Chapter Nineteen—

The lips pressed softly to his were nothing but a wish of his mind, but the grass, softer and wet and tickling at his neck was real enough, and with only a slight grimace, James opened his eyes. Approaching clouds told him the rain was not through soaking this field, and that he did not have long to make his way back to René’s great house, but only his arms moved, sweeping out to either side in order to feel the slick blades of grass sharp on his palms.

Even wet, James felt they could cut if he should move his hand in just the right way, but he did not stop, smiling a little as Deniau had done whenever danger was a possibility. He did not think anyone would call him mad now if he were to say such madness was a malady suffered only by those close to René Villon.

Close. His own word brought a full scowl to James’ face and stopped the motions of one hand. He brought it to his stomach and sighed before pushing himself up to a sitting position and gazing out across the brown and gray view that he had not thought to see in France, or to see René Villon the lord and master of.

He was not close to René. It was foolish of him to think that he was.

His scowl deepened to realize his face was warm in the chilled air, and that though he had not spoken his thoughts aloud he still possessed the tone of a vexed child. He was not close to René because René had left, and told him and the boy to remain here until he returned. The boy…it had been surprising enough that René had referred to Ben at all, and so James had not had time to remind him of the child’s name.

In truth he had been distracted, Ben the least of his worries as René had announced his plan to return to Paris for several days and ordered James to remain here, out of his way. Only two nights in his home and René was anxious for his ship once more, or perhaps anxious for the news of the Saint-Cyrs though he would not admit to such a concern aloud.

‘Twas 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 yet 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 immediately, 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 received from the servants for the past days.

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 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 now, James searched the shifting fields of 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 together. The field was something foreign to him, and 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 sigh and 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 at James’ gasp.

“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.

Seeming without his knowledge, 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 the work, 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 danger’s closeness, 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.

For all his dislike of René, Ben seemed happy enough to live in his home, badgering his 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?”

A strange remark made even stranger by the fervor with which it had been expressed. 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 in René’s cabin. 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. The mark of a laborer, or a farmer. It was lower than a servant here, to be a farmer, more of a shame, and truthfully he had never had a feel for the land. 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 sodomite 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 of the faith dividing it into uneven sections. Was it that René saw him simply as a good man for his beliefs, or that the other man had further, childish hopes? 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 was in danger then. He 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. Indeed, though it might be a sin, James 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 bent, 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. But either 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 may 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. But 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. Anger or mayhap some other 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. And 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. James could not even say why he had asked the question now, but it drew Ben’s attention, his head angling back so the boy could study James with slanted eyes.

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 it might 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 to keep from growing dizzy. 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, barking as though he were René giving an order. 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 with eyes that held only amazement, 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, struggling for words.

If Ben was not frightened of René, then some other sentiment lay between them, and 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 with some decision, 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.

It was just the sky now, nearly as gray as the grass in the darkening sky. It stirred the mess of hair that even the pretty maids had been unable to comb, sending strands into Ben’s face as he leaned his head to one side. There was no doubt he enjoyed their attentions, even if it was not the life he had known before. How many lives would he know before this was ended, if it ever would?

“It is very strange, is it not? To have not one limit and yet have no clear choices?” Why he asked Ben he did not know; Ben did not seem to mind being asked, simply scowling a bit harder as he maintained his silence. “’Tis strange to be here, in a field spread in all directions.” Empty horizons all, except for the glimpse of a steeple far off, a mark of guidance he might have said, if it would not have confused Ben.

He could remember another field, that one green and pleasant, where the sun had been at his back and he had thought himself free. But he had not moved from the ground there until bidden, following another back into town. He had not even felt sadness to see the thatched roofs of houses rising over the low hills.

Only the church was in view, not even the sun was visible anymore, just a light behind clouds. He should not feel so surprised, René choosing a home with the church on the land, even if the man did not acknowledge it.

His business must be concluded soon, and he would return or send for them. If he had conducted his business at a hurried pace, he might be returning now. James could not imagine René moving at anything less than full sail, and felt his brows draw together. Then René should be home today, and there had been no word.

There was no way except to travel into the city himself to get news, and he had sworn to remain here, after René had sworn to leave the family Saint-Cyr unharmed, his fury taking him from the bedchamber and from the house without another word to James. The word of a pirate, a small part of himself insisted upon reminding him, and he frowned at the uneasy waves of sickness in his belly.

It was as foolish to let René leave his sight as it was let Ben run around without a careful watch. Promises meant nothing in the face of survival, and it was only to please him that they made the vows at all. And still he demanded.

