Chapter Twenty-Three
His body would not move. It was scarcely drawing breath, but he could hear the low rush of air fighting to get in and then out of his mouth—the only sound in the room, for the others did not seem to breathe at all.
James blinked, focusing his gaze on René, startled to see his mouth open against his palm. The lips were pale, near to colourless, as though that also had fallen to the mess on the floor beneath them, but René’s breath was warm on his skin, and for that he shivered, cutting his own breath short to match that steady flow of life.
His head ached, the same ache behind his eyes as though he were a man too long without sleep, without dreams, and he blinked again, the action slow and difficult. He held still, and the sight of René was returned to him, sliding from ghostly specters into the solid form of the man.
“René.” The word was all his mind gave him, the only image among the light and stains of red that was clear enough to name. He spoke it, and René turned, angling his face to put his cheek into James’ hand. His hand seemed to move in its own answer and James let it, brushing his thumb across the side René’s nose, up and under one eye, sighing at the tickle of lashes as René swept his eyes closed.
The sparkling black that looked back at him when they opened did not frighten him, and he felt his mouth curving softly up, knowing he wished to say the name again.
James, René had said his name. James and James again, calling out to him so loudly it still echoed in this room, his voice harsh.
He had not…he had not thought it René’s voice. Not even in his hellish dreams of fever had René cried what he had, not even with his body twisted with the memory of the pain that Marechal and others had wrought had he begged.
He had once thought René a man to fight and he had not been wrong, and yet René had pleaded and prayed.
His gaze had been drawn to René the moment he had appeared in the room, straightening up from the door to glare across the stairs, metal shrieking as René had pulled his short sword free.
It should not have made such noise, slipping free of smooth leather, and James had forgotten to breathe, imagining the weight in René’s weak limbs. But René had not allowed himself to bend, not as James had when first in his place. René had stood in challenge, giving orders as though his ship were behind him, his killers ready to murder at his command.
The same set frown, hard and determined jaw as René looked away from him, staring up without blinking at the raindrops falling onto his face, as though James could not feel the fear in the trembling body pressed between him and the wet earth.
Was it fear behind it all, the constant shadow not fully banished even in the light of midday, that made the body twitch to move even in sleep? René could never be still for long, would not even with his blood red and thick all around them. Bleeding out and begging to halt the act he would have murdered Mirena to perform himself only months before, praying for James to stop, to hold his hand from a necessary act of justice that he had cried for in his dreams.
He had not known, had not known until this day that James had been there to hear him, had been forced to listen to the words of a child in pain until had James bent over his feverish body and fought to speak. He had found his voice at last to order the others from the room as though they had not already heard the poison seep from René’s mouth.
It was the act of a stupid, weak man, curling himself around the rocking, sweating body as though to shield René from wounds long closed over, as though wiping the sticky blood from his brow would clear away the visions behind it. Demons, René had named them all, accusing and pleading all at once. Vowing revenge on horrors in the guise of men, and James had not known, not until the last.
Marechal’s visitation to what should have been peaceful slumber was as raw a cut to the soul as the rough cross that René had carved into the beast’s entrails. To claim to love and yet to take, offering protection at a cost that a boy could not understand. René could not have known what he would suffer to have struck such a deal, unless it had been a relief from pain already known.
James wished to close his eyes and knew he could not. Not here, not when they had been closed for too long, keeping him blind even with the aid of special glass.
He was a fool and a monster himself, to not know, not to see what others had obviously guessed and to go on taking without giving. He wished to be sick, and would have, if he could have left René to this alone But his feet were rooted, planted as firmly as the oak he and the lady had once mockingly called him, his shoulders straight and wide to keep them from this.
He moved his thumb again, felt the papery softness of René’s cheek, the spot clean of tears or blood, as dewy as that of a rose-cheeked child.
René the innocent had been sentenced to that Hell by the man he had just chosen to spare. Had chosen to spare, whispering his petition for mercy as though only James would hear, as though he thought James asleep in the heat of their bed and deaf to his soft confession of need.
René had not heard the answering need in each breath that James took, falling to his knees when there had been no order for such penitence. His arguments for a woman, for Ben, had lacked sense when all could see why James had come to this house. And his cry to the Heavens, had he imagined James deaf to that as well?
The pistol was still weighty in his other hand, but it was not that which caused him to tremble, to shake as he first had to feel René’s eyes on him. René had promised to teach him though James had not known it then, and now that the lesson was learned he fell to his knees to plead, to beg as James had never wished him to do.
His belly was knotted tightly, holding back sickness for another time, but he sank his teeth into his bottom lip, wanting the pain to ensure his silence.
René had wished him to stop and he had stopped, there was no need for him to remain as he was.
Sweet Jesu. His hands had closed around thin
wrists, pressing René’s back to the wall, hiding him from those in the room who
did not have the right to see his mottled face and his wild eyes. James had felt
his heart beating fast, yet its speed no match the thundering force in René’s slick
wrists.
He had thought it their presence in this house that had drawn the life from René’s cheeks, only spots of high colour remaining that made him seemed as crazed as any inmate of Bedlam, the uneven lengths of his hair gleaming and wet, stuck out in swirling patterns. The sweetness that had blessed him in sleep was gone from him, his body shaking as he allowed James to push him back, many weapons jutting out from beneath his coat declaring he had thought to face down the Devil in this room.
It was not the Devil. Only a weak and cruel man that should have glimpsed Hell today. Should have, if René had not spared him, and James frowned, knowing that nothing would clear his head now but to rest with René, someplace far away from here with a fire to give them warmth and light as they slept.
René had saved him, René had cried out as he only had before in the terrors of sleep, begging for mercy. Mercy. The word was foreign and he wished to say it aloud, to ask of René where he had learned this, and why speak it now.
There was only pink awash in René’s face now, glowing as the lips moving against his palm, shaping his name or perhaps a prayer, and James felt his mouth fall open, his eyes grow wide as René knelt at his feet, uncaring of the ugly, hardening mess of blood along his arms, across the floor.
