deniau for the second use of his razor.

  The thought of diligence brought his mind back to the task he had been given, and James bent his head to look over the unraveling strands of rope falling all around him. He stretched out his arm to reach the older, frayed rope, not yet unraveled, and set about dragging the spike through the braid to loosen it. His hands were untaught and slow, but he concentrated intently on the job until both were undone enough that they could be braided together again to make a new length of rope.

  “Two different strands become one,” the cor
saire who had given James the task instead of doing it himself had said, sliding the frayed end of one of the ropes back and forth through a circle of his fingers. James had stared at the man’s hands in confusion, and then frowned back into his face wondering if the man’s poor English were at fault.

  He did not think he had ever spoken to the man before, though he had seen around the ship. He was not one of the officers, if the men who spoke directly to Villon could be said to be his officers.

  But he had seen men restringing frayed ropes before, and when he saw the tool in the man’s hand, had nodded. One of the ropes had probably come from the Queen of Sheba, James reasoned now, trying not to think about how the man had stepping closer then, smelling of ale and breathing into his face as he had gone on. “You will tie them together.” His words had slurred, due to his accent and the ale, and James had nodded again hurriedly. The man’s breath had been warm, uncomfortably so, and his closeness, stretching up to speak into his face like that had nearly made them touch. It had been hard not to flinch away.

  The way he had whispered, so low and secretive, had reminded James of what he was most trying to forget, the sounds he had heard on the few nights he had come up onto the deck to sleep.

  “A knot? Matelotage?” thecorsaire had pressed eagerly, the bare end of the rope in his hand brushing against James’ chest, and only the sharp command of the pirate captain had spared James the man’s presence any longer. Even the unfamiliar word failed to distract him as he remembered, and his face heated as he tried to keep all of his strands in order and tie them neatly.

  He supposed he was grateful to Villon for his rescue, even if that had not been the man’s purpose. James very much doubted that even Deniau’s rescue had been for pure motives. It certainly had not been kindness and compassion that had led thecorsaire crew to loot and plunder their small ship until it was bare, and he had seen Villon get his share of that with his own eyes, smaller than he had expected, but more than James had ever owned. That was something to puzzle over, along with the easy manner in which most of the men treated their captain, but there was much about René Villon that occupied his mind. Villon was not like theboucaniers or pirates James had pictured when he had first heard the stories of the West Indies when clerking in his father’s stationer’s shop. Perhaps acorsaire was simply different, serving his king in his thieving fashion. Yet somehow he was more terrifying than anything James had read in those reports, and the few accounts of life on the Spanish Main that had reached them in London.

  A chill crept up James’ back like a rat along a piece of rigging, making him shiver. He hoped it was only fear that caused the shaking, only fear and not a fever, for what else could make a man shiver with cold when the heat was slowly killing those staying below deck, and driving those above deck mad. It was passing strange when he had declared to a local girl only days before setting out on his voyage, full of drink and ideas from his books, that he knew no fear, and would laugh at any man who did. It had been a lie of course, to impress such a lovely. But fear was better now. Fear, according to Pym, was like pain, it meant that he was still alive; a fever meant death unless he was as lucky as Deniau.

  A tight prickle at the base of his scalp, just under the ragged scarf holding back some of the long hair sticking to his neck made him shudder again, and turn at last from the mess of rope he was splicing and mending to look at the stern of the ship, where the Captain was standing with one hand resting on the carved railing, watching him as he worked in the afternoon sun.

  The steady stare was unnerving, unmanning, making James drop the small marlinspike still in his hand. He barely noticed when the tool bounced off his bare foot, only dimly grateful that it did not break the skin and increase his chances of sickness. Then he supposed there was really little chance of any slight cuts; his work on this ship had toughened his skin remarkably.

  The wind and the sun, as well as the tasks themselves, had turned him into something very different from the man he had been in London. He recalled his reflection in the razor blade with lingering shock. He doubted that his friends would even have recognized his face, and once quick glance down at his body showed clearly that he could say the same for the rest of him. He was leaner, due to the lack of good food and the heat taking away his appetite. The muscles in his chest and arms were stronger than they had ever been hefting books, and since he had only ragged breeches, most of his body was darker. He was as tanned now as the sailors he had seen from the New World. Only the narrow spectacles pinched onto his nose remained the same, a bit cracked now, but still allowing him to see the slim figure observing silently from afar.

