by Cooper, R.
Despite being so provoked by such ill-humoured wit, René did not react, only lowering the bottle to study the board. Deniau had allowed him to go first, giving him the dark pieces, each one carved from shining ebony that would have fetched a handsome price, even in Paris. The move made René smile again, slightly, knowing that Deniau liked to watch others play first and wait for them to err. It was a good strategy, but René knew it well by now. He idly dropped his pawn into place and then set the bottle down on the chest. Deniau picked it up.
“What do you know of Latin?” he asked as Deniau noisily drank his wine. Deniau leaned forward with an effort and put the bottle back. Then he moved his own pawn and waited until a few more moves had been made by each of them before answering.
“The Englishman is teaching me to read it, in return for the use of my razor.” A sly, quick smile crossed his face. “Which Englishman? They all look the same,” René remarked drowsily, feeling the heat in his skin now, wanting more wine but knowing that it would only warm him more. James had peered at him furiously through his spectacles with muddy eyes, English eyes that were neither brown nor gray nor green. They lacked colour, the English.
But his eyes had been lit with intelligence and passion, heated and melting in those moments after he had pleased him, as wide as they had been in those few moments with a sword at his throat. René wondered if they looked the same to Deniau.
“The strange, pleasing one. His name is James.” Deniau affirmed his wandering thoughts, or taunted him, and René set his jaw before taking another of Deniau’s men. He dropped it to the ground and paid little attention to Deniau’s curses about the price of the thing when it clattered against the wood. He almost enjoyed them, and decided to prolong the game enough so that he could hear them again.
Perhaps he could bring this game to the point of bloodshed, break a ship’s own rules for peace and suffer for it. Perhaps that would finally please the Englishman, to see him brought down low.
“What in the name of the Lord are you doing, Fitzroy?” The shout shattered his thoughts and René frowned before leaning back and draping one arm over the back of his chair. The move allowed him to see the source of the sound, and his frowned deepened for a moment as the English lord climbed up the stairs and out of the doorway from below. It was almost amusing, to hear such a creature speak in the name of God. René smiled despite his low mood, curving up his lips just enough to show his teeth.
Nobility had never minded lying before, why should this one be any different? One would never hear a cutthroat claim to do anything in the name of God, and for that he respected his crew more than he would ever honor the fat man shouting down below. He could not be much, his Holy Father, with hypocrites and imposters speaking for him.
Keeping his smile in place, René studied the awkward figure shuffling across his deck for a moment, noting that being stripped of all he owned had not seemed to humble the pig at all. He wore rags now, but from the way he picked at them they might have been worth all the Spanish gold in the Indies. Indeed he seemed to truly believe that they were. That made René study the figure more closely, lazily eyeing his red, puffing frame up and down as the man stopped yards from him and turned back. It was weakness to allow another to take your mind away. The man was pathetic to surrender his soul for the mildest of discomforts. René bit his lip until it bled and followed the direction of the lord’s gaze, for James stepped out onto the deck after his master, his body shining with sweat from the heat below deck. With the sun it turned the light hairs on his chest to gold and gave him the appearance of something gilded, or forged in the fires of Heaven.
He came up gracefully, his improved stride adding to René’s vision, but then stumbled as he came closer to the waiting lord, holding out his hands imploringly as if that act were of more importance than keeping his own balance.
Some would surrender without any discomfort at all, giving in to please others, when there was nothing even to be gained. Eventually they all learned the folly of that, and what the world thought of men such as that.
“Prithee, my Lord…” James pleaded and then suddenly stopped, his voice dropping to a whisper. Slowly, his head turned until he met René’s eyes and then he went as still as the stone statue in the pool in René’s house in the countryside. Colour swept across his cheeks and then he jerked his head away, turning back to the fat man. James’ body was rigid, with anger or embarrassment, or perhaps both. “Please go back down below,” he finished softly, though René still heard him, and wondered if he was the reason James did not wish the man to be above deck.
“You will not order me about, boy! I will see the King. It is a matter of some urgency.” The lord turned on his heel and raised himself up, trying to tower over James. René blinked again, mildly surprised, and saw that though James held out in hands in supplication, he did not back away. His pose was what it had been against the wooden door of his cabin, blindly stubborn. René made a small sound of annoyance, then shifted in his seat to be more comfortable, not bothering to hide his interest, or his amusement.
“Do not think to beguile me like that slut of an ancestress that gave your family its name!” The nobleman slapped away James’ offered hands with a vicious snap. His snarled yell snapped a few of the sleeping men nearby awake, and their eyes turned on the scene with the same curiosity and irritation. René flicked his gaze back from them to James, and saw the way the man’s shoulders stiffened at what was clearly an insult, though René did not understand its meaning.
“Damned crazy Englishman,” Deniau whispered almost to himself though René paid him little attention. “I am tired of his rantings.”
“The mad lord, or James Fitzroy?” René wondered, perhaps too quietly to be heard even by Deniau.
Fitzroy, he repeated silently, pausing and then leaning forward as he recalled exactly what a name like that meant to the English. The little Englishman was the descendant of a son of a king. A bastard son.
