Raised By Wolves 2 - Matelots (75 page)

“I had not viewed it thusly,” he whispered.

I smiled. “Neither had I, until this morning. Which is truly astounding, considering the state of my head.”

He came to lean over me and gaze down at me with happiness. “Just as you long labored under the assumption that you were a poor wolf,”

he said, “I have long labored under the assumption I am a poor man.

But non, you are correct, I am not a man, I am a centaur. I am mad, but perhaps I am not so very mad as I have assumed because I did not think like other men.”

I, too, found comfort in this new concept. We had been judging ourselves harshly indeed, as we had been taught to do, never having received ought else.

He sobered somewhat. “But I will measure myself by you, as you are the only one I can measure myself against.”

I pulled his mouth to mine and he kissed me.

“May I release you?” I asked.

He nodded, but did not move from above me. He pressed his forehead to mine with his eyes closed. I wrapped my arms about him and held him.

The wind tore at the shutter with renewed vigor, and the lamp’s flame flickered and guttered. I found the shadows on the ceiling menacing, as I often had as a boy. And I no longer felt I stood within his madness, but that the madness was all about us, and we were the only islet of sanity in a tempest-tossed sea. Then I remembered where we truly were, in a stolen house in a Spanish town, and I nearly laughed.

We were adrift in madness; we were not an island, perhaps, but a very little boat.

“I do not wish to stay here,” I whispered. “We should find our friends. They must be worried.”

He nodded and rubbed his stubbled cheek along mine. He did not move from above me until a rumble of mirth gripped him and he withdrew enough to meet my eyes.

“They might think we have been unlucky with some pocket of Spaniards,” he said with sad amusement, “but if they knew the truth, they would worry more.”

I shook my head, pondering the run of my thoughts. “Non, that is the madness, not us… that we should be here, in this place, for their reasons, at all. That we should be plumbing the depths of our souls in the name of… understanding one another: that is not mad. That they should worry more over our introspection than…”

He nodded and smiled, and viewed me with bemusement. “You are…

like me.”

I frowned as a new thought led my mind astray. “I wish to know all of your horrible thoughts, in detail, withholding nothing.”

He looked away and nodded thoughtfully. “You feel they may not be as horrible as I think them to be?”

“Oui. Do you trust me enough to share them?”

He took a deep breath and released it with a slow smile. His gaze met mine. “Oui. But not tonight.”

I decided I would not ask for more this night. “All right.”

He moved off me and helped me to sit. The dizziness had passed, and I was able to crawl to the bedpost and fetch the key without blood pounding in my ears. I released him, and we located the chamber pot, dressed, and gathered our belongings in silence.

I paused at the door and looked about the room. It truly did not seem the safe haven it had appeared when we arrived; but then, we had been drunk. It did seem a place of import though, in that we had reached some tipping point. I felt I should strive to imprint it upon my memory for that reason alone.

Gaston touched my arm, and I turned to find him curious. I shook my head and sighed with exasperation at my own whimsy, and then sighed with annoyance that I should call it such.

“It is not merely words,” I said. “I truly feel we have crossed some threshold. We no longer stand… or rather, I no longer stand apart from… your madness.”

“I am both pleased and dismayed by that,” he said without humor.

“As am I.”

I thought to smile to lighten my words, but I realized that was unnecessary.

We regarded one another silently, without flinching, or, in my case, the urge to speak or look away, or do some small thing to relieve the tension I had ever felt when gazing into another’s eyes so. I thought of little, except that, once again in his presence, I did not feel alone.

The wind slammed the shutter and we started a little, recovering with sheepish grins. He took up the lamp and we slipped out the door into the darkened stair and through the empty house below. I was surprised the dwelling was unoccupied, despite our having purloined the available food and taken the best room. Then we heard the revelry anew as we stepped into the street, and I wondered no more at it: I reminded myself that most men had better to do in their time while raiding a town than sit about woolgathering in introspection, or love.

The thought of food seized my belly, and I did wonder where we might find the means to sate it. We had boucan still, and I supposed that would be our only succor; but perhaps the fête ahead held more satisfying or varied fare.