“James?” It was rare to hear Ben so hesitant, and James lifted his eyes from the memory of their bed to stare into Ben’s confused face.

“I believe you can choose, Ben.” The words even tasted odd on his tongue, salt and bitter and sweet, like the remnants of love in his mouth, washed out with wine. “With the consequences for a man to bear alone, he might do anything his soul will allow.”

He thought his words had the touch of madness once more, that he lacked sense, but Ben was intent upon his face, nodding once and then closing his eyes.

“Ye’ve not reason to worry.” Some decision made, Ben opened his eyes and glanced away in the same moment. “Any more than him.” With a smile so quick it might have been in James’ mind only, as imagined as the warm press of lips to his cheek, Ben darted back, sliding silently through the grass. “I’m hungry,” he called out as he ran away, putting so much of the field between them that James could not help but feel the sting of rejection at his cheeks.

In moments he was out of sight, and again James had the thought that it would be best to keep such a child within sight at all times.

“Left alone, the beast will find them.” Ben had been absorbed the gleaming lights of the golden cup sitting on the church’s altar and so perhaps had not heard the surprising remark. But her face had been turned from James’, only the clean smooth lines of her headdress before him as the nun had watched Ben, her quiet breath ending her strange statement.

He thought he might have jumped, his shoulders obviously hitching at the reminder of his word for Marechal, the same word the lady Mirena had used, and he had not been able to stop himself from begging her attention, calling out so loudly that even Ben had momentarily turned from the gold.

“Lady?” There were roses under the lady’s skin, colouring her a few shades darker than Mademoiselle Suzette and yet made her skin glow with all the more purity, and James had easily imagined her washing her face and hands in the clearest of water, scented with the same soap that noblewomen bought from nunneries to keep the bloom of youth in their cheeks.

Her small hands had crossed over her chest, pressing the simple wooden cross that hung there for a moment before she clasped them tightly before her. Only the fine lines of work and age across the back of her hands showed her to be perhaps older than his step-mother, not a single strand of hair showed from the sides of the white and black cloth covering her head.

“They are damned in their innocence.” She was as still as the painting of Mary; her dark prediction of the boy’s future making not even a glimmer of possible tears in her brown eyes. And James had felt himself staring into those eyes in amazement, letting himself be distracted at the clear colour of burnt sugar and the long, thick lashes that dipped to rest against her cheekbones.

“Then we must give them knowledge,” James had paused there, not quite certain if he were right to argue gently with such a servant of God, but not pleased with her meaning, if indeed she had meant to damn even children who had committed no crime.

Her eyes had opened wide. “Knowledge leads to temptation. Our souls are weak before its power.” Her mouth tightened for but a moment, and then she had clasped the crucifix hanging from her neck once more. “Would you not protect them from evil?”

“Aye.” James answered now as he had then, for there was no other answer than that, to the death if need be, even if the frown had not left his face. She had leaned away even as he spoke, hearing a call it seemed, for she inclined her head at him and stepped softly from the chapel. Ben had smiled at her as she had passed, and James could only suppose that she had smiled in return.

“Damned with a smile,” James whispered to himself now, letting the madness take his tongue with little concern. In spite of the chill in the wind now, he felt his skin grow hot, tight with anger that at last brought him to his feet. He had heard René’s fears, the nightmares that had frightened him to weeping in his fever, and he had seen the faith that kept that cross at his neck, a constant reminder of his destiny as even the nun had worn.

Ben had not even attempted to charm her. She had won him instead, with only a light touch to his head and that smile, the beauty of her face making his restless feet grow still.

The wind was growing stronger, tugging his hair free of the ribbon at his neck, and he let the strands whip his cheeks as he turned his face from the house and back to the distant church.

It would not be long before it rained, but he let his feet turn to match his gaze, walking without speed toward the small church on René’s property. He did not think today was a day of observance for the Papists. The building might be as empty as before, dying flowers spread out over their altar resembling more a pagan festival still enacted in the country than the remnants of a morning Mass celebrating the Lord.

She might be there, the nun from before. He doubted there could be many of them caring for such a small parish. He had not even seen a priest on his earlier visit. But he would ignore her, praying as best he could in a Romish temple.

An hour, perhaps two, until the darkness outside would force him to decide. His promise was for nothing if René had betrayed his, and he would not stay here indefinitely. No matter René’s thoughts, James was not born to wait on his decisions. Nor would he sit by while René injured himself once more. He could bear the lie on his soul to keep René living, and wondered if René had supposed otherwise when he had made the strange demand.

