by Cooper, R.
He headed away from the water, slipping around groups of revelers and keeping a hand on his purse, Farther away from the beach it quieted, and he could not help but smile to be away from most of the crowds. Now there were only couples and groups of three or four, too poor or too miserly to pay for a room, slipping off into alleys, or trying to. Some did not make it to the darkness before giving in to their urges. Again he thought of the medicine he would have to buy before tossing his head and moving on.
He had nowhere to go but back to the ship, unless he felt like paying for similar entertainment, and he considered it as the sounds of passion, both real and purchased, filled his ears. It stroked along his skin as softly as fine golden hairs had teased his fingertips and he curled his hands and held his breath to remember the feel of it. It had been weeks ago, one brief touch, and still his palms itched for what they could not feel again.
A slight groan of arousal mimicked the sounds from the shadows and he did look around then, wondering if even a woman would do. His pace quickened, his heartbeat growing so loud that it took a long moment for the strange sound of a woman’s anger to reach him.
“ Cabron!” The shrill voice definitely belonged to a woman, but though he recognized the word as Castilian, he could not think of its meaning other than to know that it was familiar, directed at him more than once. More words followed, and this time a strange howling sort of laugh joined them, echoing through the streets. Or maybe the howl was only the echo, and the laugh itself was ordinary. René stopped to listen to it and noticed a few others did as well before they shook their heads and continued on.
He moved again after a moment as well, opening his eyes wide with curiosity and disbelief. He had only heard a laugh like that once before, but he did not doubt that it had the same source now. Ben had caused it, making James and a few others roar with mirth at some jest in English, some humour about being hanged that had not seemed funny at all to René. That had been weeks ago as well, over a month, but René remembered how even when laughing James’ face had been stained with an embarrassed red.
What the English called wit would always escape his understanding, but the words being shouted were clearly insults, or at least something intended to offend. Annoyed enough to swear to Saint Francis, René slid one hand to his cutlass and followed the sound of the woman’s complaints to a small space between two low buildings. Very little light reached the alley, but he stopped at the entrance once he reached it and stood there motionless, not even blinking, unable to comprehend or believe what he was seeing, that he been led tothis.
Lying against one wooden wall, sitting in the filth of the dirt and shit that undoubtedly had been thrown there, was James Fitzroy. His legs were wide, flat upon the ground, though he had kept his ridiculous shoes on his feet. Standing over him, feet between his legs, was a woman. Her skirts brushed against his bare chest as she tried to move, bending over to yell into his face, and René coughed harshly, though neither of them seemed to hear him or notice he was there.
So the Englishman had left the child to find a whore. René set his jaw and squinted in the darkness, looking for the shame on James’ face now. James had his arms up so René could not see his face, but he could see the tankard of liquor he had in one hand, and see that the other was close on theputain’s bodice. Holding her close in an awkward caress or holding her away René could not see and did not care. He stepped forward with his hand still wrapped around his sword hilt just as she finally stepped back, stumbling a little with the force of her release.
She was not a pretty woman; René did not think she ever had been, even before her life here. Her fury now did little to help her looks. Long, tangled black hair flying in all directions, small, dark eyes narrowed in a pale face marked by a hard life. She still did not seem to see him, bending again to snatch the liquor from James’ hand and drain the tankard noisily. She tossed it at him contemptuously once she had finished and it hit James in the leg though he did not even twitch, only continuing to laugh softly to himself.
She was stamping her foot at that even as René was moving forward. “ Cabron!” she charged again, smirking and straightening her bodice. “Hijo de una puta con su arma roto, I do not need you.No necesito!” Gesturing with her fingers between her legs, the woman kicked out a small foot and hit the edge of James’ slipper, wincing at the pain of that on her bare foot. It seemed to enrage her more. René reached her and closed his fingers around her wrist, pulling her arm back when she moved to strike James.
Her rage turned to him and then faded for a moment as she studied him. With an effort so powerful she shook with it, he saw her change her scowl to an inviting smile, then twisted her body to display it as well as she could with him holding her.
“What did he do?” he asked fiercely in quiet English and saw her frown return. “ Nada! Nothing!” She spat on the ground and lowered her free hand to her lap again, dropping her fingers limply. René’s heart pounded, his mouth falling open in surprise though he snapped it shut before turning to James, who still did not seem to be aware of anything but the empty glass. He had stopped laughing. René noticed that distantly then turned back to the woman. “And he did not even have money!” she exclaimed with a huff of breath.
“He came to you with no money?” René’s grip on her arm tightened though it was still not strong enough to hurt. She seemed to notice his temper now, jerking around to stare at him, some trace of wariness entering her expression. But she shook her head so he let her go. She glanced down one last time at his full coin purse and his sword and René suddenly understood, realizing that she had intended to make some money from James, one way or the other, earning it or stealing it. It happened often enough to fools too drunk to notice the difference. And James must be very drunk to not have…
Uncertain, René looked to James, lying on the ground like a girl’s abandoned poppet. James had always seemed responsive enough to his attentions, ready like a bride on the second night of marriage. The woman was in error. He frowned long and hard, exhaling noisily when James finally moved, lifting an arm to reach for the tankard.
