Chapter Three - Ideas of Sin - by R. Cooper
He could not remember the last time he had slept. Not that it truly mattered, except that he was being slower than he would like.
“Then the course is set?” René repeated the question, pressing for the second time when Thierry did not answer immediately. The edge in his voice brought his navigator’s head up, and René lifted one eyebrow to show that he had been waiting, a part of him amused that he had to ask again. A startled expression crossed the other man’s face, a look that he often got when stacks of charts and diagrams lay in front of him and something called him away from them. He jumped in place and nodded when René only continued to stare.
“We are close to here,” Thierry whispered huskily, leaning back over the desk and expertly dropping one finger to one map’s surface without turning away from René’s gaze. After a moment, René nodded and glanced down at the charts, studying the parchment carefully though he knew Honoré would have checked his calculations many times already, as he always did.
A heavy astrolabe was holding down the papers in one corner, and he considered checking their latitude himself for a bare moment though it was much too late in the day, then shook his head and swept his eyes to the opposite corner of the map. It was singed and black, curling in toward the center the way his fingers were curling into his palm until his hand was a fist. His anger at the English captain’s disrespect and arrogance had not faded in the last few weeks, even after he had executed the man.
“The fire didn’t get much but the compass rose.” Thierry seemed to notice where his gaze was directed and tapped the burnt edge with the same finger that had pointed out the location of his ship in a vast paper ocean. Despite his earlier confidence, his voice wavered as he spoke, perhaps with his own fury.
Thinking of the elaborate blossom of arrows that was supposed to help guide sailors, René’s bad temper increased, and he turned his shoulder to look out the small window above the desk in his cabin. The sun was shining outside, a few clouds remaining from the small storm that had had hit them the night before. It would not be the last, though it was not the season for the big huricans. But those they had and could deal with as much as any one could.
He did not need the small cross to show the way in any case, he knew the course well enough.
“Then there is nothing to get in our way.” He spoke abruptly, aware that sea had entranced his tired eyes and that he was staring ahead blankly. “Good,” he managed to say firmly and blinked at last.
René let his dry eyes drop back to the surface of his desk, still cluttered with charts. He could see Thierry’s head come up again to study him but did not lift his own. Truthfully, his head felt heavy, suddenly weighed down now that he had given his orders and had seen that they would be obeyed. He needed a drink, and took one, finishing off the clay bottle at his side.
From the corner of his eye, he could see Thierry let one hand fall, so that it rested on the edge of the desk, just in the line of his vision, near the hand that was still tight in a fist. René glanced at it then swallowed the last of the sweet wine greedily, licking his lips to catch any stray drops.
“That was all I needed.” He did not bother to lift his head to answer, and waited until the hand had been moved and Honoré had rolled up and gathered his charts before standing straight.
“That was all.” He threw the bottle aside, emphasizing his words with loud crash of the pottery as it hit the wall, annoyed that he had had to repeat himself to Thierry yet again. That the man had served him for years did not mean he had the right to presume. Perhaps he did not inspire enough fear to keep such men obedient. Perhaps he ought to act more like that wasteful fool L’Ollonais and let the Devil have just a bit more of his soul.
His lips quirked upward in genuine amusement at the thought, though he straightened them to a flat line before giving Thierry a hard look. He did not blink, did not so much as acknowledge the sudden widening of the other man’s eyes as he pulled the arms full of maps tightly around his body and backed out the door.
Once the door was closed and he was alone in his cabin, René’s smile returned. A harsh laugh even burst out of him, due to the wine he was sure. Another, smaller chuckle escaped as he wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his coat.
It was almost too hot to be wearing the stiff garment, but he had kept it on, enjoying how the sight of it seemed to upset some of the Englishmen he had taken into his crew. And it was a very well made coat, in just the shade of crimson that he preferred, the shade that made his eyes and skin seem so pretty to those who thought such words were praise.
His laugh ended there and René moved to get another bottle, needing to wet his throat. The liquor slid down his parched throat smoothly and he gulped it gratefully, pulling the bottle away a long moment later and setting it down.
It was the officers, the former officers, who saw the coat as so offensive, surely because it reminded them of their own lost rank. The rest of the English did not seem to care one whit, except one.
The little Englishman, he had heard Marechal call him. It made René’s amusement
return, for the man was taller than he and nearly everyone else on board either
of the ships. Broad in the shoulders too, with a wide chest that no doubt had
pleased many women back in his
His fingers gripped the narrow neck of the bottle tightly and he swung away from the desk, only to turn back as he recalled having him there, being pressed against his sweet body, heat closed around him so tightly that he had groaned when he had meant to be silent. And how he had enjoyed their fucking as well, the Englishman-James, when he clearly had not expected to, and his eyes had sparked with such anger and defiance.
Speaking of martyrs and sin when René had held his hard prick in his hand and had had his lips on his chest. A delicious tingle shot through René’s body as he remembered turning the man’s thoughts from God to him, and he closed his eyes to savor his triumph. He had recognized that triumph, James, his intelligent gaze had not missed that at all, and the knowledge had only added to René’s pleasure.
He wondered if the man still fooled himself into believing that he had not been willing, then discarded the thought. Revenge, he had said. Revenge, as if he had been punished, when René had chosen to give him pleasure. René bared his teeth and glanced at the door.
