Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  “’Tis greater than Sir Marvell’s home…” James whispered on a sigh, turning from the house at last to stare at René as though he searched for something.

  It was a large house for all that it was old and lost in the country, large and filled with rooms so far from each other that the ocean would not seem so vast. If he were to leave James alone, he would seek out the narrow cot of a servant and fall to sleep there, and the boy would be pleased, and seek out another cot. One near to his, perhaps the same, and René narrowed his eyes, staring at the fields and wishing for rain.

  Of his own chambers, René could recall little. He had slept under that ceiling once only; rooms he had taken in the city he could remember with greater detail. He had not bought this house for a bed, for all that James cared. Now he was forced to stay here, endangered as they were by James’ foolish actions in going to that house.

  René turned away from him, heading up the steps to determine whether the old man in charge of the household had drunk up the contents of his cellar or left him something to enjoy as James stared with adoring eyes at a house.

  Of course his home was greater; he did not have to maintain the pretense of loyalty to his king as James’ Sir Marvell had. René swept past the door that creaked open and did not stop to examine the surprised face of the servant behind it. He raised one brow to see the number of candles already lit and the large fire glowing at the end of the great hall before him. The servants had lived in comfort in his absence.

  He shivered at the unexpected warmth and stepped quickly to one side when that made him dizzy. A sharp glance behind him determined that James and the child now held the servant’s attention, a rosy hue to the man’s cheeks that meant it was not only the old steward who was fond of liquor.

  “Rooms,” René barked the order as he might have to Thierry and ignored the quick snap to attention and discontented frown. “Fetch the old man, and bring him to me.” “René?” James seemed timid, strange for a man with a pirate’s bauble in his ear, and René sneered at the thought, heading in the direction of more stairs. His senses told him he went east, and it seemed familiar enough that feet knew where to go. The stone rail was steady under his hand, and he shared his sneer as a woman ran past him with round eyes, apparent terror making her squeak.

  Red carpets lined the floor upstairs, and he recalled the previous owner had been fond of the colour. They were molding now, and full of holes. He would purchase new ones, in the same shade. James would no doubt prefer a more sedate colour, the black that narrow Englishmen had declared more pure than white. He would ask if there were a room kept for priests, and send James there since the Englishman would not leave. There was a church if James desired to see it, cold and damp and full of objects ready to make him bleed.

  But of course James did not play the priest today. Today James was pirate, a killer and thief with a bit of shine hanging from his ear. It brushed his skin as he spoke, as he glanced around the crimson hall with eyes that were more careful than they had been only months ago.

  If he had learned caution then he had not learned it well. René’s skin itched with James’ stares, with his nearly hidden focus but unasked questions. He shivered and glared and narrowed his eyes as though James were standing in front of him. James thought him stupid and weak. He thought him as much as child as that boy, that he did not remember what James had done to him. The betrayal arched from his shoulder through his chest, making him clutch at his cross, naked and wet again underneath James’ gaze.

  “It looks as though the king and his whores live here!” The child spoke from far too close to him, and René frowned, not even amused when the old man appeared before him and took the frown as a sign of his displeasure.

  “Do you wish to speak of whores?” He turned so swiftly he did not have time to hide his surprise at the nearness of the boy to him, or cover his own urge to leap back as the child did. James gasped, an angry sound, and René spared a moment to imagine if this new James would murder him for this transgression. He did not think James carried a weapon; he had not brandished one even in the den of lions. But he smiled to know James’ hands would fit easily about his throat, that at last James would know him, and leave.

  René changed his smile to a frown for the wide, watching eyes of the boy, letting it deepen to see how the brown eyes lowered and the cheeks lost colour. Shame did not sit well on the tongue, and he coughed a laugh as the boy swallowed.

  The pale cheeks seemed too hollow, as though the child did not eat. Of course he had not, just as he had not spoken to James. Not one word though he had watched James enough, smug to see how James in turn had not spoken to René. But he had not eaten, languishing like a woman for her lost love, and now his face no longer curved with the smooth beauty of a child’s. He would be wise to befriend James again, when the ugliness of his middle years kept all but the desperate away and he had no protector. The remnants of his wine burned in his stomach, slick and vile along his teeth, and René grunted, bending his head to so he would not see James.

  “’Twas me who brought you here.” Spirit lit the boy’s eyes now, and he uttered his words as low as he could, lips trembling as he tried to grin. He had grinned then, standing outside in the street as though waiting for René to appear so he might humiliate him with his knowledge of James’ plans. He had insisted on staying close as they had chased after James to stop his foolishness, but he had not grinned once the house was in sight. The little fox’s smile had been washed from his face along with all the child’s colour at the force of René’s grip on his arm, shoving him back inside the carriage to wait. A few whispered words had accomplished what James’ kindness had never done, made the soft-skinned rat listen and be still.

  He would enter that house only after walking through René’s blood. He would be kept from it as James should have been, as all innocents should have been, so that they would never have learned to sneer at further pain.

