“Damn René Villon to Hell.”

Even in a barely perceptible whisper under his breath, the words startled him, making him jerk his chin up and slam his teeth down into his tongue. It was much too late to silence his foolishness, but a quick frowning glance around him assured him that none of the other clerks had his heard his mumblings. Indeed, James was quite sure that they all had thought him insane for months now, and no longer listened to any of his whispers.

If they had heard, surely there would reproachful stares for daring to say such a thing, or perhaps agreeing ones instead, allowing that a man who had been so sorely used as James had been had a right to curse his user. No doubt even the rogue Villon himself expected no less of him; what man would not, after leading another to his ruin with false promises and the Devil’s own eyes? Oftentimes Villon had seemed ready enough to say the words himself, and would not begrudge them to James now. If the man wished to be damned then damned he would be.

Though it shamed him to realize what he had become, James set his jaw and returned his gaze to the columns of figures on the desk before him. His muscles ached with the effort, tense from hours of wakefulness and waiting, and then hours more of frustration and fury. He would have shifted, but it was only too easy to remember the final chill of his bed, the twists as he had not slept and stared through his tiny window at the clouds covering the stars, listening to Ben’s even breathing at the pallet at the foot of his narrow bed.

Why had he been such a fool, when he more than anyone knew the darkness of René Villon’s soul? No matter if it had been the business of his ship that had kept him, James knew his business was not the Lord’s business, and he had chosen it willingly over…

Grimacing, James moved his legs, sliding in his seat to ease the discomfort of the wooden stool on his arse. Truly, Villon had transformed him, for he had never done such a thing as he had done last night. Even with a woman he would never have dared to press, to crush, and rub in the way that he had done it last night with René. He nearly blushed to remember the fumblings of his younger years, but those had still not possessed the urgency of his taking of the night before, and he let out a quick, hot breath through his nose.

The anger boiling through him now was nothing to that fiery explosion that he would have sworn had burned through the both of them. But his swearing would have been false, as false as René’s words. Villon was a black-hearted liar, with a wicked tongue, and James could still feel the warmth of his words as they had been murmured into his chest though he rubbed the spot harshly with his fist to banish it.

Demanding that James give him the title of lover and then vowing to return, only to disappear into the night with his pet beast. Sir Marvell, mercifully, had said nothing of the matter, mayhap he was ignorant of it, though that James doubted. But then, the elder man had arisen and left the house before James, and had only briefly paused to tell James to stay in the office before he had left that too, well over an hour ago.

Ben too, had said nothing, and James could only wonder if the child had been awake to hear him enter the room at such a late hour and then toss about in his sheets until the light of morning. The boy had only asked to come into town today and then had, as usual, slipped away the moment James had turned his head. James could only hope that he was safe out in the streets with no one to watch over him, even if it was no longer night, and the streets were filled with decent business.

Anything could happen in these streets, the occasional guard was nothing in a place funded by the work of thieves and killers. A man could be waylaid or set upon by cutthroats for his coat if they found it fancy enough, something so common that no one thought anything of it, other than to be sure to bring guards with them. It would be discreet, kept to the dark alleys and side streets where no one might see the crimes being committed, but it was there.

Still rubbing his chest, James raised his eyes, sweeping his gaze once more around the room, stopping at the door, opened to allow a view of the street.

Jewels. His mind spat the word at him furiously as though from nowhere. Villon had offered jewels, and then his mouth once more. Surely he had been ready to fall to his knees like the doxy he had denied that he was. Wiry muscles had played under James’ fingertips as James had grabbed the man’s arms to prevent it and forcibly hold him up. Though why he had bothered he did not know, not when the man was more than willing, and had likely sailed off into the sun with his beast and his gold hours ago.

He had left those same jewels behind; James had had to gather them together and hide them in his room. It would serve Villon fair if James were to give them away now, distribute them among streets bawds and beggars and clerks who bent over little desks in steaming rooms for greedy masters, perhaps even to the bonded servants like Pym had meant to be.

If he had left them as a token, thinking that James would be only too eager to await his return one day he was mistaken. His cock might twitch to be surrounded by the corsaire’s body as it had been last night, but it meant nothing. The soft, black curls that had tickled his palms would grow white before James would come to him again.

Odd to think of how it had tickled, how even his breath had teased and warmed, when nothing from the man would suggest such a softness. René, who had torn his clothing and clawed at him wildly enough to leave marks when he had had tried to pull the slightest inch away, who had bitten him days ago, and months before that, and who had wrapped his legs tightly around his body. And who, James could not make himself forget, had threatened the life of the only friend he had made in Jamaica.

He would see Etienne later that day, if Sir Marvell allowed it. It was something to concentrate on, to imagine the encounter and his relief at seeing Etienne unharmed, something a thousand times better than the way another man’s muscles had clenched around him to prevent his leaving.

And his mouth, sweeter than a custard tart, lips quivering with shock and then delight as James had kissed him, as surprised no doubt as James had been in his daring. But he had not known men to kiss one another in such a fashion, so sugar-sweet and yearning that he still felt the prick of perspiration at his neck and at his back, and the tight tug of his breeches. It would not do however, and he resolved once more to turn his mind away, an easy enough thing once he also recalled how sweet Villon had also seemed with his last words, those false, wicked lies of his farewell.

Genuine or no, the offer shamed, and it was best that the corsaire had left him behind once again, just as James had guessed that he would do once his lust was appeased. And appeased it had been, due to James’ weakness, even if René had seemed only too willing to return to him.

The sound of his name brought him from the memory of the red coat disappearing from his view once again, and he had turned to look around the room at the other clerks before realizing that the shrill cry had come from outside. There was only time for that, and then Ben was bent over in the doorway, pausing to catch his breath.

James was up from his seat at the sight of the colour filling Ben’s face, tossing aside his quill and letting it fall carelessly to the desk.

“Are you well?” Uncaring of the other clerks, James strode quickly to the boy’s side, but Ben had apparently recovered his breath, and stood straight to nod at him. Then to James’ confusion, the boy shook his head and gestured excitedly at something James could not fathom. “What is it?”

