by Cooper, R.
It was that thought that had shaken the haze of passion from James’ mind at last, making him push up from the pillows behind him and forcing René back onto his knees. He had looked awkward, fully dressed and kneeling on a bed, but James had not noticed René’s apparel until that very moment, frowning at the man across from him as René had soberly announced that he was returning to Paris.
“It is not safe,” James had argued, not knowing why this had seemed to surprise René.
“You and the boy must stay here until I return.” Evidently irritated with him, René had scowled and thrown one hand out over the mess of blankets between them. “I will return, James.”
Even now, James could feel his face heating for that remark, the reminder of how he had woken in the strange, new bed, his mouth already dry with gasps, René’s mouth hot on his cock. The servants had assigned him a bedchamber, and he had thought it best to leave René while it was still dark, sneaking back there to slip between the icy sheets. He had not thought his leaving would wake René, but the sun had not yet risen when René had begun his assault on his senses, each swipe of his tongue a reprimand for James’ disappearance, and James had yelled for him, knowing it was what René had wanted, no matter the glances he thought he had since received from the servants.
Only hours before then, René had briefly allowed James to please him before he had spread James out on his back and enter him as slickly as the night before, sweet whispers in his ear timed to their bodies’ thrusting, both of them spent and exhausted enough to sleep when they were done. James had thought René would feel his wound, but it seemed René had more strength than he, waking with the need for him once more.
He was certain the servants knew, their looks sly each and every time they asked him if he desired anything. He had refused to let himself blush for their amusement, though it grew more difficult with each day. This was the third day of René’s absence, and what heat he still felt from René’s embrace had turned into a sick chill at the thought of what danger lay for him in Paris. Danger of René’s own making, which he was still too weak to face alone, whatever he claimed.
Sitting up, James searched the shifting grass for any strange movements, his heart thudding loudly for a moment until he saw Ben, the slim form still darting through plants with the same astonished laughs as the day before, when they had first ventured outside.
James let himself smile, knowing there was very little that the boy had not known in this world, and yet this one gave him joy. René had barely seemed aware that he also owned this land, not once glancing from a window in the one day he had remained in the house, ordering his servants to clean rugs and pretending not to see the amazement on James’ face.
There was a slight bump at Ben’s belly, the only sign of the chicken the boy had devoured an hour ago, leaving James to pick at the bread and cheese before him, sniffing the smelly cheese and tearing away a great part of the loaf for his meal. If Ben kept on this way, the bones would no longer jut out beneath his skin, and René would be the only one left to look as though he had been left on a gibbet for a week.
It had almost felt as though the bones of René’s wrist would shatter when James had grabbed René’s arm to hold him still, using his strength unfairly to pull the other man closer. Their faces had been so very close, close enough to kiss but he had stopped himself, staring into fierce eyes until René had spoken.
“James…” His name, a warning this time, and whatever weapons René had hidden in his clothing that day had meant nothing. “You will not harm them.” James had answered him quietly, containing his flinch at the jerk of René’s head, the narrowed eyes that told of René’s fury at his interference, even if René’s next words had indicated René’s mind was elsewhere.
“You think to save her?” With a lift of his chin, René had scorned him, his cheeks white.
“I will not allow you to so wound yourself, René.” How he had dared was a mystery, and likely the same confusion had turned René’s brows downward. Hurt and annoyance mingled in his blood with the last of his passion, but René’s doubt of him was nothing to his own doubts—that had not been what had made him speak so or tighten his grip until René would have had to slice off his hand to free himself.
“You will not allow.” René repeated without asking, his voice flat and low for one brief moment. Then his teeth were bared and he was shouting, furious but not yet attempting to free himself from James’ hold. “It is not for you to name my wounds! I have already bled for that name. They will not have my blood again!”
The skin drawn taut over the bones of René’s face had been too pale for his words to be the mad ravings of a fever, and James shivered; cold air along his skin brought his mind to the present and forced him to look up to the clouds growing nearer and darker as he dreamed. He had seen René’s very blood and wondered how any could live knowing it had been on their hands. At night his own hands still seemed thick with it, his fingers too slow and slippery to aid him.
“Ben!” He called out to banish the memories, not surprised to see Ben appear as though from nowhere only a few yards away. How he had such skill in hiding and sneaking was something James knew he must ask, but was also aware of the anger it would bring. It was the same as confronting René to directly question the child, and it was no wonder that the nun they had met yesterday had remarked that such a child would grow to be the Devil himself.
She had smiled as she had said it, and Ben had not seemed to mind her words, growing quiet in her presence in a way that James had never seen before. He supposed there had not been much faith in the boy’s upbringing, and the papist church on the edge of René’s land they had visited would seem all the stranger to him. Beautiful windows of coloured glass high above them had made his greenish eyes gleam with a new light.
James found his gaze now turned in the direction of the old building, the thin crosses atop the roof just visible against the rain swollen clouds. From the outside and from such a distance, it almost seemed the same as a London church; it was only when closer that the differences were apparent. Hundreds of saints stood guard over the entrance, their eyes stern for all their smiles. Thousands of shards of glass dyed brighter than a nobleman’s silks held tightly in place by heavy bands of iron, flecks of gold paint falling from the painting on one wall to the cracked floor beneath.
