Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  The word brought to mind the ache between his legs, and James shivered violently. Villon’s other eye opened, and then his grin slipped away.

  Only his shining eyes gave any indication of what he was feeling as he calmly wiped his face and tucked his placket of his breeches closed.

  Shuddering though his body still raged with fever, James waited, knowing there had to be more. The mess on his chest began to cool, and he shifted uncomfortably. Villon just stood there, staring down at him without a word. Whatever he saw pleased him. James tossed his head to see the intense, knowing pleasure in the other man’s expression, a sick feeling sinking into him. Spread out and aroused, covered in another man’s seed when he had claimed not to be a sodomite on their first meeting.

  He had begged for it,pleaded, and then had pleased the man in return. To say otherwise would be to lie. And he could not, not even when faced with his rejection now.

  Ashamed of another sure sign of his weakness, he turned his head away and then felt the fires of anger stir at Villon’s soft words. “No amount of blessed water will wash that sin away, will it, James?” he asked in a tone that meant he knew the answer already, and well. James flicked a hopeless look into those merciless eyes and then blinked when he saw something that was not just pride and ownership. The same look that had been on his face earlier that day when they had been arguing. Then, James had thought it had been the liquor.

  “I…” James choked on any words, though knowing that he had naught to say, and Villon turned away. Those had been his words, that some sins could not be washed away, but he had spoken of murder, of bloodied hands, not of…not of this. “Was this about today then?” he asked quietly, and saw the other man go still at the edge of the stairs.

  It was a forlorn question; James did not expect him to answer, knowing the Villon did not consider him worthy to speak to. Today was the first time the man had spoken more than ten words to him altogether and it had only been due to his anger or the wine. But he needed an answer, not knowing what they were would only make him as mad as a March hare. “You do not understand anything,” Villon spoke without looking back and James crossed his arms to cover his nakedness and frowned at the heat that stole across his face.

  “No I do not. How can I?” Frustration raised his voice and he curled his hands to fists so he would not yell. But Villon did not seem to hear him though he did not move, and James moved his arms to try to stand up, have it out here and now.

  “We set course for Tortuga today,” Villon announced suddenly, and James froze in place as the meaning sank in, for it was almost over. They were almost free. They could escape and they would never meet again. Villon would vanish into the darkness as if he belonged in it, leaving James alone, aching and itching with his seed on his belly.

  “James!” The sound of his name brought his head up but it was not Villon speaking. The other man was looking out over the ship for the source of the sound. “Master James, sir!” The cry came again, and this time James recognized Ben, yelling loud enough to wake the ship. He sat up from his position against the wall and then began to fumble for his breeches when tumbling footsteps could be heard charging toward them.

  “Ben!” James called out with alarm and glanced up and saw René staring at him with a bemused expression. Then he was nearly pushed down the stairs as Ben rushed past him. “The child?” Villon’s question faded as Ben shot quick looks around them and then went completely still the moment he saw James, his tiny body almost falling forward once his feet stopped.

  James’ dropped his hands in surprise only to raise them again in an effort to cover his arousal as Ben’s eyes traveled over him thoroughly. He wanted to blush, wished he could, but aside from moving his hands he seemed to be unable to do anything.

  “James?” Ben wondered in a shaking voice as James tried to speak.

  “What do you want, child?” It was René who finally spoke in a voice thick with some emotion, sparing James from having to do so. “James,” Ben said again and it was René’s exclamation of irritation at that that returned James’ blushes at last, only too similar to the sounds he made in the throes of passion. Ben took a step in his direction and then stopped, glancing to René first. Whatever he saw in René’s face made him pause, and blink several times.

  “It’s his Lordship, James,” Ben whispered at last, but still staring up at Villon, who tossed his head to the side and then resettled his stance as if intending to stay now that Ben was here. Freed from his gaze, Ben looked back to James. “He’s in trouble, and I thought ye’d want to know.”