He looked well enough, though obviously aroused by some event that he had seen or been a part of in the town, and James let out a little sigh of relief before he frowned in annoyance to feel the stares of the other men, eager for any distraction.

“It’s…” Ben hissed to silence and then darted his eyes around the room as though expected Old Nick himself to appear before his eyes in a burst of fire and brimstone.

“Yes?” James demanded, wondering if this was simply another victory that had resulted in more coin for Ben. It must have been great, to have him so excited, but he was busy and much too tired for such child’s play now.

“Villon,” Ben finished before James could finish even his thoughts, or ask Ben to lower his voice.

Abruptly he could feel the frame of the door under his palm, hard and oddly cool to the touch, sticky after only a moment of contact. His arm shook, and he lowered it, letting go the doorframe and blinking rapidly.

Ben’s shoulders were curled over his thin body, and he stood half in the street, glaring sideways at James with his head turned as though he had been expecting a blow. James blinked once more and then tossed his head, pushing away the thought for now to raise his eyes to the street, almost expecting to see the familiar crimson coat. “Where?” Quiet, but it made Ben stand straight and lean back toward him, so close that James wondered just how soft his word had been.

“Not far. But, Master James,” Ben’s voice rose to a sharp pitch, cracking slightly, “his ship is gone!”

“So he hath sailed.”

Ben had said not far, but surely if his ship had sailed then the man had sailed with it. But Ben was making noises low in his throat and James could hear the murmur from behind him, as some man smarter than he said the word aloud and others answered.

“Mutiny.” Only that and yet it was more than enough.

He blinked, for his eyes were less dry than before, and then he felt his forehead wrinkling as he puzzled over the word, knowing what it meant, the crime of it on a navy vessel. But le Diable Noir was no ship of His Majesty’s, or even of the French king, and the pirates had a different way of looking at such a thing. No doubt Villon himself had seized his ship in a similar attack, taking some poor captain and executing him on the spot. Only now it was René with his neck before the knife.

He could not see it, could not imagine anyone ever gaining the advantage of the dark corsaire, no matter how slight he seemed, had felt when James had pressed him to the desk.

“He is dead then?” James inhaled deeply, and focused on Ben, noting how his disheveled hair fell into his face as he shook his head violently from side to side. Villon would never bow before anyone; it would have come from behind, a cowardly attack from someone he trusted. “Where was Marechal?” The beast should be lifeless now, falling down to protect René was nothing to a man so devoted, and if he had failed then surely he had to be dead as well.

But Ben only blinked, and pressed one hand to James’ arm, and James realized that his words lacked reason. He swallowed, his tongue thick and large, and tried to speak, feeling as stumbling as he had when he had first met Villon, and had felt the sharp sting of the blade pushing into his skin.

“I dinna know, Master James. But the ship is gone, and the docks are nothin’ but talk of it.” Pulling away, Ben jerked his head in the direction of the streets, clearly wanting James to follow him.

Not far, Ben had said, and James thought of that, and the effect of the heat upon an unburied corpse, and the gaol in Spanish Town. Neither of which had Ben mentioned, and still he pulled toward the street, with more urgency now.

“Sir Marvell will need to know.” He must have said it, because a man behind him answered, and he nodded without turning, acknowledging that he would leave to find his employer and impart this news. He did not pause for the wig still at his desk, but shouldered past Ben to enter the brightness of the street, wincing at the effect on his tired eyes.

If it was on the docks, likely Sir Marvell knew already, or would soon enough, and it would be best if he knew more before telling Sir Marvell rumours alone.

“Where?” he asked though Ben was already trotting hurriedly ahead of him, heading toward the sea. Where ships could have been seen already if buildings had not blocked his view. For the first time he thought of L’Aranha, wondering if she had faced a similar Fate or if she had perhaps been the cause of René’s downfall.

Ben stopped, and James looked up, startled to see them standing in front of a tavern, or perhaps an inn from the look of it. Probably it served mostly sailors, being so close to the water, with drink and food downstairs and beds upstairs for sleep and company. One man stood in front, leaning sloppily against the wall by the door, and it was only his leaning pikestaff that named him as a guard, though it was impossible to tell by sight who or what he guarded, or why. James felt his stomach tighten, the remains of his breakfast rising in his throat.

“Why would Villon be here?” He would not ask how the child knew, knowing enough of Ben’s curious nature to know that if he had heard the rumours, that he would have found out all he could; he had always been interested in Villon, since the first moments on The Queen of Sheba, with Carter bound to the mast between them.

“Don’t know what to do with the bastard,” the guard answered him without looking up from the ground and James in turn looked past him, trying to peer through the closed door, still unable to imagine René locked up as a prisoner, even in this place. The door gave him no answers, and he looked back to the guard, who yawned widely.

“Why do you keep him?” His feet moved forward as he demanded it, and the other man sprang up as if surprised, holding out the staff warily so that James had to stop. But it was not the first time he had had a blade aimed at his middle, and perhaps that was why it did not frighten him now. He could hear the crunch of Ben’s footsteps behind him, pausing at his back. They waited, and the other man jerked the staff with force as he explained.

“Body might be worth something to somebody.” The pointed tip of the metal nearly tore through James’ coat as the man swung it to and fro with lazy arms, and James pulled the cloth tight to his body, fighting the urge to step back.

“He might be…” There James had to agree, knowing full well that René would have scores of enemies, and scores more of enemies who posed as his friends if his ship were any indication. If he were truly alive, and under guard in this place, it was only a matter of time before those enemies reached him or the Jamaican government decided to execute another pirate to appease the merchants. It was, he supposed faintly, a miracle that he had not been killed, if mutiny it truly had been. In fact, it was quite puzzling that he was still alive, and for that James frowned at the guard, lifting his chin to regard him seriously. “…If he is in there as you say.” Inhaling, he finished his words, keeping his voice clear. “And alive.”

