I did note that while my Horse merely wished to run or trample these men in the process of running, my Wolf wished to stand in the shadows with cunning and assess when it was best to strike. I also noted He had no interest in begging for understanding.
Gaston was speaking with his Wolf’s voice. “You are making accusations based upon the ravings of an addled woman.”
“Non, I am making accusations on the testimony of an honest Christian woman,” Father Mark said with great righteousness.
“Father Mark,” Father Pierre snapped. “You do not speak for the Church. Remember your place.”
I had heard enough. I strode forward. Father Mark viewed my approach with a contemptuous sneer; until I struck him and knocked him out into the alley.
“Non, this insolent whelp does not know his place,” I snarled as I followed his scrambling form until I could get my hands on him and lift him to slam him back against the church wall.
He regarded me with wild and furious eyes.
“What are you, Father Mark, that you should speak to a nobleman with such arrogance?” I snarled in his face. “Are you some ambitious by-blow who has been promised much in the Church because you can never have a name in your true estate?”
His face began to contort into an incredulous sneer.
“Or are you some ambitious commoner who would like nothing better in life than to collude with a serving woman to bring a lord to the pyre?”
This elicited surprise and fear in his eyes.
“We have been very lenient. Lord Montren wishes to be able to aid people—sick people—without having them feel obligated to bow and scrape while they ail. Thus we have not demanded what is his by birthright; but that does not mean we will tolerate your disrespect. Nor will we tolerate your petty bourgeois animosities.”
He was now defiant.
I lowered my voice. “Nor do we care for your little ambitions concerning this parish. If Father Pierre had any sense, he would send you packing back to France where you could become some Bishop’s lap boy; because you will amount to nothing more if you feel this parish is worth engaging in intrigue. You are a pompous and self-righteous little fool.”
I cocked my head and allowed speculation to creep into my eyes. “But non, perhaps I have misjudged you. Perhaps this is exactly what you wish for. A quiet little place where there are no bishops or nobles—a place where you can reign as king amongst the pious.”
His face became quite guarded and I knew I had struck true.
“Well if that is what you wish, you are in the wrong Church. You should have become a Protestant: they applaud such ambitions.”
“You have no right,” he said with weak conviction.
“Fool, I have every right. This is not Heaven. In this petty and mundane world I am still a noble’s son—whether French or English, it makes no matter. My peers are not yours. You will need more than this Godforsaken little colony can offer to put a rope about my neck, whether I am an English heathen or not. It is a sad thing for a man like you, but it is the truth: rail against it if you will; plead to God for its end; but you must still bow before it.”
“Non,” he gasped. “I will not. You are an atheist and pagan idolater and I will see God’s Will done.”
I snorted. “You idiot, I cannot be both. And as for you as the arbiter of God’s Will, I will never believe that a God who created All There Is countenances men who wallow in hubris. If there is justice in His heart, all the petty, little, self-righteous men of your ilk will burn in Hell.”
I released him and turned my back on him to rub his nose in his insignificance. I found myself nearly nose-to-nose with Gaston and Father Pierre, with Theodore and the other priests right behind them. Apparently I should have continued speaking loudly enough for them to hear in order to avoid their having to creep so close.
I glared at Father Pierre. “Do what you will with Henrietta. She is a fine cook. Her husband wants his son, however. He might doubt her honesty, but he does not doubt her fidelity. If you put her out, we will make arrangements for her to live at the Strikers. We will not have her under this roof.”
He appeared appalled at my mien, but he wisely made no protestation or appeal to my better nature. He nodded and stepped away to lead his wide-eyed brethren into the church.
I heard Father Mark slide down the wall as I walked away.
Gaston was trying not to smile. Behind him, Theodore was somewhat slack-jawed. I realized the rest of the household was standing in the shadows of the ward. Once I joined them in the relative dimness I could see their faces. Their expressions ran up and down the scales from amusement to surprise. I did not see a sour note upon any of them, though.
I glanced back at where I had left Father Mark. He still sat. His head was in his hands and his shoulders shook. It might have been arrogance on my part, but I did not think he laughed. He would hate me until the day he died.