René would need another bath. The thought was strange and did not belong here, in this moment, but James did not feel the heat steal across his face, and did not look away from René’s closed eyes, seeing the dark rings beneath the cream-white lids, his mind still clouded with confusion. René trembling at the first splash of water over his head, fighting the gentlest of touches, telling James he must not look upon him as he did.
What visions René beheld behind his eyes now did not pass his lips and he made no move to stand. James dropped his gaze, his hand tightening against his will to see the volume of René’s blood that marked the floor, the wicked lines that had been cut across the flesh of René’s lower arms.
He had moved the pistol to his other hand, uncaring of where the weapon had gone but not wishing it to touch René’s skin, delicate underneath his fingertips. His mouth opened to ask, to demand what had befallen René since James had left him asleep hours before, and he bit down hard on his tongue, his eyes stinging at the small measure of pain. Such a small wound and the salty tang washed down his throat. It was nothing to volumes of life René had already spilled because of this house, nothing to the raw slashes and blood clotted like cream and the scent of sickness as strong in the air as the smoke of the candles.
His gaze moved from René, his head bending to allow him to see the shadows that moved in the edge of his vision, shadows with names, that trembled to look on him.
His fingers tightened, dull metal growing hot at his touch, hot when René was cold in his other hand, weak and sick when he should have been strong and standing. René’s pistol was heavy and he could not lift it now to use it as was his right. It was their sin René bled for. It should not be his blood on floor now just as it should not be their sins that kept his shoulders bent.
He breathed in, knew it from the shock of dry air in his mouth, in his chest, and sent his gaze back to their black-eyed audience. They gleamed with a devil’s knowledge, and James licked his cracked lips, waiting.
He would see them dream of the child left to no one’s care, the child still clutching his cross as though an angel would be sent to save him, abandoned to men best left dangling from a strong branch. A child that would not flinch from the sight of moaning, trussed-up, bleeding puppets; René had even known that.
James could see the same thoughts mirrored in the shining black studying him carefully, and he waited until the proud heads lowered to keep the light hidden. Then he slowly freed his fingers, let them loosen until the metal was almost a memory. He turned his head away, back to René who still prayed for him on his knees.
He felt his body surge, his belly tightening like the morning after too much ale, shaking with the fight to be calm for this. He had not thought René had any blood left in him and yet here it was, gashes along his wrists and arms that he had allowed to bleed, had not let heal before moving again, leaving them open. He could not be well. Soon his cold, dry skin would be burning with another fever, another crime to lay at the feet of Saint-Cyr. It would be accounted for, even if René could not see it done.
René would sleep through the night, if James could grant him nothing else.
René’s arms no longer possessed the strength for swords, his soul too weak even for words, speaking in strange whispers so that this house would not hear of the shame it had caused. No water was pure enough, and no wine could burn the stain away, no matter the amount they might try to pour onto the wounds.
Saint-Cyr had created both the cruel figure sneering through the smoke of cannon-fire and the man who shivered to have even rain touch him. It was two crimes the man denied, though he would never acknowledge even the one.
James shook his head at that. A deal had been made. Once the truth was known, the debt would be paid. He did not need to turn his eyes from René to know that now; it was only a fool who would not see it. Their desires were plain enough even if the coward who called himself their father had not seen them.
He coughed, finding the taste of bile in his throat and spitting it onto the stained wreck of marble, longing for sweetness when he spoke again.
“Get to your feet, René.” Black eyes flew open at the order, their ferocity leaving James’ stomach weak and his lips dry. He did not hide how he paused to wet his mouth with his tongue, how he lowered his head to see René’s awakening anger. It was none of their concern, even had he wished to explain himself.
He could not ignore the pallor of René’s bared skin, red only along the ugly cuts, a trace of pink at the cheek resting against his palm. René was still trembling, with cold or with illness or mayhap both, but his eyes did not cease their glaring at James for his presumption, and for that James allowed himself to smile. It was a strange madness to account that a lover’s glance, but René would forgive it when he forgave it of few others.
The knowledge was even stranger to account for, missing from his mind until it had simply been, rising up from the smoke and confusion to blaze with colour and fire.
His face was warm at the thought, and James jerked his head up, tossing a look around and observing the others, wondering if any of them were wise enough to understand exactly what had occurred in this room, if they would pray their thanks as they ought to. Pray until their knees were bloody and their voices gone. For a moment they were all as the statues of saints, still as stone in their moments of delirious agony, awaiting rapture and pain, and then he was turning away from them and back to René, who would not move.
He must move. James frowned down into the furious eyes, uncaring of how they widened, seeing only the shifting white and red of René’s complexion, the sign of spirit yet remaining, that they had not taken from him.
“James.” When René said his name, clearly, heavy with meaning, he knew was smiling as others should not see. He would seem a mad fool for the sake of his name being whispered by the man on the floor and he did not care. Those in this house had already been judged, and it was not for them find René’s beauty wanting. He would make them see it, and they would kneel in shame at the knowledge of what they had allowed to happen.
But only that. Only that, for René had chosen mercy.
René had chosen mercy.
James stumbled though he was standing still, the world before him tossing like sea waves until he blinked, and then the collapsing waters left him sick, salt at his lips as though he had put them to René’s cheeks.
He took his eyes from René and tilted his head up, staring at melted candles and faded paint, the tops of stairs, hints of corridors, everything but the grey sky outside. He was trembling and weak. He wanted to fall down next to René and wait with him. He would bow his head, he would kneel on stone until his bones ached, and still there would not be enough prayer to ask what he wished.
“René.” He was still looking upward, shivering with cold. René was warmth, fire in his palm. He had offered this, and René had chosen mercy.
He shuddered with the need to move, angling his head down, baring his neck to the beast behind him, offering his brow to spawn next to him. Even the demons in Hell were God’s children, and angels performed His most bloodthirsty work, their beautiful figures the same, it seemed. They would writhe in the same agony together for this, and only God would name which as which.
He extended his arm, and gasped at the first cool touch, marking him like a brand. He lifted his empty hand to his eyes, turning it around to study where they had left no mark. Men in fevers shivered as he did, and he could have turned inward, could have crossed his arms to imagine the pain of René’s wound, the sickness that had raged through him and given James only a glimpse of the cause.