To his surprise the other man stepped back at his words, letting the pikestaff dip toward the ground. He seemed to have forgotten it, or mayhap it grew heavy, James did not care which, stepping forward again, until he could have struck out at the man if he had wished to.

“We just found him, m’brother and I.” No longer yawning, the man was nodding his head almost eagerly. “Brother owns the inn. Found ‘im, in the back, just as he is now. Heard the stories later.”

And from those he had determined René’s identity. If his words were truth, though it was hard to credit, René escaping from the hands of greedy crewmen only to come here. It made little sense, even if he had been desperate or injured, bleeding from a multitude of wounds.

“You come to buy him?” The guard was smiling now, tilting up his head to study him. James did not smile back, though he understood his meaning.

“That’s how I knew.” Ben interrupted as he stepped out from behind him. “Heard a man telling the story in a tavern sayin’ how he was going to find out about a price on his head.”

“Greedy bugger,” the man mumbled with obvious rancor, glancing away in what James assumed was his brother’s direction.

“If not that then mayhap he would make a good field worker,” James suggested quietly, knowing the tales of how men fell to sleep as freemen and woke up bonded slaves to the fields. His shoulders hitched and he rolled them to ease the tension, wanting to glance around him to see if armed men or Sir Marvell were close but not yet daring. The sweat dripped down his neck as he looked at the door instead, wondering how much time there would be before the others did find out what Ben had been lucky enough to overhear from this man’s brother; he had no doubt that that was who had been boasting of it drunkenly. How many would come seeking to find out the truth as James had?

He coughed, and the man’s eyes were ready enough on his face, in fact they had never left it, and James could only wonder distantly why they were so white and round. Keeping his words short did not seem to relax the man any, but James was beyond feeling concern for now.

“How much just to see him?”

Once in his pocket his fingers trembled, smoothing slickly over the heaviness of the gold coin, feeling the familiar ridges of the stamping. Then he bit down hard on his tongue and slipped the gold free, holding high in the air for the man to study. The late morning sun upon it likely made a pretty shine, judging from the answering light in the guard’s expression.

Spending Villon’s coin to view his body now. Somehow James knew he ought to be amused, but lines of his face felt too stiff for laughing. When the other man licked his lips without actually answering, James tossed the gold at him, surprised to feel the sudden lightness of his hand as it left him. Villon had transformed him, for just as the corsaire had in Tortuga, James walked on without looking to see whether or not the man followed, pausing only to grab Ben by the back of his shirt and keep him at his side.

It was empty inside, too early in the day for drinking men, or maybe they had simply been ordered out by their hosts when they had found the man they claimed was René Villon. There were many filthy tables arranged on the stained floor, and the air was thick with smoke and various stenches since some person had closed the windows. The heat was cruel, and James swung around to glare at the man as he entered behind them and shut the door, a sudden lack of patience making him bite out his question.

“Where?”

Still looking over the coin, the man just waved a hand toward the stairs, so James did not waste more time talking, and headed down the stairs, taking several at a time. A narrow, dark hallway met him, and the door to the first room was opened part of the way, just enough for him to see the bared feet of a man on the floor. One slight push with his hand and the door swung inward, showing him a small, slight figure of a man curved to face the opposite wall.

His back was as bare as his feet, pale like milk, especially so with the darkness of the long, matted hair that fell over him like a ragged cloak. Bumps of the man’s spine were visible to him, so tightly was he curled about himself, and James swallowed dryly, his palms itching as he recalled the feel of them through Villon’s shirt only the night before. He had never been permitted to see this much of René’s flesh, and now his eyes made him sick with it, noting the rich black of the bruises about the bones of his hips, and knowing that it was likely that he had put them there.

He watched the chest rise and fall before moving his gaze to the dirty fabric of the loose pantaloons, untied by any belt or sash, no sign of any weapon tucked away. It was that which made James kneel carefully beside his body, holding his breath as he reached out to touch a naked shoulder.

René’s skin was cold, despite the heat of the place, but James’ touch did not elicit any reaction from him, other than a small, whispering push of breath.

Uncertain, James twisted his head to look about him and saw Ben, standing and studying the scene with curious eyes and a set face. Turning back quickly without chastising the child for following him up here, James tightened his hold on René and rolled him onto his back, nearly falling to the floor himself to see black eyes opened and focused on him.

“René?” His throat closed, but that he could manage, letting go of the other man in order to steady himself. The black eyes did not even blink, and James realized that they were not, as he had thought, on him at all.

“Non!” René murmured in a low, raw voice, and closed his eyes, squeezing his eyes shut as though pained when his body shook weakly on a cough. How in the Lord’s name had he come to this, James asked himself, and then shook the thought aside.

“René,” he said with more urgency, looking back just as Ben did the same, to the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. He reached out again, placing one hand to the flatness of his chest, and felt the uneven, rapid beat of René’s heart. But those eyes opened once more, and this time James saw the fire of them, a fury that only banked itself after a long, hard moment that left them both trembling.

“James?” René seemed thirsty, the slow way he uttered his name so horribly needful that James glanced around the room quickly once more, but he had nothing to give him, did not know what he needed. It did not matter now in any case, not with others coming and Villon in this state. He was scowling, but it did not soothe James to see the familiar frown, not with his body so slight and unsteady, and his voice so weak, almost like a child’s.

“Is it him?” The guard had returned to them to ask, and René’s dark eyes follow the sound, his face darkening as he seemed to see his captor though the man was no longer armed, and the room he was in, for the first time, flitting about and seeming to see a thousand attackers in the dust of the air. James pushed back his questions about what had happened, letting out a heavy breath.

“Are you well? Can you rise?” Ignoring the foul man for now, James slid a hand under René’s body to assist him. The muscles above him tensed on the instant and René jerked away, breathing shallowly as he shifted and glared wildly at the three of them gathered in the small room.

“Vous ne me toucherez pas!” he barked furiously, and brought his hands to the ground to push himself up, grunting as his legs bent awkwardly before him. Sweat covered him at the small movement, but James leaned back, feeling his belly tighten.