It did not matter to him. He was not interested in the man’s heart, or the heart of any man. He had already discovered all the black deceit that could live in men’s souls and knew that James was no different from any of the rest of Adam’s seed.
Yet that anger had still been in the man’s eyes a few nights ago, at their…encounter on the deck. René had not meant to take the man again, until he had seen him cross the deck in the darkness. Whatever he had been seeking René did not know or care, though his pose when he had approached him silently had been almost wistful, leaning over the rail and staring out over the water.
Just recalling the smell of the air that night was enough to create a throbbing in his groin, and René frowned, turning away from the desk and jerking himself free of the heavy jacket. It was much too warm for the coat and his game with the English had lost its sport. He tossed it carelessly behind him, distantly hearing it hit the desk, then closed his fingers around the neck of the bottle without turning, though he did not raise it to his mouth.
The strip of netting that served as his bed was before him, swaying slightly with the motions of the ship.
The sky outside had been orange. It was early afternoon and he had not yet rested. His eyes drifted closed for a moment at the realization, thick with lack of sleep. But he felt restless and heated, wine and desire flushing his skin.
Outside there might be breezes, sweeping from the sea to push them on their
way. It would not be long before they were sailing under the cliffs of
Again his smile returned, trying to imagine the moment when they would receive their share of a prize and the greed would overtake them all, and they would find their lives not so unpleasant after all. Innocence lost and not a soul to mark its passing.
Surging away from the desk, René crossed to the door and stepped outside. He paused to let his eyes adjust to the light and then looked out over the deck.
Most of his men were stretched out on the deck, sleeping. A few had not yet drifted, and stared up at the sky, forgetting for the moment that they were lying in filth as they dreamed of whatever it was men dreamed of. Women no doubt, or perhaps men, or whatever wealth they had left from the last capture that they had not spent.
René shifted his gaze from those dreaming to those awake, certain that he would find the new crew members doing any work that needed to be done. The tasks would have been given to them as a matter of course.
Very little work seemed to be being done at all, and he pondered that curiously until, recalling that the captured ship had been stripped of materials, so very few repairs were needed here. On the other ship, their La Reine de Sheba, much work was probably needed now. He was tired, much too tired, to have forgotten such an obvious thing.
Swearing under his breath, René moved forward, glancing about him as he did.
The men who saw him nodded respectfully, or fearfully, if they were English, but let him walk on without speaking. His crew knew better than to approach him unless he approached them first. His uncertain moods were the subject of many jests, some of them even amusing, when Deniau or Thierry or someone else had related them to him.
Thinking of Deniau, René glanced around, looking for the one person who promised to at least not be a bore.
The English were sleeping amongst his men, or sitting with them, for it did not take any skill with language to roll dice or share a bottle of ale. They all seemed to be resting in the manner of the Spaniards and Italians, sleeping in the evening as he should have been doing, though he knew it was boredom and laziness that made them sleep. The tall one was not among them.
“Are you looking for someone?” A voice called out inquiringly and several of the sleeping men twitched and fell back asleep. René took his time in looking up and answering, staring over the bodies of the men one last time.
“You,” he answered shortly, following the bark of surprised laughter to find Deniau, propped up in a dirty but well padded gilded chair they had taken from another ship months ago. The black man had his head resting against the wall behind him, the frayed knots of the scarf shielding his head from the sun the only cushion against the hard wood.
He looked at ease, a contrast to the short blade he kept tucked into the waist of his breeches, ever sharpened and easy to reach. But his skin, dark like the molasses on the islands, did not look healthy, and the skin bared by his torn shirt was taut over his chest.
“Do you see something you like, Villon?” Deniau grinned with dark amusement as René drew closer, waving one hand over his lounging body. One leg was stretched out before him, resting on top of a small, lacquered box and René stopped just short of it.
“You look like shit,” René responded seriously, and scowled at the wide smile this comment put on the other man’s face. They were fortunate that the English captain had been so greedy as to carry the fever powders. He had heard that the English were not fond of the quichona bark, that they called it the Devil’s powders. But it was worth its weight in gold for curing the worst of all fevers, and Lucifer always looked after his own. A few doses and Deniau had woken from the delirium. But the sickness had weakened him; he had not been above deck in some time.
“So have I been told.” The strange accent of
“What are you doing?” Whatever had made the man’s eyes narrow was of little interest to him. Deniau would not tell him anyway, if René ever lowered himself to ask, which he would not.
Next to Deniau was a chest, stripped of all its brass locks and bindings. Another chair, this one bare of all padding, was next to that, standing crookedly with one chipped leg. Annoyed, René glanced back at Deniau who was no longer looking at him.
“Waiting,” Deniau replied slowly. He paused, almost deliberately, but with his face turned away he could not see René’s steady stare. Tired of waiting, René sat down in the chair and noisily adjusted the cutlass hanging from his belt. The sound of the sword brought the man back around, as René had known it would for Deniau was quite his favourite man when it came to ruthless killing, and the sound probably appealed to him. “For you,” he finished when René said nothing and then abruptly let out a loud chuckle when René raised his head. “Or anyone who can play a good game.”
He gestured to the box holding up his one leg and René studied it for a
moment, recognizing it as the richly made chessboard and pieces that Deniau had
taken from a home in
“I thought we already played the game,” René remarked with a narrow-eyed look at the black man. Deniau’s eyes lit up, and René had not seen him look so excited in some time, though that had been in different circumstances, something Deniau would have laughed to remember. But his words were an agreement to play, and though he was tired he carefully reached for the box.