When the rain was gone the air would smell clean, cleaner than the city, as clean as only sea air could be, despite the filth of a ship. Way up in the middle of the sky down to the dirt under his shoes, it would be cleansed, water from God and not the blood of man. Not yet.

Looking up, James stopped his feet and angled his head back. Drops touched his lips, so small they dried the moment they touched him. He saw the water through his the glass of his spectacles, appearing from the clouds above just as it came down, disappearing with only the gentle traces of chill left behind on his skin.

Slowly, his eyes fell from the clouds to the hard gray stone in front of him, observing fiercely scowling faces that he knew were meant to seem beautiful, curious as to whether or not they would have looked beautiful only in their moments of death, knowing what awaited them in Heaven for their sacrifice. He thought he would look grim at that moment, that he would only be happy knowing his sacrifice had not been in vain.

His eyes continued lower, to the wooden doors, already splashed at the edges with a darker shade where the rain had hit them. With a strong push, they opened, and he stepped inside just as a flash at the corner of his vision spoke of lightening.

If there was an answering rumble of thunder, it was nothing to the banging of the heavy doors behind him. He paused to wait for it regardless, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dimmer light inside the church as he did. Some light came through the coloured windows, but someone had lit the candles along the aisle, tall worked-iron candelabras at the end of each pew, each one glowing bright and orange, flickering at the wind he brought in with him.

Despite the smoke stinging at his eyes he saw her figure right away; she knelt at the front of the church, before the altar though slightly to the side. It looked as though she prayed, and deeply too, for she did not start as the door closed.

Uncertain, James walked down the aisle, his gait on land still unsteady, but silent. He wore no hat, but ducked his head toward the altar and got to his knees easily on the opposite side of the lady, pleased to find the cushion on the floor for his comfort. He rested his arms on the small railing before him and bowed his head. It was only once he had clasped his hands did he realize he had no words to pray. He did not think a common prayer was suited to a Romish church, but would not have said their words even had he known them.

He had sat in a pew in Port Royal, rows behind Sir Marvell, and he had not prayed then either, his shame at his acts not so distant as it was now. Indeed, now there was a strange sort of pride. He could not ask forgiveness when he did not repent. If he now failed to humble himself even that much, had he the right to beg for God’s ear?

He had not meant to be disrespectful. If these trials had been intended as a test of his obedience to the Word than he had failed. And yet he had felt only contentment to wake with fierce eyes glaring down at him, had been blessed to see Ben laughing as any other child might. He had caused death with his actions, once with his own hands and it had not yet left his dreams. Until his last day he would ask forgiveness for that, but James did not think his course would have been different, even with his knowledge now.

An ache in his arms made him aware of his changed posture, his weight heavy as he leaned closer to the altar, and he forced himself to pull away, tightening his clasped hands until his palms were flat together.

Eyes closed, he heard the sigh at his right, the feather soft reminder that both angels and devils breathed the same air.

No, he would place his soul in jeopardy once more to save René’s life. During his journey from London he had learned death, and during his journey from the Caribbean he had learned love.

Brown cloth, dotted with spots from the rain, appeared before him and James realized he had opened his eyes. He studied his legs for a moment longer, remembering them wrapped in black fabric much less fine; his pose similar to what it had been then, praying only for mercy.

Lifting his gaze to the altar, he saw it empty as it had not been yesterday, and wondered if he were to stay, would he witness a Mass, or if he had simply come at the wrong time to hear the Rites the Catholics had burned for.

Once more he felt the need to bow his head before that bare table, and he nodded to it deeply as he rose, keeping his eyes down until he was fully to his feet as though the King himself stood before him. He turned on his heel and stopped in place to find the nun still there and standing now, half an arm’s length away and watching him carefully.

“My apologies, Lady.” He spoke immediately, his face a touch warm to think he had been so lost to not notice her slight figure until he had nearly knocked her back. James put out a hand to steady her and quickly withdrew it, twitching with surprise when the lady reached and placed her hand to his arm.

Just a light touch, and then her hand darted away, fluttering in the air before returning to her breast. James directed his gaze quickly to her eyes, wondering how he had not noticed the sparkle in the layered brown when he had beheld her eyes the day before.

“You seem more beautiful than I remembered, my love.” Her greeting was delivered in a breathless whisper, and yet James felt himself flinching backward, looking to the ceiling, to the door, certain that the words had been as loud as gunfire. He could feel his heart’s pounding at his throat, and he swallowed, his mouth dry of words.

