Wolves

by W. A. Hoffman

  She was studying her son. “I did not want to give it up,” she said quietly. “It is not a sin I wished to be absolved of. And every time I sat in confession I wondered if God might be listening and know I was lying. And I felt guilt that I should lie to the priests: that I should pretend to be pious when I was not. I felt more guilt about that than I do about loving women.”

  I sighed with relief. “Though it might not truly be in your best interests, I am pleased to hear it.”

  She nodded. “I feel I lack your faith, though.”

  “My faith springs from love, and that is not a thing you have known yet. I mean… You have not had it reciprocated to the degree that it engenders one with a will of iron.”

  She smiled. “I have my son, now; but nay, it is not as you speak. It is not the love of another who must make a choice.” She frowned and pulled him from her right breast and placed him over her shoulder to pat his rump gently.

  I glanced at Gaston and found him regarding me with that love of which I spoke.

  “Gods willing, you will find it,” I said.

  Her frown deepened and her gaze returned to me. “Do you truly believe in the Roman Gods instead of the Christian God? We have been reading the myths and…”

  I chuckled. “They are stories of the Gods written as if They were men—and women: written by men. I think the Gods would be somewhat more than that, and not so… human. I think of Them as parts of… or the faces of, all I hold sacred: Love, Justice, Truth, Beauty, and the like.”

  “Ah…” she said thoughtfully. She nodded. “I can envision that. So you see the myths as allegory?”

  “Just so, I suppose,” I said with amusement. She had truly been learning much from Rucker.

  Our little god, Apollo, released a great burp and Agnes moved him to her left teat. After she settled him, she studied Gaston and me with her lip between her teeth.

  “I have fallen in love. Again,” she added with a rueful smile. “And this time she feels as I do, but we have been fearful of the consequences, and…” She sighed. “So, though we find much comfort and happiness in the other’s presence, we have not… consummated… Is that the correct word?”

  “Aye,” I said quickly. “Who?”

  “Madame Doucette,” she whispered.

  I grinned, as I recalled a thing Liam had said: ’E tore up a bunch o’ the Lady’s paintin’s o’ Madame Doucette. Agnes would have been drawn to Yvette’s scars as a moth is drawn to the flame. And then I realized Yvette’s look of warmth had not been directed at her husband, but at Agnes who sat at the same table.

  “That is wonderful!” I crowed.

  Agnes smiled widely and proudly and then looked to Gaston with trepidation.

  He was smiling with glee and jostling little Jaime until she giggled. “That is truly wonderful. Now we can all be happy here for a time.”

  “But…” Agnes began.

  Gaston shook his head. He told her of another red-headed babe and our plans.

  Agnes grew very thoughtful as he spoke, and I saw many different emotions vying upon her countenance.

  “So, if we do this,” I said as he finished, “we can have Athena in addition to Apollo. It will best serve the Gods.”

  “Athena?” Gaston queried.

  I explained about the Goddess springing from her father’s head and my interpretation of it regarding his daughter’s conception.

  He smiled and rolled toward me enough to kiss my nose. Then he pushed Jamaica to me and urged, “Kiss your daddy. He is a genius.”

  Jamaica gave me a sloppy peck on the cheek. Her breath smelled of yams.

  “Oh,” I said with mirth. “Already she knows how to flatter men.”

  My matelot settled the child on his chest, and I looked past them to Agnes who had still not spoken after hearing his tale.

  “I am sorry, Agnes,” I said. “I know you wished to be the Comtesse de Montren.”

  She shook her head. “Nay, not anymore… In Port Royal, aye: it seemed a dream come true; but here, nay.” She met my gaze. “I want my art, and my son to be happy and healthy, and I want Yvette. I was just thinking of that: of what I truly want.”

  Gaston sat Jamaica in front of me and went to kneel on the floor before Agnes. He rubbed his son’s thigh and regarded Agnes with great love. “We will do all we can to see that you have what you want.”