“Then get up on your own,” he told René in as smooth a voice as he could manage, pulling his useless hands away and getting to his feet, rubbing his chest once as he did. He did not look at René as the other man yelled out at him in his own tongue and fought to stand, using furniture to raise himself up on his unsteady legs.

He had been a fool to come here; James cursed himself in his mind louder even than René could in his harsh voice. Villon did not welcome his interference, never had, and more than deserved whatever punishment he had been spared the night before from his crew. What punishment he was about to receive now from the island’s citizens. Hanging after torture, if he were fortunate, or had friends he could bribe. But of course he had no money to bribe now either, just a bag of jewels that he had tossed at James as the price of a few fucks.

“My ship?” The breathless cursing halted suddenly, and there was the sound of the Frenchman falling back against the wall when his feet would not entirely support him, and it was that more than the English words that made James turn his gaze back on Villon. He winced when he did, unable to stop himself.

Back to the wall, Villon had one hand wrapped tightly around the loose waist of his pantaloons to keep them at his hips, and the other at his side, where a sword ought to have been. Stark and aching, the bruises covered his shoulders as well; the same shade as the lines under his eyes, near to the same colour as those eyes themselves. And now that he faced them, James could see the thin line of what looked to be dried blood falling from behind one ear to his bent, jutting shoulder.

“Gone,” Ben answered him when James was silent, but he felt it when those hard eyes swung from him to the child, steady even as René’s legs were not. His skin seemed to grow paler, at Ben’s answer, James thought, though when he also looked to Ben, the boy seemed pale as well, his high colour of earlier disappearing.

“You have little time left until they come for you,” James added, his heart beating faster at the quiet little flinch of Villon’s white shoulders, the only sign that he had heard James’ warning at all, still staring at Ben.

“So ‘tis him after all.” The growling question was nearly in James’ ear, and he jerked his head up, having forgotten the innkeeper’s brother. But then he nodded, keeping his gaze on René, wondering if even a man like Villon would pray before the noose. He could not imagine it anymore than he could imagine him begging for his life from a traitorous crew. He would die never knowing that grace either.

“James?” He thought it was Ben’s quiet voice; it must have been, for no other in that room would have entreated him so hopefully, would have even had any hope. It was madness.

“Aye,” James murmured without moving his lips, as though Ben had not spoken. “How much for him?”

Blinking rapidly, René turned back to him, licking his lips without seeming to be aware of the action. It made him look almost frightened, something that made James look away though he knew it was impossible. He cleared his throat as he turned, and breathed carefully so he would not stammer his next words. “I have a treasure of precious stones that I am eager to part with.” If his suit gave the man doubt of that, there was only his association with a cutthroat to consider.

There was silence, not even the frantic swearing and blaspheming that had followed René’s rise from the floor. But the guard did not seem to sense it; clutching his fingers around the single piece of gold he had already been given. “I work for Sir Marvell, if you doubt my word. Surely you have heard of him.” There were few on Jamaica who had not. “Your stones are at his house, kept in my rooms.”

“My brother…” the man tried to protest, but it was weak, and James nearly shook his head but his frozen muscles would not allow it. But he did not need complete agreement, he just needed silence. It would not be long before they were all caught and hanged together for this lunacy. He did not even know where his words had come from, or what he would do when they were beyond the door, and back out in the street, and he could feel the sick laughter bubbling in his belly. But he had come so far already.

“If not, then perhaps René can teach you to use your pikestaff.” He did laugh, a short, mad chuckle that made the guard step back and reach slowly for the weapon he had left in the main room.

“James!” Ben was crying out in the next moment as though alarmed and James sighed at the pain in his hand as the lazy guard fell to floor, looking startled at the blow James had dealt him before closing his eyes in sleep.

“We must hurry,” James told the other two quietly, wanting to close his eyes. But when he did there was only René’s slender body, and the unknown awaiting them outside. They had nowhere to go, and he was damning the boy along with them.

“I will go alone.” As if knowing his thoughts, Villon spoke, and James looked to him with disbelief. René had always seemed to know his mind, but to make such a claim, when he could not move from the wall was nearly enough to sicken him anew. He swallowed once, then again when René pushed away from the wall defiantly and took one awkward, odd step forward.

Even his lips seemed to lose colour at the tiny move and James felt the panic take hold of him. He crossed to him in two steps.

“It seems we will die together, René” James spoke the truth he had long suspected quietly as he reached out to gather him close, and jumped back when the other man’s face twisted into a snarl, and René struck out against his chest with a strength that looked to kill him from the way he dropped his shoulders afterward. His next shove had no force at all.

“No!” René told him with a fierceness that belied his ill state, but James slid his arms around his unresisting form and lifted him from the floor. The full weight of another man, even such a small man, was something he had not really had to bear the night before, and he grunted slightly now, though he did not let go his grip, and steadied the arm curved around René’s narrow back.

René was careful against him, breathing faintly in and out, and, just as faintly, trembling with exhaustion and perhaps pain. But he did not fight again, and James shut his eyes, wishing his hands did not press on cold, bruised flesh. One of many things to wish and pray for now, and he listed them silently as he turned and found Ben quivering with excitement in the doorway.

“Hurry,” James told him, with no need, as Ben hopped ahead of them, darting up the stairs with nary a sound. With a last look at the sleeping man, James followed, stepping carefully as he could not see over René’s quiet form.

“You struck him.” He almost did not catch the words despite René’s closeness and the silence of the empty inn. James glanced down as best he could, and saw only the back of Villon’s head, noticing suddenly how swollen it seemed, and the matted, sticky strands of hair. He had been struck as well, from behind, and had bled quite profusely.

“Aye,” Knowing that Villon likely thought him a liar to act from wrath when he had preached peace, James acknowledged the thing he had done, but his mind was elsewhere, and he allowed the quiet to remain as he carried René Villon from the inn. His body was heavy, and James’ arms felt the strain of his tightened hold, but there were no more protestations from the smaller man until the sunlight was full upon them both.