Something wet splashed onto his hand as he did and he blinked to see the bottle of wine still in his hand. Then he dropped one shoulder in a quick shrug and licked the drops from his hand before grabbing the box. He handed it to Deniau and took a small drink as the other man arranged the board and pieces on the chest.
“I would not know you without a bottle in your hand.” Deniau was smiling again, probably anticipating his victory. René raised one eyebrow to challenge that statement, then shrugged again, for it meant little.
He could still taste the liquor in his mouth and recalled stealing the wine from the church as a child. This wine was not nearly so sweet.
“Vita vinum est,” he murmured lowly to himself, out of a clouded memory, wine is life, and then let out a sharp laugh of his own when Deniau stared at him, looking confused.
“You speak the…Latin?” he demanded, slowing over the one word but watching him intently. “You sound like the Englishman reading from his book.” At his words René stilled, his head tipped back for another sip. He felt his brows draw together and shook his head. For a moment, the world spun around him like a child’s toy.
Lowering the bottle, he studied the board, noticing that Deniau had allowed
him to go first, giving him the dark pieces, each one carved from shining ebony
that would have fetched a handsome price, even in
“What do you know of Latin?” he asked as Deniau noisily drank his wine. Deniau leaned forward with an effort and put the bottle back. Then he moved his own pawn and waited until a few more moves had been made by each of them before answering.
“The Englishman is teaching me to read Latin, in return for the use of my razor.” A sly, quick smile crossed his face.
“Which Englishman? They all look the same,” René remarked drowsily, feeling the heat in his skin now, wanting more wine but knowing that it would only warm him more. James had peered at him furiously through his spectacles with muddy eyes, English eyes that were neither brown nor gray nor green. They lacked colour, the English.
But his eyes had been lit with intelligence, and passion, heated and melting in those moments after he had pleased him as wide as they had been in those few moments with a sword at his throat. Would they look the same to Deniau?
“The strange one. His name is James.” Deniau affirmed his wondering thoughts and René set his jaw before taking another of Deniau’s men. He dropped it to the ground and paid little attention to Deniau’s curses about the price of the thing when it clattered against the wood. He almost enjoyed them, and decided to prolong the game enough so that he could hear them again.
“What in the name of the Lord are you doing, Fitzroy?” The shout shattered his thoughts and René frowned before leaning back and draping one arm over the back of his chair. The move allowed him to see the source of the sound, and his frowned deepened for a moment as the English lord climbed up the stairs and out of the doorway from below. But it was amusing, to hear such a creature speak in the name of God. René even smiled despite his low mood, curving up his lips just enough to show his teeth.
But nobility had never minded lying before, why should this one be any different? One would never hear a cutthroat claim to do anything in the name of God, and for that he respected his crew more than he would ever honor the fat man shouting down below. He could not be much, his God, with hypocrites and imposters speaking for him.
Keeping his smile in place, René studied the awkward figure shuffling across
his deck for a moment, noting that being stripped of all he owned had not
seemed to humble the pig at all. He wore rags now, but from the way he picked
at them they might have been worth all the Spanish gold in the
That made René study the figure more closely, lazily eyeing his red, puffing frame up and down as the man stopped yards from him and turned back. The man was weak, to allow so little to take his mind away, René thought as he followed the direction of the lord’s gaze. He blinked as James stepped out onto the deck after his master, his body shining with sweat from the heat below deck. With the sun it turned the light hairs on his chest to gold and gave him the appearance of something gilded, or forged in a fire.
He came up gracefully, his improved stride adding to René’s vision, but then stumbled as he came closer to the waiting lord, holding out his hands imploringly as if that act were of more importance than keeping his own balance.
“Prithee, my Lord…” he pleaded and then suddenly stopped,
his voice dropping to a whisper. Slowly, his head turned until he met René’s
eyes and then he went as still as the stone statue in the pool in René’s home
back in
“You will not order me about, boy! I will see the King. It is a matter of some urgency.” The lord turned on his heel and raised himself up, trying to tower over James from his stance. René blinked again, mildly surprised, and saw that though James held out in hands in supplication, he did not back away. His pose was what it had been against the wooden door of his cabin, blindly stubborn. René made a small sound of annoyance, then shifted in his seat to be more comfortable, not bothering to hide his interest, or his amusement.
“Do not think to beguile me like that slut of an ancestress that gave your family its name!” The nobleman slapped away James’ offered hands with a vicious sounding snap. His snarled yell snapped a few of the sleeping men nearby awake, and their eyes turned on the scene with the same curiosity and irritation. René flicked his gaze back from them to James, and saw the way the man’s shoulders stiffened at what was clearly an insult, though René did not understand its meaning.
“Damned crazy Englishman,” Deniau whispered almost to himself though René paid him little attention. “I am tired of his rantings.”
Fitzroy, René repeated silently to himself several times, and then suddenly leaned forward as he recalled exactly what that meant to the English. The little Englishman was the descendant of a son of a king. A bastard son.
Unable to stop himself, René let out a shout of laughter so strong that he almost fell forward. He righted himself immediately, in time to see the stunned look on the face of James Fitzroy, and then reached blindly for the bottle. Deniau chuckled from his other side and René at last glanced back at him.