“ Vaya!” One of a handful of phrases René knew, pronounced forcefully enough that the woman jumped. James started violently at the sound, and swung his head around and up to find him, blinking with wide, stunned eyes through clouded spectacles. René looked back, ignoring the woman’s only slightly gentled complaints as she stalked from the alley.
The urge to kick away the empty blackjack was strong, but he resisted, slipping his hands away from his sword and resting them at his sides. A moment later he raised them. “You are in the dirt,” he said at last and then shook his head to dispel the effects of the rum. The Englishman could sit in the filth all night; he had chosen to be there, no one had forced him.
“I’m sorry.” James whispered, his lips drooping at the corners before he firmed them in earnest apology.
“For what?” René demanded, his breaths tight and short through his nose, the muscles in his arms locking. “For…upsetting the lady.” James let his head fall, his hair swinging forward to hide his darkening cheeks. His blushes and choked words did nothing to ease René’s irritation, and he heard his own voice breaking as he bit out one word.
“Elle?” He could not move his anger was so strong. “When she came to me I thought…” James started to speak, half-rising from the wall in his eagerness, only to abruptly stop. He coughed, reaching for still empty blackjack and this time René did kick it. James flinched at his move and then stared up at him warily over his glasses, through his tangled hair.
“And so…” René stopped as well, unable to find words, not even sure why he was bothering. He ought to leave him and return tole Diable Noir. Even if James had not approached this woman, he would approach another, as soon as he had some money to spend. “Was that full?” he asked instead of saying anything else, irritably, and then shrugged since it did not really matter to him, whatever the answer to the question. “Men are killed here for nothing
and you are drunk.”
James still did not respond, only continuing to observe him. His glasses had slipped, and were hanging loosely on his nose. Above them were eyes clouded with liquor and dark with something René did not understand. Shamed red was still staining his cheeks, answering René’s charges without a word spoken. It was amazing that he could see the blushes; even the shadows could not hide the dirt covering James’ skin. He had been clean when René had first seen him, his spectacles straight, his face shaven and smooth. He had been dressed and clutching at a book, probably his Bible.
“What are you doing?” René thought of the knife tucked into his boot and clutched the air with one hand.
“Lying in filth.” James let out a snort of laughter as if this were the most obvious thing in the world and then tried to choke his giggles back. Seemingly unconcerned with René’s narrow gaze on him, he pressed a hand to his stomach and laughed once more. After a moment it changed into a low groan. “Oh, how Jack would be surprised to see me like this…” he complained, squeezing his eyes shut tightly as if in pain. “…Used to get upset with me for even venturing to other side of the River.”
Swearing, René bent down to get his attention. “Who is Jacque?” he wondered, his breathing louder than his heart’s beating. James opened his eyes and then blinked rapidly several times, his lashes like the wings of a frightened butterfly.
“René.” The soft sigh sent a brush of warm breath over his face. James seemed surprised to see him for a moment and then his amazement dissolved into more quiet, womanly giggles. “I would ask why you are here, René, but you are always here.” He nodded in polite greeting, as respectful René had not been earlier to Pym, and then pulled his full lower lip between his teeth and moaned.
It was a lost, confused sound. René wished very much to banish it, his frown lifting slightly though he was no less confused. His English was failing him, or James was too drunk to speak with reason.
“God…” James closed his eyes again at his own pleading cry and shook his head once. “Go away, Villon,please.” His hands came up to cover his face before René could do more than straighten up. He moaned into his palms, the sound echoing up to René and reminding him of other things. Things that made him shift his stance. “If you’ve come for…I cannot.” For one small moment, James lifted his face from his hands to glance behind René, to where the woman had gone and then he was back to his whining. But the look was enough; René glanced back to where James’ whore had gone and then shrugged.
James, of course, could not see it, and so he cleared his throat, trying to think of words the Englishman would understand. “She was not pretty, and common, why would you want her?” He certainly had not. His men would find that amusing, should they know, when it took only a muffled groan to make him tingle with anticipation of taking James Fitzroy one last time.
His words seemed to penetrate James’ befogged mind, for several heartbeats later he looked up, and then put one hand against the wall in order to try to push himself to his feet. “Why?” James laughed once more, loud and long and bitterly, ending in a near howl when René scowled back at him for asking that damned question. Probably only death would stop his mouth. “Why?” James asked again, still struggling to rise, finally just giving up with his back arched against the wall and his legs bent. He lifted his chin and his hair fell back, exposing his face.
René’s gaze swept over the square jaw and straight lines of James’ face to the round eyes focused intently on him. Then he stilled, shivering despite the heat of the Tortuga air. James made no attempt to hide his longing; want shimmered from his eyes, and they saw no one but him.
It was the rum brightening James’ eyes, making him seem feverish. No doubt that was what pained his stomach as well, if James had not eaten, then kill-devil, as the English called it, would make him sick. Kill-devil. Abruptly René shook his head and looked away from James’ drunken stare. The name itself had probably influenced James’ decision to drink it, trying to be rid of whatever part of his humours René had left inside of him. But he had left nothing inside of James but an ache that he had tried to fill with a woman.