The brightness made James turn his head from it for one moment, and he froze at the sudden warmth of breath on his neck as Villon hid his head against him, the light no doubt like stabbing pains to his tired eyes. James shifted his arms, trying to stretch to block the light with one hand, and René jerked his head up to glare at him, his lips tightening in pain or displeasure, or both no doubt. He never had been long pleased with James’ foolishness.

“Release me,” he commanded without a moment’s pause, and kicked out one foot. It was a weak gesture, as James did not think Villon would be able to stand, and yet he had to obey. A silly, obvious picture they made, with him carrying the man in the street. And as it was, he could not carry him much farther either, not without falling over himself, or drawing attention to themselves. And still he had no notion of where to take him, of what to do once Sir Marvell discovered his treasonous actions. There was nowhere for either of them to go as yet, and the street only meant that soon someone would see them.

“Ben?” He made Ben’s name a soft question, as if quiet words would keep them all hidden for a greater length of time, but Ben turned regardless, and then stopped to stare at him with an expression of confusion. His eyes however, were bright as they traveled from the man in his arms and then back up to his face. Quickly, James pressed on, though he hated to ask it of the child, when he was already endangering him. “Could you look ahead, see if there are…?”

“…Men comin’?” Ben finished for him with an easy smile, as though uncaring of the risk in what James asked of him, of Sir Marvell’s sharp eyes.

“Yes, but....” He could not stop himself from adding more, wanting to pull Ben back when the boy began to step away. But the boy was already imperiled along with them, and would be able to slip places where James would be noticed. Still, he lacked words.  “…Have care.” He looked down the street when Ben would not and almost missed the sudden, furious drop of Ben’s eyebrows, and the tight set of his jaw.

“You have care, Master James, not I.” The child’s words gouged him even as his eyes widened with the appearance of innocence, and then he was spinning around on his heel and running away from them.

The growing ache of his arms finally made James step back from his view of Ben’s distant figure, and he was reminded of René, and then astounded that he had forgotten. He ducked back into the inn and remembered at last Villon’s demand.

“I am a fool.” James exhaled and loosened his grip slowly, letting Villon slide down the length of his body to the ground, though keeping his hands on his shoulders so he would not fall.

“Aye.” The sneer that twisted René’s face brought the colour to James’ cheeks, the mocking tone to his word draining it away and making his lips fall open on a startled breath. But René only shook his head at him and continued to sneer, regarding him dismissively. “You are a fool not to leave now like the boy, when I want you to go.”

With a sound like a groan, Villon shook himself free of James’ hands and backed away one step to stare at him. A spot of colour reddened his face now, a splotchy, uneven sort of red, like a sick man, and his eyes held that same feverish sparkle as he opened his mouth and tried to say more.

“But I have not finished with thee,” James spoke first, firming his voice and pulling away from Villon. The man had chosen to stand on his own, and told him to go, and it was only the knowledge that René had said it because he could not be the one to leave that kept James in the inn at all. Villon was shaking on his feet even now as he looked up with evident surprise, flinging his curls back and then wincing at what the undoubtedly strong throb of pain in his head. “There is something owed,” James murmured, mostly for his own ears, but René narrowed his black eyes and reached out, supporting himself against one low table. James stretched out a hand and found a chair behind him, though he could not sit yet, for fear that he would grow faint and be unable to rise again.

“Wh…what happened?” To his shame, his stammers returned at last, but he had no time to curse himself, not with so little time left now that each breath seemed almost wasted. But the need to know was a burn in his chest.

Villon was still, watching him with eyes that did not move, and James felt the wood pound against his fist as it hit the side of the chair. “Your ship, René? What passed?” An open mutiny was still a blank in his mind, not against this man, even moon-faced and strung up across from him now, like some dead man already twisting in the breeze. “Damn you, René!” That burst from him so hard it hurt, for there was still no reaction from Villon. “Where was Marechal?” The most baffling question of all, the beast’s absence when his master had needed him, and James’ voice deepened and roughened with his temper as he fought for the words.

“Il n’est rien to you what passed!” The ground shook with the force of the shout, or mayhap it was the shaking of René’s body as he flung himself flat against James, nearly knocking them both to the floor. James had a startled moment to get his hands up as though fending off a blow and then Villon was upon him, dispensing of his feeble attempt at defense by slapping his hands away as though they were of no consequence. That he had not had the strength to stand alone a moment ago seemed to James a distant, mistaken thought as ivory hands pushed him back and down into the chair, making him gasp at the unrelenting wood on his rear, protesting in small, shocked words that René ignored.

He felt the warm, stale air of the inn on his stomach as his shirt was torn from his belt and pushed up, and the sweaty skin prickled, tightening as René scraped a hand across it and then shoved it crudely into his pantaloons, settling carefully on his knees and arching his body away from James even as his hands took liberties.

“René!” James nearly choked on the name, twitching against his will at the familiar cradle of René’s palm, and René rubbed his cock furiously, latching onto his shoulder with his mouth at the same time and tightening his teeth around a section of cloth, pressing into the flesh. A bruising ache followed it, and James twisted his head, grateful only that the inn had been closed, and that there was no sign of René’s former captor. “This is not…”

A growl from René silenced him, and hair spilled over his face as René sat up and leaned into him at last, his face and eyes so starkly lit that James could no longer speak to look on him. He fumbled as he sat there, and moaned uncontrollably as René licked his red lips in a deliberate taunt, flicking out the pink tip of his tongue over his teeth.

“This is mine.” René recovered his English only to spit and bark like some furious animal of a menagerie, but James was straining against the chair as the warm cradle became a crushing grip, squeezing his prick until the whole of the blood in James’ body seemed to pound there. Still, he squirmed, and the pressure grew harder, punishing and painful. “You are mine.”

“I…?” James could not finish the thought, knowing it was foolish to argue with this madman and yet unable to entirely stop himself, even as wet breath heated his cheeks and black eyes raged for him.