“I would kill the man,” he remarked leisurely to the other man around his laughter and saw Deniau’s eyes widen.
“For what?” It was not concern that made Deniau slant another look at the two Englishmen, though René did not answer. Deniau’s expression was briefly heated, and then he snatched away the wine bottle and swallowed more of his liquor. When he was done, and René pulled the bottle back, a grin slashed across his face. “You hold that bottle like it was made of gold. And you drink from it as if…as if it were him.” He pointed beyond them and René turned, though he knew to whom he gestured.
Another sharp laugh surprised him, but Deniau had spoken in French and loud enough for James and a few of the crew to hear. His wicked laugh was nothing to sudden crude comment from one of them, so vulgar that René doubted that the English even understood it. The streets added words to a man’s knowledge that would never be found in any book.
The previous rush of colour before was nothing to the blush that stained James’ face and neck and chest now at the sound of their levity. It was a bright shade, like the skin of a ripe plum, looking just as tempting on the square lines of James’ face as the fruit would have been on the branch. He was like the statue René had compared him to earlier, in both form and face, only the spectacles pinched onto his nose marred the vision. That, and his inability to behave like a good statue should. Another sound of irritation came from René’s lips and the sound seemed to catch the Englishman’s attention.
James raised his gaze to meet his and René stilled at the fury blazing from them, his own temper rising to realize that he was being blamed for the remarks, as if all had not seen his maidenly blushes whenever René had passed. One would think that he had never been with a man before, René reflected crookedly and then a quick grin broke from him to recall the innocent shock and pleasure colouring James’ face, and the hushed, surprised moans when René had taken him in the night air, without even anything to ease his passage.
The grin seemed to startle the Englishman, and he blinked, banishing his anger to somewhere else. Replacing it was fear, and then shame, both so plainly exposed for René to see that his grin slipped. But then James dropped his eyes.
They widened briefly once he looked down, studying the chessboard and then René as if startled by the sight of them together, before James stepped to the side, and hurriedly stalked several feet away. His back was to René, and his shoulders hunched around him, but he did not go far, for he did not leave the madman’s side, and the fat man did not move.
René closed and opened his eyes, then made himself smile when he wanted to cross over to the Englishman and fuck him in front of his crew so that all he see and hear the pleasure he took in the act. The pleasure he tried to deny, when he had felt it so strongly that even the pain had excited him.
His skin had been salty and his seed had tasted of victory and René licked his lips and shifted in his seat, enjoying how the blood pounded below his waist and his prick tingled with arousal. It would take only a touch to have him hard and needy, and he watched with rising anger as James placed a hand on the lord’s shoulder and guided him even further away. They sat down on the deck near one another.
“He serves a cruel master, and has no need for me,” René spoke slowly to Deniau after facing the other way again; mocking the tones of the women actors who cried and moaned for unfaithful loves. The others could not hear, if James would understand the quick French, but it made Deniau laugh. Or perhaps it the way René reached down to grab the flesh between his legs and jerked it crudely toward the other man.
From their new distance however, he could still hear the English lord’s rantings as he began to talk about seeing their king again, and then the soft, patient answering whispers of James Fitzroy, seeking to ease the man’s madness.
“You are drunk, Villon.” Deniau ran a hand along his chin almost thoughtfully, surveying either him or the board. René considered that, then dropped his smiles.
“I am not drunk.” It came out clear and René was pleased. It took more than three bottles of wine for him to be drunk. He had only had half of this one, and one before that. But he had had to eat something today, for he had not yesterday, and the hard bread was only digestible when soaked in liquor, and that was all he had felt like eating from their dwindling stores. “It is your move.” He nodded at the board impatiently though it did not matter, for he had already won, or would in a few more moves. He told Deniau so and frowned when he was ignored.
“I’m thinking.” Deniau fondled the small, ivory bishop in his hand and then set it down and moved it.
René could hear faint whispers now behind him, reassurances about the king, he realized, and nearly spun around to fling the wine bottle at the pair of them. If that would silence the Englishman then he would hardly miss the liquor. James’ foolishness was not allowing him to think.
There was no king on this ship, only James, the royal bastard, and then a few other bastards that did not equal him in rank. There was no need to cosset the insane, or to protect him from René. He wanted no part of those whose minds were broken.
“Is the game so certain now?” A strange look was on Deniau’s face at the question, an amusement that was almost too knowing. René glanced down at the board with scorn and then shrugged away the itch in the middle of his back.
“It was always certain.” More concerned whispers seemed to echo his words, their sound indescribably patient.
Latin lessons…he recalled Deniau’s revelation bitterly. The fool would give lessons to Deniau, and probably that child who followed him, out here on the sea where it meant nothing. Lessons were not currency here. James must be as innocent as the child to think they were, that he may live to become a gentleman.
Ben, Marechal had said the boy’s name was, and René glanced up, suddenly realizing that he had not seen Marechal in some time.
The liquor swirled uneasily in his stomach as he searched over the deck, tapping his fingers on the belly of the bottle without being truly aware that he was doing so. The drumming picked up speed for a moment and then stopped as he caught sight of Marechal in the middle of the deck. He was watching him with his arms crossed over the large chest that was nearly as wide as the masts.