I led my people into the atrium, and released my Wolf with a hearty pat upon His head and great relief.
Theodore was eyeing me with concern and awe.
“Do not say I have behaved rashly,” I told him. “It merely seemed the best course. If I had groveled and made excuses, the bastard would have felt superior to me, and I cannot allow that—even if I had been born other than I was. I despise men of his nature.”
He shook his head. “Non, I am in awe. I must admit with all that has occurred there are days when I forget you are a nobleman’s son, and then you remind me quite handily.”
“My dear Theodore, it is a sad comment on the nobility that you feel the only way to recognize one is by whether he is a sufficiently arrogant arse; but in truth, it is a thing I have always felt and lamented.”
Yvette laughed. At my curious brow, she said, “That is what my teacher once told me: you can tell how blue a man’s blood is by how high he holds his nose.”
“Well, my father would have drowned in a good rain,” I said with amusement.
There was laughter all around, and I found relief in it, as it dissipated the tension that had gripped them.
“Well, my friends,” I said as we quieted. “If Father Mark has friends in high places, I have merely bought myself time. He now wishes me dead, but I hope I have exposed his motives to his fellows. I have surely made him aware of my contempt for him.”
Yvette laughed again. “He has hated you—and me—since I hit him with the soup that night.”
“And I have hated him since he insulted you.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she said and curtsied.
“Does Sarah know Henrietta will live with her?” Agnes asked.
I sighed. “Not yet.” I looked to Liam who was smiling at me warmly. “I will go and speak with her this afternoon. Once I bathe.”
He nodded. “I have no complaint about the way you waged the battle,” Liam said in his still strangely-excellent French. “I forgot they are not our brethren: you were able to use the large cannon.”
I chuckled. “Oui, I was able to wave my large noble cock about.”
As they laughed, I looked for Samuel and found him at the back of the crowd. “Would you be so kind as to set a tub and water in our room?” He bowed with a wide smile and hurried off. Beside him I found Muri watching me with anxious eyes, and Hannah: she was smiling at me with a gaze that would have rivaled Pete’s in its ancient wisdom. I nodded to her and she returned it.
“What was that about?” Gaston asked quietly as we retreated up the stairs.
“Sam was a font of wondrous information,” I said and began to tell him about our conversation and my hopes for the two slaves.
“I will be happy to have Hannah in the hospital if she wishes it,” he said when I finished. He gave a rueful smile. “It is likely I will no longer have the priests. I am curious about this juju.”
“Oui, I would learn more.”
Sam arrived with the bath and told me that Hannah would be happy to speak to me whenever I wished. I thanked him and was quite pleased, but it wa
s with great relief I closed the door in his wake. I sighed and sagged against it.
“Tell me more of this Wolf?” Gaston said as he shed his clothes.
I shrugged. “I think I have always had Him.” I allowed myself to reflect as I too shed my clothing. “I was born with Him. I have often seen Him, but not known to think of Him as an entity such as our Horses. I have viewed Him as a mask worn by my Man. He is… a mask, or rather a thing of the shadows. Oui, He dwells in the cave with the shadows of truth on the wall. He knows that realm and how to communicate with other men who live there. He is that part of me.”
He was thoughtful. “You are correct; I should learn to summon mine.”
“I think you already do, my love. I think we call yours your physician’s mask.”
He contemplated that while I sat in the shallow tub.
“Oui, I see that,” he said as he knelt to wash my back. “But since I do not feel a loss of control, nor a loss of memory, I do not view Him as a separate creature in my soul.”
“Oui, that is why I did not recognize mine, either. But, I am different when wearing His guise. I think He has killed and done other cruel things I have needed done. I feel I should appreciate Him, and yet I am dismayed by Him—especially since people appear to regard Him with awe. That truly troubles me. Yet, conversely, I find comfort now that I can view Him as a separate beast. His actions are not mine per se.”
“He is impressive,” Gaston said thoughtfully, “but not because He is worthy of great regard: non, it is because His very nature is to be impressive and lordly.”
“Ah, I suppose if I view it thusly I might feel less troubled when men I care for gaze at Him in wonder.”