“Les miens!”  The taut whisper was nothing as his prick was abruptly released and his balls crushed beneath a wandering hand, and then he felt the pressure of fingers pushing inside of him. His mouth opened, gasping for air at the forgotten burn of it, but he was given no time to relax himself, just a rough, stinging entry. His stomach trembled, or the floor shook once more, and the body above him was cold and heavy, shaking; he had thought it to be the floor. He turned his head away from the merciless, strange eyes and looked to the door, which yet remained closed.

Harsh breathing did not tickle his ear, but echoed and wheezed like an old man’s rattle, and James lifted his hands, finding René’s waist and shoving him back.

“Stop!” He shouted it loud, and desperately, pushing his own chair back and letting Villon leave his hands. “You are not well!” That he had to say also, watching how René stumbled and barely kept his footing, his eyelids growing heavy and his face draining of its momentary meretricious glitter. James breathed, several times, sucking in air and holding himself still, unwilling even to adjust his clothing yet.

René spun almost before his eyes, swaying as though he might fall at any moment, as though there were no ground beneath him at all, but he did not attempt to return to his position on James’ lap, and James put out one hand carefully as he got to his feet, using the other to tuck his shirt into his loosened pantaloons. “You are not well, René,” he repeated softly, to hear himself say it, for René seemed not to hear him.

“You are a fool who will not leave,” René said quietly as though James had not spoken, half-turned from him. But the words carried, and James felt his mouth tighten, a thousand choice words in kind held behind his lips by the sheerest scrap of will. The pallor of his skin said clear enough the other man was not well, though his ill temper was familiar enough.

“Then perhaps I will leave,” he tested this and received no answer, leaving him with a frowning face and an empty body. Nodding slowly, he moved at last, stepping past Villon’s still figure toward the door.

As though startled, though James had not Villon’s silent way of walking, René jerked around, and it was only the lack of a sword in his hand that saved James from an unintentional gutting. A pale face grew paler and then James barely got his arms up in time to catch his falling figure, but he felt the trembling of René’s form as he sagged against him, and hands grasped at his hips to stay upright.

“James,” René whispered, and James lifted his chin and looked out over where the street stretched out, beyond the wall and door, to where Ben would soon be waiting.

“Marechal.” The name came to his mind cautiously and he said it so, feeling the tense, worn muscles under his hands fairly falling apart with the strength of their quivering, answer enough to his next question. “He is…dead?” If he were not then he must certainly be a traitor to his lord, and René’s vengeance would find him for his betrayal. Rage surely was what tightened the slender body in his arms at the name of Marechal, humiliation at what had been taken from him, his great ship.

“I will take you to the docks.” James decided abruptly, no longer surprised to hear the madness issue from his lips, though knowing he spoke the words that would lead to his own end. “You have friends there?”

“You will not,” René countermanded him instantly, and James blinked and frowned, pulling slightly on one naked arm. Villon immediately leaned to the side, nearly toppling and it was James’ arm which saved him from falling, not his own.

“I think today we will do what I wish, René,” James told him faintly, and sensed the fury in the impotent body. He laughed softly, and knew René misunderstood it, though he did not give him the true reason as he kept his eyes from the chair just paces from them both. But he set the still, weak man carefully on his own feet when his mirth had faded. “After you are safe, you will no doubt want to kill me if my lord Marvell has not. Now here is my coat.”

He stripped it off, eager to be rid of it with the heat in any case, and held it out to René who was watching him with eyes as narrow as shards of glass, and just as sharp. Nearly, James recalled his first impression of the Devil, though then there had been amusement softening his expression even if James had not recognized that emotion as such until afterward. But now his look lacked even that as he struggled to scowl and small beads of sweat dotted across his chest, and James was reminded instead of Ben glaring at him in the street moments ago.

“Sailors may go bare-chested, Villon, but none are so pale as you,” James explained, and resigned himself to playing a French valet once more when René did not move. It was more like the dressing of a girl’s poppet than dressing a struggling Ben, for René’s arms remained limp and still even as he glowered and undoubtedly cursed James in French words that James yet lacked knowledge of. Yet James was grateful for it, keeping his touches light, and his body an arm’s reach from the smaller man. All of René’s strength seemed to have left him again, but he was steadier on his feet now, and his chin was raised high enough to make James wonder if it had ever been anything else.

When he had finished, brushing the coat quickly over the bones of his hips and then moving to loosely button it over the pale, abused chest, Villon ended his mutterings. Cutthroats likely had taken the man’s other clothes from him, and James knew that another sharply cutting smile crossed his face at the thought of another stealing Villon’s crimson coat. He left it there, uncaring if René saw his madness or not, knowing that perhaps now his soul was growing as black as his and suddenly too weary to care overmuch.

“To the water so I may be rid of you at last,” he mumbled indistinctly, remembering how he had once felt the desire to swim in the clean sea surrounding them. Then he opened the door and looked out, sighing to see they still went unnoticed.

“I will go alone to the waters.” Without looking at him, René took a slow step to the door and crossed the threshold, lifting one hand to shade his face. He came near to James and James drew back against the doorframe, shaking his head.

“Our Fates seem bound together, Villon,” he remarked, and noted that René’s other hand had returned to hold up his loose breeches. “Ben will return soon, and it will be a long walk for you.”

“The child!” René spat with an abrupt violence that nearly made James take a step back, but Villon said no more through his closed, white lips, and his feet did not attempt to carry him away. The offer to carry him turned sour on James’ tongue as they waited, until he swallowed to be free of the bitterness. They did not speak again until Ben came from the down the road, surefooted and quick in their direction, though he stopped well short of them.

“The lady hasn’t sailed,” he reported clearly enough, putting one hand over his eyes to squint at James. Before James could ask which lady, Ben was turning his contemplative frown on René. “The lady captain they said was named for her quinny, who did her business with m’lord Marvell.”

