by Cooper, R.
“The ship,” he began to distract himself, needing the cooling breezes of night on his face. “What have you heard?” “You return for L’Anglais?” The second comment brought René’s eyes up to the impassive face before him for one small moment, trying to recall when he had last heard Marechal speak so much. Months, years ago, when the man had had much to say and René had had no choice but to listen. Firming his lips, he looked back to the window, noticing the speed with which they raced toward the harbor, and approving.
Marechal needed no answer, but René nodded softly after several long moments, mostly to himself. James would sail with them, and could damn René to Hell once more as he had likely done a hundred times already. A thousand times those words had probably touched James’ full lips, a thousand more in his scholar’s mind, perhaps one more would be enough to send René to burn. James should hold the ear of any god with eyes and senses enough to see him.
He would want to take the child with them, and it displeased René to think of the bright eyes watching, too smart for even James to understand his stares. Marechal reached up to knock on the roof of the vehicle, though it was already slowing as it approached the docks. He leaned across as the carriage stopped and made a show of opening the door and waving René on, one of rare few moments of attempted wit in which he mocked the ways of the nobility.
Without comment, René descended the small stairs and looked about at night in the streets of Port Royal. It was scene familiar to him, on any side of the ocean there were sailors and women and drink, but it seemed to affect men strangely to be so far from the lands of their fathers. Crimes and sins enough to drive James mad and no one even noticing enough to remark on them. He sighed to consider it and then turned away, with much to do and little time before dawn.
The same moon that had painted James’ face in their passion now showed him the water, partly hidden by casks and boxes of cargo, left carelessly by men who would rather whore themselves than guard it. The world was silver-tinted and shadowed, and the stars were clear above him, shining even more than a handful of stolen jewels.
“Come.” Barely even a whisper and a heavy hand lighted on his shoulder, the other gesturing eagerly toward the dock, and probably a waiting boat. René jerked his arm free of the touch without turning from his view of the sky. He had seen many skies, had many sleepless nights to observe them until he understood them even better than his navigator. Shining and bright, the stars, but any meanings in them were to be found only in the thoughts of man.
But tonight was not a night to be spent gazing at pretty lights in the sky, and he turned, blinking rapidly as the stars came down to dance before him, spinning around his head merrily, making him wince with their brightness.
He opened his mouth to speak to them and felt it, the stab and rip and tear of pain as it split his skull in two. The stars faded away as he fell, and he landed with a thud he did not hear, the throbbing of his heart in his ears becoming a shriek that brought green and yellow and reds of hurt and sick that made him choke on his breath and cough weakly as the smell of something fetid assaulted him.
So still the world grew, and the sounds faded to nothing but his own breathing and then not even that. A touch returned him to his senses, a familiar touch that knew how to wake him, and he tried to turn to it, curling around the warmth at his middle.
The holy silver shine of a blade. His blade, he thought distantly, and watched as Marechal tucked it into his own belt and then stopped to stare at him with large, gleaming eyes from so high above him. His breath came to him heavily as well, and René did not understand how he knew this until Marechal opened his mouth and words came down to him as though through clouds.
“René?” A question perhaps, he could not tell for certain with the ringing in his head, the shaking efforts to think. He frowned, thought he did, and tried to reach for his chest, clutching for the feel of metal against his palm.
“I would have protected you, my pretty René.” Surely the saints heard the man; he seemed to speak like they did, into the heads of the priests and into the ears of the rest of mankind. Saints walked among men,Maman had told him, but they were not like him, for they were of God.
But Marechal was not of God either, he remembered that, and thought too, that he did not have to listen anymore. “I am not yours,” he wanted to say it, filled his lungs with the need to say it, but could not open his lips. They were hard and lifeless to his tongue now, and the words tasted of ash and sickness and the wetness of blood against his cheek. Long ago familiar tastes, and he swallowed them as he eyed the knife in Marechal’s belt.
Weakness had taken his limbs and he cursed them with his broken mouth and looked up to the moonlight as he was picked up and held against a hard body. Each heavy step speared him, sending flashes of light through his brain until his whole body burned with pain, and there would only be more to come. He shook with it, cold and tired, and tried to close his eyes but they remained open.
Boxes and casks left behind formed a wall, a wall to hide their damned souls, and the ground beneath him was harder even than Marechal’s body. Or perhaps it was soft and yielding sand. He frowned into it, and it was cool on his face, the cool he had longed for ever since leaving James.
“No! No!” The words came to him at last at the air shivered on his skin, and the coat peeled away to just a dirty shirt. Large hands stroked tenderly over his back, warming him. He wanted to nod, for the man had never cared to see him tremble, holding him so tightly that the strength had always left him and he had had to force the shivers to stop in order to finally be released.
There was a rough carving in the wood of a box in front of his eyes, a name in a language he did not know. But the swirls where the knife had sank deep were soon known to him as he bit down on his thick tongue and tasted fresh blood to replace the old.
“Still so smooth.” There was amazement in the rough voice as hot breath claimed the back of his neck and fingers caressed the naked skin of his hips, pushing down the stiff fabric. He shifted, tried to, and the caress turned to hurt that sickened his stomach, and he was crushed to the dirt by the moans above him.