Calmly, René reached up and pulled the end of one of his shirt laces, letting the knots unravel. He wore no constrainingveste, only the loose fitting coat. James’ eyes dropped from his face at last, only to narrow down to the partially exposed skin of his chest as there were nothing else. René stilled his hand, leaving it uncertainly over the lump the crucifix made in the fabric. When James licked his lips wetly René nearly moaned as James had done. Such eagerness could not be real.
“How do you plan on getting coin?” He had to clear his throat to speak; his throat was dry with the need for drink. James jerked in apparent surprise, leaning his head to one side curiously. René twisted his mouth into a cool smile. “It is not your knowledge you will have to sell for you to get free of…”
James’ laugh cut him off. This laugh was harsher than the others, cruder. It belonged in this alley with the dirt. “I cannot get free, René,” he murmured ruefully, and then laughed again, to himself this time.
“ Parlez en Français!” René ordered over the sound of the other man’s amusement, grabbing a fistful of his own shirt in frustration. His mind was not clear enough to understand these jests James made in his tongue. James struggled again to get to his feet and again fell back against the wall. He choked gleefully at that and then dusted off his breeches as if that would clean them. He seemed to realize why this would not work just as René did, pausing to study his filthy hands, turning them over until he was peering down into his palms like some Gypsy.
He held them out for René to inspect, splaying his fingers wide, stretching out the skin over his wrists so much that in the day René would have been able to see his veins pulse with blood.
“If a man also lie with mankind, as he lie with a woman, both of them have committed an…an…abomination…” James told him with utter seriousness, his voice growing faint and tired, as if he had thought the words many times and only now had finally spoken them, and the effort had left him weak.
René’s sharply indrawn breath hissed through his teeth and he closed his eyes. The words were spoken strangely in English but he recognized them though he had not thought of them since he had been a child. It was the lack of hope in James’ voice more than the lines themselves. He could still hear the voice of his mother reading to herself from that book, from all of them many times, but always from that one. It had the sound of the lash, that part more than any other, and he shook with the pain of it, of how like James she was. Both of them praying for forgiveness that was not needed and would never come.
He opened his eyes and glared down at James, still flogging himself with his sins. “They have done a…” he paused to search for the English word, only to give up and repeat it in Latin, “hateful thing together; they must die, their blood will be on their own heads.” He finished it clearly, wondering ifMaman would be pleased with him for remembering. James snapped his head up, eyes like barrels, wide and endlessly dark.
“You…” he started to say breathlessly and René shook himself free of visions of the past to step forward. Grabbing James’ hand, he pulled. Helping James to his feet required almost as much strength as helping to turn the ship, and he let go the moment James was standing, however unsteadily. They stood there for a long time, panting for air and watching one another. Then James caught his lip between his teeth once again, this time to hide its trembling. René wondered if he were growing sober, or simply confused.
“It is one of the many reasons I do not follow that book,” René confessed and then frowned. People had always forgotten the parts of the book they did not wish to confront; he did not see why James should blink at him so sadly, as if he were the only one, the only great sinner, the fallen.
“Yes,” James sighed and shook his head. He nearly toppled back onto his ass; the action was too much for him. “But you do not understand, René.”
&n
bsp; “I do not understand?” Temper brought René a step closer. That James would dare say such a thing to him, James who understoodnothing of the world. It was impossible. James was still shaking his head slowly, and René closed his dry eyes for a small moment, struggling not to strike the drunken fool for saying such a thing. He took a breath and then opened them, tensing to see James closer to him, bent slightly so that their faces almost touched.
His hand slipped easily to the hilt of his cutlass, waiting, and James let loose one breath, scented with rum. René breathed it in under James’ watchful stare and held it inside, still waiting uncertainly. James murmured a word. The sound of it barely passed his lips, not making it to René’s ears, and René turned his head in irritation, determined to leave. A quick motion brought his head back up and then he was gasping, tearing his hand from his sword to press against a strong shoulder. Warm lips ghosted over the skin of his neck and then parted to suck gently on the flesh. He had no time to push James away, crying out in a voice as weak as a girl’s at the hungry little rasps of teeth on his skin and the cautious exploration of James’ tongue over his throbbing vein. His fingers curled so tight they nearly broke, should have crushed James’ bones with their force, made him cry out as René had, but James did not seem to feel it. Instead James was drawing him closer, sliding an arm under his coat and around his waist and pulling him flush with his body.
René felt frozen, his throat locked against any more sounds. James’ muscles were iron, holding him in place, but his body was impossibly hot, burning through his shirt enough to melt the gold. René twisted his chest, a useless struggle, and the hand at his back slid down near to his ass, clutching and grabbing at his shirt before moving on, as if unsure of what to do or where to go. The other spread wide over his shoulder, pushing down the shirt and coat to expose his shoulder, unsteady fingers stroking over his skin.