“I do not think Papa noticed me slip away,” she added when James did not speak. The stiff cloth of her headdress bent as she leaned her head to one side, the pose so like the Lady Suzette’s flirtatiousness that he felt his mouth falling open. All his recent grace was gone it seemed, but he managed to snap his jaw closed, biting his lip to recall the stories of corrupt convents that he had dismissed.

“Madame…?” One word spilled from him at last, and he held his breath as she blinked, the lights falling away from her face as she drew her delicate eyebrows together.

“I am sorry.” She shook her head as though to recover her wits, and then she seemed to grow pale, her eyes large and stricken. “I am sorry,” she said once more, and though he did not know his own reasons, James put out a hand to calm her, resting it gently at her shoulder.

“The fault is mine,” he assured her easily, for in truth he had not looked before he had moved even if that was not what either of them spoke of now.

“I…” Her mouth was slack for another moment, and then James could no longer see it, only the crown of her headdress as the lady lowered her head and kept her gaze on the floor. “Do you seek the Father?”

“Nay,” James replied quickly, his belly twisting a bit at the suggestion of speaking with a priest. But mayhap he spoke too quickly, for she raised her head a fraction to peer up at him. A moment after that her chin was up and at such an angle that James felt himself a naughty, heedless boy of twelve once more.

“You are English.” She arched one eyebrow in such a way that made it not a question at all, and yet James wondered at her surprise. René spoke so disparagingly of his accent he doubted any could hear him and not know his origin, if his height and light hair were not already rare enough in this country. “You had a child.” Her eyes left him at last to search the small chapel for Ben, pulling away from his touch at her shoulder to grasp tightly at the cross hanging from her neck.

James frowned at her gesture, not pleased with the reminder of Ben, and her pitying words about the boy’s soul. That she had meant to be kind in speaking her beliefs kept him silent, straightening up slightly when she turned back to face him.

“He is not here.” She accused with her eyes if her voice remained even, quiet as her fingers worked nervously at the wooden crucifix. “I had hoped…” Abruptly, her face softened, her chin lowering to the humble degree James had seen the day before. “I am a selfish woman. I beg forgiveness.”

She shivered as though a breeze from the storm outside had swept past and looked quickly back over her shoulder, as though expecting another to appear. James followed her gaze and saw no one, though noticed now the door leading beyond the chapel itself, hidden in shadows some distance away.

Her fingers were restless on her cross, too fast to recount prayers, too rapid to be the rhythm of a remembered song, and James felt his mind focusing on the slim, white fingers, the unease with which they held that cross and yet would not let go of it.

“You care for him?” The woman spoke suddenly, and James’ shoulders hitched. He could only wonder how long he had stared at her in silence, and he felt his face heat and forced himself to meet her eyes.

Her gaze was so fast upon him it might have been sewn in place, and though he knew not why, James felt his blush increasing, his face and neck quite warm. He answered hurriedly, since he had not yet done so, and saw that his single word had not eased the force of her stare.

“With all of me that exists.” Hearing his own foolishness would have made his blush return, if it had ever left him. But the words were truth, and he would not recant.

“Yet he is not here, now.” Almost, James could imagine her with a knife at his throat, as though the lady Mirena’s deadliness were to be found in all women, even a servant of God.

“He is at supper.” He answered with more calm then he felt, curious at her intensity when she had spoken a few words only to Ben on their visit yesterday. If she breathed, James could not hear it, and opened his mouth in order to fill the silence with promises, feeling the need to soothe her even if he knew not why. “Shall I bring him back for a visit?”

Another view of a church, even such a one as this would not harm the boy. Truthfully, he thought Ben would benefit from a visit, another opportunity to bask in a woman’s adoration. A bit of cosseting would bring more colour to Ben’s face, so long as she did not speak to Ben of what she had said to him.

“You will be kind to him?” He could not stop himself from demanding, wincing at the lack of gentleness in his tone. His words ended in a small gasp as the lady fell back a step, her hand at her heart as though she had indeed been wounded, and then she was turning and walking away.

She was far away from him in a moment, through one arching doorway to the alcove beyond, her body shadowed outlined by the tiers of melting candles stacked upon the table before her. James studied the straight line of her back, thinking it as unforgiving as Ben’s not long ago, and swallowed, seeking to apologize if only to bring her back. He had frightened a lady of the cloth with his stupid, blundering tongue, and thought perhaps there was too much of the sea still left in him.

