Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  “Then why bother with this pretense?” James had not known his own voice either as it had rang out through the small space. Etienne had blinked again, his eyes growing heavy before he had shrugged and looked down.

  “I will save you too,” James had not silenced himself, not that it had mattered. Etienne had answered, and James had turned to let the words sting at his back, like lashes for cowardice.

  He would, he vowed, fervently, foolishly. Just as he had made another vow, and had known he would keep it, no matter the cost.

  He tilted his head back, and with his new vision he watched, and waited as patiently as any noble prisoner. He kept his thoughts hidden. Deniau leaned in close to René, and James watched the nearness of their heads as Deniau spoke, saw the intent in his expression as he glanced down at James, and the attention in René’s as he shifted his eyes and listened. To his surprise the full mouth curved into a smile, and then the lips parted, looking for all the world as though René Villon laughed.

  Something in the sight gladdened him though it should not, and Etienne’s words shifted to be replaced by Deniau’s, as though each of them were telling him there would be only one outcome from this, though each thought it something else.

  A tightness at his brow made James fight to ease the frown from his face, and he directed his feet toward the railing, to be with the men as they anticipated their return home though his heart was not nearly so light.

  No strange sounds of laughter reached his straining ears as he stood and gazed at his future, but he remained. The skin at his neck itched but he did not turn. It was enough for now to look upon France and feel the regard of René at his back.

  “It will be my pleasure to enjoy the royal bastard,” René had promised someone in his delirium and only moments later begged for him, each enough to heat James’ cheeks. He would beg again, James knew, and thought of something that had left him hard many nights this past month, spitting into his hand for comfort as he had sought to ease the pain of it. René also knew about vows, for there had been another promise to James once before, and though he had long since translated the words they still meant nothing to him.

  “So you will lie on your back for me, René.” James spoke so softly that the man next to him did not so much as twitch at his odd words. “I would like to see that.” Only with himself committed to rash action did he allowed himself to turn, and swiftly. He caught René’s black gaze before the other man could look away, before his face could form anything other than longing. He waited, for even free men should have to learn patience, and to bide their time.

  After a few moments James allowed a smile to curl his lip though he knew it was not a pleasant one.

  A mask was not so strange a thing to wear, after all.

  France

  Chapter Sixteen

  There was pain when he breathed, much like the pain of his skin being sliced apart; but he did not truly remember receiving the wound that had felled him so he could not be sure. He only knew that with each breath it felt as though he were being cut open

  again, and it had not been so this morning, when he had stood alone on his ship with Deniau at his side. So much pain and still the door had closed to leave him in this room alone. His veste lay on the floor, and René glanced to that before looking to the door again, not bothering to smooth his frown.

  His legs and belly were knotted with aches and pains too, his legs shaking in a manner that displeased him though he was certain that no others had seen it. There had been no one with him to see for hours, aside from the plump little official returning his letter of mark and taking news of their capture back to the city offices.

  Equally plump officials would take their share, or perhaps more than their share, and then deliver the King’s share to Paris, making René wonder again at his ship, theBlack Devil that had not turned pirate when there had been opportunity. He knew it was no loyalty to him, though those he had allowed to live had protested they had thought him dead. That they had then served his killer they had wisely left unspoken.

  It was a strange silence that had held his ship for the days since he had awoken from his fever, with eyes that looked to him and then away to another for guidance. Not even Deniau had dared to disturb the air with a whisper about that, and René let his fingers tap against the blade buried in the sash at his waist. He looked up into a set of eyes that he knew were gone, studying them until his touch became less gentle, and a hint of steel showed.

  He needed no protection. His throat itched with the awareness of the longing to cut it, to hang his head from the bowspirt and sail back to the Caribbean. But the men would be rewarded, and they would leave for parts of the city tonight, visiting with whores or even families, and by to-morrow they would be poor again and longing for the roll of a ship under their feet. That is the way they would live until they died. Only Deniau would choose to die with his knife in his hand, that wish was clear in his eyes, no matter the odd thoughts that he sometimes shared when sampling the dark wines of dead Spanish noblemen or the jests he made to amuse himself.

  “Thierry longs to be with you always, Villon. Perhaps you can tie a knot with him to end his misery,” Deniau had murmured days ago, close to his ear, though loud enough for Honoré to have heard, and the startled look of confusion on his navigator’s face had caused the laugh to come from René’s mouth when he had not meant it to.

  James had frowned and walked away at his laugh, staring at the land in the distance as though St. Malo had been visible. Perhaps he had thought of England instead, if he knew how close his homeland was, and longed to return to pale faces and women with eyes that would gleam at his return.

  “You will hurry.” René turned away and received a nod as the figure slipped through the door. The letter René tucked into his coat, taking a hand from the wall to do so.

  The world grew unsteady, teetering so sharply that he flung his hand back out to the rough wooden moulding where the inn’s two walls met. He tried to think of business. Thierry would find the price of the sugar to better help them bargain for its sale, and then his navigator would see a whore or two before he returned to guard their prisoner. That was safe for now. That was good, to think on the suffering of the dog in his hold.