The baby Jesus wore an old man’s face in the painting, awareness in eyes that should have been innocent, and James had shuddered and turned from it, certain it was a spoil brought from the East from a war long ago. Mary wore a strange wrap and her skin was dark, a mark on the side of her nose almost as though she had once dangled a jewel there, but the same sadness was in her face, a shared knowledge with the babe of his fate, and he wondered that anyone would display such a thing in order to fill a soul with love.
“Ben.” Winds played with the loose strings of his shirt, slipping underneath the linen to remind him of the coat he had neglected to button. Ben’s coat was nowhere he could see, and he dragged his eyes from the far away crosses to frown at the boy. “Are you cold?”
Though he had yet to shiver and his cheeks were bright with his excitement, Ben nodded, patting his stomach. “Hungry too,” he agreed easily, grinning and bending down to pick up his coat, as though he had known its location all along. His carelessness with the piece of cloth would be sure to set the maids clucking in disapproval; fine lines already marked where they had sewn each tear Ben had collected since Port Royal, and with each had come a frown directed at James for allowing the child’s wanderings.
Ben seemed happy enough to live in his home for all his dislike of René, badgering the servants with his questions and demands for food, glowing when they doted on him. But neither had the boy strayed too far from James’ side, a line crossing his brow when James retired to his room each night. His happiness returned each morning as though it had never been gone, wide smiles greeting James as Ben asked if he might explore one section of the house or venture outside.
Perhaps he smiled because he knew it pleased James to see him happy, even if James knew Ben had already done the things he pretended to ask permission to do. Perhaps it was only René who was able to resist Ben’s teasing ways.
“Do you think to woo him with prayer?” René had believed himself to be speaking the truth, his mind no doubt mad from his fever, crazy with the pain he had to have been feeling. There were many wounds on him, when James had finally been allowed to clean him, washing him carefully with a rag once they had been left alone. Wounds caused by Marechal, cracks in René’s skull, stabbing tears along his shoulder and back, and then down further, dried blood where James had never thought to find evidence of a crime.
“As long as I have known him, I have known his beast,” Mirena had whispered the words, her farewell perhaps as René’s men had thrown Marechal’s hulking body over the side into the water. There had not yet been the sound of a splash when her spittle had landed on the wood at her feet, and she had walked easily in another direction.
How had Marechal’s service begun, that it had ended in blood? Not even the sea could wash away so much. It had covered his face, kept the hideous visage from view and yet James could not quite count that a blessing. It would not have been covered then, and James knew he shuddered, turning away from Ben.
The wet suction at his fingertips told him he had curled his hands into the damp ground; there would be dirt under his fingernails. It was lower than a servant here, to be a farmer with dirty hands, and truthfully he had never had a feel for the land. And he had made a better sailor than a clerk it seemed. He imagined that fate for himself and narrowed his eyes, noting the distant crosses once more. The convents here were said to be corrupt enough, mayhap their church would accept a mad catamite as a priest, the priest René had declared him often enough.
He had thought it mocking, until he had seen the cross resting always at René’s heart and known the faith dividing it into uneven sections. The rituals of the Roman church made little sense to James, but he knew that for René to confess, René had to first acknowledge the crime, and James doubted very much that would ever come to pass, though he had waited.
René might dream of his long ago faith but he acted no obedience to it, and would sneer at anything that would make him so humble. And though it might be a sin, James found he did not wish to see René brought low again. He had vowed it to himself it seemed, an insistent whisper in his mind at the sight of René’s pale body that could have been the voice of his Creator for the terror it had struck in him.
“James?” The alarmed question brought his mind and gaze back to Ben, his head jerking slightly at the boy’s nearness, the hazel eyes so close to his own. Impatience or worry had the boy frowning, and James had little time to remember that moment in the dark of René’s cabin.
“I am well.” He put out a hand to reassure Ben and felt his brows draw together just as he realized his own action, the clutching of Ben’s shirt in his fingers to hold the boy there. The cloth nearly slid from his hold at the quick, backwards jerk of Ben’s body, and then Ben stopped, holding himself in place when another move might have freed him.
“Yes, sir?” Ben asked him quietly, lowering his small hands to his sides and shifting his stance slightly, looking something like a sailor under the captain’s eye. “Do you like it here, Ben?” The harsh breeze on his cheeks anticipated the coming rains, and James wondered faintly when the wind had grown so silent; only the whispers of the grass and his own breaths seemed to follow his question.
“Aye.” Ben said at last, scowling and casting his eyes downward. James followed his gaze, his belly tight to watch Ben’s hands close into fists, how very white they seemed when his skin had held such colour moments before. Ben might perhaps grow tall one day, but he would never achieve a great breadth of shoulders or chest. Another odd thought that James took for a sign of his madness and ignored for now, thinking only that it would not be long before Ben would once more need new clothing to accommodate his growth.
