“Nickel killed her with his treachery,” I said. “He betrayed her trust and faith far more than he betrayed ours.”
“How?” Striker asked. “From what I remember, the damn fool did it for her.”
“He refused to believe her,” I said. “He believed in the dictates of society and not the person he professed to love. She told him I would release her from the marriage and everything could be sorted out, but he refused to accept her word, and went and made his deal with Thorp as a result.”
More images of that night returned to me: Bones lying in a bloody heap; and Thorp’s savage kicking of Julio. “What of the others: Julio, Davey, and Bones?”
“Farley saw to them,” Striker said with a glance at Gaston. “Thankfully he came ashore before the damn sloop chased the Bard and Cudro off. They’re healing. Julio will probably never walk right again, though. They all sailed on to Tortuga with Savant.”
“So, all our friends—save perhaps Liam and the children and, well, his wife, and Rucker, Sam, and Hannah—are on Tortuga?” I asked.
“Aye,” Striker said, “and as your matelot might have told you, we had to argue with Savant about him hauling Gaston off with them. Savant’s own men finally won him over. His quartermaster told him he was being a damn fool caring about what reward he might get from Gaston’s father—in front of the men; and most of his men agreed Gaston was a member of the Brethren first, and a lord second.”
I looked to Gaston, he appeared thoughtful.
He felt my gaze and looked up. “I was not…” He sighed and switched to French. “My Horse was in no mood to listen, and did not understand.”
I smiled and turned back to Striker, who was watching us with a worried frown. “He is not angry with you, truly. He was beyond himself in those hours.”
Striker nodded and awarded Gaston a wan smile. “Aye, you were the worst I’ve seen you.”
“I still am,” Gaston said.
Striker and Pete frowned at that.
“We are not well,” I said. “Neither of us. Which…” I looked to Gaston, and he sighed and nodded. “Brings us to a thing we must discuss. Where are we?”
“The strait of Florida,” Striker said, and watched me speculatively. “The winds are with us and we’ll make Tortuga inside of a week. No matter what we find there or plan to do next, we need to offload this cargo and provision. We’ll probably lose a number of the men too. Some will stay wherever we sail, but we had to pay some of the others in coin against the plunder we haven’t sold. They care not for Cayonne or France. They want to return to Port Royal. Our troubles aren’t theirs.”
“Thank you,” I said soberly. “I cannot thank you or the others enough for coming for us.”
Striker waved me off. “You’re our dearest friends, and Sarah’s our wife.” He chuckled at that. “What else were we to do?”
Gaston and I would have done the same for them. It made what I would say sticky on my lips. I forced the words out. “We do not wish to go to Tortuga.” I held up a hand before Striker could protest. “You should go to Tortuga, but Gaston and I wish to go to the Haiti. We are not ready for Cayonne and the intrigues there.”
Pete was thoughtful, but Striker was fighting anger.
He rubbed his face and would not look at me for a time. “I suppose telling you you’re mad would be stupid.”
“Well, ironic,” I said. “We are mad, and thus we need to behave madly, I suppose. We cannot pretend to be sane. If we go there, then… we will likely create more trouble than we are worth; and we already feel guilt that we have caused trouble for all we know.”
“You have a pregnant wife, and a missing child,” Striker began, only to stop and shake his head. “Damn it, I know the child is…” He swore quietly. “Our son is like some strange… idea. He’s not real to me. I’ve seen him but for a few days, and…” He sighed.
“I understand,” I said. “Believe me, I understand. Little Jamaica is either dead—and if that is so, and all on that craft died, I will mourn Liam more than her—or she is in the hands of people who are far better versed in her care than we are. She is not a healthy child to begin with, and…”
I stopped and looked to Gaston, he was studying the floor with moist eyes.
I changed the topic. “And as for Agnes…”
“Tell them,” Gaston interjected.
I sighed and told them of the Marquis’ letter.
Pete and Striker swore vehemently.
“It would be best if Agnes does not go to France,” I concluded. “Gods, it would be best if Gaston does not go to France—at this time. And Cayonne is fraught with poor memories for us. And despite how calm we might seem at this moment, we are truly… barrels of powder but awaiting a spark.”
Striker had appeared sympathetic, and then the anger took hold of him again. “Damn it, Will, we all are! What are we to do?”
“DoLikeWePlanned,” Pete said calmly. “AforeAllThis. GoToTortuga ’CauseItBeFrench An’Na’English. LearnTaLiveThere Lessin’We’Ave TaGoTaFrance.”
“Aye!” Striker spat, “but that was before the bastards showed up and attacked our house. They can do the same on Tortuga. France is best. They wouldn’t dare do that there.”
“Then go to France,” I said.
He glared at me.
“Nay, I am not being facetious,” I said quickly. “Go to France without us.”
“And do what?” Striker demanded. “Go sit around the Marquis’ manor, and… do what?”
“Perhaps you need not live there. My damn father and his men will assume that if you sail for France you will go to the Marquis. They will not seek you all over France.”
“And do what?” Striker snapped. “I’m a sailor. I’m a captain. What in God’s name am I supposed to do in France? I don’t speak French! I have been fretting over that since this began. Am I to leave the sea? I don’t want to die drunk and fat on shore of old age!”
