Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  Etienne had stumbled back into the room then, and James had run over to help escort him out of the tavern, distracted once again by the free manner in which a drunken Etienne had leaned on him. It was as though, once he had liquor in him, Etienne thought it safe to drive James mad with whispered confidences and curious touches that most likely meant nothing.

  “Just where do you think to find this man?” James demanded harshly, pushing away the memory. The ships and men all looked the same despite the many different coloured flags of origin. Etienne did not fully turn, but his stare was considering.

  “I will ask.” The calm statement was surprising, when he should have ordered James to ask for him, but already Etienne was walking away, stepping delicately around the pig shit in the street as he headed toward a tavern. James nearly stepped in it, then swore and turned around, jumping slightly to see Ben right behind him.

  “We will wait for him out here,” James told the boy seriously and Ben made a face. Before he could ask, James went on. “We are looking for a man…a pirate.”

  “You want…” Ben shut his mouth and pursed it thoughtfully. Then his eyes lit up. “Are we goin’ back to sea then?” “No!” James almost shouted it and hurriedly took a breath to calm himself. Ben’s little mouth thinned, but then he nodded. “Did…do you…want to?” He found himself whispering as Ben’s eyes widened.

  “There is a man inside who knows L’Araignée…Aranha.” Etienne interrupted James’ careening thoughts with a loud sneer that carried from several yards away. His words made little sense, speaking of the Spider and then adding another word James did not know. “He is drunk.” Saint-Cyr’s annoyance increased the closer he came to them, though James wondered if Etienne felt the effects of Sir Marvell’s whiskey yet, how long it would be before tonight, when Etienne would be swaying further into James’ arms again as though that were the ultimate goal of each night’s high spirits. “But the ship and the man are here. The man is even onshore.” He tossed one hand carelessly. “Somewhere.”

  It was a struggle not to scowl, though James was aware that his eyes narrowed. Etienne started to whine, complaining as he moved, about the heat of the day, the class of people around him, and damned pirates all in the same volume. James blinked once before following, keeping his gaze all around them anxiously, hoping that none of the pirates understood his words.

  Ben stayed at his side, talking to himself as well. Whatever he murmured in his native tongue did not sound as if it would please the nobleman, but James allowed it, only touching the boy on the shoulder occasionally to steer him free of trouble.

  Every yard or so, Saint-Cyr would stop and send a cursory look about the harbor as if expecting a man with ‘Spider’ etched across his head in ink to appear for him. And after the fourth time James just stopped following, jutting out his chin stubbornly though Etienne did not see it. Holding onto Ben, he stood up straighter and pinched his glasses firmly onto his nose. He could see further than Etienne or Ben could, and searched the area around him for a likely looking person to talk to, since the ships were too far away for their names to be seen.

  Out before him were crooked wooden docks, filled with casks and trunks and crates and men of every shape and colour imaginable. They extended into the water for short distances, and tied to them were what looked like hundreds of small boats from the many ships anchored off shore. It would be near impossible to find one man in that chaos without more information, and James snatched off his wig and held it at his side, welcoming the instant feeling of coolness and relief on his skull.

  Some of men around him wore rags; others seemed to feel that pirates ought to dress as brightly as actors or Gypsies. Expensively dyed clothing from their victims must be the mark of a successful sea robber, James decided as his eyes tried to follow every bit of gold and azure and scarlet that flashed past him.

  His eyes lingered on the scarlet togs, as he had known they would. Fear, no doubt, that one of the men wearing the colour would turn and be Villon. All seemed to have the shape of him. He focused his sight on one small figure, even possessing long, black hair tied back at his nape, dressed in a crimson coat and dirty breeches. Lord’s mercy, the man even stood with the same elegant carelessness that Villon had had, which Etienne aspired to have.

  It was much too hot to be wearing such a coat. None of the other men nearby did, save himself and Saint-Cyr, and it was a sign of pride, foolish pride, and arrogance. Scowling, James made to move away, then stilled instead, something in his mind making him turn back.

