The Red King (31 page)

Andrew did not answer. He drank his wine,
keeping his face impassive even as he felt a keen desire to throw
it in the man’s face.

“You don’t need to maintain this charade,
boy. I know full well what you think of me. I care not whether you
hate me or condemn me, but conversation over our meal is only,”
Ortega paused to smile, “polite.”

Meeting his steely gaze, Andrew said, “The
weather was quite pleasant today.”

Ortega laughed; a full belly guffaw that set
him back in his elaborate seat. “Are you sure you’re not an
Englishman?”

“Quite sure.” Andrew took another bite of
meat.

Nodding, Ortega lifted his own goblet in
salute. “To the spirit of the Scotsman, then.”

Andrew conceded, raising his own, “And the
madness of Danes. Or is that not polite?”

“I find your humor charming, but I would not
taunt Maarten. He will not take it lightly,” Ortega said,
chuckling. He speared several potatoes with his stiletto and
dropped them onto his plate. He ate silently for a bit, watching
Andrew avidly, as if he were trying to deduce some hidden mystery.
“You do know what he will do to you, don’t you?” he asked, resting
his chin on the back of his hand.

“I have an idea.”

“Do you? You think to seduce him, to soften
him? I will tell you now that it is not possible, he offers nothing
but pain and death,” Ortega said. He was serious now, pointing the
stiletto at Andrew as he spoke.

“I do not seek softness,” Andrew answered. He
finished his wine again.

Narrowing his eyes, Ortega asked, “What do
you seek?”

Andrew met his gaze, tilting his head and
curling his lips in a small, mocking smile. “Why do you ask?”

Ortega stared a moment longer, then pursed
his lips and went back to his food. “Yes, you are tempting, but I
am no sodomite. You have something else that I want.”

“What would that be?” Andrew asked, with only
mild surprise.

“I wish to be free of Maarten,” Ortega said.
He smiled at Andrew’s raised eyebrows. “He is a millstone, a yoke
that chafes.”

“Yet you do his work. You follow his orders,”
Andrew stated.

“And skim his coffer,” Ortega confessed.
Sitting back, he waved his dagger, point at the food, the lush
furnishings in his spacious cabin. “I like these comforts. I have
gladly lent my back to the man who could sponsor them, but I would
like more.”

Andrew sat back, as well, rubbing his
uninjured hand across his tired eyes. “You make no sense.”

“What don’t you understand? I wish to have
his wealth to continue making my own. If I could take his
treasures, his ships, have a fleet at my command I could tap the
untouched Americas. Saint-Dominique grows larger every day, tobacco
plants are difficult to harvest, and they must have new backs to
bear the load,” Ortega said. He shrugged one shoulder. “I wish to
supply them.”

“You would take them slaves?” Andrew asked,
his lip curling in disgust.

“It is lucrative. I excel at it.”

Andrew shuddered. “How am I supposed to help
you?”

Ortega stood, tossing napkin down on his
plate. Walking over to Andrew’s chair, he put one hand on the back
and leaned in, close, before speaking. “You join me, and you
convince
Ruaidhri
’s crew to do likewise.”

For a moment Andrew was too shocked to do
anything. Then he opened his mouth and laughed, loudly. He laughed
until tears fell from his eyes. “Join you? If any of them see your
face you’ll be lucky not to lose it!”

“There will be some who will wish to join.
There always are,” Ortega said, calmly.

Andrew still chuckled, his eyes still
streaming. Reaching for his wine, ignoring the man as he crowded
him, he said, “You think only of yourself, of your mercenary crew.
The
Taibhse
is manned with loyal, steadfast and honest men
who would rather cut their own throats than conduct themselves on
such business.” He took a long drink. “But, if you would like to
ask them yourself, settle your accounts before you go.”

Still hovering, the man put the point of his
stiletto to Andrew’s neck. “I’m trying to be generous, Andrew. You
have already refused part of the bounty. What can I offer you to
have your support?”

With one fluid movement, Andrew had the
dagger plucked from Ortega’s fingers. He threw it almost
carelessly, sticking it neatly into the deck. “You can take me to
Maarten, and I can be off of this ship of corruption.”