Others had not needed fever to show them the obvious truth, and so he did not curl around the stabbing pain at his chest, in his shoulder. He saw his hand without a scratch to mark what he had given up, because René had chosen mercy.
The harder choice. The choice of tears and bloodshed and how he wanted to fall to René’s side, press a kiss to his neck, pass a hand over his eyes.
“You are beautiful.” His voice echoed in the space between stained marble and faded curtains. He spoke finally, and he turned from black-eyed demons or angels, from his own hand, and smiled.
“Get to your feet, René.” He did not disguise his need, the urgency of his request. Only a beast would find it shaming. He laid himself bare and René’s eyes, eyes with the same flash of terrible innocence, looked into him. René would not like this, would not wish this to be seen in this place, but René did not blink, did not glance away to sneer at those watching. “Please, René.”
He took the hand he had freed and felt it light as he offered it to René’s kneeling figure.
“I do not need you to order me to my feet.” All the strength of his ship behind him, René spoke as if sails and smoke were at his back, his blades in his hands. But he pulled his hands slowly from the floor, wrapped slender, fragile fingers around James’ wrists, and held tight.
He closed his eyes and tried for strength, his bared forearms shaking, turning red along seams not yet healed, and when they beaded with blood, James fell forward, letting his arms fold around the precious weight, already too light. René’s breath was at his ear, and the slow rhythm stirred his hair, tickled his neck, and he stroked his hands down the stiff, wrinkled cloth of René’s coat, his coat that René had taken.
He had taken René’s coat, something that René had perhaps recognized when he had chosen this one. His, an accident of fate, but he thought now that René left little to fate, or that perhaps there was no such thing. Except for this moment, René’s heart pounding in the chest pressed tightly against him, René’s hands coming up around his neck as James pulled him to feet. This was a gift that René had never thought to ask for. He thought it wondrous, that René who was all these things would allow James to hold him, to bring him to his feet.
René swayed in his arms, breathing hard as he leaned against James. But he kept his feet, and it was James who shivered with loss when René slid his arms down, leaving only one hand at James’ chest, feather light.
Too much was in his eyes as he stared down at René, but if his soul was naked, René seemed to find the sight pleasing. He frowned, his ferocity gone for the moment as he lifted one hand and pushed at the glasses on James’ nose, pinching them hard into place. He winced at the slight pain before James did, and James did not move away until René had seen to his spectacles and dropped his hand.
“This is what you have brought to my house?” That voice was perhaps the sole thing on God’s earth that would have taken his eyes from René in that moment. It was not an honour that should have been given, but James brought his head around to stare at the man responsible, the man who should have been sent to his judgment long ago.
He did not know what René saw when he looked upon the plump, purple-faced figure, if he was haunted by the blackness of the eyes in the lined, dissipated face, or if he saw only the full, sneering lips. But he knew René kept no mirrors in his cabin and shuddered away from the smoothest waters.
This face, this man, shaking with disgust and the same fear
that had gripped him before, was ugly, as ugly as the twisted portraits of
betrayers that gilded church doors in the
Etienne still held the man in awe it seemed, to beg for him much as René had, trembling and crying to behold him coming down the stairs. They had chosen mercy and it made them beautiful in James eyes even if he felt his own soul empty. They were nothing like this man, this fattening, frail figure of a man standing on stairs to ensure his head would not sit below any other.
It was blood only between them, an old burden René shared, but René had willingly drained his, until there should be no one to doubt his innocence, his penitence.
James narrowed his eyes, tightening his hold when René seemed to step back. But René did not move far, and lifted his chin. James thought his eyes were wide.
“Disgrace and dishonour heaped upon my head after your
failure in the
Mayhap this was why they had pleaded for him; they could not deny that he had made them. But they were blind if they could not see that they were better, that purity was not beyond them when they had made such choices. Yet still they had begged and pleaded and made their offerings.
“You are fortunate to be alive. You should thank your children.” James spoke without lowering his head, felt René’s small shiver travel through his arms to cross his heart.
Saint-Cyr’s dark eyes barely flicked to him before he directed his gaze back to Etienne, waiting on a response that Etienne did not seem ready to give him. It was strange indeed, that Etienne did not feel the need to obey, and James felt himself smiling, his lips curving up like the end of a pirate’s short blade.
There had been days to wonder at this change in himself, to marvel that he sought vengeance, and would sleep easy knowing it done, that he would die with bloodied hands. There were numbers of lives ruined and wrecked by Saint-Cyr, by men like him, arrogant, hot-blooded cowards who thought themselves noble. Beggars and thieves died standing, upright and trembling. But even Lords saw their judgment come eventually, too proud to bend in time to save themselves the blade. Until someone forced them to.
He did not have René’s pistol, but he still smiled.
“You are a fool. I would have watched you die. It was René who spared you.” Those dark eyes so like René’s swung back to him and stayed there, and for the first moment James felt that Saint-Cyr had truly seen him. He licked his lips; his heart pounding to feel the wrath in the gleaming black eyes aimed at him. For a moment he was still, held to the spot by that gaze, but he felt no flames at his feet, no fire set to strike him down. He did not send his gaze down as he would have, should have, and he did not blink.
The simple black of his eyes could never frighten a man who had beheld René Villon in all his fury, and James lifted his chin. Behind the anger was a fear he would never have seen a year ago, had not seen until René had forced him to see. He should have been dizzy from the quick turns in his path, but he felt steady and rooted. “Be grateful.”
Saint-Cyr would not know the meaning of the word, but James felt his warning warm against his chest. He saw clearly because of René, and watched the flush of colour in Saint-Cyr’s wasted complexion spread from his cheeks up to his forehead, reaching the roots of his graying hair.
The man did not wear paint as his son Etienne did, did not need to, already red with drink and fever. He waved a white, spotted hand, the gesture not as graceful as it might have been.
“I will see you both dead.” In all James’ time in this house, Saint-Cyr had not moved from the foot of the stairs. His skin held the dull gleam of wax, and he had not even the courage to cross the room. He was the disgrace, the dishonour. There was no trace of the noble or the corsaire in him. It was perhaps only René who would not see it.