Unable to stop himself, René let out a shout of laughter so strong that he almost fell forward. He righted himself immediately, in time to see the stunned look on the face of James Fitzroy, and then reached blindly for the bottle. Deniau chuckled from his other side and René at last glanced back at him. He did not know the jest, so he laughed at René, but for today, René had no desire for blood. Not Deniau’s blood.
“I would kill the man,” he remarked leisurely to the other man around his laughter and saw Deniau’s eyes widen, then close to the merest slivers as the man considered. “For what?” It was not concern that made Deniau slant another look at the two Englishmen, though René did not answer. Deniau’s expression was briefly heated, and then he snatched away the wine bottle and swallowed more of his liquor. When he was done, and René pulled the bottle back, a grin slashed across his face. “You hold that bottle like it was made of gold. And you drink from it as if…as if it were him.” He pointed beyond them and René turned, though he knew to whom he gestured.
Another sharp laugh surprised him, but Deniau had spoken in his French and loud enough for James and a few of the crew to hear. His wicked laugh was nothing to sudden crude comment from one of them, so vulgar that René doubted that the English even understood it. The streets added words to a man’s knowledge that would never be found in any book.
The previous rush of colour before was nothing to the blush that stained James’ face and neck and chest now at the sound of their levity. It was a bright shade, like the skin of a ripe plum, looking just as tempting on the square lines of James’ face as the fruit would have been on the branch. He was like the statue René had compared him to earlier, in both form and face, only the spectacles pinched onto his nose marred the vision. That, and his inability to behave like a good statue should. Another sound of irritation came from René’s lips and the sound seemed to catch the Englishman’s attention.
James raised his gaze to meet his and René stilled at the fury blazing from them, his own temper rising to realize that he was being b
lamed for the remarks, as if all had not seen his maidenly blushes whenever René had passed. One would think that he had never been with a man before, René reflected crookedly and then a quick grin broke from him to recall the innocent shock and pleasure colouring James’ face, and the hushed, surprised moans when René had taken him in the night air, without even anything to ease his passage.
The grin seemed to startle the Englishman, and he blinked, banishing his anger to somewhere else. Replacing it was fear, and then shame, both so plainly exposed for René to see that his grin slipped. Then James dropped his eyes.
They widened briefly once he looked down, studying the chessboard and then René as if startled by the sight of them together, before James stepped to the side and then stalked several feet away. His back was to René, and his shoulders hunched around him, but he did not go far, for he did not leave the madman’s side, and the fat man did not move.
René closed and opened his eyes, then made himself smile when he wanted to cross over to the Englishman and fuck him in front of his crew so that all he see and hear the pleasure he took in the act. The pleasure he tried to deny, when he had felt it so strongly that even the pain had excited him.
His skin had been salty and his seed had tasted of victory and René licked his lips and shifted in his seat, enjoying how the blood pounded below his waist and his prick tingled with arousal. It would take only a touch to have him hard and needy, and he watched with rising anger as James placed a hand on the lord’s shoulder and guided him even further away. They sat down on the deck near one another.
“He serves a cruel master, and has no need for me,” René spoke slowly to Deniau after facing the other way again; mocking the tones of the women actors who cried and moaned for unfaithful loves. The others could not hear; if James would understand the quick Parisian, but it made Deniau laugh. Or perhaps it the way René reached down to grab the flesh between his legs and jerk it crudely toward the other man.
From their new distance however, he could still hear the English lord’s rantings as he began to talk about seeing their king again, and then the patient answering whispers of James Fitzroy, seeking to ease the man’s madness.
“You are drunk, Villon.” Deniau ran a hand along his chin almost thoughtfully, surveying either him or the board. René considered that, then dropped his smiles. “I am not drunk.” It came out clear and René was pleased. It took more than three bottles of wine for him to be drunk. He had only had half of this one, and one before that. But he had had to eat something today, for he had not yesterday, and the hard bread was only digestible when soaked in liquor, and that was all he had felt like eating from their dwindling stores. “It is your move.” He nodded at the board impatiently though it did not matter, for he had already won, or would in a few more moves. He told Deniau so and frowned when he was ignored.
“I’m thinking.” Deniau fondled the small ivory bishop in his hand and then set it down and moved it. René could hear faint whispers now behind him, reassurances about the king, he realized, and nearly spun around to fling the wine bottle at the pair of them. If that would silence the Englishman then he would hardly miss the liquor. James’ foolishness was not allowing him to think.
There was no king on this ship, only James, the royal bastard, and then a few other bastards that did not equal him in rank. There was no need to cosset the insane, or to protect him from René. He wanted no part of those whose minds were broken.
“Is the game so certain now?” A strange look was on Deniau’s face at the question, an amusement that was almost too knowing. René glanced down at the board with scorn and then shrugged away the itch in the middle of his back. Deniau did not play this game to win small carved men.
“It was always certain.” More concerned whispers seemed to echo his words, their sound indescribably patient. Latin lessons…he nearly spat at the bitter taste in his mouth. The fool would give lessons to Deniau, and probably that child who followed him, on the sea where it meant nothing. Lessons were not currency here. James must be as innocent as the child to think they were, that he may live to become a gentleman.