  His fingers clawed at the spiraling column of wood, but his view steadied, and he inhaled despite the pain. This time his stomach turned, and he choked, longing for the wine he had refused from the inn’s keeper an hour ago. He would return to the ship in a few moments, rather than stay here. In hishamaca he would rest and prepare for the work of the morning and the sickness would leave him.

  The trip to England would take only hours in a fast ship. By rights part of their earnings belonged to James if he had fought alongside them, and he would have the funds to return if he wished. Deniau claimed to have seen the blood at his mouth, but Deniau would have been mistaken, for nothing on this earth would make James Fitzroy seek out blood.

  René blinked, certain he was no longer dizzy but that the world itself was moving. The child would go with James despite his hatred now. That boy would follow him to any spot on earth and question nothing.

  Eventually James would take a child so lovingly offered. He had taken others, in the month of darkness in René’s memory and in the silent days since then. Eyes watched him that knew every piece of his lovely body, and James had walked with no shirt to hide his nakedness, no shoes to hide his feet, as though he were any man.

  René’s knees burst with a sudden pain, his thighs shaking until even his hold on the wall could not steady him. The inn’s parlor seemed to grow as he landed on bent legs, staring at the filth of the inn’s floor, thinking distantly of fleas but unable to lift his arms to push himself back up.

  He did not wish to be on the floor, not now without wine making him warm, and he parted his lips to pull in air, gasping when his shoulder seemed to pull from his body. “You are in England.” He told the shadow above him. James, who opened the door to the light outside and blinded the d
emons at his feet, like the angelic warriors who had first cast them from Heaven.

  “You are on the floor.” It was not embarrassment that brought heat to René’s face; it was his anger at James’ presumption, at his daring to come here and speak calmly.

  “So,” René heard his own words again and inhaled deeply, watching James floating and twisting on his head as he had before. “You have found your tongue.”

  His gaze settled on the frowning eyes in the tanned face, and as James blinked the world stilled enough for René to see the displeasure marring its beauty. “It is not I who needs to speak, René,” James hissed at him, then firmed his lips and turned his head away. A bare moment later he was turning back, one hand swinging out as though he would have a sword in it.

  He had seen James before with a sword in his hand, of that he was almost certain. With wings of light at his back, singing to him in a voice too terrible to hear, gutting a monster and staining his skin with the steaming entrails.

  No. René shook his head and closed his eyes. Those had been dreams of his fever. He had seen James Fitzroy with a sword, held in quaking hands, pale against the blackness of his costume. He could not see the boy now, but he would be close, holding tight to the warmth of James’ back as they slept, curled to his side.

  “I wish to leave.” His voice seemed strained to his own ears, deserving of the disdain that answered it. “I am not holding you, René.” James’ voice came to him from far away, and René made his eyes open, still to behold James in conversation with another man, both talking low to keep him from hearing.

  James was turning from the other man before he had even finished speaking, nodding once before he left. James watched him go, and René frowned at the smile that grew on his face. “You will stay at this inn this night. You cannot walk back to your ship.” James spoke as though he would give orders, crossing to him and bending down to rest on his toes. He leaned in, and René allowed his lips to part, shivering at James’ breath on his mouth. “I also, stay at this inn this night,” James whispered to him, as flagrant as a dockside cocksucker. His eyes dipped a moment later, falling down upon the indigo-dyedveste that René had worn to walk the streets of St. Malo. Gold fleur-de-lis hinted at nobility, or perhaps the ambitions of its previous owner. He looked to James’ own clothing at that, his gaze flat on the dull-coloured shirt.

  It was not the shirt James had worn in the fight for his ship, the gift from his Port Royal friend that René dreamed he had bloodied. That had been ugly too, scraps of cloth that made René long for the plain black of long ago. With great pleasure he imagined James discarding it. His skin seemed to burn, and he wondered if his body had forgotten all its shame as it had not forgotten James.

  “Who is it from?” He saw his own hand suddenly, grasping the laces at James’ chest and holding them in a fist.

  “You are not well.” He again felt the stiffness in his limbs at James’ coldness, raising his eyes when he could not lift his chin. James’ lips were the thin line that had held back his words for days and weeks and René glared at them, unmoved by the past touch of James’ hand to his. “And you need to bathe.”

  That James should stand there with the stink of other men on him and order him to bathe. That he should bring him to this place and leave him to care of water and soap and servant girls with ugly faces. He was no master here. He was no master anywhere. He was the ship’s whore, to be used at the whim of others, unless someone had stepped in to claim him for their own.

  It was James who longed for the touch of the water. He had no doubt learned that even scrubbing with seawater would not rid his body of the sticky hands and dried fluids that burned the skin. Liquor could tear at a wound and keep it clean, but it would not draw out the shame in a man’s cheeks, if he had any to feel.

  James would not feel shame. James would open his legs like a whore and moan for the world to hear and frown in his lover’s face for daring to hurt him. Then he would bite his lip to keep from begging for that same pain again.