He wished to move suddenly, to leave René on his own feet and shorten the distance between himself and this man, to feel like the towering oak he had been compared to and crush him. This weak, foolish, wretched man who thought himself a king on earth and in Heaven. The jesters of old possessed more dignity. Of all creatures granted mercy, he did not deserve it. He did not hurt others knowingly and enjoy it, and his hands were likely not stained with blood, for he would never have done the act of murder itself, but there was nothing of love in him that he had shown, no feeling which may lead to redemption.
Aye, he had once been handsome, and his eyes were black, but they did not burn with fire. Not even Hell-fire would warm them. Yet he would control all who walked here; he thought them pawns when in truth he did not realize what René had always known.
“I did not save him,” René spoke lowly, but his voice was clear. His dark brows twitched upward, as though he found it startling, or perhaps merely irritating, that James still did not understand. James shook his head, sending a length of hair into his face. It curled under his chin and he felt René’s eyes go to it, wide as a child’s. He frowned a moment later, staring around the room with a displeasure that none would miss.
James felt his cheeks grow warm, his mind as foggy as
“Do you think I will allow this insult to go unpunished?” Like Carter, there was a voice intruding on his thoughts, thrusting its way between them, between that dark gaze that tried to tell him so much, much that even René did not seem aware of.
It was René who lifted his head first, and with no boucan, no saber in sight, he would lay claim to what was his and see justice done.
Yet his mouth was not open when someone spoke, smooth and rich with something like calm. Etienne remained out of James’ vision, but it was evident that none of this madness had escaped him.
“I do not think you have much say, Father.” Etienne’s words held a lilt at the end, the faint hint of surprise, though he kept his tone obsequious. But James did not imagine he was bending, could not even imagine the sight even knowing the truth as he did. The sons had done their begging.
That swollen, proud face turned quickly from James, and it was James’ own sin of pride that made him long to smile.
“Perhaps you should hide with the other women behind the door.” The insult was tossed out with ease and quickly as a snake might move and with as little thought. James felt his smile slip, and he turned his head at least, seeking out Etienne and finding him a few steps from them, the door far behind him. Only one sister remained behind the wood, the other frozen in the act of reaching for her brother.
René’s fingers curled into his coat, his grip strong and feverish. His limbs were trembling. James looked back to him but René’s eyes were not on him.
“With the right persuasion we might get you to lift your skirts as well, like this one.” To complete this, Saint-Cyr lifted a finger, just one, as though he would touch René if René had been any nearer to him. René did not move, leaving James to be the one wishing to pull them both away.
The man would say it of his own son, before others. James had to close his eyes, counting the forceful beats of his heart, and when he opened them again René’s lips were curved, and whatever his dark eyes were saying now, they did not speak to him.
There had been gestures aimed at him back in his early days aboard La Diable Noir, in his first days of knowing the new feel to his body, the new pain and pleasure of René’s eyes on him, crude but clear gestures, and such men were not supposed to make them. They did not need to, their voices sharpened with intrigue far more cutting. It hardly mattered if he saw the truth and had spoken for them, or if he merely wanted to wound the son who had spoken for him. Nothing about him would matter soon, if he did not learn the lesson he had already forced upon his children.
He offered up his son as well, a pandering fool no better than Sir Marvell, or any other noble who thought to bargain their way out of the inevitable. There had been many covenants sworn in the past months, all of them sacred, and one made in the shadowed, stinking hold of a rogue ship had more power than any he could think to make. Indeed, a promise made to a madwoman had more weight.
“Once again you force me to question whether you are any of my blood.” As though the truth were not clear in each face, each voice, each set of eyes. James could have traced their lineage in each branch of veins twining under pale skin.
René had not lowered his head, but his face was somehow turned from him. His fingers curled as they had once done around sword hilts and a golden crucifix, but he did not raise his gaze, not to James, and he said nothing at being denied once more.
“He is frightened and blind,” James spoke lowly, just restraining himself from reaching out to pull René’s face to him, his eyes sharp for the first sign of pain.
“James.” René said his name, and only that for a long moment, and then glanced up through the lashes of his eyes. Only a small portion of the thoughts behind his eyes left his mouth and those so small and quiet it was nothing for another to silence him. “I know who granted me life…”
“Never!” On a clear, fine day the
winds would have carried the pronouncement across the seas, perhaps even as far
as
“You will watch your words, Father.” Whatever Etienne’s thoughts they were not in his voice. James jerked his head around though Etienne spoke softly and his footsteps on the bare floor were like whispers. “What do you imagine you will do, chase after them yourself and fight them in the streets?”
To hear that question asked brought James’ head up, his hands pressing into René’s sides so close he could feel the rapid flutter of René heart, it seemed weak, just as René felt hot and James dragged his gaze over René’s face, looking for signs of fever.
He let himself imagine it, René sick once more, Ben waiting for them, the hurried flight to a ship. But ships would welcome René, and there was no colour in his cheeks.
As though similar dreams held them all, for a moment everyone was locked into place, and then the spell was broken by a soft, breezy sigh from someone, as though some long-awaited solution had been realized.
“Here is a pistol, Father,” Etienne offered, his voice ringing loud and James snapped his head to frown at him, saw Etienne’s pale fingers holding the gun aloft. He dangled it almost in the manner of a fishwife holding up a good catch for inspection. James could almost see him sticking his hip out suggestively, the gaping mouth of the dead fish. “Do you wish to use it?”
At the cool smile James heard himself make a noise, parting his lips to speak only to stop at violent shake of René’s chest. He turned and blinked to see René scowling, his slender brows drawn together though there was a strange curve to his lips. His hands kept their grip on him.
“Only against a child,” René remarked lightly, as though he joked across a stolen chessboard, and his smile left his eyes even though stayed at his mouth. He glanced up, and James thought he sought out his gaze before finishing. “He has no stomach for bigger prey. There is no courage in him to fight.”
His eyes were speaking again, and whatever other accords had been reached were lesser before the words he had exchanged with René. It no longer seemed strange enough to wonder at.
