Read Raised By Wolves Volume four- Wolves Online
Authors: W. A. Hoffman
Raised By Wolves Volume four- Wolves (25 page)
growingquicklywearyofher acrimony. “As I believe I explained that day, I was afraid our friends would do the wrong thing in an attempt to help us. As youdid while we were prisoners.”
She shook her head tightly with refutation and looked awaywithanger.
I wondered whyI had to fight withthose I cared for; and thenI recalled Theodore’s words.
“I know you were trying to help me,” I said without anger. “I do. I thank you for caring to try. But what you asked was not a thing I could do. It would have made things worse, no matter how reasonable youthought it seemed.”
“You were a stubborn fool,” she said quietly. She returned her gaze to me and she spat, “And now what? You will rally the men and have all sail off with you to battle Father? To avenge your honor?”
I realized theyhad allbeen waiting for me to do just that. I sighed. “Nay.”And then her words struck another chord, and it rang off key and jarring. “Nay,” I said with more force as my ire rose. “And I do not feel my honor was besmirched. Thorp nearly broke me—I will spare you the details—but he did not diminish my honor. That is a thing that only would have occurred if I had been a craven man and lied as you suggested. As it is, myhonor is intact evenifmyhide and arse are not.
“And as for our father… I will not rally the men and sail offlike a fool. I willnot accept the risk ofone single life for him. I willnot award himthat. His deathis not worththe life ofanyman or womanI know. Not one. Not eventhose I dislike.”
She was initially stunned by my words, but she gathered herself quickly. “What if he kills Gaston? What if his men return and killGaston? What then?”
That was a thing I had not allowed myself to truly contemplate. I looked away and let the fear of it wash over me. What would I do? I did not know if I could survive losing him, and then I wondered what he would wish of me. He would not wishme to die.
I glanced at Gaston and found him reassuring and resolute. I looked back to her before he could speak.
“I will likely be lost to madness for a time,” I said. “And
if I survive that, then… I will have children to care for. And facing our father will be the last thing I will wish to do; because he will already have taken everything from me that he can; and the only reason I wish him dead now is to prevent him from takinganythingelse fromme or those I care about.”
She looked away and did not speak. Her face was an inscrutable mask, but her eyes brimmed withtears.
“Sarah, I do not wishto battle withyou,”I said softly.
She sniffed. “Nay, because you are kind and good. You engender shame inthe rest ofyour blood.”
“Sarah…”
“Nay,” she snapped and turned back to me. “I was wrong. You are different. You are not like Father or Uncle Cedric or Shane. Youare a manapart.”She looked awayagain.
“Thank you?” I said with trepidation that I should elicit her anger once again. “How is Uncle Cedric? Have you heard fromhimsince…”
Her incredulous gaze stopped me.
“He is dead,” she said. She shook her head and sighed. “While you were away—at Maracaibo. He had the flux again, and some fever. He died at one of Modyford’s plantations. We buried him at Ithaca. Mister Theodore escorted me. No one would speak to us. A week later, theyburned our warehouse.”
She shook her head again and the movement seemed to fanthe anger that had returned to her eyes. “You were not there. He wanted to speak to you. That is all they would tell me. He asked for you again and again in his delirium. But you were not there, and theydid not send for me.”
I was saddened, but I could not let her words lie. “They would not have sent for me, either.”
“Nay,” she agreed with an unbecoming sneer. “Nay, they would not. And it is likely he never would have dared approach either of us again; but that is not my point. You were not there. James was not there. Pete was not there. None ofyou was there. I will not be left alone again while you all run off to satisfy your honor, or tactics, or plans. You said you would protect me. James said he would protect me. But nay, there is always somethingmore important to youmen.”
She glared at each of us in turn; and Gaston and Pete appeared to be as mucha scolded boyas I felt.
“I have done poorly by you,” I admitted. “I have spent too many years seeing to my own concerns and no one else’s. I am trying to make amends for that.” But I knew her well-being was not a priorityfor me evennow. Just as I knew she could see myguilt uponmyface.
“Striker will stay with you…now,” I added. But then I saw Pete studying the mantel with a resigned mien and my anger returned. “Unless he drinks himself to death because he is a man ofthe sea and not meant to live onland.”