“Are you stupid? Are you mad?” Ortega said,
his mild demeanor suddenly threatening. He took Andrew’s jaw, held
it tight enough to bruise, and turned Andrew to look in his eyes
“Maarten will take what he wants from you. He may knock your teeth
out to make your mouth a proper cunt. He could castrate you and
leave you as only a sheath for his sword. He will starve you and
offer you his shit to eat. He will brand you, whip you, cut you and
smile, like an angel, while you beg to die.”

Knocking his hand away, Andrew snarled, “How
long have you known what he was and yet you let him be? You brought
him victims, children and innocents to torture so that you could
fill your purse. You are no better than he.”

Ortega considered his words, smiled, and then
chuckled. His pleasant attitude returned as if it had never left.
“I will not deny it.”

Watching the man as he left off leaning over
him and bent to retrieve the stiletto, Andrew asked, “You ask me if
I am mad but you seek no defense when accused of flesh mongering
for a sadistic murderer. I tell you it is not I who is mad.”

“We shall see,” Ortega continued, sheathing
the dagger. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Now,
Andrew, our supper has ended. We’ll have a glass of sherry, but I
suppose you do not take a pipe.”

Andrew was shaking when the guard-servant
pressed a small, crystal glass into his hand. He bit his lips to
keep them from trembling. When Ortega appeared next to him once
more, to gently touch the rim of their glasses together, Andrew
jumped.

“Drink, dear boy. You have some time to
consider what I’ve said,” the man told him, patting him on his
injured shoulder. He smiled when Andrew winced. “Plenty of
time.”

Then he dug his fingertips into Andrew’s
wound.

Andrew clenched his teeth and said, clearly,
but in a pained voice, “Then I shall decide at my leisure, and bid
you good evening.”

“Drink the sherry first. You’ll thank me,”
Ortega ordered, but released him. Andrew drank it fast, in one
swallow as if it were a draught of medicine. He coughed and wheezed
as Ortega laughed. “Take him back. Put a guard at his door,
preferably someone who would not wish to take his pretty ass to
bed.”

“I don’t need a guard,” Andrew told him,
rising from his seat.

Looking him up and down, Ortega chucked
again. “Yes, you do, and you should thank God your friend Acklie no
longer sails with me. He wished to taste you. He spoke of it
repeatedly.”

Stepping closer, Andrew told him in a low,
dangerous voice, “I killed Acklie when he tried. I stabbed him
right through his throat and laughed in his face as he bled on the
deck of the
Taibhse
.”

“And so, you, too, are a murderer, as well as
a sodomite. Judge not, little father,” Ortega said, softly, and
nodded to his man to take Andrew away.

Andrew was escorted to his cabin in silence.
He saw no one else in the narrow passage as he went. It was a
strangely quiet ship. The lack of boisterous calls, chants, and
bawdy songs that had filled the
Taibhse
tore at Andrew’s
self-control. He found the silence eerie, unnerving, and
overwhelmingly sad. Once ensconced in his room, he straightaway ran
his fingers along the crevice between the door and frame, feeling
the glass vial secure. He had not felt safe hiding it in his bunk
and so had peeled away the aging caulk to create a perfectly sized
gap. The vial would have to be felt to be found, and Andrew
suspected that this cabin saw little use.

There were now linens on the small bunk, as
well as a pillow and a coverlet. His lantern had been refilled and
swung gently with the movement of the ship, its wick burning low.
Sighing, Andrew sat, marveling at the sinking warmth of the
down-filled blanket. He ran his fingers over it, clutched it in his
fist for a moment. Rory’s descriptions of his captivity, surrounded
by every imaginable luxury even as he was tortured and tormented,
flared like striking sparks from flint. They were bright and hot
and caused his eyes to burn and his vision to swim.

Water was in the basin. Andrew removed his
doublet and shirt and splashed his face with his uninjured hand. He
could not lose his control now. He needed it, depended on it. There
was no time for his grief or his misery. Glaring at his reflection,
eyes and nose red, tears still standing, he grit his teeth against
the rising despair. He succeeded by focusing every ounce of rage he
felt on the name Maarten. The tears fell, but his lips were no
longer twisted from the struggle and the roaring in his ears faded.
He splashed his face with more water and went back to the bunk.