“You truly wish this, René?” James murmured, not wishing any one else to share this, and René kept his stare level, fighting with a body already worn thin to stay on his feet. James felt an itch at his back, a restless motion in his legs. He thought of the world outside once more and tossed his head.
René’s heart jumped for him, and then René nodded, ducking his head. He was frowning, looking at him in the same manner of confusion as Ben when confronted with a new lesson. For a moment his eyelashes rested against his too-pale cheeks, and then he swept his gaze upward. “I am not afraid.”
“I should have sent you away too.” Like a lost man who did not realize his destiny, Saint-Cyr continued to speak, far too loud, crashing like the wind against the roof of an old church. He blustered, but could not find his way inside when the stone held. His head went from the son he would deny to one he would repudiate.
He had no place left, no child of man to hold him, and James looked away from René, looked to his father, the pathetic figure stumbling forward like a drunkard, and he did not see the way, would not find the path even if guided, and yet James wondered if someone would speak.
He looked up, lifted his eyes to the ceiling as René had done, and the dizzying heights made him shudder and fall, put his eyes to the floor. James felt the burn of his unending stare, but did not blink or turn away from the thick trickle of René’s blood, the lines it traced in the white marble. Like rivers on a map, the charts painstakingly guarded and protected with only a tiny rose.
They were still talking, some voices raised,
but it was only babbling, the sound of water rushing past him. The seas seemed
tranquil and clear in the
He saw his own feet in his stolen shoes, René’s feet in dark leather, the space between them. Then he raised his head.
René’s lips were parted as though perhaps he was about to speak, and James smiled to see him though for a long moment he heard nothing at all.
“…Think to command me? There is but one master here.” It was the edict of a king, absolute and right. The arrogance was something James had forgotten, but it washed over him now, left tracks behind like the disappearing tide. He heard that edict echo, ringing in the rich, elegant voice, and then again in another, a stronger voice, darker. His own as well perhaps, coming to him as though he dreamed, and James opened his eyes wide at the silence that followed.
The madness was there, making him tremble as René did, parting his lips to speak with the same sickness rising in his belly. He had always thought that it was as though another spoke for him, to hear himself saying things he knew he should not and knowing the consequences would be his to bear.
No one else seemed to notice his foolishness, to think anything odd in his manner, or perhaps they saw the spirit in him. In him, with him, guiding his feet, and Jesu, he was a fool.
James turned his head to look at the figure of Saint-Cyr. He stood alone, not yet come away from the staircase, surrounded from near to every angle by his children, and perhaps for the first he saw their contempt, even if he could not fathom it. No servants ran to him, and even the most devoted son had ceased to plead for him. Cast off and alone, and he called himself master.
He was master of nothing.
James felt his mind skipping free, turning circles that left him almost ill, as sick as that old man must be feeling, the floor beneath his feet unsteady, his senses gone or useless. René had caused that, brought that to him amid a sea of blood and smoke at the cost of so much of himself. James knew himself wrong, misguided, still blind to have thought to make himself alone, thought to end this with no one’s aid. He had refused to see just how he had come to be here. When the game was finished, all the pieces went back in the box, even the king. There was nothing left to chance; René had been as bitter as a draining wound.
James looked to him, wondering if he smiled to find René watching him. René with his full, red lips and his straight nose. For a moment he had one eyebrow arched up, and his eyes burned, black with blazing coals behind them, and he had made James feel the power before when he had looked up at him like this, but he had not understood then, he had thought it something else.
He felt tall suddenly, but not near tall enough, nothing to the far away ceiling, the gray clouds outside. The city would welcome the rain, the wind and water chasing the stench from the streets for a few hours at least.
René put a hand to his stomach, his brows dropped into a
fierce frown. Wounds healed when treated with care, and James had thought it remarkable
before that his ship from
He was such a fool when René was so wise. René’s humility was another gift to be grateful for. Wherever René had learned it did not matter.
René wished to leave and James coughed to clear any mad sentiments from his throat, pitching his words for René alone, their business in this house was surely done.
“René,” he called to him and saw the flare heat of René’s eyes, an answer clear enough to read across a ship full of men, and if he had known, he would have made his lips form the question long ago. Instead they had been carried back to this place. It was his fault for not seeing the truth of his place sooner, but he did not have to allow it to continue. It was not for him to wait for dismissal anymore. “Let us go,” he finished, a long breath out easing his tight chest.
René blinked, his mouth turning up into something soft as he inclined his head, as though it were truly enough for him to turn from this and leave.
There were voices, loud voices crying out, and if James was careless in staring for a moment he did not care. But his head came up at the whirling hints of colour and motion, the alarm in René’s eyes as he fell back. James put his arms out, reaching for René too late at the thundering explosion of the pistol.
Smoke always reeked of Hell, and for a heartbeat James stood there, on his feet but dizzy, deaf. Fear held him still until the cries returned, startled, frightened, angry, followed by moans of pain.
His gaze would not hold steady, and he swung around, close to sick until he found the source of the noise, flinching away from the red streams of blood, uncaring of where they might lead. His eyes went up and he flinched anew to find heavy black watching him.
“James…” René said his name, René spoke, and James tore his eyes away seeking out the well-loved figure.
For a short space, René held himself upright, swaying with weakness as men did when the battle was over. He blinked, his mouth thinning as though that took some effort, and then he moved his head slowly, following the same dark river.
It was Ben’s eyes that turned back to him before René lost the last of his strength and fell to the floor.
He got his hands out, kneeling with his palms to the marble, curling his fingers into the mess his own blood had made. If the others were only lost for the moment, James felt as though René were slipping away forever. Only his breath seemed close. Much too loud, far too uneven, and James’ own knees weakened, bringing him down to the floor as well.
The marble should have been cold, but it burned the tips of his fingers as he wrapped them around René’s thin wrists. He could still feel the startling trace of heat as his hands wandered on, moving quickly over René’s arms to his face, forcing René’s head up.
On his own, René suddenly sat back, his mouth open as he stared over at the foot of the stairs. He did not speak, and he would not acknowledge the light touch on his face.