  She nodded. “I know.”

  “Will you marry Will—if we can find a clergyman to perform the ceremony?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Does it matter which of you I am married to? Does it matter if we are married under the law at all?”

  We shook our heads.

  “Then…” She shrugged again. Her eyes narrowed a moment later, though. “What of…” She sighed. “It is a quandary. I would have another child, but I do not wish to bed either of you—or any man. I suppose I cannot have one without the other, but I feel it is not fair to Yvette. She cannot have children, and…” She pursed her lips and sighed. “And she says the thought of me submitting to a man disgusts her. Though it was a thing she would accept, as it was my duty and…”

  “Truly?” I asked with surprise. “Does she dislike men? I suppose I can understand why: I have seen the wounds. I can only imagine how horrible that must have been.” I could clearly recall her scarred breasts. Some madman had slashed her with a blade over forty times according to Doucette.

  Agnes frowned at me.

  “When first we were introduced,” I said quickly, “Doucette had her remove her bodice to show off his handiwork. He was… is a monster.” I recalled Liam’s tales.

  “Aye, she said he did that often,” Agnes said with anger. “Often she is actually pleased he is as he is now. He is less trouble to her. He is a horrible creature.” She sighed. “Though he did very much for her that she is very grateful for—as am I, as she would not be here without all he did. I still hate him, though.”

  “Liam told me about the money, and the dogs, and the dissection of cats, and the destruction of your paintings,” I said.

  “What?” Gaston asked with sudden ire and concern.

  I told him all Liam had told me, accompanied by Agnes’ corroboration.

  “I feel he must die,” I said when we finished.

  “Aye,” Agnes snapped.

  “But there are spies that might make it difficult.” So I told my man of that.

  Gaston had crawled back onto the bed to lie staring up at the ceiling. He sighed. “The world will be better without him, now. I already told him I would kill him if he ever threatened you.”

  “Well, we now know something of the lie of the land here; next we must plan our battle,” I said. “One thing at a time, though: your father must be written, the rest of our friends must be told, and we must talk to this damn priest. After that, we can determine how to kill Doucette, and do away with the priests’ spies, and protect ourselves from a French inquisition. Then we can have Athena brought here, kill my father, and find a way to impregnate Agnes without lying with her.”

  Gaston and Agnes were laughing. Even Jamaica thought I was amusing. Apollo gave a large belch over his mother’s shoulder.

  “To begin with,” I added, “I suggest we always speak English when we are alone or discussing matters of import that we do not wish to have overheard. I also suggest we post our own watcher on the monster.”

  “Aye,” Gaston said.

  There was a commotion in the courtyard before he could say more. We stilled and heard words of greeting to Father Pierre.

  “First we must deal with the priests,” I said ruefully.

  “So should I even pretend to be shamed and embarrassed?” Agnes asked with quite a bit of said emotions playing about her features.

  “Nay, no more than you truly are at being involved in this madness,” I said kindly.

  She smiled with relief and placed Apollo in his basket. “Then I will face them with sincerity.”

  She turned back to regard us expectedly, only to frown at J
amaica. I glanced at the child and found her frowning with consternation; and then Agnes had her up and off the bed: holding her at arms’ length. Before I could voice my question, I saw a turd drop from beneath the child’s shift. After the first one, Agnes managed to get the babe over the chamber pot before she finished defecating and began urinating.

  I quickly checked the coverlet where the child had sat and was relieved to find no smelly mass there.

  “You can see when they’re about it,” Agnes said as she handed the child to Gaston. “They’re like puppies.”

  “Puppies know not to shit where they sleep,” I protested.

  Agnes snorted derisively. “She doesn’t sleep in that bed.”

  Gaston laughed at me and entertained Jaime while Agnes wiped the babe’s little arse and cleaned the pile from the floor. I found Taro and Bella regarding Agnes’ efforts with the dismay of denial. I supposed they would happily have cleaned the child’s bum for her. I stifled my disgust—and dismay. I felt the whole of it was yet another portent of my future.