  The man was too far away for James to know with certainty, but he could feel it, his brain screaming and buzzing like a thousand honeybees in a field of flowers. He shook with it, trying to think clearly, then make his feet carry him away.

  Swiftly, with an abruptness that spoke of decision and dismissal, the man spun away from his companions and faced the shore. His skin was pale, like a man who hid from the sun, odd, for a sailor. James realized that for the first time and then choked as the pale face seemed to swing toward him. Too far away, he thought again as the slender figure froze, the blue of the ocean and sky behind him now, not the white of sails.

  “Master James?” Ben was asking him, seemingly worried, but James did not move his eyes from the man, the man who was suddenly moving, heading in this direction as if he had the fires of Hell at his back. Too far away, James thought once more and then shook his head. Not far enough.

  He took one step back, and would have fallen if Ben had not shoved against his side to keep him steady. He needed to look where he placed his feet, he reflected, shamed at his awkwardness yet again. But his eyes would not go where he bid them, and the man drew closer, close enough for James to see his black eyes.

  God. One word was all his mind would allow. One word, and then another.René. “Master Villon,” Ben shouted it breathlessly, exclaiming his disbelief and looking at James with a gaze heavy with expectation. “Do y’want to run?” the boy wondered, startling James even through the foggy mess his mind had become.

  It was of no use trying to leave now. He realized that easily, something of his sense returning. He blinked several times and reached up to straighten his glasses though they did not need it, not liking to see how his hand trembled.

  Villon was in front of him when he dropped his hand, only a few yards away, and James let the breath slide out of his chest until there was none left, and he grew dizzy. As his eyes swept quickly over the slender form, he saw again what he had noted in those first few moments of their time together on the ship; Villon seemed to not be breathing at all, though James knew it was just illusion.

  He looked well, uninjured by either an enemy or an illness in the three months since James had last laid eyes on him. That was good. The rush of relief had him straightening up, wanting to dispel his concern, trying to think of what must have truly been worrying him; the brief fear that he might had have the pox, as all pirates and sailors were said to. But other than his light tan, so much lighter than that of most seamen, and the bright shine to the man’s eyes, Villon seemed healthy and hale, untouched by anything. No doubt the man had spent three months killing and stealing with not a thought to him, or how he had left him. Likely he seduced and abandoned many.

  Sometimes the man did not seem to be like other men. But he had felt enough like a man, as James knew well. His mouth was wicked, hot as the sin of lust itself, tight and wet, moving around his prick as if he were greedy for the taste of James’ spunk sliding to his belly.

  He gasped suddenly, noisily, body shivering uncontrollably as he grew warmer and the sun’s heat was an agony. It had been hot too, even at night when curled over the rail, a hard throbbing force pounding into some spot inside of him that splintered his reason, liquid tongue licking a trail between his shoulders and behind his ears, whispers in French that only later had his mind made clear for him.Sweet. More. Please. James. Sweet. James. And then just that, his name as if it were the only sound in the world, spoken quietly into his ear until
James had come off in a ragged burst of shock.

  So very hot, against his palm, and James could feel his body pound hungrily, stiffening as blood drained to his cock. His palms against his own arousal were not so warm, so hot and full, neither were his fingers, in as far as they could go.

  The other man was still for so long that when he finally blinked, it was as though someone had cut an unseen rope between them, and James was suddenly dangling, a loose sail in the wind.

  He snapped his head up and watched with satisfaction as Villon blinked, dropping one hand to the hilt of his cutlass, where he always seemed to rest it. His large eyes widened, and then narrowed to slits, the lids falling in a look that was well known to James. James’ back stiffened, as rigid as iron when he felt the force of those eyes traveling over his body.