Gaston’s eyes went wide, and Pete looked to me with a grimace that said not even he would have said that to her. I shrugged:she was alreadyangrywithme.
“Get out!”she growled.
My matelot stood and seemed pleased at the opportunity to escape. I turned and found the maid in the doorway with a bottle of wine. I plucked it from her and began
to follow my man to the door. Then I remembered Pete, and paused to give hima questioninglook.
“I’mStayin’,”he said withresignation.
“Do not trouble yourself,” Sarah growled at him and
“CanYa FindYurWay?”
“I suppose…”I said.
Gastonnodded withassurance.
I shrugged and waved farewellto Pete.
My matelot took up the lantern we had left on the porch,
and we returned to the mosquito-infested night. I was not looking forward to our walk back to Cayonne: I had been bitten severaltimes onthe wayto the house.
“We must never go anywhere without hogs’ fat,” I said and took a longpullonthe bottle.
“For many reasons,” Gaston said quite seriously and took the bottle fromme to take a drink.
“Was that your Horse?” he asked when we were well awayfromthe house.
“Non, my Horse wished to hold her and assure her everythingwould be well.”
He made a thoughtful noise. “My Horse wished to slap her.”
“I truly cannot say which course would have been
spoke well.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
I watched his profile in the bobbing light for a time, and
thought of all the reasons I loved him, and wondered what I would do ifI lost him.
“Thank youfor speakingas youdid to the priest,”I said.
He nodded. “You are welcome. And I amnot jealous of
He sighed. “We were drunk. It angered me. Then I felt guilt and shame that I should ever feelso about sucha thing. And then other things occurred with Pete and Striker and your bride and sister and…”He shook his head and sighed. “I forgot.”
I took another sip of wine and felt the mild giddiness spirits on a nearly empty stomach bring. It was a familiar thing. I had spent muchofmyexile inChristendomfeelingit.
“I like to drink at times,”I said. “I drank and… frolicked for years. I drank and fucked and ran from anything that made me think; but I amnot a drunkard.”
“Youhave wondered about that before,”Gastonsaid. “Oui.” I wondered about it now. “I rarely drank to drown my sorrows. I usually drank out of… boredom; because everyone else was; or because it was all I had to drink. I do not think when I drink. Perhaps that is Striker’s problem: he is a worrier bynature.”
“Youare not,”Gastonsaid.
“Non, I am not... Not as he is. I seem to have spent much of my life stumbling about with giddy naiveté. I recall much of my life stumbling about with giddy naiveté. I recall Alonso chiding me for it about our having to leave Florence. I have not thought that the frolickingofmyHorse; but perhaps that is exactly what it was. I think everything will be fine: that all problems can be solved. And if they cannot be, I am not prone to dwelling upon it or even blaming myself, unless I amunder the sway of melancholy. Because I have ever known that that path leads to melancholy.”
“Do youfeelit is a deficiencyofcharacter?”he asked.
“Perhaps, but perhaps it has kept me from becoming a drunkard.”
“Or goingmad,”Gastonsaid softly.
I looked to him with surprise and found him smiling
“Non, as I ever tell you, the thinking drives me mad, not you. But it also makes me a man and not a boy—or a Horse, I suppose.”
“Do you feel Pete is still a boy?” he asked with a thoughtfulfrown.
I was surprised at the readiness ofmyanswer. “Oui.”
Gaston nodded. “We are very old boys learning to be men.”
“Is it not said that some things are done better late than
ofthinkingwhile youfrolicked these last months.”
“Oui, I have seenthe results ofit allday.”
“Are youangry?”he asked.
“Non. You possess a clarity of purpose I envy. You
seem to know what you wish. I am still floundering with that. I only know I want you. But… Well, I envy your calling to medicine.”
“Ah,” he said with a nod. “You have gifts too. Surely youknow that.”
“Oui, but one of themhas always been for killing.” I was minded of a conversation I had once had with Pete about this very subject. “Another is for healing the heart, perhaps; but that is not a vocationunless one is a priest.”
“Perhaps it should be,”he said quite seriously.
“I think it should be practiced by someone other than priests withalltheir talk ofguilt and sin.”
“And youare a philosopher,”he added.
I chuckled. I could not gainsayhim.
“Will, I think we can be happy,” he said earnestly. “And everytime I do not, youfind a wayofmakingit so we can.”