  “Damned English!” Villon swore before he was even finished, and James looked away from Ben in time to see the furious look Villon gave him, as if he was not speaking of Cavendish, but of him. James’ stomach twisted but then Villon turned and was down the stairs and out of sight.

  Men were moving down below now, James could hear the sounds they made as he listened to Villon’s retreating footsteps. A noise near him snapped his head back and he studied Ben, his sense of horror growing.

  The child was probably shocked and James wondered what to say to calm his fears when he could not calm his own. But Ben’s tense pose had relaxed, and he was frowning seriously as his gaze swept over James’ nearly naked body, stopping at his hard prick. From what he could see, Ben was not blushing, or even averting his eyes as James would have done.

  “B…Ben,” he stammered childishly and, realizing that his hands did not hide the jelly on his chest, got stiffly to his feet, yanking up his breeches as he did and cursing Villon for leaving him to this alone. Then he scowled and raised his head. “His Lordship?” Fear streaked through James at the memory of the looks on many of the men’s faces today when he had called them rats. He forgot all else for the moment save that, and what he was afraid would happen to the man if he continued to offend the sailors around him, disturbing the fragile peace of boredom.

  “Aye.” Ben agreed and then took another step forward. “You could use your headscarf to wipe your chest, Master James. ‘Tis best to get it from your hair before it dries.” “What?” There was nothing in his voice but shock at the even measures of the boy’s remark. But Ben was nodding and pointing to his head and so he reached up and dragged the scarf free. He glanced at Ben before lowering his head as he cleaned his chest, wincing briefly as he pulled on the hairs. Then he hesitated before tossing the scarf overboard.

  “I can take care of your other needs too, sir,” Ben breathed quietly and James jumped at the feel of a hand on his arm. “What?” James said again, certain that he had lost his mind now to have heard such a thing, and then jumped again at the sudden echoing cheer from below. Spirits sinking, he forgot about Ben other than to gesture for him to stay there, seeking out the source of the noise, knowing he followed after René.

  He had just reached the deck when a disturbance at the stern drew his attention and he froze alongside several other men as the large form of his Lordship appeared out of the doorway from below. His eyes were pale in the moonlight, widened to their limits. There was only a heartbeat to notice the terror contorting his face before a dark arm reached around his form and a flash of silver made the man next to him whisper an exclamation.

  Then the silver was withdrawn, and something blacker than even the night sky poured out over his Lordship’s white chest, obscuring it completely. A wet groan followed that and James wanted to close his eyes at the memory of that sound.

  “No.” He was unaware of saying it as he stepped forward, but no one answered. The eyes of those around him were fixed on the bleeding man before them in either amazement or interest, but none but James moved. Then Lord Cavendish was abruptly shoved from the doorway, falling onto the deck with a thud.

  His footsteps or his heart were crashing in the silence that followed and James stumbled to a stop before the fallen man, turning astounded eyes to the man emerging from the shadows, still holding his bloodied knife. One stare was enough to see the coldness in his eyes at the heinous act, and
James blinked before looking to the figure coming up behind the other.

  René’s face was tight as he pushed past Deniau to look at the scene but James jerked his head away and dropped to the ground, reaching out for one of his Lordship’s hands. It was wet and dark now; the growing stain of blood had swallowed it up where it had fallen. James swallowed at that but grasped the wrist firmly, remembering his readings and feeling the fading beat with a sickness in his stomach that was at sharp odds with the throb in his breeches.

  “Deniau!” René began sharply and James snapped his head up. “Silence!” he hissed bitterly, fighting the sting in his eyes. Villon turned on him with surprise on his face. “This man is dying.” There would be some respect for life on this damned ship; he did not care if it earned him his death as well. It was likely only the suddenness of the act that had kept the crew from cheering the violence.