“L’Aranha?” James glanced at the pale, frozen figure next to him and breathed the word, ignoring Ben’s crude remarks. If L’Aranha had not been behind René’s trials, then she might yet be a friend; if René Villon had people he named as friends, surely it would be someone that he allowed such intimacies. He and the woman had touched many times, and she had even struck René and gone unharmed. René denied that they were lovers, but a woman’s soft heart would not allow her to turn away an injured and weakened man. “Is she with Sir Marvell now?” The previous night’s ill business would have affected her as well, left them all with a useless arrangement.

Ben answered that she was not and James blinked, realizing that his eyes had not left René. “May we trust her?”

“I will go alone to the water,” the other man repeated, meeting his gaze and then taking a shuddering step from the door.

“To fall in?” Ben questioned boldly and James twisted his head away from René with his mouth open.

“Ben!” Not long ago, the boy had seemed to see Villon as some idol of courage or wickedness, and now his green eyes were the merest slivers, so cool as to make James shiver. But there was little time for this now as well, and James closed his eyes, smoothing back his hair, aware that strands had been knocked free by René’s forceful embrace. “We must go, and quickly, before we are discovered.”

“Him too?” Ben jerked his chin in Villon’s direction, setting his feet apart before he turned back to study James. “She might take us along, but we don’t need him for it.”

“You want to leave this place?” His strained voice rose high, and James glanced between the two figures before him, feeling the dark thickness in his mind urging him to turn away, to sleep and wake up to find himself in a green meadow of the countryside, resting in the arms of someone claiming to love him. But he could not sleep, and he knew Ben’s answer, for Ben had given it already in Sir Marvell’s office.

René’s eyes were burning against the waxy colour of his face, the borrowed coat dropping loosely past his wrists, giving his chest the impression of depth until he breathed and the shadows were shown to be empty of solid flesh. Perhaps he had been so thin before, and James had seen only the red of that bloody coat; it was impossible to tell now, with him looking nearly as starved as the child had been when James had first known him. And yet now the man and that child wore nearly the same face, hating him surely for his failure to act, his weakness in staying when he ought to leave.

“I will see thee to the lady’s ship, Villon, and there we shall leave you.” Villon was so eager to be rid of them that he still glared, taking a wide step backward and guiding himself with one hand pressed to the wall.

“Enough, Ben!” James shouted a moment later in something nearly like his father’s voice when Ben looked ready to protest, and then slashed the air viciously with one hand. “We have no time for this.” He strode forward to keep himself from swooning to the ground and sent his eyes upward to the Heavens, seeing the sky a clear blue and hoping the Lord meant it to lighten their spirits.

Villon was still walking on his unsteady, spread legs, looking as James must have on his first days aboard a sea vessel, and so James paused near him. To steady him and hurry them on their way, he slid his arm around the tense muscles of René’s waist and pulled the other man hard against his side, his belly full of serpents that stung him acidly with each place the other man touched him. But he pushed away his sickness and looked upward again, nearly wishing for a cloud in the empty sky.

Cold pressed into James even through his shirt and the coat René wore, and he thinned his lips, wondering at how long he had lain on the floor. Even a criminal deserved better than the chill of the ground, even if few others had ever seemed to share his view.

His grip would not allow René to pull away though he tried until a grunt escaped him, and James’ tightly closed mouth curved into a harsh smile. It lasted until he turned to find Ben, and entreated him hurriedly with his free hand, wincing as his other hand brushed against René’s stomach.

“Please, Ben,” James begged readily, wanting Ben to remain within his sight now, sighed in dizzied relief when he saw the challenging frown that meant Ben found his words displeasing but would follow nonetheless to prove him a fool yet again.

The cold muscles underneath his palm shivered, moments before René himself shuddered, and James realized he had flattened out his hand to hold the struggling body still.

“If we find you a bottle, Villon, others might think you drunk,” James whispered harshly, vaguely surprised at how quiet the other man grew when he spoke. “Not a difficult role for René Villon to play, even in this state.” His mouth continued to move even as his brain seemed to grow still, as quiescent as the man in his arms, but a distant logic seemed to come with the words. The liquor might warm the man’s blood. René was cold as well as limp in his hands, and it took only a little effort to assist him down the way a few steps, half-carrying him. It took his dignity from him, to be nearly dragged, but not nearly as much as his falling in the dirt might do, and it was probably more than he deserved in any case. As for James, he had grown accustomed to looking the fool.

He could feel Ben close behind them as they moved slowly in the direction of the sea, though no more words were spoken. A soft rattle occasionally came from Villon’s chest when his feet would stumble over the ground, and he would have to lean into James to steady himself, but not once did he acknowledge the arm holding him upright, or the man at his side, and James felt the skin of his face growing tighter with each second of silence.

The sunlight was so suddenly so bright that his eyes watered, and he could feel the eyes of man and God on them, and the cloudless blue sky that no longer seemed to offer hope. Instead it was ripe to view to all the residents of Port Royal, the odd picture they made, two men so close together, one only half-dressed and pressed to his side as though he had been made from it and had yet to tear himself away.

Another time perhaps his face would have heated, but even the glaring light of sun did not spread a rush of warmth under his skin, not with René’s icy skin at his fingertips and the fury reaching him from those nearest to him.

But under their fury was the same fear James knew was pooling in his belly, and also the same need, both figures looking to him for an answer.

He cast his gaze upward once more, back into the brightness of the sky, and tried to think of the future, of what he would need once—if—they reached the shore unmolested. A boat obviously, to get to the woman’s ship, and monies to hire one he did not have. They might find men from her ship, if what Ben reported was true, and that was all he needed. He had done more than his duty already, his shoulders would soon grow weary with the added weight, and reprisals for helping René to escape would cost him dearly no doubt, were they to become known.

All too quickly, they reached the harbor and the crowds of men conducting unlawful and lawful commerce. James was surprised at how barely he paused before continuing on, wanting to roll his shoulders recklessly as their possible Destinies but instead just hugging his burden tighter to his body.

He could only wonder if Ben and René felt it as well, the presence of so many others, they way some gazes passed over them and others lingered on the odd picture, curious and detached. Mayhap Villon did, his small body tensing and attempting to jerk away from him as they neared the boxes and casks being unloaded from trading vessels and carried off by sailors and slaves milling about the street.