“Gods willing.”
“Non, Will, it does not relyonthe Gods, but onus.”
Several leagues of dark road and mosquitoes later, we came to Cayonne again. I was wondering where Gaston’s medicine chest—that had been aboard the
Queen
—was now, and with it, the ointment he used for bug stings: and barring our locating it in a timely manner this eve, if we could find similar ointment inDoucette’s supplies.
We were hailed by the monk caring for the hospital’s few patients as we entered the ward. “Lord Montren, Monsieur Williams, Father Pierre wishes to speak with you,” the young mansaid diffidently, witha proper bow.
“Now?”I queried. It was quite late.
The priest nodded.
There was still conversation in the moonlit atrium, so
matter. He looked to me with apology in his eyes; and I sighed my acquiescence. He turned to the priest and told him to wait a moment. Then he fetched ointment from the surgery after only a moment. Then he fetched ointment from the surgery after only a minute ofsearchingand cursing.
I left the wine bottle in the hospital and applied the ointment to the swollen bites on my arms and neck as we followed the young man into the church. I expected him to lead us deep into the bowels of the monastery, but he stopped at the end of the aisle and pointed to a candle-lit figure kneeling at the altar rail. We padded down the otherwise empty chapel in silence bornofsomethingother thanreverence.
As we approached, Gaston genuflected and then joined Father Pierre at the rail to kneel with his hands clasped and his head bowed in sincere prayer. I stifled a sigh and genuflected before easing my tired body onto the first pew. Father Pierre did not acknowledge our arrival. I did not move such that I could see if his eyes were closed or his lips mumbling. I did not hear
unadorned wood was everywhere except the exposed great stone blocks of the walls. There was no stained glass, and no tapestries: they would surely molder in the humidity; and glass is fragile and expensive to bring to the New World. The cross was a great and simple thing ofteak and not a crucifix. It was a place of God being found in grain and craftsmanship, not art. I found it honest and lackinginpretension.
I wondered at my matelot’s seeming piousness. Was this yet another thing he had thought on while I frolicked, or was he playing the part? But to what benefit if he was? He had already told this priest he would not pretend in order to impress the Churchor inherit.
Churchor inherit.
I was not sure I should pretend in order to shield myself from charges of heresy. But was it possible to become civilized men and take a place in society and not befriend the Church through money or piety? Conversely, was it possible to maintain peace withthe Gods and the Churchat the same time?
Father Pierre finally moved. He crossed himself, and— after a curious glance at Gaston—came to joinme onthe pew.
“Father,”I said quietlywitha polite nod.
He studied me with open curiosity before asking, “Are youtrulyanatheist?”
“Are you a pious man, or a political one?” I countered. “Either way, I have never found it safe to discuss myfaithor lack thereofwithmenofthe cloth.”
He made a knowing sound and nodded with a languid smile as he turned to regard the cross. “I do not often see clever or intelligent men in this church—or any other. It is a sad statement about our faith. Yet Our Lord moves in mysterious ways. I feel He saw to the establishment of the Church to tend men and women blessed with uncomplicated thoughts, and tasked those with brilliant minds to find their own course to Him. Intelligent men are often cursed with the inability to see His Works behind the Church. Theyare not plagued and tempted by the Devil, but hamstrung by self-knowledge. They see the hubris and all-too-human error of those who attempt to dedicate their lives to God, and they feel God is flawed in accepting men such as that to represent Him, and so they turn from God. Yet they are seldomthe Devil’s playthings, either. They exist in a faithless limbo.”
He returned his gaze to me. “I was once one ofthem.”
I did not wince at being so skewered; though it surely pricked my pride. I sat humbled. “What happened? To you?” I added.
He smiled anew and motioned me to stay as he stood and walked about the altar and nave, peering toward doorways and around corners.
I looked to Gaston as Father Pierre looked for eavesdroppers, and found him watching the priest with as much surprise as I felt. He sensed my gaze and looked to me, and we smirked with self-deprecation in unison. I vowed to never again assume another manwas anenemyuntilI had spokenwithhimin private.
When Father Pierre was apparently assured we were alone, he returned to sit on the altar steps where he could see us both. Gaston glanced at the cross and crossed himself before turningto face us.