He wanted to look away and instead opened his hand, feeling the curve of the boy’s ribs through the thin shirt and wondering what wounds he would find if he were to bathe him now. Under his palm, James could feel the hum of tense muscles, the pounding of blood laced with a fear that Ben’s silence did not hide.
The warm sting under his tongue was his blood, a trickle from his torn lip, but he swallowed the pain easily, absorbing the flavour that filled his mouth. “I will never harm you.” He parted his lips to speak and heard his voice, as rough and graveled as an old man’s. His joints seemed to ache with the same age and weight, and he heard the muscles protest, his knuckles cracking as he straightened his fingers, letting go of the fabric. He dropped his hand a moment later, forgetting it as he looked back into the child’s face.
Ben’s head was up, the same line between his eyes as there had been the night before. “Put on your coat. ‘Tis cold.” When still Ben would not speak, James did, fussing over the coat he knew Ben did not need when his mind was elsewhere. Ben swallowed and slid his arms into the coat, leaning his head to one side and staring as he did.
“It’s nae for you to tell me what to do.” Once the coat was on, Ben lifted his chin, studying James with one eyebrow arched higher than the other. Some feeling coloured his face, and then Ben was jerking his shoulders and turning away.
“Do you long for the sea?” It was nearly all Ben had spoken of in Jamaica, his irritation with the restrictions of life there all too apparent, even to Sir Marvell. Yet he had left it to keep company with him, without James ever demanding him to. In truth, at times the boy seemed to prefer clinging to James’ side, though it could not remain so indefinitely.
Abruptly the slivers of green widened to circles, and then Ben’s mouth was open, the air around him cold enough for one moment to turn his breath to steam.
“Do ye wish me to go?” His voice cracked, as if about to deepen. “Stay.” René asked and ordered with the same smooth tone. Disregarding James’ hold on him, he had leaned in until James had to close his eyes. René had worn the coat James had received from the lady Mirena, stiff fabric not shielding James from the surprising heat of René’s body as he had covered James’ prone form and issued his challenge. Or had it been a request; James had been too distracted to properly name it at the time.
“ Stay.” James might have thought himself a dog if René had not breathed the word so harshly, pulling back to glare intently into James’ eyes. “I will return for you.” René had promised the same before, and failed, his intentions nothing to the designs of others.
“No.” James choked out his reply to Ben, turning from black eyes to green, struggling to understand the feeling on the young face. “I wish you to stay with me…if you also wish it.” His words seemed too loud, too fierce for the still air around them, and James lowered his voice at quick, backward jerk of Ben’s head, the way his breathing seemed to cease altogether. “Do…do you wish it?”
“I’m a free man, same as you.” Ben shouted the words. The boy’s fury was startling, as was the way he shook the anger away a moment after speaking and turned his head in another direction, looking toward the house. James was no given no chance to reason the boy’s meaning, frowning at the pain behind his eyes when Ben continued speaking.
“And him?” Without even lifting a hand to gesture to the man’s house, James knew who Ben spoke of, and felt his tongue grow heavy in his mouth as he tried to find his reply. That he would imagine René a child-killer, or something far worse, left him with nothing, not even the air in his chest to form a lie.
“He will not harm you.” The promise came after several moments, all of them too long and too quiet for James to stay seated so easily. “I know,” Ben scorned him, and James stopped where he was, hands flat on the ground as though to push himself to his feet. If the boy’s humour had not seemed so uncertain, James would have said Ben might have laughed at the very idea, and the notion made the ache in his skull grow worse. He frowned, s
truggling for words.
James was not at all certain that it would ever quite understand their enmity. It had been Ben, after all of their bitterness, who had led James to René in Jamaica, and René who seemed to know each of Ben’s thoughts exactly.
“I am surrounded by free princes then,” James spoke softly to himself, pressing his lips into a thin line before he could speak another word of foolishness. He wondered if Ben would say more, explain if he were to ask, but the straight line of Ben’s back did not invite questions.
“I believe he is concerned for thee.” He was not being false to say it, not when he had little else to say and René had requested Ben’s continued stay in his home. René would know Ben’s meaning, and this small comfort was all he possessed at the moment.
A rough sound came from Ben’s throat, and then Ben was turning back to face him, his teeth showing in a smile that held no friendship. “…Know his worries.” His grin faded as he mumbled, though his lips stayed curved, the chill in the wind mayhap what turned his cheeks a healthy red. With a familiar drop of his shoulders, Ben let the last of his smile fall away, looking to the grass at his feet. He scratched the back of his neck, stretching the thin cloth of his shirt as though to remind James of his growing body and his need for a guardian. The rumble of his stomach echoed James’ thought a moment later, and he had a smile of his own at the quick dart of Ben’s eyes to his face.
“There will be food for you in the house, if you are staying.” He could feel René’s accusing glare though René was no doubt still in Paris, and he knew his offer lacked grace; it was not his shelter he offered now, not truly. But he did not recant his words, not even under the boy’s speculative gaze. Ben knew as well as he that James had no right to the offer, and when the hazel eyes finally glinted, James refused to allow the heat to reach his face. His neck and chest itched with the desire to blush, and he blinked rapidly to see Ben look as he had once looked many months ago, watching them with the railing and the water at his back.