“LikeIDo?” Pete teased him.
“I cannot imagine that,” I said with a tight smile. His anger was scaring my Horse. I could see his point, though; I could not see what they would do there. I did not wish to go there, either. “I do not know what any of us will do in France; save hide there until my father dies.” Most probably by my hand, I thought bitterly. That was a thing I wished to dwell upon, but not one I should when so unsteady in my seat.
“Well, Gaston gets to be a lord,” Striker was saying with less rancor, “but aye, the rest of us… Sarah’ll be fine with it, and some of the others, but… Damn it, I would raise my son… children… on the sea.”
Gaston retreated deep into our den.
I watched him leave with worry: not for him, but for me. Striker’s rage and my last words had started emotions churning in my gut.
“Will, you’re white as a sheet,” Striker said quietly.
“We need to be alone,” I whispered.
“I can see that,” he said with concern and stood.
“On the Haiti,” I said. “You go to Cayonne and live there. No one should go to France.”
Striker set his jaw and squared his shoulders—despite being stooped by the low ceiling—and glowered down at me. “We’ll discuss it when you feel… reasonable. You’re mad, as you say. You’re not thinking straight. You’re in no condition to run around in the wilderness.”
I shook my head, fighting the feeling that I was a little boy begging his permission. It angered me. “Do not thwart us,” I said with far less force than I would have liked. I sounded as if I was pleading.
Striker shook his head. “Will, I swore I would never separate the two of you when either of you was mad, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you two go and kill yourselves.” He dropped to squat before me and darted his eyes to the doorway of the den. “Will, are you truly mad, too?” he whispered.
Yes, I was; but I saw the danger in his eyes. It was not borne of malice, but of love. Striker would chain us both down here and haul us wherever he thought best. The frustration Gaston
must have felt these last weeks threatened to overwhelm me.
I smiled as if he were the fool, and said, “Aye, we will discuss it later. You are correct; I will likely feel calmer as the days pass.”
My feigned nonchalance was apparently not fully successful: Striker studied me with suspicion; and my glance at Pete showed him peering at us in the dim light with hard but unreadable eyes.
“We need to rest now,” I said with the best smile I could manage, and moved to go around Striker and return to the den.
He stood and let me pass. “Will, everything will be well. You’ve had a hard go of it, but it’s over now. You’ll heal, and everything will be well, you’ll see.”
His words floated down across my shoulders. I did not feel them as a comforting blanket, but as a great mass of sail seeking to pin me down. I struggled free of them and into the safety of the den to find Gaston with his back to the hull and a knife in his hand. I moved to the side and crouched with my back to a barrel. We listened to Striker and Pete’s angry and indecipherable murmurs until we finally heard their retreating footsteps.
I released the breath I had been holding and met my matelot’s gaze. “We must escape them,” I whispered.
He sighed with relief and slumped down the wall before driving the knife into the deck as a final release of angry tension. “I am pleased you see this,” he whispered.
I thought to ask, How could I not? but the words stuck in my throat as I realized he had not trusted me to be… And I floundered. He had not trusted me to be mad—with him. Stricken, I hissed, “I will not forsake you!”
He recoiled with surprise and then his arms were about me. “Will, Will, I did not mean…”
“I am not reasonable!” I hissed. “I am beaten and bloodied, and to the Devil with them all!”
He held me tighter. It hurt, but I did not struggle: I found comfort.
When at last I calmed and he spoke, I heard humor in his voice.
“We are not well,” he said.
“They are the mad ones,” I said. I ached with exhaustion that burned down to my bones.
“Oui,” he agreed, and kissed the top of my head. “We must wait, though. Florida is Spanish, as is Cuba. We will also pass the Bahamas, but I do not know them. We must wait until we are near the Haiti. The Bard will likely sail near enough to the shore for us to swim as he approaches Île de la Tortue. We will need our weapons though, and a means to bring them—perhaps a raft of sorts…” He trailed off in thought.
“Then we must rest so that I might be strong enough to swim, and you must write your father, and perhaps Agnes,” I said.
I felt him nod. “Sleep now. You have much healing to do. Wrestling me cannot be pleasant.”
I smiled. “Non, wrestling you is always pleasant.”
He kissed me sweetly. Our tongues tangled, but did not dance or spar. As often occurred when I was overwrought, I felt no passion, only reassurance. And then the dark thing lurking in the cave peered out at me, and I remembered I was broken. I shuddered with fear and pulled away.
Gaston was stricken.
“Non, non, it is not you,” I said. “Never you.”
His gaze did not leave mine.
I sighed and struggled with how best to explain. “I have been to Hell, to Hades, and as in the myths, I have been forced to leave something behind to return to the land of the living.”
He came to me, and his hand caressed my belly before lighting upon my crotch to fondle me gently. “We healed me,” he whispered.
“I cannot… speak of it, yet,” I said.
He nodded and kissed me on the cheek. He pulled his hand away. “We need not…”
“Non,” I said firmly. I remembered the words he once told me when our situation was reversed. “One of us should have some joy,” I said with the best smile I could manage. “And I want you,” I said seriously.