Blood trickled down his throat, salted and weak, and the carving in the wood blurred and lost its edges, until there was just the slash of another wound gaping at him and the tickle of liquid trailing down his chin to the ground.
Chapter Ten
“D
amn René Villon to Hell.” Even in a barely perceptible whisper under his breath, the words startled him, making him jerk his chin up and slam his teeth down into his tongue. It was much too late to silence his foolishness, but a quick frowning glance around him assured him that none of the other clerks had his heard his mumblings. Or they all had thought
him insane for months now, and simply no longer listened to any of his whispers. If they had heard, surely there would reproachful stares for daring to say such a thing, or perhaps agreeing ones instead, allowing that a man who had been so sorely used as James had been had a right to curse his user. No doubt even the rogue Villon himself expected no less of him; what man would not, after leading another to his ruin with false promises and the Devil’s own eyes? Oftentimes Villon had seemed ready enough to say the words himself, and would not begrudge them to James now. If the man wished to be damned then damned he would be.
Though it shamed him to realize what he had become, James set his jaw and returned his gaze to the columns of figures on the desk before him. His muscles ached with the effort, tense from hours of wakefulness and waiting, and then hours more of frustration and fury. He would have shifted, but it was only too easy to remember the final chill of his bed, the twists as he had not slept and stared through his tiny window at the clouds covering the stars, listening to Ben’s even breathing at the pallet at the foot of his narrow bed.
Why had he been such a fool, when he more than anyone knew the darkness of René Villon’s soul? No matter if it had been the business of his ship that had kept him, James knew his busi
ness was not the Lord’s business, and he had chosen it willingly over…
Grimacing, James moved his legs, sliding in his seat to ease the discomfort of the wooden stool on his arse. Truly, Villon had transformed him, for he had never done such a thing as he had done last night. Even with a woman he would never have dared to press, to crush, andrub in the way that he had done it last night with René. He nearly blushed to remember the fumblings of his younger years, but those had still not possessed the urgency of his taking of the night before, and he let out a quick, hot breath through his nose. The anger boiling through him now was nothing to that fiery explosion that he would have sworn had burned through the both of them. But his swearing would have been false, as false as René’s words. Villon was a black-hearted liar, with a wicked tongue, and James could still feel the warmth of his words as they had been murmured into his chest though he rubbed the spot harshly with his fist to banish it.
Demanding that James give him the title of lover and then vowing to return, only to disappear into the night with his pet beast. Sir Marvell, mercifully, had said nothing of the matter, mayhap he was ignorant of it, though that James doubted. But then, the elder man had arisen and left the house before James, and had only briefly paused to tell James to stay in the office before he had left that as well, well over an hour ago.
Ben too, had said nothing, and James could only wonder if the child had been awake to hear him enter the room at such a late hour and then toss about in his sheets until the light of morning. The boy had only asked to come into town today and then had, as usual, slipped away the moment James had turned his head. James could only hope that he was safe out in the streets with no one to watch over him, even if it was no longer night, and the streets were filled with decent business.
Anything could happen in these streets, the occasional guard was nothing in a place funded by the work of thieves and killers. A man could be waylaid or set upon by cutthroats for his coat if they found it fancy enough, something so common that no one thought anything of it, other than to be sure to bring guards with them. It would be discreet, kept to the dark alleys and side streets where no one might see the crimes being committed, but it was there.
Still rubbing his chest, James raised his eyes, sweeping his gaze once more around the room, stopping at the door, opened to allow a view of the street. There was nothing fancy on him, no fine things or jewels. Jewels. His mind spat out the word furiously. Villon had offered jewels, and then his mouth once more. Surely he had been ready to fall to his knees like the doxy he had denied that he was. Wiry muscles had played under James’ fingertips as James had grabbed the man’s arms to prevent it and forcibly hold him up. Though why he had bothered he did not know, not when the man was more than willing, and had likely sailed off into the sun with his beast and his gold hours ago.
He had left those same jewels behind; James had had to gather them together and hide them in his room. It would serve Villon fair if James were to give them away now, distribute them among streets bawds and beggars and clerks who bent over little desks in steaming rooms for greedy masters, perhaps even to the bonded servants like Pym had meant to be.
If he had left them as a token, thinking that James would be only too eager to await his return one day he was mistaken. His cock might twitch to be surrounded by thecorsaire’s body as it had been last night, but it meant nothing. The soft, black curls that had tickled his palms would grow white before James would come to him again.
Odd to think of how it had tickled, how even his breath had teased and warmed, when nothing from the man would suggest such softness. René, who had torn his clothing and clawed at him wildly enough to leave marks when he had had tried to pull the slightest inch away, who had bitten him days ago, and months before that, and who had wrapped his legs tightly around his body. And who, James could not make himself forget, had threatened the life of the only friend he had made in Jamaica.
