The Red King (2 page)

“Help me! Please!”

He heard the fire now, devouring the wood
with creaks and pops as flames swept the hold. The air corrupted,
first gray, then black, even as his strength waned.

One large, excessively muscled arm shot in
through the hole. Its massive hand seized the chains.

“Hold on, boy,” he heard, as his vision began
to waver. There was the sound of straining above him. Then the bolt
ripped free with a loud thud. Lifted by his chains, Andrew felt
himself rise. But before he was free, he slipped into darkness.

“Is this the one?”

“Aye, Captain. He was being sent straight to
Maarten.”

Andrew heard voices, felt fresh, clean air on
his face, and inhaled. Immediately he began to cough, a violent
hacking that hurt from his head down to his gut. He tried to open
his eyes but they were heavy, sealed with ash and blood.

Fingers lifted his chin. One of his eyes
struggled open. The light hurt and it took him a moment to clear
his gaze. He was greeted by a curious, otherworldly sight. The man
had fire-red hair lit from behind by the sun, long, unbound and
curled away from a high forehead. Straight brows framed eyes that
regarded Andrew with interest, if not concern. There was a beard,
pointed, groomed and in stark contrast with the mane.

“Yes, I see it now. Beneath the filth, this
one would please him.”

Such an odd manner of speech, English filled
with different vowels, strange accents. Beginning to cough again,
Andrew doubled over as pain wracked his lungs. He felt himself
lifted as the command was given. “Strike his chains and take him to
my quarters. Bring water and get Fleming. If the boy lives through
the burning of his lungs, he may be of use to us.”

Andrew’s open eye rolled up to the man
carrying him. This face was kind, with a gentle smile. He had seen
it before. “Ease your mind,
abban
.”

Andrew recoiled at the word. It meant little
abbot and he was not a priest, though it had been his mentor’s
wish. The reminder pained him. Andrew tried to say as much, but he
was weak and his throat was raw. So he closed his eye, let his head
roll onto the man’s chest and dropped back into nothingness.

The voices near Andrew were speaking of
him.

“You can’t keep the boy. He will be in the
way, a distraction.”

“To whom, Fleming?”

“Everyone!” Fleming punctuated his opinion by
slamming something, perhaps a tin cup, against wood. “He’s a child,
a sheltered novice, with nary a whisker on his chin. What can he do
besides pray and preach? You saw how protective Malik has become
already; it’s going to get him killed!”

“Malik feels a kinship to the boy, which is
to be expected. I do not think he will be so easily distracted as
to cause a danger.”

“And what about you?”

“Me?”

“Do you think me blind or just a fool? You
intend to have him, whether he fits into our plan or not.”

“This boy is an opportunity. Either Maarten
will receive a whore instead of a virgin, or the boy will throw in
with us and help us.”

“How can you be so sure Maarten will
care?”

There was a deep, throaty chuckle. “Oh, he’ll
care. He will want his gift returned, especially after his men
report the beauty of that gift.”

Andrew opened his eyes. He saw two men—the
man with the wild red hair and another with a long golden braid.
They sat at a small table, an apple halved between them.

“That’s why you let them live,” Fleming
sighed. “But will the gem not be enough? Must you must still use
this innocent?”

“The gem was from Maarten’s coffer. Coffers
exist to be plundered.” The red-haired man chewed thoughtfully on
his piece of apple. “The boy is different. A gem plucked from
Maarten’s bed.”

“You’re a damned fool. You’ll get him killed
and yourself in the bargain.”

“And you’ll be by my side, I’m sure, to
witness the event in person.” The redhead smiled.

“T’will be the only way I will believe it, my
friend.”

The orchard smelled lovely, fresh and white
and sweet like the fruit it bore. As a boy, barely ten summers
grown, the orderly lanes of aged trees gave him peace. He wandered
through the rows, idly touching and welcoming the solidity of their
bark, the serenity of their strength. Beneath his small hands there
was power, life, and the promise of tomorrow. Even as child he
could see the glory of being, and he rejoiced in it.

The light through the branches was fading,
though, and he knew it was time to turn back.

When he rounded on the next path, all went
dark.