  “Sir?” It was not James’ stopping their arguing now, but the shaking voice of the old man that brought René’s attention up, dragging his eyes from James’ child and around to the waiting servant. His head hurt.

  “Clean rooms.” René did not attempt to remember the man’s name, not when the scent of crushed grapes clung to the man’s hair and dirty livery. He took a step and then stopped, catching the tip of his boot on the pitiful carpet. “Food for those that want it…Wine, for me.”

  The world swayed, reminding him how much he had already consumed, and he hissed a sigh between his teeth at the pull of his wound, his stumbling steps as James had yanked him from a tavern as though he held a right to. He held no rights; James Fitzroy was a disobedient puppy, and had yet to have a master cruel enough remind him of his lead.

  Again, the carpet caused him to stumble, and René swore loudly, wondering if James would serve and betray once more if he truly felt the pain of ownership. James had liked pain, perhaps he ought to feel more of it.

  “ Two cups, if you will, sir.” James was nodding to the doddering servant as though it was his place to do so even as René gave him a frown for his presumption. But there was enough wine he could spare a bottle for a weak-stomached Englishman, and so he said nothing. “We could both use a good rest, couldn’t we, Ben?” James was no longer a pirate as he spoke these words, and his face calmed, some unknown tension fleeing his body and leaving him smiling and beautiful.

  James smiled, James dared to smile at the child right there before him, and the child smiled back as any man would when such an angel offered them an embrace.

  “Milk for the boy,” René announced with speed, snatching the smaller bit of happiness away and sneering at the look of displeasure that his angel turned upon him. “Do not think you will sharemy wine, James.”

  “No.” James’ smile left him, as though he dared to pretend sadness for a moment. Far too serious, he studied René’s face no doubt seeing many things that René would easily deny. “But you may share mine, René,” James spoke again, abruptl
y, and stepped before him, urging the old servant forward with an ease that spoke of an earlier command. Who, on his ship, would have been foolish enough to obey him, René did not know, but his mind gave him the image of Thierry, and worse, the grinning face of Deniau, and he knew he growled into the silence as doors parted to reveal the dusty interior of a bedchamber.

  Stone walls had kept the chill in this room, but though René shivered he swept his eyes upward through the dark, blinking to see the ceiling painted with cherubim. Large windows covered in drapes in the same shade of red were directly opposite him, nearly reaching from the floor to the ceiling and each one cut exactly identical to the one beside it. From one wall to another there were seven and he blinked. He had forgotten the size of this room. The adjoining dressing rooms were the size of his ship’s cabin several times over, and this time his shiver was not for the cold.

  His back grew chilled, standing on the threshold, and he stepped into the room, wishing for a hat as the quick movements of servant girls passing him created a breeze that tickled his bare head. There was a cot in the dressing chambers, a bed too small but Marechal had claimed it regardless.

  “The fire is most appreciated,” he heard James telling the old man, his Parisian suddenly smooth as though he had known it his whole life. Fire? René’s mind repeated the word. His shudders had not ceased, but René turned his gaze from the windows to the sparks now rising from the carved marble hearth, smoke or dust making one girl sneeze as she filled a basin with water.

  The oldest one had been plain, so white it was as though she had been ill. “And perhaps those candles…” James continued talking, and somehow he was obeyed, small glows flaring at the edges of René’s vision, pushing shadows to very corners of the chamber.

  The pretty one had ensnared James with eyes and hair just that dark, and unlike her brother, she had not pretended surprise at hearing her true value. She had not fooled him as she had the others.

  “What exactly do you do, James?” His own words surprised him and the servants with them, for they seemed too loud, or the room too quiet. Smoke stung at his eyes, made his voice rough, and that was the fault of James too, and his presumption, but James answered him quickly, and René easily imagined the way he would duck his head, the pretense of obedience.

  “My apologies.” As though it were nothing to him, James humbled himself, and René tore himself around, staring at the other man with eyes he knew to be large.

  Not even a servant , James had said, whispering as though a grave were under his feet. James had declared himself to be a free man and now played at the role under the watchful eyes of strangers. Heat slid down René’s veins, up to his face, driving the cold away, and he licked his lips until they were slick, wet with angry words he could not yet speak.

  Sheets grew cold without James in them, and he had woken to shivers this morning, his wound paining him and his body raw with its washing. “Is any one else expected, Master?” The old man spoke as though wishing René to remove his eyes from James, and René felt his lips twist to think of the desire to protect that James had inspired on such a short acquaintance. But if the old servant thought James in need of a guardian, than he was more a fool than René had already thought him.

  He would know, he would ask, what James had thought himself to be playing at, by going with Etienne Saint-Cyr into that house, by freeing his old friend when even Saint-Cyr thought the act foolish.

  “Whom do you miss?” René lowered his head to hiss the question into befuddled eyes, watching the shapes of departing servants blur and straighten behind the crooked body of the old drunk.

  Spittle dried in his mouth the moment the words were out, and he inhaled through his nose, smelling the sour stink of clothes too long unwashed, not even a dunk in the sea to rinse out the smears of shit. Wine, rum, and Mirena’s herb, ancient meat left sitting in the sun before it had been eaten.