  Breaking Villon’s gaze, James bent his head and closed his eyes, praying silently for his Lordship’s soul though he was not a man of the cloth, and even if his Lordship would have been angry with him for such familiarity. Startlingly, from behind him came the sound of what sounded like prayers in French, but before they were over his Lordship was dead, his fingers twitching once and then losing strength.

  James raised his head, half-expecting to see that look of amusement on René’s face that he had seen before, but there was only a frown, first leveled at him, and then directed at Deniau, and then he thought, distantly, that now there would be one less to worry about helping escape Villon.

  James looked to Deniau as well without getting up, though he could feel the blood reaching his knees. In his mind he could hear awkwardly spoken Latin words, meaningless ones picked at random from the pages of More’s work and then his own answering encouragement in slow French. They mingled uneasily with the grunts and moans of passion still ringing in his ears and he had another mad urge to laugh when he could not think clearly.

  “Why?” he wondered through a dry throat and tried not to stare at the blade still in Deniau’s hands. They were clean, not shining wetly like the blood on the knife did when the moon darted out from behind the clouds. “He was…” mad, as James would soon be. “He was helpless!” he charged at last and was swept to his feet by sudden rage. All of them helpless, his Lordship as powerless as a child. “Do none of you understand that?” He had been a fool to think mercy existed here.

  “Oui.” René’s voice breathed the word, and Deniau turned to him with a small, cool smile.

  “You wished him dead too, Villon,” he murmured throatily and James sensed Villon’s nod though he did not look to see it. “Why?” he asked again, his voice strained. He could not quite meet Villon’s eyes but his body jumped in response to the answer.For insulting you, he thought he heard but the words did not seem to be real, and he realized that he must have dreamt them, his mind already slipping away from him, for far away wounds were no reason to kill a man.

  “The crazy man was yelling at everyone, cursing them so loudly they could not sleep. Giving orders.” Deniau flipped the dagger as he spoke, holding it so that the blade ran along his arm and he could sweep it out at anyone around him if he wished.

  “And for that you killed him?” James bit out hoarsely and Deniau shook his head, just once. “There are to be no fights on the ship, Deniau, you knew this. We cannot afford it.” René interrupted and there was a rumble from the crew, both angry and agreeing, either with Deniau for breaking the rule or with Villon for mentioning it, and René seemed to listen to their complaint, growing silent momentarily. At any other time James would have gaped to see it.

  “I will not take such words, even from a lunatic. I am no slave.” Deniau looked back into James’ eyes and James flinched as he never had during their lessons in language. “I am no dog, nor a son of the Devil, born to serve an English master. I am a man. I accept my fate.”

  “Deniau.” It was a bare whisper from Villon, as if he could not believe what he was hearing. Something in his voice…it was the same as it had been when James had asked him if the scene in his cabin had been revenge. But he did not spend time contemplating that, could not, not with Lord Cavendish between them and Deniau’s fury barely suppressed.

  “Villon,” Deniau growled out the single word in response and looked to him with raised brows, his daring for that something that made the breath hiss from between James’ teeth. The two men stared at one another and the world seemed to grow as cold as Lord Cavendish’s lifeless form. Then René lifted his head and James saw that he swallowed once.

  “Give me your blade, Deniau,” he ordered and James felt some of his anger change to shock when Deniau handed it to him without any struggle, extending it smoothly, hilt out. “More will die?” James gasped in disbelief and glared at Villon, hating the sight of him with that bloody knife with such force that he shook with it and had to look away. But René did not look away from him; he could feel those eyes on him and struggled not to speak any more.

  “If you wish it, James,” Villon said at last and James snapped his head up without thinking. He tried to speak but could not when Villon reached out and held the knife in the air between them, hilt first, his fingers smearing the blood. “He was your master.” James could have struck him for the soft sneer in that remark alone. “Will you seek justice?”

  James’ throat was closed, too tight for him to breathe and he glanced up into dark eyes that told him nothing. For a moment frustration at being so denied made him clench his teeth and snatch the bloody thing from René’s hand and cradle it in his palms without looking at it. It felt heavy, and warm, and his fingers itched to recall what this hand had held only moments before.