“I am sorry, lady.” She was still, unmoving and quiet as the candles sent flickering traces of light and dark on the walls behind her. James put a hand to his mouth, biting the end of his thumb for a moment before pulling away his spectacles and wiping them distractedly on his coat. “But I will curse myself if I must, to keep them…him safe.”

He thought she moved, but could not be certain, pinching his glasses back in place only to find her hand holding a thin piece of wood, setting a tall, fresh candle’s wick aflame.

“God himself is a Father. He knows our pain.” The hissing smoke of the new candle was louder than her whisper, creating a dry prickling at his eyes even from this distance. James blinked, feeling his chin drop in a nod before the sensation had left him. “How old is the child?”

James could see that her head was turned, from the angle of her headdress, but he could not see even the tip of her nose, just her hands as she dropped the burnt stick and adopted a pose of prayer, as though the candle’s flame were now an object of devotion.

“He is….quite small.”

“His life has not been easy.” Truth had always the feel of a blade at his skin, the sting of a dull razor now, not yet the slow torment of a boucan cutting holes in flesh. If only he had not been so slow to understand what others had known from the start. They would never hate him for it, but he could feel the questions in each glare they turned away from him. “I have only now seen…” He could not finish, his voice leaving him to gesture with his hands. She could not see him, he knew, and tried to cough to ease his throat’s tightness.

“He would hide from you, when you seek only to help,” she finished his thought as though she had known his mind, and turned at last, inhaling softly through her nose and letting her eyes close. James licked his lips, his heart beating hard against his sides for several breaths, and then felt it seem to lurch and stop, pushing him forward until he nearly fell.

“I am a fool,” he confessed, grateful that she kept her eyes closed and let the shadows stay between them. “I fear…I fear it is too late, and he is gone.”

“Lost.” Her voice broke, the word wet and slow to emerge from her lips, and she opened her eyes, “…he is lost.”

“Lost?” James’ voice rose to the rafters before he eased it back down, stomping down the sickness in his belly until the sudden trembling in his limbs gentled. “No!” He would not allow it, he would seek Mirena, Deniau, demand a favor of Etienne Saint-Cyr if he found the need. He would bleed, take the pistol he found between the stuffings of René’s great mattresses and deny another their life once more, but he would not allow that. His soul had borne nothing next to the suffering of others, and it would bear these sins now if he wished.

“No?” The lady’s eyes fastened on him, surprise evident in her lifted eyebrow just as her sadness was clear in the bright gleam of her gaze. “You think to save him?”

His thoughts were adrift suddenly, ideas sinking to the depths of black waters, pieces of memories stealing his breath. “I will save him, on my soul.” His soul would be empty, if he did not, and so it was not bravery that gave his words such conviction. His mind would not even grant him the ease of one face, but two, as though their lives and Fates were intertwined, and they would not look at him, did not look to him but left. Lost, aye, just as the lady had said. “I will,” he repeated on a drawn breath, the air letting him focus on something other than the sad stares in his head.

“And mine,” the lady did not hesitate, did not pause to even consider his vow to be real, but stepped forward to question intently, “Will you save mine, Englishman?”

For one short moment James thought the lady’s life in danger, and nearly swallowed his tongue to silence his reply when another thought occurred to him, letting himself choke on his question like the fool he was. Women were often sent to nunneries for reasons other than faith.

He sought a path of delicacy and could not find it, blinking rapidly under her regard before finally stammering something to shatter the quiet between them.

“L…Lost?” He had barely spoken and already she was turning away, dropping her eyes to the floor and letting loose a small cry.

“There was never a way to save the child.” One slender hand came up to her chest. James thought she meant to hold her cross to pray, but instead she chose to clasp her other hand, gripping until her knuckles were white and red crescents marked where her nails pressed into the skin. Her head came back up, and as her eyes fell on him James heard himself gasping. “He carried the sin, my sin from birth.”

“Lady?” His whisper did not stop the flow, the bitter salt that covered her cheeks.

“In his eyes for all Paris to see.” Again, the low cry slipped from her mouth and James knew he flinched, rubbing his chest where an answering cry seemed to streak through him. “But I could not help but hold him, as long as God allowed.”

“He…took…the child?” James felt the chill inside church along his exposed skin, hairs raised on the backs of his hands, his face tingling with the cold.