  When Jaime was clean, Agnes regarded us expectantly again. “Do you wish to come down straight away, or do you wish to clean yourselves first? Your clothes are in the lower chest, there.” She pointed at the stack in the corner. “And the water in the ewer should be fresh.

  “I would wash a bit, aye,” I assured her.

  Gaston nodded. Agnes placed Jaime on her hip and took up Apollo’s basket. The dogs were torn somewhat over following her or remaining with us. I shooed them out and closed the door in their wake with relief.

  “Do you feel a need to sleep with the children?” I asked my matelot.

  He shook his head with a reassuring degree of alarm at my suggestion.

  “Thank the Gods,” I sighed.

  He chuckled and pulled me to fall beside him on the bed again. His kiss was sweet. He quickly sobered at its parting, though. “Are you ready for this?” he asked.

  “Which this?” I teased.

  He smiled and pressed his forehead to mine. “As you said, one step at a time—sparring with priests.”

  “I will manage.” And I did not feel my assertion to be bravado. I truly felt the Gods condoned our new path, and that They were more than capable of battling any other God who would frown upon it.

  Ninety-One

  Wherein We Hold Our Ground

  We shed our ragged attire and moved the chests until we could explore the one containing the worldly possessions we left behind while roving. We were dismayed to find little there by way of clothing except our finery. We had been wearing all that was left of our dyed-canvas tunics and breeches.

  “We must acquire new clothes suitable for buccaneers on the morrow,” I sighed as I considered a fine linen shirt. The sight of the garment filled me with loathing and I wondered at that.

  “There is another thing I would purchase for you to wear,” Gaston said as he tossed a pair of suede breeches on the bed.

  “What?” I asked.

  He touched my naked earlobes. I gasped with surprise. I had forgotten I did not wear earrings. Then I recalled the humiliation of their removal and my being dressed in a shirt much like I held. Fear clawed at me for but a moment before a great wave of anger tossed me far from reason. I pulled away from Gaston and flung the garment away with a growl.

  My matelot regarded me with startled eyes and a wary Horse. “Will?”

  I struggled to control my rage. “They took them,” I snarled. “They held me down and pulled them from my ears.”

  He nodded with understanding and sympathy; and I did not fight his arms when they closed about me. I held him and struggled to calm my Horse.

  “I am sorry,” I whispered at last. “I do not possess the control I think I do. I was doing so well,” I added lightly.

  He snorted into my shoulder and brushed a kiss on my cheek. “Strings, Will,” he said with surprising calm. “And triggers. You have new ones. Things we did not even know to pull or prod on the Haiti to inure you. We must tread carefully.”

  I snorted. “How can we when I am to battle priests? We have not chosen a path that we can tread carefully. We are charging headlong…”

  I stopped. He did not need to hear my fears and complaints. We had chosen.

  He shook his head with sad eyes and began to speak what I was sure would be an apology. I placed fingers upon his lips and held it in.

  “I will not fall,” I said. “I might stumble a bit, though.”

  He smiled beneath my fingers and then kissed them. I dropped them away and replaced them with my lips for a sweet kiss.

  “This will be our greatest challenge,” he said softly as we parted.

  “Aye,” I sighed, “and I am ready, truly. But I will not wear a wolf’s clothes. That is hypocrisy.”

  He nodded. “We will greet them as we arrived.” He fingered my stubbled cheek and frowned. “I would shave, though.”

  I considered the ewer and bowl upon the bureau as he made the hated clothing disappear inside the chest. I thought we should call for hot water, but then I remembered the ones who would bring it would be the boy spies. I sighed and resigned myself to washing what I could with a cold rag and shaving with hog’s fat.