Exhaustion was pulling at Andrew now. He felt
slow and heavy limbed, so much so that removing the boots caused
him to break a sweat. It was draining, this feeling. It sapped his
strength and his will, and all he wanted was to lie down. When his
head sank into the pillow he moaned and rubbed his cheek against
its soft muslin ticking. He curled up with his arms wrapped tightly
around his chest, still in his breeches and stockings, and fell
asleep.

The door opened slowly, its hinges squeaking
just enough to wake him. Andrew sat up, dazed by the bright sun
filling the room. He had a moment of uncertainty, his thoughts
muddled and unclear. He did not remember where he was or why he was
there. Pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, he winced at
the pull in his shoulder, the pressure on his palm.

“Oh,” Andrew whispered as the events of the
past days returned.

Ortega was standing over him, smiling. He
held a plate and a goblet and seemed to be in excellent spirits.
“Good afternoon!”

Blinking and bemused, Andrew said,
“Afternoon?”

“Yes, it is well into the afternoon. You
drank too much wine, little father. What will that confession cost
you, I wonder?” Ortega laughed.

“I suppose my wounds and my exhaustion had
nothing to do with it,” Andrew snapped, already weary of the man’s
presence. “What do you want?”

“
Tsk
, I am your host and concerned
with your comfort. You didn’t present yourself for luncheon, so
have I taken it upon myself to bring you a bit of repast,” Ortega
offered the goblet first, filled with beer, gold and delicately
bubbling.

Andrew took it and drank greedily. It was
light, almost sweet, and greatly satisfied his thirst. “Thank you,”
he said, with more gratitude than he’d intended. He flushed and bit
his cheek.

“You’re welcome. Here, then, are some of the
remains of our supper. I recall you liked the pheasant and bread.”
Ortega presented the plate with a flourish and a small bow. Several
small pieces of meat, still fresh looking and succulent, sided with
potatoes, carrots, and two thick slices of bread.

Still not hungry, Andrew took the plate and
set it beside him. “Thank you, again.”

Ortega bowed again. “And again, you are
welcome. Eat, dress; when you are finished have your guard bring
you to the deck. Some fresh air to help clear your head; that would
be nice, wouldn’t it?”

The man left. Andrew stared at the closed
door for a long time, empty of thought. What he wanted to do was
lie back down, sleep another day away, and then another. He wanted
to sleep until the grey edges of his vision faded and the stone of
grief lifted from his heart. He ate the food, despite his lack of
appetite. Then he dressed, feeling as though his body were draped
in lead. His wounds ached and felt hot beneath the bandages. As he
washed his face he caught his reflection and paused to harden his
expression into one of disdain. Schooling himself to remember his
purpose, he lifted his chin and took a deep breath.

“I will do this,” Andrew spoke, very softly,
to the face in the mirror. “I will kill Maarten Jan de Worrt.”

When he stepped out onto the deck he felt
every eye upon him, but when he sought them out all faces were
turned away. The strange silence was here, too, even as the men
worked. Only the galleon spoke; her sails billowing, rigging and
pulleys straining, and the wood itself was creaking as if she
sought to fill the quiet with song. It was a small comfort, but
Andrew was thankful for it.

She was a beautiful ship, too; larger than
the
Taibhse
, square-rigged with a fo’c’sle. The deck was
remarkably clear of rope and barrel, allowing for freedom of
movement and easy access to four brass guns, mounted on her gunnel.
The cabins were below deck in the aft with the crew’s quarters in
the fore, providing security and privacy for both captain and
guests.

“Where are we?” Andrew asked, looking to the
man at the wheel.

“
Jeg ved ikke, hvad du siger
,” he
replied, not looking at Andrew but shaking his head.

Sighing, Andrew wandered to the gunnel,
eyeing the dark shadow of land in the distance.

“Saying farewell to Africa?” a voice said at
his shoulder. Ortega stepped up to the gunnel and leaned on it,
facing him. “We’ll clear the strait by the morning bell. Once the
sun sets you will no longer have to bear the sight of it.”

The sun was indeed lowering in the west,
already turning a dark burnished gold. Andrew stared at the horizon
then back at the land. Farewell. Forever. His chest was suddenly
tight, crushing, stealing his breath. He gripped the side rail and
choked back sickness, putting a hand over his mouth. He felt strong
hands at his shoulders and he was turned to face Ortega.