  What his acts had cost his Lordship. James closed his eyes at the mutterings of the crew at this turn of events and thought over his neglect with a shame that drained the heat from his body. Of all his acts on this ship, this was surely the worst, abandoning a sick man to the care of murderers for his own pleasure. This ship and the people on it had turned him into someone who could only think to be grateful that a man was dead because it had spared him work. They were worse than the cannibal savages printed of in the accounts of the New World, and he tightened his grip on the knife.

  There was no use in fighting then. Why not be one of them? James smiled grimly and turned to Deniau, who seemed surprised before he composed his face to show nothing. It showed nothing because they felt nothing, not one of them, Deniau, Marechal, Villon; all of them heartless and soulless and they wanted him to be like them, to fight like a man. Cavendish’s words.

  “Every man should be his own.” The smooth voice that haunted his days would not leave him even now. James barely heard the snarl that tore from his mouth as he moved the knife to his other hand and took a step toward Deniau. His foot slipped in the blood and he paused for a fraction of a moment to steady himself, staring ahead at the rapid rise and fall of Deniau’s chest.

  If every man his own, and not God’s, then this was fair and fit judgment. If James was all there was to hold a man accountable for his sins, then this act was right. Oh God . The prayer flew up and James wondered if he had spoken it aloud. His hand came up to cover his mouth and the hilt of the blade still in his grip brushed his chin. Repulsed, he nearly dropped it, lowering his hand to hide the cursed thing from his sight. He could still feel it heavy in his palm.

  “Oh God.” This was spoken, an urgent whisper, and his eyes went wide, searching out for something in the shadows. Deniau was in front of him, and just seeing him was a spear through his middle. On the ground was his Lordship, tearing him to pieces. “I cannot,” he whispered, knowing he was a coward in the eyes of the world. He let the knife fall to the deck, where it landed next to the body.

  “You will not?” The question came as quiet as a child’s voice and James turned tired eyes to Villon, blinking to see that the other man was holding out one hand, holding back Ben with a single hand to his shoulder. James was not certain as to why, since the child was not fighti
ng to get free. He seemed to have forgotten René’s hand was there.

  “I cannot,” James repeated. “It…it is not my place.” He could not think straight, barely getting out the French words, not even sure they were correct.

  “I do not want your mercy,Anglais.” Deniau spat onto the ground at his feet and James sucked in a breath. “It is not mercy.” His throat was dry, scratched and parched and he would have begged for some water, if anyone there would give it to him. “I am leaving you to face God,” he pronounced slowly and watched how Villon’s eyes widened.

  If the crew spoke in answer to this James did not hear it. He only blinked back the stinging in his eyes and stared back at the man he wished he could call Devil. The word stuck in his mind and pointed back at himself.

  “Ah,” Villon nodded with sudden understanding that caused James’ heart to jump. “This would have been a sin you could not have washed away?” James hunched his shoulders about himself to be flogged with those words again but shook his head.

  “Yes,” he agreed on a sigh. “But that it not why.” His guilt over what he had almost done rose in his throat like bile and he wished it would consume him, burn him from the inside out until he was naught but ash. The others did not understand, and he barked something that was not a laugh to remember how he had criticized Villon for not explaining himself. “This was not justice,” he mumbled and frowned into Villon’s still, watchful face.

  “I thought he was your friend?” James asked abruptly in English and swayed slightly as the blood that had been pounding through him seemed to rush to his feet. The world trembled and then René was close before him, studying him with glittering eyes.

  “He is, and for that I am glad that I put the knife in your hands.” His red mouth twisted at the way James jerked in surprise to hear that soft confession but James could not concentrate enough to pull out his meaning. One thin eyebrow quirked upward in near amusement at his stunned silence. “But now I think you need to sleep, James.”