  The clothes chest closed with the satisfying thump of things best sealed away, and still I felt restless. I discovered a small silver mirror and regarded my naked ears with dismay. Such a small thing in light of all that had been done to me: so small I had forgotten; yet, it hurt so very much now that I remembered. I could barely see the holes the rings had occupied for several years. I was thankful the bastards had not torn them from my lobes and left me scarred, but then, perhaps I was not so very thankful. Without that they were another anonymous injury upon my person: invisible, like all the scars I bore. Or was that still true? My wrists and ankles still bore proof of my ill use. I saw the white ridges whenever I happened to gaze upon my hands.

  I played the mirror across my chest and nearly started when Gaston’s face appeared over my right shoulder. “Am I scarred?” I asked, watching his reaction in the small silver oval. “Not like you, but…”

  He frowned before nodding and running his fingers lightly over my back. “Not like me, nay; but there are white lines from the cane and strap all over your back, and little nicks and gouges from the cat. They are not ugly.”

  “That is not my concern,” I sighed. “I want them. I want proof for once that…” I sighed.

  He nodded with understanding and his arms stole around me yet again. One hand slid across my skin until it encountered a lump of ravaged flesh on my chest, and then his other hand guided the mirror so that I might see where he pointed.

  “Like that,” he whispered. “A few dozen.”

  I snorted. “It is irony. I have worse from being shot.” I positioned the mirror to show the wound Christine had given me. “And that hurt far less.”

  His hands slid down my belly to find my surprised member. I watched the pleasure slide unbidden and unfeigned across my features in the mirror. I looked the breathless fool, but it was sincere.

  “That is scarred no longer,” I breathed as he cajoled me to turgid life.

  “Good,” he whispered as he pushed me to the wall.

  I dropped the mirror on the bureau and braced myself as he applied the hog’s fat to a more useful purpose than shaving my face. He entered with a smooth push, and I felt my cares ebb away along with the strength in my knees as he began to thrust. We did not storm the gates of Heaven so much as we ambled to them with stalwart purpose and knocked. I was relieved to have my faith rewarded when they swung open with little effort, and filled me with light that chased away every shadow.

  When he finished with a soft grunt, he withdrew and sank to sit behind me; his still-stubbled cheek pressed to my flank, and his arms tangled about my thighs. I reached down to caress his face.

  “Better?” he asked.

  I snorted with quiet amusement. “Much.”

  I sank down to join him and we held one anoth
er in a basket of limbs. We sat thusly for a time before at last—in companionable silence—deciding we must shave and dress. Then, in the clothes we had arrived in, and with pistols loaded anew, we left the room to join the small fete in progress.

  I felt every eye upon us as we crossed the balcony and descended the stairs. A cursory glance showed that all present save the priests had been told of our supposed deceit. Their reactions and anticipation were legion in their variety. The priests—ignorant of what was to come—were merely curious and disapproving. I resolved not to allow any to daunt me.

  The head Father looked much as I remembered him: dignified, with a lean face wrinkled by years of emotion—much as the Marquis’ was—and a white tonsure. He sat in the middle of the far side of the table, flanked by two of his own. I thought I recognized both, but I could not recall their names.

  “Father Pierre, I presume,” I said before Theodore could gather himself to stand and introduce us. “We have met before, but perhaps not by my given name. I am John Williams. Allow me to introduce Gaston Sable, the Comte de Montren.” I bowed as a courtier should upon such an introduction.

  My matelot inclined his head in subtle greeting, and Father Pierre and his flustered priests scrambled to their feet to bow appropriately—along with most of our friends. Then Gaston and I took the available places on the bench across from the priests. Everyone returned to their seats, but the atrium was quiet save the panting of dogs and mewling of children. I found myself awaiting a duel’s call to turn and fire.

  I sighed and managed not to cringe when Samuel appeared at our elbows to fill our tankards with wine. This was followed by Hannah and the soup. There was nervous throat clearing, but still no one seemed to know how to proceed. Father Pierre studied us with open concern.

  “My lord,” he said when we had been served, “I am pleased to see you again.”

  Gaston nodded amiably but did not return the sentiment.