“I was a worldly yet troubled man,” Father Pierre said. “I felt compelled to make amends for my sins, and so I joined the Church. I have fought more battles within its confines than I ever did without. Yet they were subtle, clandestine wars of politics. Let us say I was not sent here to this pestilent and wartornoutpost as a reward. But it would be hubris to saythat inthe end, God did not know exactly where He wanted me and I could do the most good as I am. Yet He continues to allow the Church to send me overzealous and dogmatic boys who take years to teach that their true allegiance is to Him and not their aspirations withinthe ranks.”
I snorted with amusement. “So, we should trust you, but not your priests?”
He shrugged. “IfI earnyour trust.”
I nodded and considered my words carefully. “God… has showna surprisingand admirable tendencyofplacingpeople inmypathwho willaid me or teachme things I must learn.”
He smiled. “Ah, so youare not anatheist.”
“Non, I suppose not; but I feel I am more heretic than Christian.”
“Heresy…” he sighed. “The Church needs dogma. Without it you would have a Babylon of thousands of voices, many at odds with God, and others swayed by the Devil, deciding what is best for all. I feel until we can teach all men to reason and listen to God’s intent for themselves, we will be plagued by the necessity for dogma; because however flawed Church doctrine might be, it is preferable to the confusion that will result without it. Most men cannot be trusted to know God on their own, as the Protestants claim. And even in their number, they have those who feel they know more than the rest and who dictate dogma.”
He looked to us and smiled wanly. “And that sentiment, gentlemen, would lead to mydemise at the stake.”
“Theywillnot hear it fromme.”I said witha smile.
Father Pierre chuckled. “They would not hear it from you. It would be your word against mine.”
I laughed. When it passed, I sobered and asked, “So you do not believe God would condemn you for your lack of adherence to dogma?”
“Non, I do not,” he said seriously. “I feel God has great love and tolerance for the frailties and flaws of his creations: whether that be the creation ofdogma, or the failure to adhere to it.”
I glanced at my matelot and found himthoughtful, but his posture was relaxed and amiable.
“I do not believe God condemns me for being a sodomite,” I said. “I believe there are far greater sins I will be held accountable for inHis judgment.”
“Ah,” Father Pierre said knowingly. “I agree with you. And I feel that if God in his infinite wisdomdespised sodomy as thoroughly as so many say, He would have seen fit to arrange to have more mention of it in the Bible. But it is not a Commandment, and he never spoke of it to anyone blessed with His presence, nor did His Son address the matter; and all mention of it is relegated to books involving men speaking to other men about their interpretation of His will and their knowledge of right and wrong. And though God did say He wished for his creations to be fruitful and multiply, I do not feel he meant every single man or woman—I feel he meant mankind as a whole. I feel sodomy is an abomination in the eyes of man, not God.”
“That is as I have ever thought,”I said with surprise. “So youdo not disapprove?”
He grimaced. “Oui, and non. I disapprove of men or women engaging in carnal sin. That serves no purpose but the Devil’s.”
I frowned. “But…”
“Do you feel—as many of the Brethren once did—that matelotage constitutes marriage?” he asked. “Do you hold only to one another?”
Gastonlet out a smallwoofofsurprise.
I nodded dumbly.
“I felt I sinned when I lay with either of the women who are somewhat my wife,” Gaston said. “In law or public opinion,” he amended quickly. “It was wrong: even to the way of it with one, and the reason for it with the other. It has caused nothing but trouble. I am married to Will; and though it does not please the Church, or the needs of my lineage, I feel God favors it. If the Devil placed Will in my life, and the love and goodness that Will has brought is not a thing of God, but a thing I must turn fromto please God, then I do not understand God at all, nor do I wishto please Him.”
The father smiled. “I do not think the love I feel you two share—based upon what I saw when last you were here, or what I have seen now—is a thing of the Devil. Because, as you say, if God wishes us to turn from that, then I cannot comprehend what He wishes ofus, either.”
Gaston nodded with evident relief. “I also feelregret that I did as I did because I wished for children, and perhaps that was hubris. Perhaps God never intended for me to have children.”
“Mylove,”I breathed withsurprise at his confession.
He looked to me witha reassuringshake ofhis head.
“How many times did you lie with either woman?” Father Pierre asked himkindly.
“Twice with Agnes, and once with Christine,” Gaston