Though Marechal should not be able to see it from such a distance, René lifted one eyebrow, waited a moment, and then shifted his gaze purposefully back down the chess game. Marechal continued to watch, his stare a familiar constant. René took a swig from the bottle and scowled once the very last drops left nothing but the faint taste of fruit in his mouth.
“It was always certain,” he murmured, and then caught a strange glance from Deniau. Why the man was frowning he had not the slightest idea, but Deniau was growing arrogant, and it was time for the game to end.
“What was always certain?” The black man questioned, eyes wide as if he had truly forgotten.
“That I would run out of wine,” René replied after a long moment, blinking when the afternoon sun hit Deniau’s dagger and brought water to his eyes. A pain speared into his head as well, and he pulled back and closed his eyes. James was still speaking, the sound like feathers stroking over his skin, and René sighed noisily. “There is nothing left to chance,” he spat out, to one in particular, and smiled when James was finally silenced.
“You have had too much wine. Go to bed and dream of the Englishman.” Deniau’s voice was stern, apparently quite serious, and René opened his eyes at the commanding tone.
“But we have not finished our game.” He spoke coldly and saw the anger flash in Deniau’s eyes. His words seem to echo back to him, as if he were in a cavern or a narrow alley in some slum somewhere. René closed one eye to consider that and took careful aim out of habit. One ought to be careful about alleys, he reflected as he opened his eye, things done there often should not be heard.
“You know how it ends, why not just tell me?” Deniau propped one leg up on the other with an effort that he almost hid and then slowly dropped one hand to his lap so that it was near but not on his knife.
Deliberately, René leaned back and stretched out his legs, dropping one over the back of the chair so that it was far away from his cutlass. He did not need a sword. His arms felt heavy in any case, and he did not feel like lifting them, even if it meant getting gutted.
“It ends the way it always ends. The pawns and knights die, and only the King remains,” he explained tiredly. It was louder than he had intended to speak, and the words carried easily over part of deck. Less than pleased at his error, René continued speaking only to annoy Deniau, even lifting his head so that his words would carry better. From the corner of his eye, he saw something shift and turned his head in time to see Marechal stop just yards away, looming a few feet behind James and his lord. All of them were watching him intently. Near James now was the boy, unblinking.
“The pawns, they are sacrifices only, to save the nobles, who do not care,” he declared in English and heard a few timid laughs from among the crew. The boy’s jaw dropped the slightest bit, but he did not protest. The Englishmen had found this funny. So would his men, if they had understood. “And we…” René looked back to Marechal and lowered his voice. “We kill the nobles, to save ourselves,” he added in French. “Until all are dead and I go to bed and you go below and we give no further thought to the dead men in your box. That is always the outcome.”
His voice was rising again and he stopped there to clear the thickness from his throat, narrowing his eyes at Deniau, daring him to speak. Deniau’s face was set and devoid of all feeling.
“Empty little figures until we give them life and push them around a board, only to discard them later,” René went on, sneering at Deniau’s silence and blank face. Abruptly, René turned around to look at his Englishman, who could not hide his passion. Muddy eyes seemed very clear in that first moment, hot and brown like café.
James had been watching and listening, as intent as a Jesuit student watching soldiers beat a Huguenot to death. René met his gaze and watched James’ mouth fall open slightly, as if he had words he wanted to speak.
“No spirit moves the game. It is only what it is.” Another flush of colour raced over James’ face as René spoke, and René lifted one brow, wishing he had another drink of wine to swallow. “And it is better to play than to end up in the box.” He kept his words slow, so there would no misunderstanding. He lowered his head but glanced through his lashes at the frown of concentration as James translated his words. Then his eyes grew so round that they seemed ready to fall from his head. His soft lips parted, revealing a tongue as rose-coloured as his cheeks.
“You compare yourself to God then?” James gasped in English, hardly even breathing the words. René swept his gaze upward in shock and then quickly lowered his lids to hide his expression. It was easy enough; his eyes seemed to want to close on their own.
He tilted his head farther back as well, resting it uncomfortably on the back of the chair. The knot holding his scarf in place was too low to cushion him, and another stab of pain went through his head. But the pose gave him a clear view of the Englishman, and gave away nothing of his own thoughts. In fact he smiled, flicking a look at Marechal before he made a show of stretching, arching his back from the chair and then sticking out his legs until he was hardly sitting upright anymore.
His mind was spinning as he did, circling dizzily around James’ startling words and then settling with a thud once he realized what James truly wanted to do, make him something more or less than a man, for what man could have resisted a god? Or a devil? The Devil, yes, for James could make him nothing less. James who thought him a child killer, or worse, a man who was fond of boy flesh.
Deniau made a choked sound in his throat, not quite a laugh, though René knew that the angry English words were probably a mystery to most of those listening, the black man one of them unless James had taught him some English along with his Latin. Latin from bad French…for a moment it was almost enough to make René’s head pains return.
“No,” René sighed at last, switching to English easily, simply to remind James that he could. He pressed the tips of his fingers into the faded gilt paint at the top of the chair, until each dent and chip was familiar to him. “There is no God.”
It was the child who gasped this time, and René transferred his gaze to the boy, meeting curious and excited eyes before he glanced back to James.
James’ mouth was gaping, closing and opening once like a fish out of water, and then flaming to red when James caught his lower lip between his teeth and bit down fiercely. Trying to control himself, René realized, recalling exactly when he had seen the act before.