“He…” The lady stopped there, blinking rapidly and lifting a hand to wipe roughly at her face. Her touch looked hard enough to mark her cheeks with bruises, and without thought, James moved swiftly to stand before her, pushing her hands down. His sharp intake of breath at his daring was nothing to the strangled scream that slipped from her mouth before caught herself, and then, knowing himself to be already damned as mad in her eyes, James wiped the tears from her skin with his thumbs, smiling in a way he hoped she would not find threatening.

For a small moment James thought he had calmed her, his gaze drawn to her eyelids as she lowered her eyes, noticing again the smoothness of her skin, and then he was gaping, finding himself without the ability to speak once more as the lady lifted her head and regarded him warmly. Too warmly by far, was the only thought his mind allowed, and then he was blushing, burning as the lady dropped her head to his hand and sighed.

“And where is René?” At her whisper, James twitched, his shoulders jerking sharply and mayhap it was that which made her suddenly lift her head from him to stare, a soft line between her eyebrows that he thought was a frown. “I know it angers you that I ask.” She smiled, curving lips that trembled, and James felt the temptation to put a hand to her back in comfort.

“The child?” The unease in her limbs spread to his, his muscles shaking though he knew she spoke of a different René, perhaps the child she had lost. The woman was mad, and James saw his own fevered imaginings with sudden light, gentling his hold on her though it would have been difficult to find a feather with a softer touch as it was.

“I have not seen him since yesterday’s breakfast.” She took a hand from him to cross herself, then tore herself away so quickly that James was not certain he had seen her move. “I will look for him if you will not.”

“Lady?” There was no sign of any others in the small church, but James still looked, turning back to face the woman when he heard the crack of thunder, saw the flash behind his eyes. Pain followed the vision, a strange throbbing at his jaw, and it was only when the blood trailed across his tongue from the cut in his cheek that James realized that the lady had struck him. “I…” he began, and knew not what to say, tasting the force of her anger now and swallowing it as best he could.

“I will help you, if you allow me, Lady.” At last words came, as light and slow as the brightness returning to her eyes. As though she starved for his words she watched him, her skin so pale now she seemed of the same flesh as René. Then her head was moving, shaking to deny him or what he had promised, and her feet were slipping behind her to move her backward.

“You are not…” She was gasping, falling silent before she could put a name to the face she had doubtless been imagining. “Who are you?” Both of her hands were at her cross, gripping and pulling so hard he could see the strain in the cord around her neck, and she was murmuring, moving her lips as though he had frightened her into prayer.

He had seen the fear in her eyes before, an unceasing, incredible terror that had left René Villon weeping like a frightened child. Crying at the strength of a nightmarish vision that he had not named, had not dared to name perhaps. Or mayhap James had always stopped René’s tears a moment too soon, unable to bear the sound any longer even if it had meant another riddle unsolved. Perhaps James had also been frightened, and had not wanted to hear the name.

The possibility of his cowardice was too painful to allow now, with so many in need and his shoulders the only ones not bent with pain or burdens, and before he could put a halt to his rambling speech he was renewing his promise, telling what had to be lies even if he meant them, for he had no way of doing what he vowed. As though he was watched by many instead of only one and God, he lifted his chin and inhaled to keep his voice clear of tremors. “I will aid you if I can, keep you safe if you allow it.”

He could feel a weakness in his knees, and resisted the urge to kneel or fall to the floor, staying upright only through remembrance of René’s scorn of such poses; René, who went down on his knees without any loss of dignity, and who did not understand penitence.

But René understood action, movements both brave and careless, where only the resulting blood had meaning. Despite his quickness, he was slow to learn, and James could only wonder how much more would stain the white shirts René favoured before he recognized its value. He would never beg for his own life though others would seek to hear the sound.

“I am sorry. I am sorry.” As though she felt the same weakness in her legs, the woman was falling softly to her knees, with an easy sort of practice though it must have been painful to land unprotected on the stone. James had only a moment for that thought, and then her quiet-voiced litany reached his ears.

Lifting a hand to his face, he felt the frown there, the unhappy twist to his mouth, and gasped, lowering his hand to her head to draw her eyes back up, trying to make himself smile.

“You have no cause to be,” he told her quickly, the muscles in his cheeks stiff and unbending. He knew his scowl deepened, and was grateful at least that her fear had not yet afforded her a glance at his expression. Words caught in his mouth, left him chewing on empty air for a moment, and then he allowed his knees to give at last, bringing him face to face with her loveliness, to the tears trailing from eyes down to her chin, as convinced of her damnation as the child-René had been, burning in his fever.

“And no one will make you feel so.” He bent his head as he spoke, clasping her hands between them and letting the dim light of the dyed glass fall over them as they prayed.