Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  His mind was spinning as he did, circling dizzily around James’ startling words and then settling with a thud once he realized what James truly wanted to do, make him something more or less than a man, for what man could have resisted a god…or a devil? The Devil, yes, for James could make him nothing less. James who thought him a child killer, or worse, a man who was fond of boy flesh.

  Deniau made a choked sound in his throat, not quite a laugh, though René knew that the angry English words were probably a mystery to most of those listening, the black man one of them unless James had taught him some English along with his Latin. Latin from bad French…for a moment it was almost enough to make René’s head pains return.

  “No,” René sighed at last, switching to English easily, simply to remind James that he could. He pressed the tips of his fingers into the faded gilt paint at the top of the chair, until each dent and chip was familiar to him. The Father was a lie. “There is no God.”

  It was the child who gasped this time, and René transferred his gaze to the boy, meeting those too-curious eyes before he glanced back to James. James’ mouth was gaping, closing and opening once like a fish out of water, and then flaming to red when James caught his lower lip between his teeth and bit down fiercely. Trying to control himself, René realized, recalling exactly when he had seen the act before.

  René. James had eventually called out on his own, unable to contain himself. That passion would surely destroy James one day, and yet René reveled in it now, wondering how long he could sit this way before his arousal became evident. The thought almost made him smile sourly.

  What would James do then, his little innocent? For it was innocence that had him so amazed, naïve shock that anyone would say such a thing. Idly, to distract himself from the growing ache in his balls, René wondered if James was telling himself now that René had not meant it, that he had only said it to upset.

  “It amounts to the same thing!” The vehement whisper snapped René’s mind back to the present. James’ eyes had grown bright, larger through the glass of his spectacles, and glistening with what could not have been tears. “You are not God,” he insisted, his whole body tense and shaking.

  René felt himself go still at the incredible words, his body drawn away from the chair as if pulled. He kept himself down, but he could not stop his eyes from flying open. He took in James in amazement, studying him from his golden hair to his clenched hands and then traveling back up to stare into his eyes, seeing the truth reflected there, the absolute certainty of the faithful. It glowed in their eyes like the madness in the lord’s eyes now, as that man watched.

  “Probably I am the Devil,” René said slowly while their gazes were still locked. A sharp intake of air seemed to help clear his mind, and he tossed his head to free himself, then slid one hand to the hilt of his cutlass, just wanting to feel the crisscross of steel caress his palm. Only then did he smile, staring at the stained white of his shirt, pressed in a lump against his chest. A startled sound came from James, as if that too were true to him, and René chuckled without much amusement, not expecting anything else.

  “You kill…” James started to argue and René raised his head so suddenly that he saw even Deniau jerk back in surprise. “God kills, does he not?” René questioned, barely aware that he had gone back to speaking in Parisian, his voice trembling. “God steals too, understand? Lives, souls, those he takes freely. Those who have not sold theirs, like me, no?” All could not be as pure as James Fitzroy, even if they were foolish enough to wish they were.

  His throat was dry and he wanted a drink. He would have killed for one as he sat there, waiting for James’ reply. He knew there would be one. Despite himself, he held his breath, waiting for it.

  “It was the crime of the Devil, to question when he should have humbled himself.” James’ voice shook with the force of his faith and René laughed again, for James did nothing but humble himself. He was on his knees even now, caring for a madman that treated him like a dog and it got him nothing, no love from his God, or from René.

  René took his eyes from James and swung them out over his watching, confused crew. “Perhaps…” he paused, lifting his head so that it was again resting on the back of his chair. Then he raised one brow. “Perhaps the Englishman will tell us who God is, since he knows so well who God is not?” he asked them, continuing to talk in French. Frowns crossed several faces as they tried to understand his statement, but his men were used to him, and some nodded, looking to James expectantly. This little argument of theirs would be their only entertainment until they reached Turtle Island, and unlike the game of chess, could never grow violent because nothing could make James Fitzroy want to spill another’s blood. “Is it Marechal?” René waved negligently to Marechal and glimpsed the brief flash of fury in the large man’s eyes. Laughs answered that so he moved on, tossing a look in the direction of Deniau. “Deniau?”

  “René.” Hearing his first name called lowly by Deniau did not stop him, though René would make him pay for the familiarity later. “Or is it your friend, the ugly Englishman?” René sent a quick look over the deck for the man James had spoken with often but could not see him. The idea of God being English sent howls of laughter through the crew, even some of the Englishmen, though René doubted they knew why they laughed. A few did not seem pleased at all to hear his blasphemy and he nodded to them all coolly, enjoying how killers and thieves longed to defend their God.

  Hurt and outrage darkened James’ eyes now, and René smiled to see that he had been wounded. He sat up at last to study James, shifting his hand from his sword to rest in his lap, just above his aching flesh.

  James stared back, his mouth still red from where he had bitten it. Then his lips parted as he sighed noisily and with obvious frustration before looking down. René narrowed his gaze to just those lips, so pure and untested.