The trees became a labyrinth of walls and
iron chains, scraping his fingers as he felt his way. In his fear
he tried to run, but he was caught at the ankle and he crashed to
the ground. His hands flew out to catch himself and instead of
grass, he felt wooden planks. When he tried to stand, he found
himself caught by an iron shackle. It was heavy, cutting into his
skin “Help!” he shouted, or he tried to, but his voice was muffled
as if the inky black around him were a heavy blanket. “Someone,
help, please!

A warm hand brushed the hair from his head.
“It is just darkness, little mouse.”

“
Father! Father, I am caught!” Andrew
cried, seeking the comfort and warmth of his mentor’s
touch.

“
Hush, now, Andrew. Wait until the
darkness clears and then you will see the truth,” Father Armand
soothed.

“
Truth?” Andrew asked, calming as his hair
was stroked.

“
Truth is light. Wait for the light before
going on.”

“
I don’t understand.”

“
Not yet, mouse, but you will.”

When Andrew woke again, he wanted an
apple.

“How are you feeling, little father?”

He expected something else; fine bones,
chiseled cheeks, hair the color of the morning sun and eyes so
sharp and clear they reminded him of cut glass. As Andrew focused
on the face above him, he saw dark, kind eyes and a broad face. Not
handsome, but good and honest. He struggled for a moment, but
eventually forced air across his sore, dry throat.
“I’m…thirsty.”

“Good. Some water, then.”

A cup was brought to his lips. The water
hurt, but he drank it greedily. “Thank you,” he said when it was
taken away. His eyes, clean and free of the cloying ash and blood
that had blinded him, viewed his surroundings with open curiosity.
Sunlight, pure and golden, shone through a small window above his
head. Rich cloths draped the walls, giving the room depth, shadow,
hidden places. He lay in a sort of box with raised sides. It felt
like a cradle, secure, with layer upon layer of soft fabric,
creating a nest more comfortable than any he had ever known.

Andrew took stock of himself, too, noting
that he was, overall, unharmed. His face hurt in places, his wrists
ached and his throat felt swollen and sore, but he was whole.
Relief weakened him, and he felt tears sting his eyes. “You…you
came back for me,” he said, looking up at the man.

And up and up, for this man was a giant,
surely. Sitting on a low stool, his bent knees rose above the edge
of the bed. His chest was as broad as a barrel, his shoulders,
perhaps two. His palm could cover Andrew’s face and the fingers
were like the top of a bulrush. Even his voice, so deep and
resonant that it rumbled in Andrew’s chest, felt big. “I did. It
was only right, seeing as I put you there.” The man’s accent was
much like his own, if a bit more northern. It was comforting to
hear.

Andrew shook his head. “You didn’t, not
really.”

“It felt that way, to my heart.”

Andrew’s lips trembled, curling into a smile.
“My name is Andrew. Who are you?”

“I’m Malik.”

“Ma-leek,” Andrew repeated, the name foreign
sounding despite the man’s familiar Highland speech. “Thank you,
Malik.”

“Do not thank him yet.”

From the shadows past the foot of the bed
stepped a shade, an apparition from a dream. The man’s hair shone
like fire; Andrew fairly imagined he could feel heat from it. Yes,
there were the pale green eyes and high, finely cut cheeks rising
strong above the bearded jaw. There was little emotion there,
neither threat nor comfort, but Andrew felt a curious responding
tremor as he was observed.

“Where am I?” Andrew asked.

The man placed a gentle hand on Malik’s
shoulder. “Return to your duties.”

“Aye, Captain.”

The captain waited until Malik—twice as broad
and nearly a head taller—left the room. Once the drape had fallen
back into place, he lowered himself to the short stool. His arms
reached for Andrew, who instinctively withdrew as far as the
cradle-like bed would allow.

“I only wish to help you sit up.”

Reluctantly, Andrew nodded. He rose to his
elbows, looking down at his bare chest in surprise. He only now
noticed his lack of clothing. When those arms lifted him the rest
of the way, he shivered. Their strength was evident in the ease
with which he was handled, the movement of the muscles as they
pressed against Andrew’s bare flesh.

Andrew held his breath. His heart was
pounding.