  For the smallest moment in time, James let his fingers tighten around the wig in his hands, fighting the urge to toss it away. Villon’s opinion on the thing was not important. But his illfitting garments, those were another matter, and James could feel his skin scorching with humiliation. Villon wore another’s man coat, a stolen coat much too large for him, and dirty breeches as well, yet James somehow knew that he would find James ridiculous in his old clothing.

  No, he found James ridiculous at all times, did he not? No doubt a joke between the man and his friends, Deniau the murderer and Marechal the pig. Fitting friends for a killer. “So, you came to Jamaica safely?” Villon’s words were cool, as colourless as his face now that the momentary flush of heat had left it. James jerked, the hand holding the wig nearly letting go to hear the low tones that had been in his dreams for three months.

  Perhaps you ought to go to Jamaica. How cold the man was, unfeeling and inhuman, the Devil as he had named himself. For moments in Tortuga, his mind consumed by rum, James had thought Villon to be a man, but he had discovered that to be a foolish dream the moment Villon had pulled away, and James had been left in a pool of sick, his body and head throbbing with pain and want, watching with burning eyes as Villon had tossed money at him as if he was a whore and walked on, shadowed by his faithful dog Marechal. No doubt Marechal had heard every shameful word, every sound from the little alley, and James felt the bile in his throat once more, no longer flavoured with the other’s man seed.

  “How d…dare you?” The tightly spoken words came out well enough to make his meaning plain, though he could tell René understood it not. The other man lifted his brows and firmed his grip on his cutlass, a gesture that James knew was meant to threaten.

  Unthinking, James leaned forward, keeping his curled fists at his sides through will alone. He wanted to wipe the coolness from that face, the smugness that probably lurked behind those half-closed lids at the gullible nature of the English passenger he had abandoned. James was just a sad maid in a play now, left by an uncaring villain, and he bared his clenched teeth, knowing that he would die if he knocked the man to the ground as he longed to do. End bleeding at Villon’s feet, watching the man walk on once again, wiping the blood from his sword calmly and trying not to slip in the mess.

  God grant him mercy, the image was only too easy to see, and the wig slipped from James’ weakened fingers. A startled cry reminded him of Ben, and that was all that kept him from moving, though he felt himself leaning to stand in front of the boy. Lids hiding black eyes shot open at that, Villon’s intent gaze snapping from James to Ben and then back to James’ face, the expression behind the dark heat unreadable. One pale hand slid up to rest against his chest, pressing against something underneath his shirt, and James distantly recalled the chain around Villon’s neck. Some golden treasure the man kept to himself, likely.

  “James?” Silken tones intruded on his thoughts, and James raised his head without thinking, as he had been trained to do. Villon’s eyes left his face, darting to his side, and James was free to track the sound to Etienne Saint-Cyr, at his left.

  Etienne was stepping with an exaggerated daintiness over the piles of old shit and hay on the ground, as if the sandy dirt was any better for his white slippers, and staring at James with interest. Only the speed of his approach revealed his curiosity, and James frowned, irritated at being interrupted though he should have been grateful. But he could not force his mouth into a smile, and neither could he forget the man only feet from him.

  “Have you found him?” Etienne demanded, coming to a stop at James’ side. James blinked to wet his dry eyes, puzzling out the words as if he had never heard French before. Before he could answer, Etienne was tapping his arm with one hand thoughtfully, and gesturing to the wig now lying in the dust.

  “Etienne…” James whispered the name as lowly as he could, knowing his temper was visible, somehow embarrassed to have René see him with the other man. But of course the French nobleman ignored it, and James’ use of his Christian name, continuing to pat James absently while turning to René with a slight sneer that made the illness in James’ belly worsen.

  Slowly, James let his eyes fall back to Villon, swallowing to see Villon looking at Saint-Cyr, his face the mirror of what it had been with Carter strung up on the mizzenmast. Uncertainty and fear made James take a step, standing closer to Etienne in much the same way he had stood before Ben, stretching out one arm in a gesture he somehow already knew was foolish.