  Once, many years ago, James had seen a hawk, something rare for a boy who had spent all of his life but a few months within London’s gates. There had been a noble who was so fond of them that he would take one with him wherever he would go, even into a printer’s, and he had removed the leather hood upon seeing his curious stare, allowing James to study it freely, saying he liked a boy that was eager to see the world.

  All he could remember now was how frightening and yet beautiful the bird had been, even chained to its master’s arm, sharp talons and a beak like a sharpened blade, and its eyes… Villon had eyes like that hawk, dark and piercing; James could see them even from where he stood. He had compared them to Devil’s when they had first met, standing in the doorway in that one tense moment, and some part of him could not deny the truth of that description either. Yards away, but he knew they were trained on him, as they had been ever since his arrival on this accursed ship. He had held his life in his hands, however unintentionally, and he could still feel the fury in the other man’s eyes at being powerless. He would want revenge, James was certain of it.

  When would he take it? James asked himself for the hundredth time, then tried to push the thought away, knowing he would soon go as mad as the ranting man downstairs, the man who had been a lord a lifetime ago. But for a moment his reason seemed to leave him.

  He would never see land again. The thought was thick with despair, a brief memory of his father and step-mother and his few friends back home nearly bringing a tear to his eyes. He knew for himself that the tales of the cruelty of theboucaniers, of thisboucanier, were true, he had seen it with his own eyes. He was a poor sailor; Villon had no reason to tolerate him much longer especially after what had happened between them. That was what the stares meant.

  Suddenly startled at the realization that he had just been standing and staring, James hurriedly went about restringing the rope so that it would not fray again anytime soon, still trying to knot it tight enough that thecorsaires would be pleased and perhaps have mercy on him.

  His hands were shaking, remembering how Villon himself had punished Captain Carter, and how he had answered his cries for mercy. The slender hand holding the blade had not trembled even slightly, and not a drop of blood had spilled onto his cuffs of fine bone lace.

  Life is pain. Be grateful for mercy , James could hear every intonation as if the man had not spoken the words a fortnight ago. What would make a man speak so? he wondered faintly, his stomach uneasy.

  His hands were shaking so severely he could barely hold onto the rope, and took a deep breath, calming himself somewhat. A shadow fell over the rope under his hands just as he tied two old pieces together to make a new rope, stopping his work and bringing him sharply out of his remembrances. Raising his head quickly, James looked up into the wooden eyes of Marechal. They were studying him openly, with more interest than he had shown before in those moments in Lord Cavendish’s cabin. Then he had not seemed to truly even see him, now his recognition was plain, and somehow James could also sense a strong dislike that had not been there before.

  Marechal was large, huge, and blocking most of his view of the ship, even the raised quarterdeck at the stern where Villon had been standing, though he very much doubted that another rescue would happen this time.

  James swallowed dryly, doing his best to stare back bravely though he did not ris
e from his place on the deck. The man was taller than he in any case, standing or sitting meant little.

  “Little Englishman,” he bit out in his rough English, without even the mocking smile he had had before and James felt the unease slide along his spine again. It got worse when Marechal went on, his words rumbling over him, bent over on the ground at his feet.

  “René wishes to see you,” was all he said, but James closed his eyes anyway at the words, at that name, unwilling to open them, not even when Marechal’s large hand grabbed his shoulder and yanked him forward. Meaty fingers dug into his skin, seeming to want to rip through his flesh, and James tensed at the pain, pulling away from it as much as he could. His resistance finally made the big man laugh, a loud sound that tried to fill James’ hollow chest.

  Behind him, he could hear one of Villon’s men laughing, and he could feel the stares of a few of the men who had been on board theQueen of Sheba with him, some worried though he knew they could do nothing. He stumbled blindly over sleeping men, Marechal viciously pulling him forward to the horrible fate he knew awaited him. Only once did he open his eyes, looking to the stern, but the Captain was gone.

  Marechal finally stopped, and James cracked open his eyes once more, staring in shock at the door to Villon’s cabin. Was it to be some private torture, he wondered with horror, knowing that this ship was named after the Devil for its master, with his dark eyes and black heart.

  Marechal allowed him no time to ponder the evil that undoubtedly waited for him beyond the scarred wood. He opened the door widely and then stared inside without speaking. Whatever the man saw made his fingers clench so tightly around the back of his neck that James gasped. Then was he shoved inside, and the door slammed closed behind him.

  James froze on the threshold, ducking at the low ceiling without thinking, his gaze locked on the slender man in front of him; the fact that the other man’s back was turned was the only thing that allowed him to move even that small amount.