“What has been done?” René spoke in a voice small and alone, in the young voice of his horrible dreams. It would be cruel to leave him, as immoral as the man who had first sent him away. James had to look with him, and turned his head to look at the moaning, wretched form on the floor.
He could smell the blood now, the hot stench of it, impossible to forget. Wounds to just the flesh did not have the tang of acid to them, the sour odor of rotting fruit. The smoke of the shot was clearing, and with it gone, James could see straight into the black eyes of Saint-Cyr, saw them looking to him in confusion, in pain. Perhaps he wished for aid, or mercy now, or it was anger leeching from the dark eyes. James could not tell, and guessing made his stomach churn.
He swallowed sickness with the ease of too much practice and gritted his teeth as he turned, seeking out the fluttering forms on the edges of the room. For a moment they stank of Hell-fire too, but when he shook his head, they were only three slight figures breathing hard behind him.
“What madness is this?” he demanded, letting his voice rise for him. He did not know himself, a snarling captain on the floor, but René did not flinch from the sound, and the fury flooded through him like wine.
He looked up, but of course he could not see into the Heavens. He cast his gaze back down and sought out Etienne when his sisters hid their eyes from him.
“You thought to trick me into this?” He could not help the question, knowing he had handed over the pistol himself, and done it gladly. The shadows beneath Etienne’s eyes did not answer him and Etienne himself was frowning and silent. Brightly coloured skirts dipped and rustled at his back but James did not wish to look at them. Seeing them at the edge of his vision was enough to make him ill, the inconstant, shifting array of shades, unsettling next to the black Saint-Cyr eyes.
Etienne’s hands were out, caught in some strange silent moment of alarm but he stayed frozen as he was.
The low moaning seemed to come from all directions, and hearing it brought out the memory of another not granted a quick death. James closed his eyes for a moment and remembered the shaking hands clasped tight to the plump belly, the fluid slipping out from between his fingers no matter how tight he closed them.
They had chosen a shot to the stomach, and the dead-white cast to the skin meant long moments of agony before peace.
“I did not ask for him,” René spoke quietly and James opened his eyes and looked at him. René stared at his father as he lay dying. “I would not wish that for you, James.” He turned his head, moving slow with ancient aches. His thin brows drew together, his mouth a crushed rose. “He will burn,” he remarked and lifted his chin. His gaze rested somewhere beyond the ruined floor, far from the stairs.
The skin under James’ palms beat as hungrily as drums from
the fields of
He caught another moan, pitiful and alone.
“What have you brought us to?” He shouted when there was no need, and thought he would not mind seeing the gently raised, fair-skinned children of Saint-Cyr hide away from him. But they were already hidden, or had been, ready to fade from the man’s memory rather than face him. Not until James had come here and handed them the means to murder, offered them escape under the name of justice. He shook his head, and the gleaming painted image of them seeking shelter from lightening vanished from his mind.
“You…” His soul burned as René had predicted, left him raw and blistered, the back he wished to turn to them a seeping wound. He could not shudder away from the knowledge of his complicity, how he had been used. Etienne. He almost gasped the name but moved his eyes on, to the blooming figures of the ladies. He could not make his parched mouth speak of their promise, could not form the words when Etienne suddenly stepped forward in his vision, his empty hands offering too much distraction.
“It seems he was found wanting.” The cold words were too close to the voice in James’ memory, like the killer who had left him shivering with fear as he had carved a bloody map from Carter’s chest.
He felt his lips part and darted out his tongue to wet them as he glared back at Etienne, Etienne posing with his head up, his arms out to eclipse all else behind him. An ugly colour mottled his cheeks, and he could not catch his breath, but the black eyes would not allow James to look beyond him.
“You will not mock.” René’s voice shook with heat, his gaze
wild, but Etienne jerked, and there was another swirl of motion behind his
body. “You will go to him.” And there was another voice, the voice that had
forced a beast to heel, that had tried to urge him from his knees in a filthy
“René…” James heard himself, his tongue restored to him at last. “René let us leave.” He wrapped his hands around René’s arms and urged him up, but it was as though René were made of stone for all his trembling. He pulled, but René would not move, and fixed him with a furious stare for the attempt.
“We will not leave yet.” René snarled at him, the fearsome creature who had once taken his ship with cannons at his back, even if he now knelt on a floor dark with his own blood. James frowned, pulling once more only to ease his hold when René shook him off and turned his anger on those around him.
His gaze fell on all of them, all of his wicked siblings, and then his eyes narrowed as Etienne took one step forward. James focused on Etienne as well, his eyes dry as he realized that Etienne would not look at him. His skin, always as fair as René’s, seemed too pale, as though he had been drained to match his brother. James turned his head away too fast, felt the world spin for a moment. The sin had been hidden away as all things in this house; Etienne was not holding the pistol.
James put his hands flat to the floor as Etienne moved, swaying as though René’s illness had perhaps touched him too. His eyes went to the blood and then to the body beyond them. René had not ceased his glare, shared it with even those who thought themselves sheltered by the door. Nothing was hidden from that stare; it had known James for what he was at the first meeting, it knew all their sins and sneered to see them.
James exhaled and heard the sound of the others as they did the same. The sound was like newborn cats, beggars drowning in the rain. He put his hand up once more, felt René’s shoulder burn hot through the thick coat to sear him, and the slender arc of bones pushing out, trying to break free of René’s skin.
For too long a moment James imagined that, shuddering to imagine René something else beneath his ribs, the light pushing out from the torn flesh the way the heat had spilled from him in his fever. And just as then, René had opened his unseeing eyes wide and seemed not of this world, horribly beautiful as his mouth had shaped words in another tongue.
“They must prove themselves,” he pronounced slowly, and James saw him as he had only once before, his hands holding tight the massive wheel despite his small frame, staring straight ahead.
“René?” The words did not make sense, at least not to him, but René snapped his head up, unfolding from the floor and sweeping out one arm to gesture at the others present.
“Perhaps they learned nothing, weak and frightened children of that old man.” René spat the words and then smiled, so pleased that James felt his breath quicken to see it.
“He is dying.” He had to wonder that Etienne would dare, now. The remark was a slap to the face. With the blood still on his hands he thought to remind René of respect, as though any one of them had run to offer succor.