  “Another madman, James?” Villon wondered, loud enough to be heard back in his home country, dropping the hand at his chest to his side. His voice was thick and dry, as if he had not had anything to drink in a long while. But a sudden, tiny smile curved his lips, and it made James want to duck his head and run from the spot as fast as he could. Instead his feet might as well have grown roots, he was so firmly stuck in place. The few other smiles René had granted him had been nothing like this one, even the cruelly mocking shows of teeth on his ship had not bespoke such lust a for blood.

  Etienne’s hand still rested on James arm, no doubt forgotten. But James felt the fingers tighten as Etienne absorbed the offensive words, and where René’s look was directed. “Who does this ‘Etienne’ claim to be, James?” Again Villon said his name, and James studied him in return, easily imagining the wiry, well-formed muscles underneath the corsaire’s clothing, though he had never seen Villon naked. Despite his sloping shoulders and the tilted angle to his head, René was tense and expectant, his body nearly humming with some feeling, much as it had before he had pressed James to the door and pleasured him. The warm flush of arousal was missing from the man’s slender features now; he seemed to have been made from the spotless porcelain of the Orient. “A nobleman?” James jumped at René’s addition, realizing anew that he still had his arm held out though neither man seemed to notice.

  James flicked his gaze from Etienne’s exquisitely tailored waistcoat and coat, noting the probable cost of each indigo-dyed thread, to René’s somewhat frayed, scarlet coat, hanging down over his dirtied breeches. Etienne seemed to see that the clothing had not been made for René’s slender body, judging from the pointed way in which he stroked one hand down his veste’s silvered lining and twisted his feet to better stand in one of his odd poses, looking something like a dancer caught in mid-step.

  If Villon noticed this play, he gave no obvious sign. Yet somehow James was sure that he had, and he felt his mouth tighten in disapproval at Etienne’s reckless nature. He need not be here, James thought quickly. This was between the two Frenchmen. He ought to take Ben and leave before blood was spilled. Surely it would be; already Etienne’s fingers were like claws, digging into his arm, and James could see the pearly white of bone showing through the skin of René’s hand where he gripped the sword hilt.

  “King Louis?” René paused, as if truly contemplating Etienne Saint-Cyr as a madman, his intent look fading into just a knowing gleam in his eyes. “Queen Anne?” he suggested instead, and turned to James, nodding meaningfully.

  James blinked once at René’s familiarity, then shook his head to dismiss any of Villon’s strangeness. He was mad to think such a thing. But Etienne did n
ot seem to think so, tearing his hand from James’ arm and stepping forward. Like a fool, for he was unarmed, and that had not stopped Villon’s friend Deniau from killing Lord Cavendish.

  “What do you say to me, peasant?” Etienne pronounced the words slowly, as though he did not quite believe what he had heard. It was his final word that made the lightening storm in Villon’s eyes. James had only the time to draw one breath and then Villon bared his cutlass and leapt forward.

  “René!” It was surprising to hear his own frantic cry, not because he did not mean it, but because his throat had closed so tightly no words ought to have escaped. His scream did not seem to be loud enough. Surely the man would not hear him when he could not hear himself over his heart’s pounding and Ben’s excited exclamations. But Villon stilled, nearly hovering in the air with the suddenness of his pause, the gleaming steel in his hand flashing the sun’s light into James’ face.

  He moved, blinded, hurrying forward until the blade was at his middle and Etienne seemed far behind. It was a strange position to be in, once again looking at Villon with a sword between them; for a moment he nearly thought he dreamed. Then Villon focused bright eyes on him, blinking as if he had the same thought.

  “James.” His name followed a single puff of air, Villon’s voice quieting to something for them alone. “You give your life for him? He cares nothing for you.” In English the question sounded lost, hesitation with his every breath, no doubt Villon searching for the right words. But it hardened enough on the final bit for a blacksmith to have hammered on it. James flinched before he could stop himself, abruptly realizing just what he had done, dimly startled that he had not been killed, that Villon had stopped.