Ben, Marechal had said the boy’s name was, and René glanced up. He had not seen Marechal in some time. The liquor swirled uneasily in his stomach as he searched over the deck, tapping his fingers on the belly of the bottle without caring that he was doing so. The drumming picked up speed for a moment and then stopped as he caught sight of Marechal in the middle of the deck. He was watching René, his arms crossed over the large chest that was nearly as wide as the masts.
Though Marechal should not be able to see it from such a distance, René lifted one eyebrow, waited a moment, and then shifted his gaze purposefully back down the chess game. Marechal continued to watch, his stare a familiar constant. René took a swig from the bottle and scowled once the very last drops left nothing but the faint hint of fruit in his mouth.
“It was always certain. There is no escape. And when there is no escape…” he murmured at last, and then caught a strange glance from Deniau. Why the man was frowning he had not the slightest idea, but Deniau was growing arrogant, and it was time for the game to end.
“What was always certain?” The black man questioned, eyes wide as if he had truly forgotten. “That I would run out of wine,” René replied after a long moment, blinking when the afternoon sun hit Deniau’s dagger and brought water to his eyes. A pain speared into his head as well, and he pulled back and closed his eyes. James was still speaking, the sound feathers stroking over his skin. René sighed. “There is nothing left to chance,” he rolled out the words, aimed at no one in particular, but smiled when James was finally silenced.
“You have had too much wine. Go to bed and dream of the Englishman.” Deniau’s voice was stern, apparently quite serious, and René opened his eyes at the commanding tone. “But we have not finished our game.” He spoke coldly and saw the anger flash in Deniau’s eyes, deciding perhaps today was a day for blood after all. His words seem to echo back to him, as if he were in a cavern or a narrow alley in some slum somewhere. René closed one eye to consider that and took careful aim out of habit. One ought to be careful about alleys, he reflected as he opened his eye, things done there often should not be overheard.
“You know how it ends, why not just tell me?” Deniau propped one leg up on the other with an effort that he almost hid and then slowly dropped one hand to his lap so that it was near, but not on, his knife.
René leaned back and stretched out his legs, dropping one over the back of the chair so that it was far away from his cutlass. He did not need a sword. His arms felt heavy in any case, and he did not feel like lifting them, even if it meant getting gutted, gutted for a game of chess, for a Fitzroy.
“It ends the way it always ends. The pawns and knights die, and only the king remains,” he explained tiredly. It was louder than he had intended to speak, and the words carried easily over part of deck. Less than pleased at his error, René continued speaking only to annoy Deniau, even lifting his head so that his words would carry better. From the corner of his eye, he saw something shift and turned his head in time to see Marechal stop just yards away, looming a few feet behind James and his lord. All of them were watching him intently. Near James now was the boy, unblinking.
“The pawns, they are sacrifices only, to save the nobles, who do not care,” he declared in English and heard a few timid laughs from among the crew. The boy’s jaw dropped the slightest bit, but he did not protest. The Englishmen had found this funny. So would his men, if they had understood. “And we…” René looked back to Marechal and lowered his voice. “We kill the nobles, to save ourselves,” he added in French. “Until all are dead and I go to bed and you go below and we give no further thought to the dead men in your box. That is always the outcome.”
His voice was rising again and he stopped there to clear the thickness from his throat, narrowing his eyes at Deniau, daring him to speak. Deniau’s face was set and devoid of all feeling.
&nb
sp; “Empty little figures until we give them life and push them around a board, only to discard them later,” René went on, sneering at Deniau’s silence and blank face. Abruptly, René turned around to look at his Englishman, who could not hide his passion. Muddy eyes had seemed very clear in that first moment, hot and brown likecafé.
James had been watching and listening, as intent as a Jesuit student watching soldiers beat a Huguenot to death. René met his gaze and watched James’ mouth fall open slightly, as if he had words he wanted to speak.
“No spirit moves the game. It is only what it is.” Another flush of colour raced over James’ face as René spoke, and René lifted one brow, wishing he had another drink of wine to swallow. “And it is better to play than to end up in the box.” He kept his words slow, so there would be no misunderstanding. René lowered his head but glanced through his lashes at James’ frown of concentration as he translated the words. His eyes grew so round that they seemed ready to fall from his head. His soft lips parted, revealing a tongue as rosecoloured as his cheeks.
“You compare yourself to God then?” James gasped in English, hardly even breathing the words. René swept his gaze upward in shock and then quickly lowered his lids to hide his expression. It was easy enough; his eyes seemed to want to close on their own.
He tilted his head farther back as well, resting it uncomfortably on the back of the chair. The knot holding his scarf in place was too low to cushion him, and another stab of pain went through his head. But the pose gave him a clear view of the Englishman, and gave away nothing of his own thoughts. In fact he smiled, flicking a look at Marechal before he made a show of stretching, arching his back from the chair and then sticking out his legs until he was hardly sitting upright anymore.