  Already his eyes were warm, intent upon René as the women had left the room, their empty pails of water quiet next to their chattering. But none of them were so quiet as James, flicking one finger to the lining of René’sveste before he had looked to the partly filled bathing tub.

  Without a word James took his hand from him and walked to the tub, around it to the fire. Using the same hand that had touched René he grabbed the metal poker and stirred the logs there, unafraid of the sparks that flew up around him.

  Did he think René fooled by his expression of interest in his comfort? He was no fool. It was a diversion, or perhaps a feeling of guilt for what he had done. René had promised everything and James would leave him and have others instead, over what amounted to nothing.

  Perhaps James had had the dog in his hold as well. It would be something to consider, when he was choosing which part of Saint-Cyr to slice off first. Only a few more days until they would reach Paris, only a few more days for the dog to live. Etienne Saint-Cyr, James had insisted upon calling him. Etienne. A name far too good for just a bastard in the streets. René would show him the darkness of nightmares before he killed him, and then lie in wait for who would come next.

  The back of his legs fell hard to the room’s bed, feathers giving way and leaving him weak and startled, staring at the door with wide eyes. No man dared to cross it now, but he had seen the expanding crack of light at the side, heard the creak as it had opened. It would be James, and René’s hands slipped on the hilt of his knife, shaking like a child’s at the soft scratch on the wood.

  James would not come with so timid a sound, and René lifted his face to shout at who stood behind it, narrowing his eyes as the stream of noisy women returned. They glanced at him as they filled the bathing tub, their eyes noting the coat andveste left carelessly on the floor, looking back to him with minds that saw him naked.

  “Finish and leave!” he yelled, grasping at his chest as their mutters took a darker tone. He did not care for the threats of serving girls, and watched with great pleasure as they left the room. They could display their bosoms for the other fools staying here tonight.

  If James thought him meek in his silence he was mistaken. He would not step into the water and cleanse himself to please the notions of another man. No matter if the man was James Fitzroy or Saint Denis himself.

  René felt his eye falling once more to theveste that already lay on the ground atop his coat, frowning to see them there. You are not well , James had told him before retreating to his silence, as though René did not ache with every step, as though he could not feel his skin pulling, itching where the steel had ripped it apart.

  There had been words before, through his sickness he recalled only a few, what would have said to ease the fever of any man, what James would say to that boy were he ever to fall ill. Soothing and petting until the taste of ashes left his mouth and the dizziness eased, and prayers as well, whispered hymns to coax the angels into sparing him.

  Snarling, René grabbed the cloth of his sash in a tight fist and tossed it to the side, his other hand trembling with the weight of the knife. His skin was raw with washings, the salt dried and raging in his wounds. This was nothing to that, but his breath was hard when it came. Fire lit the room too well, so many candles burning alongside it that René could count the expense of each. The room held its own sunlight, blazing so that some men would have had water stinging their eyes.

  His eyes were dry as he pulled at the laces of his shirt, only his skin feeling the difference as he lifted the bottom. The candles were very bright, but he stared at them as his wound pulled with the effort to lift the cloth from his shoulders. It slipped free of his head easily, after such a struggle to get it from his sweating skin that René felt himself smiling, watching curiously as the candles guttered. The very breath of God seemed to threaten them, one falling prey to the wind and leaving only the faintest trace of smoke behind.

  Despite the fire the room was cold, harsh on t
he bared skin of his toes as his stockings were pulled from his feet, left somewhere near his shoes though René did not look to mark their position. There remained only hispantalons, and the dead candle was cold before he found his hand at the laces.

  There were no pieces of mirrored glass in this room. The bath and the candles enough of an expense it seemed, perhaps even clean sheets if James were so particular about such things. Copper gleamed in front of him, glowing with the reflection of the flames next to it. A faint scent teased his nose as well; if he had had the wine the innkeeper had offered, he would not have noticed it at all.

  There had been whiskey on his breath before he had tasted the blood on his tongue. His teeth had cut him, he had thought, his face so hard to the ground that he had not been able to open one eye. Sand was not as hard as wood, but it had rubbed his face with every push until he had felt it soften, wet and sticky below his mouth.

  He thought perhaps the walls of the tub would break under his grip, but even that was not enough to support him, his arms giving way as he placed one foot in the water and leaving him standing unsteadily, shivering at the heat that touched only a part of him. After a moment his toes burned, but René did not move them, letting his skin be scalded away, wondering if that would please, if he were found as nothing but bones and boiled flesh.

  With care, he returned his good hand to the edge of the tub, crawling in slowly though that did not ease the jarring to his limbs, the pounding in his head. The scent touched his nose again, pleasant amid the pain taking his body, and René shook his head, unbalancing himself enough to nearly make him fall in. Water splashed at his thighs, messy on the floor next to the tub and the breath slipped from his teeth like steam. There was no escaping, and his mouth opened to let out the cry as he fell to the bottom, heat hitting him everywhere, agony at his shoulder.