James felt his stomach twist to acknowledge his own guilt in that, and took his gaze from René, searching out those eyes across the room. But the father had closed his eyes, his breathing so laboured James could see his chest move from where he was. The purple was gone from his skin, his face ashen. There were three smears of red across one cheek. He must have put a hand to his face, but they were both limp at his sides now.
James stared at them, at the ever-expanding pool of blood flowing out toward the center of the room, toward the trails René had made, already dried.
“He would kill and turn away,” René declared in icy tones. “You will go and look in his face.”
James looked at René, and heard it, the echoing, quiet sobs from one of the women. He twitched, mayhap flinching from the sound, but René remained still. He opened his mouth, licked at his cracked lips, and narrowed his eyes when there was finally motion.
Etienne moved, his hands out once again, but there was another behind him. She moved past him, her hands buried in her wide skirts, the colour of summer flowers. James nearly expected to hear tinkling bells when she moved, but her feet made no sound as she stepped to the side, stepping behind him and not around René.
“My God,” Etienne swore softly, stopping for a mere heartbeat before he followed after her. The sobbing grew stronger, louder, and then cut off sharply. The last stayed where she was, and James felt his mouth turn up, the sneer cold and unpleasant.
René closed his eyes, and let out a sigh, a soul-deep ache flying from him.
James forgot his cruel smile, forgot everything for a moment but that sound. He let it eclipse the horror near him and raised his hand, tracing a careful touch to one of René’s cheeks.
He wanted to, so he reached further, running a fingertip along René’s ear, shuddering at the noises now. Inescapable, the wet gasps, the sickening shaking from inside the chest where the soul was tearing loose, the humours mingling unchecked. He shuddered, but René did not. He could not, for that was his blood too spilling from the man’s mouth. But he opened his eyes, staring at James.
“I would not have had this for you,” James told him in return, knowing now he would be heard.
“James it is not yet done,” René answered him, softly, and put up a hand, curling his fingers into James’ chest as though seeking his old cross. Perhaps he had forgotten he wore it; the chain shone against the white skin of his neck. But James only nodded and allowed it, waiting for René’s breath to even out before he lifted his chin, and felt René’s eyes follow the gesture.
He responded with a nod, moving almost too slowly, but he knew the workings of James’ mind as he always had. He closed his hand, pressing a tight fist to the soft cloth of his shirt, pulling it from him until a portion of his skin lay bare. Then René inclined his head once more.
He did not close his eyes, and James knew he would not, but he did lower his head, pulling in a sharp breath when James slid his hands beneath the stiffness of the coat he had forgotten, the one René had borrowed, and put them to his ribs. His fingers fit easily between the bones, and though René said nothing, James shuddered to imagine them just as easily broken.
René shut his jaw tight with a strength meant to deny his thoughts, perhaps the only gift from the man dying on this same floor. Those he had scorned would survive him because of it, and he would know it was his own doing.
James raised his eyes and found René’s dark eyes blazing at
him with the rich, dark amusement in their depths he had not seen since
His knees ached as he stood, but he remained standing, and kept his arms out and locked tight around René’s weight. It was for him, and he would not be judged by a house of killers.
“Strange,” René murmured, adding nothing else. He stared straight ahead, his head angled slightly down as though he wished to stare for hours at the hand he had left clutching James’ shirt. If James looked, he would see the white of bone showing through the thin, pale skin. He turned his head instead, tracking the small, sickening sounds of delicate slippers sticking in blood.
The lady Suzette stopped just short of her father’s body, her hands at rest on the length of her skirts. She looked up only once, blinking when Etienne came to stand opposite her. She did not turn her pretty face to the two of them, but her lips opened, and she whispered soft words that sank, heavy and bitter, to the marble.
He turned his head and found Etienne watching them, his eyes narrowed and thoughtful despite the high colour in his cheeks. His gaze was too bright, as feverish as James had thought René to be. Then as James studied him, he curled his lips up into something dagger-sharp that only seemed to be a smile.
A long, sputtering breath pulled all their eyes away, drew them to the figure on his back, staring upward with wide, horrible eyes. Another James would have felt sick at the sight of those eyes. Eyes of the dead even if the chest still moved, ghosting up and down in shallow motions. He could not hear them yet he could hear every other sound in the house, the far off voices of the hiding servants, the creak of careful steps far above them, René’s heart. But the sounds to leave that mouth were not even whispers. His children listened for him to speak and heard only the rattling of fluid in his belly and the weak, wet coughs of an old man drowning.
He felt René’s sudden stillness beneath his fingertips. None of them moved, and in some unholy, too-wise part of his mind, James thought they made an odd collection of carved statues, all trapped in place amid the dark and light patterns on the floor. Doomed to remain trapped until James sucked in air, trying to ease the burning knot of his stomach.
René released him just as Etienne dropped easily to crouch at his father’s head. The lady only drew in a shuddering breath and shivered. If she could hear the words that Etienne spoke into their dying father’s ear, so close as to have his lips to his skin, she gave no sign. Her face she kept blank, as prettily interested in the scene before her as she might have been in the contents of a shop window.
Her hands gripped tight at the fabric of her dress as Etienne rose gracefully to his feet once more and the dark eyes, already glossing over, went to each of them in turn. The dull lips, nearly white and startling next to the splashes of crimson-tinted spittle, moved but James could not detect any words.
He put his tongue to his own lips and felt them dry and cracked. But he had no words either, not even with his mouth wet. There was nothing that was for him to say when the black Saint-Cyr eyes grew dim.
For a moment he stared at the still face, watching as muscles slowly went slack. The colour had left it long ago and even hatred and fear could not keep the fire in the eyes. He stared into them without blinking, sickness along his teeth, making his mouth fill with water that tasted of iron.
The sobbing behind them had not ceased, and James found himself wondering if the other daughter truly mourned, or only thought she should. He had no patience for either sentiment, and turned his head, bringing his gaze down to René.
His breath caught at the mix of feeling displayed on the familiar face, the slash of his brows, the depths of his eyes, and the flash of his teeth, Ben’s teeth, as the knife had last gone in.