  When James finally raised his eyes again, the laughter had faded to nothing as if even the crew were awaiting his answer. “God is in all of them,” James said simply and blinked, the image of someone coming out into the sun and momentarily blinded. Then his eyes focused again on René and his anger seemed to have gone, replaced with something René did not know, though it seemed gentler, more resigned. Submissive, René decided in that moment of tension as James opened his mouth to speak again, for James Fitzroy always gave in. René could recall each time easily, even if James could never entirely stop himself from speaking.

  “Even you.” James pushed out the words on a sudden wisp of air and they floated to René as if carried by angels, breaking him away from everything. Someone sighed; it could have been Deniau. René did not know. Did not care. His fingers curled around the wrinkled linen of his breeches and it was all he could do not to press a hand to his stomach. It was suddenly tight and anxious, like always, in the moments before a fight.

  His eyes searched over his crew, noting that many had the same look on their faces, a kind of shock that quickly faded into something flat and stubborn. He meant to look at Deniau but did not, turning back until he found Marechal. The big man was not watching him and René expelled a harsh, dry breath.

  Marechal’s gaze was on James, so heavy that surely James had to feel it. Contrary to everyone else, René pulled in air again, the sudden clearing of his mind painful but necessary. The pain snapped him back to his mind, and he purposefully imagined the eager hands grasping his hair to hold him close. That had been painful too, but it had made him harder than he had been merely watching James go about his tasks with his slow, unschooled concentration.

  He was a sick devil, the thought lashed at him, turning his mind a pretty red, and God did not want him. “ Quois?” René asked at last when he had meant to speak English. Uncurling his fingers, he lifted his hand to wave delicately through the air. The effort left him shaking. “What?” he wondered smartly, finally looking back into innocent eyes. “No division? No Rome? Catholic and Protestant? No Jew? No heretics? God is in all?” René cleared his throat when Ja
mes nodded. “He is the very Devil, to enjoy the sight of so much blood.”

  “Spilled blood is man’s doing.” Condemnation roughened James’ voice, both lowering it and making it more forceful. His bright eyes said his words were for René alone, and René licked his parched lips when James lifted his chin to speak. In fact he seemed to want to rise up from the ground, straightening his shoulders and pushing himself forward.

  The sun hit him again, or perhaps it had been on him the whole time. It lit his hair and sent fire blazing over his shoulders. On either side of him were the boy and the madman, proof of hiscaritas—or his own madness. Behind him was the shadow of Marechal. René studied all of it without blinking. “Wicked men…” James went on hotly and René jumped from the back of the chair.

  “Wicked men created by God, obeying his laws,” René argued, keeping his voice firm as the world shifted around him. He steadied himself by pressing one hand to his head, staring at the lines of his palm until they meant nothing. When he looked back to James he saw the raised brows of James’ shock then stiffened when James’ eyes traveled over him, suddenly seeming to notice the abandoned wine bottle. Several things flickered across his face this time, too fast for René to interpret. Then his shoulders seemed to lower though he stayed sitting up, his body held tensely in the air.

  “All men are given the same choices…” James argued, dropping his voice again, and René shook his head, not yet able to speak, but knowing well that there were times when there were no choices at all.

  “Peasants are like rats, boy. You do not debate rats.” Another voice intruded into René’s thoughts and he frowned before tearing his eyes from James to look at the mad lord. The red-faced man was glaring at James with his nose in the air, chastising him for some imagined mistake. Several yards away René could hear grumblings among the crew, forrats was the same in both languages, and echoed their sentiments, vaguely considering telling Marechal to toss the lunatic overboard. The seas, like the Holy Father, had their own law. “Fermala, Anglais.” Deniau made the whispered words a threat, and he was not the only one to tell the man to be quiet.

  “Please, my Lord.” James turned from him to placate the man, and René watched with intense displeasure how he pleaded. The anxious looks that James gave the men but not René should have calmed him a degree, letting him know that James had feared the man being around the crew and had not feared him, but now it seemed of little importance.

  “Your lord does not look to have a choice.” René took a moment to recover his calm before speaking and then narrowed his eyes when James finally turned back to face him. His hand stayed on the fat man’s arm, to either hold him down or reassure him that all would be well. It was clear from his manner that the lord had done something similar before, and that James feared the consequences.

  René realized his error when the temper returned to the eyes of James Fitzroy, as the other man remembered what had led to all of this. He glanced down to the ground James knelt upon, seeing the way his hands shook at his sides though he managed to hold his gaze steady. Then René raised his eyes again, waiting. His hands were on the seat of the chair, keeping him from falling forward.

  James did not speak, his teeth tearing into his lower lip to keep himself silent until René could not stand it any longer. “One does not become a villain all at once,” he quoted in Latin, knowing from the widening of James’ eyes that he had surprised him yet again, knowing himself surprise to be speaking at all. Through his glasses, James’ eyes seemed so large that they could have been standing face to face, only inches apart. There were flecks of light in the dark eyes of the Englishman, and René wondered if he knew of them.