A firm cushion was slipped behind his back.
Long-fingered hands tilted his face to the light, examining the
cuts healing there. Finally those hands slid down to Andrew’s
wrists, testing each by bending them slowly and carefully.

This was the captain? This man who looked
like a barbarian but was tending his wounds with the gentle touch
of a Holy Sister? “Where am I?” Andrew asked again, pulling his
hands out of the man’s grasp. His touch, while gentle,
was…disturbing.

“You’re thin. Did they feed you at all?”

Abashedly glancing down at his smooth,
milk-white chest, Andrew crossed his arms. “Some bread, with
water.”

“Mmm…I’ll wager that water was laced with
opium, as well…to keep you docile. Are you hungry now?”

Swallowing, Andrew nodded. “I smell
apples.”

The captain smirked, stood slowly and walked
the short distance to the table. Above it hung a basket and into
this he placed his hand. When he withdrew, he held a shiny, dark
red apple. He took the dagger from his belt and cut into the fruit.
“Take small bites, and chew carefully. Your throat is still not
fully healed,” he said, handing a small slice to Andrew.

Mouth watering, Andrew took the pale fruit
and had a bite. Though he was famished, he obligingly chewed
slowly. He sat with his eyes closed, savoring the crisp texture,
the sweet juice. When he opened his eyes again, the captain had
returned to the stool and sat staring at him.

“You’re as pale as this apple,” he said,
slicing his own piece. He then pointedly placed the apple onto his
tongue and let Andrew watch it disappear into his mouth. “No doubt
you were locked away in a cold, dreary cell, saving yourself for
God.”

Andrew, despite his prayers for humility, was
still proud on occasion. “We tilled the earth for our food, masoned
our own buildings. I was not always this thin. The color of my skin
is of no importance in God’s work.” After a pause, he asked again,
“Where am I?”

“You are in my cabin, on my ship.”

Another ship. More dangerous men.

“Why your cabin?”

“You were in need of care, more than the
ship’s hold could offer,” the man said, cutting another piece of
fruit and passing it to Andrew. He took another for himself,
smirking as he chewed. “Unless you’d rather we laid you out on the
galley table. Like a sweetmeat.”

Andrew swallowed against a surge of emotion,
something hot and uncomfortable that left him strangely unsteady.
“What did you mean when you said, ‘Do not thank him?’ What do you
intend to do with me?”

He was eyed, critically, and became
increasingly aware of a certain heat in the captain’s gaze. “My
intentions are not…firm…as of yet, but we have time.”

Andrew felt flushed, down to his toes. “Who
are
you?”

“It’s my turn now. Your name?”

“Andrew.”

“Just Andrew?” There was a hint of amusement
in the question.

“I have no family. The brothers only ever
called me Andrew.” Retelling it now was so strange, so distant; it
did not feel like his life.

“And your age?”

“I just passed my eighteenth summer.”

There was a pause, during which the man’s
gaze tracked a lazy route down Andrew’s chest and then back up to
his face. Andrew’s flush became a blaze.

“You are Scottish?” Andrew gave a slight nod.
“From where?”

“The nearest town was Abernathy.”

“And how had you come to be in Spanish
waters?” The man’s voice was still soft, but carried great
authority. He stared hard into Andrew’s eyes while he waited for an
answer.

Andrew looked away, down at his hands, his
bruised wrists. “We were en route to Galicia…on pilgrimage to
Camino de Santiago.”

“You’re a priest?”

Tears stung his eyes. “No, I’m not.”

“But you traveled in the company of priests,
monks. Holy men.”

“Yes,” Andrew whispered. “But I am not of the
order.”

The man sighed, deeply. “I confess that I’m
puzzled. Why would you be in the company of holy men if you were
not one of them? Were you their…
pullus
?”

Frowning, Andrew mulled over the word. “Their
chicken?”

He was met with laughter. Indeed, the man
laughed hard so that his cheeks flushed and his eyes watered.
“Never mind, boy-chick.” He sobered. “They took your ship. Did they
keep anyone but you?”

“The captain’s wife and her brother; they
were put on another ship.” Andrew’s voice was small, his eyes on
his hands where they rested in his lap.

“Where did this ship go?”

“I don’t know.”