He could not look at that, it was a dream to haunt him later, the remnants of bitterness that James had been unable to spare him. He made his eyes go back to the man he had failed to spare as well, the man he had thought to kill.
His mind did not trip over that fact, and he did not flinch from the man’s eyes. He looked into his face and set his jaw. He felt cold, as cold as René would be soon, as cold as the lord breathing his last before him. There was only a long sigh, low with a peace he did not deserve and his children had not meant to give him. It left no echo behind it, only a memory, and soon even that would fade.
There was no glow to him, no aura of Heaven or Hell, nothing but a still mound of flesh in once fine silks.
James felt the sickness in his mouth just as he had before and swallowed. He wished for wine, and had he been René, he would have demanded it and washed his hands in the purple liquid before letting it fall down his throat.
He curled his hands into René’s loose shirt, felt the bare warmth of his skin, far too cool for a man who burned. It took much of his strength to pull his hands away, to place them at René’s shoulders, mindful of the wound, and even more effort not to wipe the smears of René’s own blood from his cheeks, or to look at the stains on his fingers.
“An old man,” René spoke quietly, just for him, and without wine James swallowed. The noise brought René’s eyes to him, and he found them round and bright. His lips formed a soft circle until he thinned them, and dropped his eyebrows into a frown.
“Yes,” James agreed, more cautiously than needed, his voice just as low. René only continued to stare, his chin slightly raised as he waited. For what James was not certain he knew. He knew it was strange, when he had felt himself guided to this place, his hand strong and firm on such an instrument of death. Now there was nothing, his mind and soul empty of any overwhelming force. No words fought to break to the surface and it was only his own breath, making him gasp in unsteady, hungry beats.
He would have looked elsewhere, but he knew too well what views this room would offer him.
He spoke with his mouth dry, and felt the eyes of a killer watching him, in the face of an angel. He no longer cared to suffer the distinctions, not with his soul weary and those that were his waiting for his return. There would be much to do, and there were other men to worry about their sins.
“It is no honour to remember him.” His doings, the foul and stinking deeds that had left so much pain in their wake. If James could hold the fearful and needy promises those touched by him had asked of him in one hand, it would not make them any lighter. He was crushed with it, sinking into depths so clear they seemed to reflect the sky now that he had opened his eyes. For a moment he permitted himself to wonder if the sky outside had kept its promise, and rain would fall for the second time. He thought it likely.
He had to turn then, and stared until his face burned. A corpse and blood and all, and no sins washed away, but none for René. None for René. His had drowned, burned, seared from the flesh like cooking meat.
And that. The pile of flesh on the ground now, cold on marble bare even of the thinnest rugs. At least he had known the use of the light, even if he had not also seen its beauty.
Gone, and he had not disturbed one candle.
Gone, and René sighed. James felt the trembling breeze against his lips.
If he looked he would see the thin, pale face, as white as wax now, light, full lips, dull with sickness and the emotion of the day, all at odds with the spots of colour at the high cheekbones. He would see short, poorly shorn hair, and a stolen bit of shine at one ear. He would see dark eyes bright with hope to gaze back at him. His own cheeks felt the same flames to recognize that.
He licked his lips and looked.
“Yet it would be wise not to forget.” The voyage had been a long and hard one and he would not have it born by anyone else.
The breath left him, like the unexpected boon of wind in the right direction, and René lifted his chin, and the gentle pallor of his mouth did not matter when he smiled. Still weak he pressed his hands back, placing a promise over his chest, displaying what should have made him frown.
Just that, and James thought perhaps he was a fool, as he often had when fixed with such a look from René Villon. His mown mouth he turned upward without regard to that, or mayhap because of it.
“I wish to leave this place,” René confessed to him, not at all sorrowful and not at all furious. He thought this was René Villon calm, René as he only was with his head back, watching with cat-like eyes as James wiped the seed from his mouth, stretching warm legs out to trap him.
“As do I,” James answered, blinking a frown to hear himself, his voice far too loud. He deepened his frown, raising his head to search the room.
The other sister had finally ceased her sobbing, her grief as still as the dead man’s chest, as the river of life grew hard at their feet. He tracked the marks of well-made slippers, the dragging ends of skirts to where the other lady still stood, and no marks at all for the careful brother. He found their faces and shook his head, dizzy at how familiar they seemed, young and too wise.
James pulled René nearer to him, and let his vision slide and narrow to just Etienne. It was like pinching his spectacles into place to suddenly see the bottomless Saint-Cyr gaze sweep so knowingly over him. But no shy, maidenly shame dusted his cheeks and Etienne only lifted one slender brow, his manner too like René.
His empty hands came up in a gesture that did not reach or
call back, something he had learned before
René turned within the circle of James’ arms, the jutting angles at his shoulders out like crossed swords. He leaned in the same motion, fierce and painful and smelling of iron mixed with oranges.
They would seek a bed soon, and if not one in
James inhaled and though his thoughts spun at the scent, his way seemed clear. Had he not been brought here and given the choice?
“You are one of God’s creatures René,” he spoke with his words to René’s ear, and he traded their poses, let one hand remain steady and firm against René’s back. The other he brought to rest against the strong, quick beat of René’s heart. He learned in further, for their audience would have been damned for witnessing less, and reveled in the minute trembling of René’s body for him. “I think it no small mercy that he sent me to find you.”
Such a remark earned him a whispered version of his name and a scowl, and then a flare of heat from eyes that some other might have once thought too weak. No sneers answered him, and no mocking met his words. René only breathed for him, and waited.
For a moment it was as though he was another man, in another place, as though the ground swelled and rocked beneath them, as though he wore the wrong shoes, or no shoes at all in the sand. As though he were weighed down, or lifted up, and it was impossible to look to anything but what might be ahead.
He felt it then, the light of a candle captured inside of a bell, the sun beyond shutters, wind against canvas, all inside of him, striving to burst out as though if it would not, it would rend him in two.
James opened his mouth and left his eyes wide as they stepped away, pulling in a breath only to let it fly from him, no longer amazed to hear himself wonder so openly.
“René,” he called the name, and felt it glorious.