  He would value such things as knowledge of a useless language, James Fitzroy. René was as certain of that as he could be, with his head pounding enough to match the throbbing in his groin that had not ceased. He drank in the shock on the Englishman’s face and allowed himself to lean back in his former pose. If Deniau was startled at his words, he made no sound to show it.

  “Redemption is offered to all,” James persisted suddenly, causing René to twitch his head upward at the deathly seriousness in the man’s manner…and at the speed in which he had translated the Latin yet took his time with the French. “Good acts are all that are needed.”

  “Do you preach to my men?” He had to ask, knowing that his lips were curved in a perverse sort of amusement. To many of the men, this was a business venture, only a way to support their families, to the others; it was something in which they took great pleasure. Talk of sin would merely irritate them. But when James swept his gaze over the ones gathered to watch and listen, they remained as silent as they had not when his lord had spoken. Perhaps it was because he remained composed, as still as he was not whenever he exchanged glances with René; then, he seemed to fight to keep himself down.

  “You talk like a martyr too,” René murmured, just loud enough for the Englishman to hear. James Fitzroy whipped around to stare at him, eyes round and mouth open. René knew his eyes grew heated, to remember how he had fucked the other man, and he let them, lowering his eyelids to watch as James’ skin flushed and a fever-like brightness made his eyes glow. He frowned, either in thought or in anger, but so expectant as he sat there that René pushed out a rasping breath and leaned forward once more.

  A cough startled him, making him blink to wet dry eyes and raise his head. Marechal stared lowly back at him, not a sign on his face that he had made the sound. René narrowed his eyes in warning, then looked away, searching for the bottle before he remembered that he and Deniau had finished it.

  Swearing crudely out loud in his tongue, René turned back to James, focusing his gaze until his attention was again on the Englishman’s mouth and not his eyes. He was tired and he needed to go to bed. He had been awake for far too long. The wine had made him a little bit dizzy. He trailed back in his mind until he could recall what he had last said, then nodded so firmly that it shifted the chair.

  “Ah, but martyrs must bleed, no?” He waved airily in the man’s direction and then sighed, a long winding rush of air that left nothing behind it once it was gone. “And I have shed enough of blood.” His English seemed to come out wrong there, but he saw James react and thought that maybe he had spoken rightly after all.

  “Your own?” The twist to James’ mouth seemed to say that he was being mocking, but surely James could not be mocking, not such an innocent. “And they must also kneel in…penitence?” René continued with an annoyed look at the Englishman just in case he was getting above himself. It had little effect on the man, James only kept on watching with a serious, superior look that René did not like at all. “It is fortunate that I do not mind being on my knees,” he whispered in Latin, unpleasantly surprised that he remembered so much of it. But it had its uses now, and he was happy to use it if it kept his words private enough and yet still made James Fitzroy blush.

  A small shudder tore through James’ body and then he sucked in a breath. It was the sound of arousal, and René nearly lolled back in the chair to let it stroke over him. What would it be like, to have James make that sound against his skin? Sweat dotted all over his body at the thought, and a surge of blood to his prick left his mind fogged and dazed.

  “They say some sins cannot be washed away.” A husky voice thick with passion spoke the words, and René answered before he truly realized that they had been said in Latin as well, more infuriating evidence of how scholarly James was. A man who lived in books, who had never been tested, was daring to judge him.

  “I regret nothing!” he shouted, not at all sure what tongue he had used this time. That should have alarmed him, but the rapid beating of his heart was from rage, rage that James would dare deny him again, for that was what he had to have meant by the words. René was no coward, to hide away from the truth. James was his and would be until he had tired of him.

  He panted for air as he glared at James, not bothering to hide his anger or his pleasure at the fear that cross
ed the man’s face. He waited a moment, then reached behind him without looking, knocking over several of the chess pieces until he had to have knocked the King to the ground. “You have a quick tongue, Englishman,” he declared in French after withdrawing his hand. He did not look at Deniau, but could feel his gaze on him. It was not weighted like Marechal’s, but René shrugged as if that would get rid of it. Arching one brow, he jerked his head from James to look out over the few men of the crew who were still watching and had not lost interest once the words had switched to mostly English and Latin. “It ought to be put to better use, no?” he asked them and smiled as they laughed and speculatively turned their eyes to James.

  Though it was not the sound he wanted, René let it pour over him for a few moments, continuing to smile. James said nothing, and that would do until it was the sound of his voice begging for pleasure, which it would be soon enough.

  Decided, René raised himself to his feet. He managed to nod at a blank-faced Deniau and turn away before the ground under his feet slid away like it was made of water and the air in front of him filled with thousands of sparkling lights. He took one step forward and the coloured spangles faded, turning black for the barest moment. It made him stop in curious surprise.

  James was in front of him now, as always, and he was reaching out one hand in that same helpful gesture, his eyes huge in his square, handsome face.He wants me now, René reflected with scornful amusement, then gasped as his feet left the ground.

  His stomach slid up to where his heart should have been and then dropped abruptly as he was lifted into the air. He was being carried away, his head throbbing sickly with every step, and the air seemed heavy and thick, not letting him move as he wished.