René! James had eventually called out on his own, unable to contain himself. That passion would surely destroy James one day, and yet René reveled in it now, wondering how long he could sit this way before his arousal became evident. That thought almost made him smile sourly.
What would James do then, his little innocent? For it was innocence that had him so amazed, naïve shock that anyone would say such a thing. Idly, to distract himself from the growing ache in his balls, René wondered if James was telling himself now that René had not meant it, that he had only said it to upset.
“It amounts to the same thing!” The vehement whisper snapped René’s mind back to the present. James’ eyes had grown bright, larger through the glass of his spectacles, and glistening with what could not have been tears. “You are not God,” he insisted, his whole body tense and shaking.
René felt himself go still at the incredible words, his body drawn away from the chair as if pulled. But though he managed to keep himself down, he could not stop his eyes from flying open. He took in James in amazement, studying him from his golden hair to his clenched hands and then traveling back up to stare into his eyes, seeing the truth reflected there, the absolute certainty of the faithful. It glowed in their eyes like the madness in the lord’s eyes now, as that man watched.
“Probably I am the Devil,” René said slowly while their gazes were still locked. A sharp intake of air seemed to help clear his mind, and he tossed his head to free himself, then slid one hand to the hilt of his cutlass, just wanting to feel the crisscross of steel caress his palm. Only then did he smile, staring at the stained white of his shirt, pressed in a lump against his chest. A startled sound came from James, as if that too were true to him, and René chuckled without much amusement, not expecting anything else.
“You kill…” James started to argue excitedly and René raised his head so suddenly that he saw even Deniau jerk back in surprise.
“God kills, does he not?” René questioned, barely aware that he had gone back to speaking in French, his voice trembling. “God steals too, understand? Lives, souls, those he takes freely. Those who have not sold theirs, like me, no?” All could not be as pure as James Fitzroy, even if they were foolish enough to wish they were.
His throat was dry and he wanted a drink. He would have killed for one as he sat there, waiting for James’ reply. He knew there would be one. Despite himself, he held his breath, waiting for it.
“It was the crime of the Devil, to question when he should have humbled himself.” James’ voice shook with the force of his faith and René laughed again, for James did nothing but humble himself. He was on his knees even now, caring for a madman that treated him like a dog.
René took his eyes from James and swung them out over his watching, confused
crew. “Perhaps…” he paused, lifting his head so that it was again resting on
the back of his chair. Then he raised one brow. “Perhaps the Englishman will
tell us who God is, since he knows so well who God is not?”
he asked them, continuing to talk in French. Frowns crossed several faces as
they tried to understand his statement, but his men were used to him, and some
nodded, looking to James expectantly. This little argument of theirs would be
their only entertainment until they reached
“Is it Marechal?” René waved negligently to Marechal and glimpsed the brief flash of fury in the large man’s eyes. Laughs answered that so he moved on, tossing a look in the direction of Deniau. “Deniau?”
“René.” Hearing his first name called lowly by Deniau did not stop him, though René would make him pay for the familiarity later.
“Or is it your friend, the ugly Englishman?” René sent a quick look over the deck for the man James had spoken with often but could not see him. The idea of God being English sent howls of laughter through the crew, even some of the Englishmen, though René doubted they knew why they laughed. A few did not seem pleased at all to hear his blasphemy and he nodded to them all coolly, enjoying how killers and thieves longed to defend their God.
Hurt and outrage darkened James’ eyes now, and René smiled to see that he had been wounded. He sat up at last to study James, shifting his hand from his sword to rest in his lap, just above his aching flesh.
James stared back, his mouth still red from where he had bitten it. Then his lips parted as he sighed noisily and with obvious frustration before looking down. René narrowed his gaze to just those lips, so pure and untested.
When James finally raised his eyes again, the laughter had faded to nothing as if even the crew were awaiting his answer.
“God is in all of them,” James said simply and blinked, the image of someone coming out into the sun and momentarily blinded. Then his eyes focused again on René and his anger seemed to have gone, replaced with something René did not know, though it seemed gentler, more resigned. Submissive, René decided in that moment of tension as James opened his mouth to speak again, for did not James Fitzroy always give in? René could recall each time easily, even if James could never stop himself from speaking entirely.
“Even you.” James pushed out the words on a sudden wisp of air and they floated to René as if carried by angels, breaking him away from everything.
Someone let out a long breath; it could have been Deniau. René did not know. Did not care. His fingers curled around the wrinkled linen of his breeches and it was all he could do not to press a hand to his stomach. It was suddenly tight and anxious, like it was always was moments before a fight.
His eyes searched over his crew, noting that many had the same look on their faces, a kind of shock that quickly faded into something flat and stubborn. He meant to look at Deniau but did not, turning back until he found Marechal. The big man was not watching him and that was shocking in itself.
Marechal’s gaze was on James, so heavy that surely James had to feel it.
Contrary to everyone else, René pulled in a breath, liking that the sudden clearing of his mind was painful. The pain snapped him back to his mind, and he purposefully imagined the eager hands grasping his hair to hold him close. That had been painful too, but it had made him harder than he had been merely watching James go about his tasks with his slow, unschooled concentration.