“I am here,” Villon grunted into his chest, displeasure leaving him shaking and weak, even with James supporting him. He lifted one hand and crumpled a section of James’ shirt in his fist.

“Yes.” James agreed readily enough and divested himself of the other man’s hand, pushing him away to arm’s length and turning away to look at the sea as though it were the River Jordan itself. “Here, and no further,” he added quietly, watching a few birds dive and circle over the low stone wall over one part of the shore some distance away.

“We’re leavin’?” Ben seemed surprised and James snapped his head back to him, finding he had no patience for Ben’s shifting moods this day.

“He’s a man to fend for himself, Ben. And we have our own troubles.” Tightly, James uttered the words, not at all startled to find them unpalatable and sticking in his throat.

Black eyes just stared at him narrowly; pain and rage making them charred embers waiting only for a spark to explode like a holocaust. His tarrying here might very well prove that spark, as Villon was so ready for James to be gone. “Fare thee well, René.” James shuddered at the chill in his own words, knowing he had never spoken so harshly to a lover, even if it was a man he spoke to now, and one unlike any other that he had ever known.

René said nothing in reply, just stood and pulled with bony hands at the lines of James’ coat, his bared skin raised with a thousand tiny bumps as though the early afternoon sun were not warm and the air was not wet with it. But his face was far too fierce for James to think on him as weak, and he pulled Ben from the man’s side and clutched at his smaller hand when Villon nodded an already distant farewell.

It seemed to be a busy day for most. Hordes of men surrounding them as they walked on, idle talk filling the air as James tried to think on what to do next. Throw himself before Sir Marvel’s mercy perhaps, if his employer had any. It would not be pleasant or easy, even if his Lordship were to overlook his treason, which James doubted. But word of his actions would come out soon enough, on a small gossip-filled island, in a city that Sir Marvell watched every inch of. And he had no explanation to give the man, none but his care for any other of God’s creatures, and just imagining the shrewd, merciless gaze upon him at that was enough to make him swallow fearfully.

“…I heard his throat was cut…”

James flinched at the words that floated to his ear. They could have come from anywhere, he knew. They were not directed at him or the man yards away behind him, but he felt as though they had been. Strange, when they were not spoken any louder than the words about the price of silk, or the exchange of French royals for Spanish pieces of eight.

Grimacing, James moved them both faster, bumping into a rail-thin figure on one side of him. The man hardly glanced at him, but James blinked at the ugly scar twisting across the smooth, sunken skin where one of the man’s eyes had once been before he hurriedly begged his pardon.

“She will not be pleased if I fail to find her favourite herb.” The one eyed man growled to another man, shaking his head so that the hair gathered at the top of his head flew back and forth. “And I don’t relish having my balls cut off. She’s as bloodthirsty as a lioness this morning.”

Even James’ father had on occasion had fear in his voice at the thought of a woman’s temper, and yet James had never heard his step-mother threaten to unman him. No woman would, he thought with an oily sickness in his stomach. Yet L’Aranha’s image came to his mind, and he tilted his head away from the scarred man, shivering.

They were so far way now that René would seem like just another man on the shore, if he had not moved and was still standing on shaking legs in the middle of the bustling harbour. But that was behind him. His future, there, ahead of them was a gilded carriage, empty, but then Sir Marvell did not need to be in it for James to recognize his ornate vehicle. He shivered anew, or thought he had from the way his skin crawled with fever.

“I don’t want to stay.” Ben pulled free his hand and stepped in front of James with arms crossed. James stopped and studied the small figure, noticing again the many stains that dotted across Ben’s clothing. When Ben sighed impatiently, James blinked and then shook his head.

“I know,” he responded simply, inhaling deeply to steady himself as a large man stopped next to the carriage, lifting his cane to strengthen his argument with what looked to be a servant. “Come,” James whispered to Ben urgently and spun on his heels, his heart nearly bursting when the thin man was less than a handbreadth away and glaring down at him through one eye that had the yellow and brown shine of gold.

“I…” James again started to beg pardon, then stopped and licked his lips. “You…you work for the L’Aranha?” Though as slender as a starving man, the scarred man grinned so wickedly that James thought he might be better putting his faith in Sir Marvell’s mercy.

“I work for myself,” the pirate assured him with ferocity. “But I mate with the woman for now.” The single eye looked him over with more care. “What do you want with her?”

“I want…” Not at all sure, James glanced up and down the shore. Even without a red coat, James espied one body among the multitude. René had not moved, as James had known that he would not. Indeed, as he could not. James firmed his lips and lifted his chin to stare boldly into one shining eye. “I want to see her. I have something for her.”

He was a fool. Once on the ship, it was not likely he would be allowed to leave. But his feet would not move him away, and Ben was right at his side, eager and interested.

“So do I, man,” the thin man chuckled loudly but nodded his head. “Fairly itching to give it to her, too.”

“Will you take us to see her?” James pressed, fighting the urge to avert his eyes at the man’s warm words. The man shrugged, and the thin veste he wore parted to reveal the wiry muscles of his chest. “I know you have business first,” James added in a hurried whisper. “We will wait.”

“The two of you?” The man grunted thoughtfully. James swallowed, but kept his head up.

“Three,” he closed his eyes as he said it. The other man barely paused.

“Three as well as two. She will kill you all if she wishes.” And with another laugh that revealed a straight line of teeth, he extended his hand, which was warm and dry when James took it. “I am Gabriel.”

“Gabriel,” James repeated and Gabriel smiled. “I am James.” James exhaled slowly and gestured to his side. “This is Ben. We will wait for you.”

“You may join me,” Gabriel offered easily, swinging the knot of hair atop his head back and forth. James watched the fall of brown hair for a moment, staring over the man’s shoulder.

“We will wait,” James decided softly, and felt the terror shred his stomach like a knife.

Copyright R. Cooper with all rights reserved

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