The Brethren were all clustered about the town square and engaged in as much debauch as they had on the night we arrived: which I hoped with great fervor was only yesterday, and Gaston and I had not slipped from time in our sojourn, like men eating ambrosia in some fairytale.

The men we passed and pushed through in search of our friends were in no condition to rally for battle. I was appalled.

“By the Gods, I hope we have sober sentries,” I muttered to Gaston.

He shrugged. “I am sure we do. It is ever like this while raiding, and someone is always vigilant.”

“Were you often on sentry duty?” I asked.

“Non, Will, I have often spent the first nights of any raid trussed up in some dark place,” he said with amusement.

I swore.

He smiled sadly.

We politely declined rum and wine, and worked our way toward the center of the square. We spied Morgan there, pontificating to a knot of men I guessed to be the captains. I only knew it was Morgan in all the smoke and shadows because of his large hat. As we came closer, I saw that we had indeed located all of our supposed leaders. I was relieved to see some of them turn at our approach with both the narrowed eyes and alacrity of somewhat sober men. The other half, however, were lost to Dionysus.

Striker rushed upon us with drunken fervor, Pete fast on his heels.

“Where the Devil have you been?” Striker snarled for our ears alone.

As I did not want this conversation to take place in front of Morgan, even quietly, I stepped back and hoped he would follow out of earshot of the captains, but Striker grabbed my arm and held firm and fast.

“Not here,” I said low and fiercely.

He glared, and his grip tightened on my arm; but, oddly, I sensed I was not the target of his anger.

Pete threw a jolly arm about his shoulder and whispered in his ear. I was hopeful at this intimacy between them, until Striker turned murderous eyes toward his former matelot and Pete gave a guilty shrug.

“ICanna Let Go Now,” Pete hissed loud enough for Gaston and me to hear.

I looked to Pete and found his gaze far soberer than Striker’s. I also saw pain in it.

“Let us…” I began to say.

Morgan cut my words with a jaunty, “Ah, so your scouts have returned.”

I frowned at Striker, and he, with his back still to Morgan and the other captains, cursed vehemently and quietly as they came to join us.

“’Ad Ta Tell’Em Somethin’,” Pete muttered.

“What have you to report?” Morgan asked. He was as drunk as Striker. “I hope it has some worth. I missed your fine Castilian yesterday.”

“Well then, Morgan,” I said coolly, “you missed me in vain, as we saw nothing worth speaking of.”

“I tell you!” Pierrot interjected, and laid a hand on Morgan’s shoulder. “We have all the Spanish here, and none of them have any damn gold!”

Despite his shouted words, his mien was his usual jolly one and I sensed no rum behind it. Beside him, Savant also appeared sober. He was studying Gaston with a critical eye. So was Bradley beyond him, and that damn man did not seem deep in his cups, either.

The drunk captains were now arguing foolhardily with Pierrot.

“There is gold in Cuba!” Morgan added to their clamor. “But, aye, it is not here! Do not fear, my hearty men! We will make them bring it to us!”I liked not the sound of that, but his attention had turned to the others, and I was thankful of that, at least.

“I feared you dead,” Striker hissed angrily once Morgan was away.

“But Pierrot said Gaston went mad. That was good to hear. Then Morgan asked of you.”

“I am sorry to put you in that position,” I said. “We did not intend to be gone so long, but…”

“I did go mad,” Gaston said calmly. “It is likely I will always do so after a battle.”

Striker sighed and shook his head. “What’ll we tell…?” He glanced over his shoulder at the other captains.

“We will think of something,” I said quickly. “In the morning.”

In turning to look at the others, Striker had discovered Pete’s hand on his shoulder, and now he glared at it. He shrugged it off violently and elbowed Pete in the ribs, driving the air from the Golden One in a pained bark that quickly transmuted to a chortle of amusement.

“If I canna’ touch you, then you shan’t touch me,” Striker growled.

“Aye,” Pete sighed.

Striker did not turn to look at him, and so he missed the sadness in Pete’s gaze.

“Don’t be disappearin’ again,” Striker said to Gaston and me.

I took no umbrage at his tone. “We will not. Where is the rest of the cabal? We will sleep with them.”

“They Be Sentries,” Pete said. “An’True Scouts,” he added with a grin.

“Thank the Gods,” I sighed. “Where are you sleeping?”