“Quois?”
he asked at last when he had meant to speak English. Uncurling his fingers, he
lifted his hand to wave delicately through the air. The effort left him
shaking. “What?” he wondered smartly, finally looking
back into innocent eyes. “No division? No
“Spilled blood is man’s doing.” Condemnation roughened James’ voice, both lowering it and making it more forceful. His bright eyes said his words were for René alone, and René licked his parched lips when James lifted his chin to speak. In fact he seemed to want to rise up from the ground, straightening his shoulders and pushing himself forward.
The sun hit him again, or perhaps it had been on him the whole time. It lit his hair and sent fire blazing over his shoulders. On either side of him were the boy and the madman, proof of his caritas-or his own madness. Behind him was the shadow of Marechal. René studied all of it without blinking. “Wicked men…” James went on hotly and René jumped from the back of the chair.
“Wicked men created by God,” he argued, keeping his voice firm as the world shifted around him. He steadied himself by pressing one hand to head, staring at the lines of his palm until they meant nothing. When he looked back to James he saw the raised brows of James’ shock, and then stiffened when James’ eyes traveled over him, suddenly seeming to notice the abandoned wine bottle. Several things flicked across his face this time, too fast for René to interpret. Then his shoulders seemed to lower though he stayed sitting up, his body held tensely in the air.
“All men are given the same choices…” James argued, dropping his voice again and René shook his head, not yet able to speak, but knowing well that there were times when there were no choices at all.
“Peasants are like rats, boy. You do not debate rats.” Another voice intruded into René’s thoughts and he frowned before tearing his eyes from James to look at the mad lord. The red-faced man was glaring at James with his nose in the air, chastising him for some imagined mistake. Several yards away René could hear grumblings among the crew, for rats was the same in both languages, and echoed their sentiments, vaguely considering telling Marechal to toss the lunatic overboard.
“Fermala, Anglais.” Deniau made the whispered words a threat, and he was not the only one to tell the man to be quiet.
“Please, my Lord.” James turned from him to placate the man, and René watched with intense displeasure how he pleaded. The anxious looks that James gave the men but not him should have calmed him a degree, letting him know that James had feared the man being around the crew and had not feared him, but now it seemed of little importance.
“Your lord does not look to have a choice.” René took a moment to recover his calm before speaking and then narrowed his eyes when James finally turned back to face him. His hand stayed on the fat man’s arm, to either hold him down or reassure him that all would be well. It was clear from his manner that the lord had done something similar before, and that James feared the consequences.
But René realized his error when the temper returned to the eyes of James Fitzroy, as the other man remembered what had led to all of this. He glanced down to the ground James knelt upon, seeing the way his hands shook at his sides though he managed to hold his gaze steady. Then René raised his eyes again, waiting. His hands were on the seat of the chair, keeping him from falling forward.
But James did not speak, his teeth tearing into his lower lip to keep himself silent until René could not stand it any longer.
“One does not become a villain all at once,” he quoted in Latin, knowing from the widening of James’ eyes that he had surprised him yet again. Through his glasses, his eyes seemed so large that they could have been standing face to face, only inches apart. There were flecks of light in the dark eyes of the Englishman, and René wondered if he knew of them.
He would value such things as knowledge of a useless language, James Fitzroy. René was as certain of that as he could be, with his head pounding enough to match the throbbing in his groin that had not ceased. He drank in the shock on the Englishman’s face and allowed himself to lean back in his former pose. If Deniau was startled at his words, he made no sound to show it.
“But redemption is offered to all,” James persisted suddenly, causing René to twitch his head upward at the deathly seriousness in the man’s manner…and at the speed in which he had translated the Latin yet took his time with the French. “Good acts are all that are needed.”
“Do you preach to my men?” He had to ask, knowing that his lips were curved in a perverse sort of amusement. To many of the men, this was a business venture, only a way to support their families, to the others; it was something in which they took great pleasure. Talk of sin would merely irritate them. But when James swept his gaze over the ones gathered to watch and listen, they remained as silent as they had not when his lord had spoken. Perhaps it was because he remained composed, as still as he was not whenever he exchanged glances with René; then, he seemed to fight to keep himself down.
“You talk like a martyr too,” René murmured, just loud enough for the Englishman to hear. James Fitzroy whipped around to stare at him, eyes round and mouth open. René knew his eyes grew heated, to remember how he had fucked the other man, and he let them, lowering his eyelids to watch as James’ skin flushed and a fever-like brightness made his eyes glow. He frowned, either in thought or in anger, but looked so expectant as he sat there that René expelled a rasping breath and leaned forward once more.
A cough startled him, making him blink to wet dry eyes and raise his head. Marechal stared lowly back at him, not a sign on his face that he had made the sound. René narrowed his eyes in warning, then looked away, searching for the bottle before he remembered that he and Deniau had finished it.
Swearing crudely out loud in French, René turned back to James, focusing his gaze until his attention was again on the Englishman’s mouth and not his eyes.
He was tired and he needed to go to bed. He had been awake for far too long. The wine had made him a little bit dizzy. He trailed back in his mind until he could recall what he had last said, then nodded so firmly that it shifted the chair.
“Ah, but martyrs must bleed, no?” He waved airily in the man’s direction and then sighed, a long winding rush of air that left nothing behind it once it was gone. “And I have shed enough of blood.” His English seemed to come out wrong there, but he saw James react and thought that maybe he had spoken rightly after all.
“Your own?” The twist to James’ mouth seemed to say that he was being mocking, but surely James could not be mocking, not such an innocent.