“I will deny you nothing,” he said warmly, “but… perhaps you should heal there, too.”
“Did I bleed… last night?” I asked.
He nodded. “Very little, though.”
For some reason, the idea of being wounded there did not send me flailing about or cringing from the cave. It was a wound like any other. “Perhaps you should examine me.”
I pushed my breeches down about my thighs and lay on my belly. He fetched the hogs’ fat, but then paused, hovering above me.
He sighed. “You must… Please tell me if I remind you…”
“You cannot,” I said quickly. Things swirled out of the cave, though: images, sounds, and sensations until I gasped.
He came to lay beside me, his nose before mine. “Will?”
I sighed. “I feel I will no longer be able to engage in our… Horseplay.”
His eyes widened with understanding and he nodded before frowning with resolve. “If my Horse wishes such a thing again, I shall beat Him.”
I shook my head. I found the allegory was well outside the cave—in the light. “Non, I have beat mine and I feel… I will be paying for that for some time to come. My Horse and I are not well with one another now.”
He grimaced. “Why? Can you…”
“He had horrible thoughts,” I said. “I could not let Him act on them.”
He nodded, and waited.
I found it was too dangerous to say more along that path, yet… I shook my head. “I did not betray you.” That, too, was dangerous.
He recoiled as if I had jabbed him. “Will, I would never think that you would.” But now there was the shadow of doubt in his eyes.
I cursed, and closed my eyes and lit a torch to storm into the cave in my heart. I felt my gut twisting about, and my Horse regarded me with the reared head of an animal betrayed and cautious. I stayed with Him, not thinking of the events that caused our dissonance, but of why He had acted as He had.
I spoke softly, as if to reassure Him and my matelot. “My Horse does not, did not wish to be ridden by another, but He wished to run: to flee: into the safety, the… peace, the lack of pain the running brings. And then… I could not let them see that, and I told Him to stop. And… there was much to confuse my cock too, and I told it to stop.”
The cave was too dark, too deep—even if I understood with a Man’s thoughts all that had occurred. I ran from it, opening my eyes and feeling the calm fly away in sudden winds. “I was so angry with them. They were traitorous. I could not forsake you. I could not betray you. I could not…”
The doubt burned away in his eyes, only to be replaced by guilt. He pulled me to him and smothered my words and tears. “You are a better man than I,” he murmured. “I do not deserve you.”
“Non,” I said. “You have never betrayed me.” But a new fear curdled my gut. Was there a thing I did not know of: some act of madness in these last weeks?
“I did with Christine,” he whispered. “My Horse ran her down and rode her. I did not stop Him.”
I was both relieved he was only talking of Christine, and horribly vexed at the implications. Was it the same thing—just our Horses getting the bit in Their teeth—but I had won with mine?
I was lost. I stood in the blizzard and reached for him.
“I fought my Horse for the love of you,” I said. “Why did you not fight yours with her?”
He gasped. “She wanted to hurt you.”
My breath left my body in a prolonged gasp of relief and understanding, and I was holding him in the snow and he was warm. I chuckled weakly. “Then… I forgive you, only there is nothing to forgive.”
I opened my eyes, not knowing when I had closed them again, and disentangled from him enough to see his face. He was thoughtful, and met my gaze readily.
“That is truly how you see it?” he asked.
“Oui.”
He nodded. “Then I will stop beating my Horse for it.” He frowned. “And you must not beat yours.”
I nodded. I thought it would be a while before I earned my animal’s trust again, but I would try.
The cave was still
there, though: dark, horrid, and cold.
He kissed me before pulling away with a smile to kneel above me. I chuckled as I felt his probing fingers: I had told him to always kiss me first. I recalled that day on the beach; right after he had returned to me; right before I had learned his Horse had dark thoughts. I flinched when he touched the gland inside; and that brought to mind my first reaction to that, and then his rattling sticks around in bottles. I grinned.
“We have come so very far,” I said. “I love you very much.”
“Oui, and I you.” He ceased his probing and dropped down to lie beside me again. “You are not badly wounded.”
“They used grease,” I said quickly before I could think more on it. “For… both times, and the phallus, and the turnip.”
Had it only been twice? I recalled the darkness of the blindfold, and Thorp thrusting in me. And then I was lost to the memory.
I found myself on my knees, tightly held in my matelot’s arms, crying while he whispered his love for me again and again.
“I cannot remember it,” I said sadly. “I cannot allow myself to…”
“Oui,” he assured me. “You know I understand.”
And I did: he above all others, understood.
“You did not vomit,” he said with praise.
I laughed. “Thank the Gods I no longer do that. But the day is young yet.”
“As your physician,” he said with strained calm, “I would know more of this turnip.”
I found I could see the object in my memory without recalling anything else associated with it. I described it to him.
“You are sure it was very smooth with no chance of splinters?” he asked with iron hands on his Horse’s reins.
“I did not touch it, but I did not feel pain of that nature from it,” I said with surety.
He nodded, and asked nothing more. He held me, and I knew he was fighting his Horse’s rage very hard.
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