“IShow Ya.”

He left Striker with the captains and led us down a street off the square, to a shop. The shutters hung askew, and the door was caved in where someone had tried to batter it open. Pete led us around the alley to the back door and inside.

I was surprised when Striker joined us, but I thought it likely Gaston had known he followed.

“Bakery,” Striker mumbled, and threw himself on a cot in the back room.

Pete was laughing as he lit a lamp. “Aye, There Be Food Here.

Not Much. We Shared It Out. But We Kept Some.”

He pulled a bag from beneath the cot and handed us each a sweet roll. I thought it was likely the best piece of baking I had ever tasted. He also had apples, and with the boucan we carried, we made a meal of it.

I sat shoulder to shoulder with Gaston, our backs to flour barrels.

Pete sprawled across from us with his back to the cot. Our legs were all entwined in the little space. Striker was lost to drunken slumber as soon as his belly was full. The shadows on the walls seemed to dance to the reverberation of his snores. The whole place smelled of flour and butter. It warmed me with nostalgia. As a child, my governess had often hauled me off to the kitchens so she could sit and gossip with the other servants. The cooks had always doted on me, and plied me with loaf heels and sweet breads.

Sanity seemed close at hand: a ready presence.

I looked from Pete to Striker. “I am pleased you are reunited in battle at least,” I told Pete.

He snorted. “Don’tSay It.”

“What?” I asked.

“That IBe The One Who Started It.”

He glanced over his shoulder at Striker, and the pain haunted him again.

“Can you not make peace with the situation?” I asked gently.

He sighed long and heavily, and his gaze returned to me.

“It Na’ Be Fair,” he said with an edge of rancor.

I chose to eschew the usual platitudes that came to mind considering fairness, or the lack thereof in this world.

“He is as he is, and you are as you are,” I said.

“Aye… Nay.” Pete shook his head. “It Na’ Be Fair Only Women Have Babies.”

“Oh,” I said.

“They Be Evil. They Lie.”

Beside me, Gaston was nodding.

I sighed. “Not all…”

Pete waved me off. “IKnow! Your Sister Does Na’ Seem ABad Sort.

But She Still Be One O’’Em. IWill Na’ Lose Ta One O’’Em.”

I considered that. “You have not lost,” I said carefully. “He loves you still.”

He shook his head and regarded the floor with a bitter frown.

“IWill Na’ Share’Im. IWill Na’ Sleep Down The Hall While…” He trailed off with a hiss.

I recalled my words to Alonso long ago, and my protestations of the matter of my marriage to Gaston. Unlike me, Striker did wish to bed his wife with love. He would wish to lie with her through the night in the aftermath. He would have children with her, Gods willing, and they would raise them together. Striker would not mean to shut Pete out, but Pete would never be satisfied with only having what was his when they roved.

Then I remembered another thing. I did not imagine it would solve all of the problems or make things the way they had been, but it might yet offer a solution.

“Do not share him with her,” I said. “Share her with him. I believe she offered that: to be wed to both of you.”

Pete shook his head sadly. “She Did. IThought On It. But ICanna’.

ISwore. ISwore IWould Never Sully Myself So By Plungin’Inta One O’’Em.

No Squishy’Ole Fer Me. An’IWill Na’ Have It Said We Be Sharin’’Er If I Na’ Be Fuckin’’Er.”

“Who did you swear this to?” I asked.

“Meself! After…” His gaze met mine and he shook his head.

I sought some purchase to surmount this obstacle. “Did you swear you would never lie with a woman, or that you would never sully yourself with their… squishy hole?”

He frowned. “There Be No Difference.”

I shook my head. “Women have two holes: the… squishy one, and a nether one. Some women find sodomy pleasurable. I have on several occasions…”

Pete’s eyes narrowed further still, and Gaston drew a long breath beside me. I looked to him and realized what I had suggested…

concerning my sister, of all people. I sighed.

I turned back to Pete and saw a satisfied and intrigued curve settling about his eyes and mouth. I did not like the look of it.

I awarded him a forbidding mien. “She is still my sister and I will not have her… taken… in that manner, to satisfy your…”

He snorted disparagingly. “Iffn’IDecide Ta Do It IBe Good Ta’ Er.”