“And they must also kneel in…penitence?” René continued with an annoyed look at the Englishman just in case he was getting above himself. It had little effect on the man, James only kept on watching with a serious, superior look that René did not like at all. “It is fortunate that I do not mind being on my knees,” he whispered in Latin, unpleasantly surprised that he remembered so much of it. But it had its uses now, and he was happy to use it if it kept his words private enough and yet still made James Fitzroy blush.
A small shudder tore through James’ body and then he sucked in a breath. It was the sound of arousal, and René nearly lolled back in the chair to let it stroke over him. What would it be like, to have James make that sound against his skin? Sweat dotted all over his body at the thought, and a surge of blood to his prick left his mind fogged and dazed.
“They say some sins cannot be washed away.” Husky words thick with passion spoke the words, and René answered before he truly realized that they had been said in Latin as well, more infuriating evidence of how scholarly James was. A man who lived in books, who had never been tested, was daring to judge him.
“I regret nothing!” he shouted abruptly, not at all sure what tongue he had used this time. That should have alarmed him, but the rapid beating of his heart was from rage, rage that James would dare deny him again, for that was what he had to have meant by the words. René was no coward, to hide away from the truth. James was his and would be until he had tired of him.
He panted for air as he glared at James, not bothering to hide his anger or his pleasure at the fear that crossed the man’s face. He waited a moment, then reached behind him without looking, knocking over several of the chess pieces until he had to have knocked the King to the ground. “You have a quick tongue, Englishman,” he declared in French after withdrawing his hand. He did not look at Deniau, but could feel his gaze on him. It was not weighted like Marechal’s, but René shrugged as if that would get rid of it. Arching one brow, he jerked his head from James to look out over the few men of the crew who were still watching and had not lost interest once the words had switched to mostly English and Latin. “It ought to be put to better use, no?” he asked them and smiled as they laughed and turned their eyes to James speculatively.
Though it was not the sound he wanted, René let it pour over him for a few moments, continuing to smile. James said nothing, and that would do until it was the sound of his voice begging for pleasure, which it would be soon enough.
Decided, René raised himself to his feet. He managed to nod at a blank-faced Deniau and turn away before the ground under his feet slid away like it was made of water and the air in front of him filled with thousands of sparkling lights. He took one step forward and the coloured spangles faded, turning black for the barest moment. It made him stop in curious surprise.
James was in front of him now, as always, and he was reaching out one hand in that same helpful gesture, his eyes huge in his square, handsome face. He wants me now, René reflected with scornful amusement, then gasped as his feet left the ground entirely.
His stomach slid up to where his heart should have been and then dropped abruptly as he was lifted into the air. He was being carried away, his head throbbing sickly with every step, and the air seemed heavy and thick, not letting him move as he wished.
“Non!” he cried out in alarm and heard someone laugh softly. It did not calm him and he twisted his body and struck out, hitting something hard and immovable with one fist. The blackness swirled in front of his eyes again and then gave way to light and colour. He stretched out to grab his cutlass and snarled when a larger hand closed around his and held it still. “Non!” he cried again when strong arms around his shoulders and his legs held him still and his ears picked up the sound of a heart beating near him, pounding with excitement.
“I will protect you, pretty René,” a rough voice spoke and warm breath brushed across his face. René stiffened at the familiar smell of old wine and rotting teeth, his whole body straining to get away. The hands only held on tighter, more determined, and the fight drained from him to realize that they had yet to let go, and would not.
A creaking sound distracted him for a moment, and then René felt himself being placed carefully on something soft and unsteady. He opened eyes he had not been aware were closed and shook his head to see the inside of his cabin. He was half-seated, half-stretched on his hamaca, and the world around him was still spinning and shifting.
He was so tired, his body barely able to stay as it was. He sighed and watched the shadows creep on the edges of the world pitching about him, listening to the pounding of his heart in his ears as it slowed.
Hot hands reached around his waist and slid under his sash with the ease of practice. His sash and sword were removed a moment later. René tensed and frowned, then leaned back into the netting when the hands patted his chest in an attempt to calm him. Graceful fingers undid the lacings of his shirt then stroked away the fabric over his heart, exposing the thick chain of dirty gold.
René’s frown deepened but he said nothing, just breathing out through his nose when the hand slowly fanned out possessively over his skin in an old caress and then left him. That was better, and he murmured to himself as he turned so that the window was behind him but the light from the sun was still partially visible. The room grew quiet, until there was only even breathing, and he realized that he could sleep at last.
It was there, between sleep and awareness that he felt the hand at his waist. Scowling, he turned back the slightest amount, turning mostly at the waist so that lower body was facing up.
He kept his eyes closed at the feathery touch along his hip and felt the surprised twitch in the hand when it encountered the half hard ache that James had left him with. Hot, rough breathing beat down on him from above, on his face as he was watched. Then that heat was around his cock, surrounding it through his clothing and squeezing.
His muscles locked so tightly that he could not breathe, and he finally only spoke in a whisper through his gritted teeth.
“Get out, Marechal,” René managed and remained still until the moment the door had creaked closed behind the other man.
The wine threatened to come up for a moment and he clenched his jaw to hold it back, wanting only to sleep now, sink into the blackness so deeply that dreams could not find him. He embraced it, finally closing his heavy eyes and dropping his head.
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Copyright © 2002 R. Cooper