  His belly clenched, and only when a cup full of wine was pressed into his hand did René realize he had been coughing, hacking dryly as though he longed to vomit into the old man’s face.

  “There will be no one else!” The man stepped back before the heavy cup hit his foot, but he could not escape the wine that spilled across hispantalons. Dark and purple and fragrant, and René regretted its loss even as he was turning away. He was done with the nosy old man, with all them, watching him so carefully as though he was mad or ill and one step away from collapse. “Leave me, everyone!”

  He did not move, not one step toward either the bed or the dressing chamber, even when James gasped and the boy protested. He was still when bodies slipped from the doorway at last, when the small voice grew fainter but his room grew larger, swallowing him down easily.

  “My mouth is dry,” he spoke only when the light from the door was a thin line and hinges no longer squeaked.

  “Then you should not have thrown your cup away.” He twitched at the return of James’ voice, scowling at how his surprise had shown, his fear momentarily obvious. James wished to be calm now, wished him to be calm, and he was a coward for wanting it.

  “I did not invite you to my bed, James.” He did not turn his head, but watched with slanted eyes as James crossed over to a table, dipping his hands in the basin and wiping them quickly on the towel beside it. As though it were ritual only, James wiped his face as well; not displacing any great amount of dirt if that had been his intention.

  For the first time, René wondered if James had bathed the previous day, or that morning. He did not look as unwashed as most sailors returned home, and if it was only his hands that needed washing then it could only have been because of contact with the dog Saint-Cyr had named his eldest son.

  James had freed him, and stood by him in that empty house, and if James were no longer blind than he ought to seen the uselessness of his act as Saint-Cyr had. Eyes bright with need, the need for James, for death, for René to take his revenge and free him too. Eyes that had demanded what his painted lips would never ask. He should have dealt the last blow, should have struck out, should have…

  “But I invited you to share my wine, René.” James would not smile so if René hit him again. But strangely René did not move as James poured more wine into a silver cup to match the one still rolling on the floor, as endless as his thoughts. He noticed his good servants had brought two, just as James had wanted, as anyone would do anything that James asked of them.Spare them this, James had whispered, as though they deserved rest when he had none.

  René blinked, eyelids heavy, and James continued. “…And now you have need of it.” “You will not smile so,” René dropped his bad shoulder and placed one hand on his weapon, startled to find he still wore it. James had not removed it before dragging him from the tavern. That had been foolish. He had not removed it before straddling James’ body in the carriage, and his face heated. A bit more wine and both memories would be gone.

  He stalked over to James and took the cup from James’ relaxed fingers, feeling ugly eyes on him as he swallowed several large gulps. “You will not smile at me as you smiled at…” Wine choked him as he hurried to swallow more, and the cup was snatched away. For a moment James’ gaze left him as James drained the cup, growing as dark as berry-stained lips when it returned.

  An empty cup did his greedy mouth no good. René pulled the cup away and leaned over the table to pour more wine. It fell in careless droplets on his hand and he licked those away, smacking his lips when they seemed to grow numb. One long drink and he handed the cup back, glaring when James pretended strength and emptied that cup too. The fool would be drunk soon, and it was all he deserved, a night of drooling on a hard floor instead of the cot he should have found himself.

  “I will pour this one,” James offered, though he had not been asked, and René shook his head at yet another liberty. “There are many rooms here,” René told him. James would find one to his satisfaction, of that he was certain. Had not James shown himself able to find comfort in any situation? Like the boy, he foun
d protectors in the harshest of countries.

  He would not allow him to return to that house. James would trample his corpse first. “The child will be afraid, in a strange place,” he added when James only nodded and handed him back the cup of liquor. The stem was warm now, the wine nearly hot as it passed his lips, and René tossed it back, letting the burn close his eyes to the sight of James.

  “He has strength in him, René.” He opened his eyes again and saw James smiling, so sharp it looked as if it hurt. He dragged one hand through his hair and left it resting at his forehead, pushing against the dizzy ache there no doubt brought on by the wine.

  René returned the cup to him, watched it filled once more and watched again as James placed his lips on the stinging silver rim and drank deeply from it. Muscles moved in the strong column of James’ throat as he swallowed, René’s blood heating and his mind slowing to just the trickle of wine running from James’ lips. It seemed James had a great thirst, and René sighed to feel the cup in his grip once more, warmed from James’ hands and James’ mouth. It seeped into his fingers, as though his arms ended with the cup of wine and not his hands, his feet melting until they were part of the floor, stone and heavy and pulling him down.

  So warm it thickened his blood, his body singing with sweetness and heat, his thoughts sluggish as he parted his lips for more and allowed the taste to roll on his tongue. “James…” he whispered as the cup was taken away, and remembered his shivers on awakening that morning. Only that morning, but the chill had stayed in him for hours, bending him in half at times, sickening him until only wine could have possibly warmed him.