He would see Etienne later concentrate on, to imagine something a thousand times better than the way another man’s muscles had clenched around him to prevent his leaving.
that day, if Sir Marvell allowed it. It was something to
the encounter and his relief at seeing Etienne unharmed, And his mouth, sweeter than a custard tart, lips quivering with shock and then delight as James had kissed him, as surprised no doubt as James had been in his daring. But he had not known men to kiss one another in such a fashion, so sugar-sweet and yearning that he still felt the prick of perspiration at his neck and at his back, and the tight tug of his breeches. It would not do however, and he resolved once more to turn his mind away, an easy enough thing once he also recalled how sweet Villon had also seemed with his last words, those false, wicked lies of his farewell.
Genuine or no, the offer shamed, and it was best that the corsaire had left him behind once again, just as James had guessed that he would do once his lust was appeased. And appeased it had been, due to James’ weakness, even if René had seemed only too willing to return to him.
The sound of his name brought him from the memory of the red coat disappearing from his view once again, and he had turned to look around the room at the other clerks before realizing that the shrill cry had come from outside. There was only time for that, and then Ben was bent over in the doorway, pausing to catch his breath.
James was up from his seat at the sight of the colour filling Ben’s face, tossing aside his quill and letting it fall carelessly to the desk. “Are you well?” Uncaring of the other clerks, James strode quickly to the boy’s side, but Ben had apparently recovered his breath, and stood straight to nod at him. Then to James’ confusion, the boy shook his head and gestured at something James could not fathom. “What is it?”
He looked well enough, though obviously aroused by some event that he had seen or been a part of in the town, and James let out a little sigh of relief before he frowned in annoyance to feel the stares of the other men, eager for any distraction.
“It’s…” Ben hissed to silence and then darted his eyes around the room as though expected Old Nick to appear before his eyes in a burst of fire and brimstone.
“Yes?” James demanded, wondering if this was simply another victory that had resulted in more coin for Ben. It must have been great, to have him so excited, but he was busy and much too tired for such child’s play now.
“Villon,” Ben finished before James could finish even his thoughts, or ask Ben to lower his voice. Abruptly he could feel the frame of the door under his palm, hard and oddly cool to the touch, sticky after only a moment of contact. His arm shook, and he lowered it, letting go the doorframe and blinking rapidly.
Ben’s shoulders were curled over his thin body, and he stood half in the street, glaring sideways at James with his head turned as though he had been expecting a blow. James blinked once more and then tossed his head, pushing away the thought for now to raise his eyes to the street, almost expecting to see the familiar crimson coat. “Where?” Quiet, but it made Ben stand straight and lean back toward him, so close that James wondered just how soft his word had been.
“Not far. But, Master James,” Ben’s voice rose to a sharp pitch, cracking slightly, “his ship is gone!”
“So he hath sailed.” Ben had said not far, but surely if his ship had sailed then the man had sailed with it. But Ben was making noises low in his throat and James could hear the murmur from behind him, as some man smarter than he said the word aloud and others answered.
“Mutiny.” Only that and yet it was more than enough. He blinked, for his eyes were less dry than before, and then he felt his forehead wrinkling as he puzzled over the word, knowing what it meant, the crime of it on a navy vessel. Butle Diable Noir was no ship of His Majesty’s, or even of the French king, and the pirates had a different way of looking at such a thing. No doubt Villon himself had seized his ship in a similar attack, taking some poor captain and executing him on the spot. Only now it was René with his neck before the knife.
He could not see
it, could not imagine anyone ever gaining the advantage of the darkcorsaire, no matter how slight he seemed, had felt when James had pressed him to the desk. “He is dead then?” James inhaled deeply, and focused on Ben, noting how his disheveled hair fell into his face as he shook his head violently from side to side. Villon would never bow before anyone; it would have come from behind, a cowardly attack from someone he trusted. “Where was Marechal?” The beast should be lifeless now, falling down to protect René was nothing to a man so devoted, and if he had failed then surely he had to be dead as well.
But Ben only blinked, and pressed one hand to James’ arm, and James realized that his words lacked reason. He swallowed, his tongue thick and large, and tried to speak, feeling as stumbling as he had when he had first met Villon, and had felt the sharp sting of the blade pushing into his skin.
“I dinnae know, Master James. But the ship is gone, and the docks are nothin’ but talk of it.” Pulling away, Ben jerked his head in the direction of the streets, clearly wanting James to follow him.
Not far, Ben had said, and James thought of that, and the effect of the heat upon an unburied corpse, and the gaol in Spanish Town. Neither of which had Ben mentioned, and still he pulled toward the street, with more urgency now.
“Sir Marvell will need to know.” He must have said it, because a man behind him answered, and he nodded without turning, acknowledging that he would leave to find his employer and impart this news. He did not pause for the wig still at his desk, but shouldered past Ben to enter the brightness of the street, wincing at the effect on his tired eyes.
If it was on the docks, likely Sir Marvell knew already, or would soon enough, and it would be best if he knew more before telling Sir Marvell rumours alone. “Where?” he asked though Ben was already trotting hurriedly ahead of him, heading toward the sea. Where ships could have been seen already if buildings had not blocked his view. For the first time he thought ofL’Aranha, wondering if she had faced a similar Fate or if she had perhaps been the cause of René’s downfall.