“They are sheep and dogs, after all,” Gaston said warmly. “The Wolf is a mighty hunter they know to cower from.”
“That minds me of the days when I thought I was a piss-poor wolf. It is because I could not wear His guise at all times: a thing I felt I must do if I was to claim my birthright. But, non, I am a Centaur who can don a Wolf pelt.”
“Just so,” he said and kissed my temple.
He continued to help me wash the world away, and I mused on the act of bathing cleansing my soul as well as my skin. Was there not some reference to the miasma of death made again and again by the ancients? Perhaps that was Hannah’s bad juju. Perhaps those religions that were not Christian had things in common. Perhaps Centaurs were holy men, or vice versa. I wondered if I would be happier as a priest than a warrior. I wondered if the Gods had given me much choice.
Ninety-Seven
Wherein We Wrestle with Piety
Once I felt clean, Gaston took my place and we bathed him. I wished to stay there all day, touching him and being touched—perhaps more—surely more if I allowed my cock to have a say in the matter; but it was not to be: once his back was finished, I kissed his temple and stood to fetch clean clothes.
“I suppose we have much to do,” I sighed as I sorted through our pile of tunics and breeches.
I heard him stand, and then he was behind me with his arms about my chest.
“Oui. We missed my birthday,” he whispered huskily.
I felt his meaning, and forthwith my cock had everything to say about the matter. With a chuckle, I turned to admire his most turgid member as mine raced to en garde. He was clean, and there was a thing we had not done lately. I knelt. He groaned and locked his knees before my lips even touched him. I became a kitten sucking away with my paws kneading his buttocks. I was determined to have my fill and sate some need I felt could only come from this activity. Thus I was disappointed when he pulled my head away and directed me to the hammock.
“I wished for cream,” I sighed as he prodded me to lie on my belly with my feet still upon the floor. The netting had sagged only a little since last we used it so, and thus my knees were a little loose, but not bent, and the height should be fine for him to pound me silly with no effort on my part.
“Later,” he whispered. “It is for my birthday, and I wish to run a little.”
His words made me harder still and I agreed the cream could wait, but still I teased, “That is why I got the land.”
He was rummaging through our things. “At this moment, it is on the other side of the world.”
I laughed.
He knelt behind me and did a thing we had tried on our various hammocks to great success. He pulled my member and then my balls through separate loops of the netting until they were tightly held and feeling every sway of the hammock. I stifled a groan and the urge to rock myself into coming by merely wiggling my toes.
“I will not last long,” I said gleefully, knowing what his response must be.
“You will last as long as I wish,” he warned.
I grinned even after he gagged me and the knots in my soul pulled tight, making it very hard to remember what the word humor meant.
I was already gripping the far side of the hammock, but he bound me there. Then there was the delicious trickle of oil and he was inside me. I would have come if he had not followed his thrust with leaning his weight upon me at an angle that pressed my chest cruelly into the netting while pulling the loops about my privates painfully taut. I gasped and struggled, suspended betwixt Heaven and Hell and powerless. I forgot all about Men, Horses, Wolves, Cows, Dogs, Sheep, or anything else in the Gods’ creation or mine, and I ran. He ran with me and we thundered across a verdant meadow redolent with sensation until his Horse burst through the gates of Heaven. At which point, he slowed me down and gently led me through to join him.
I did not move when he released me, I floated in a happy pool of pleasure. He had to gently prod me several times to make me move enough for him to disentangle my member. Then he crawled partially atop me and covered my face and neck with kisses.
“Happy birthday,” I mumbled.
He snorted. “Why do I feel you derive more pleasure from these runs than I?”
“Because I do.”
He chuckled and slowly sobered with a sigh. “What do we need to do? And of greater importance, is there anything we must attend to this moment?”
I thought on it long and hard: not because anything was intensely pressing but because it took me a great deal of time and concentration to recall what I had thought we must do. “Non,” I finally said, “Though I feel we should sleep with weapons.”
He nodded his agreement and went to fetch pistols and knives. I moved to a more comfortable position for actually sleeping, and we settled in. Like any restful sleep, I did not remember slipping into it.
We woke to slanting shadows and golden light, and lay in companionable silence until we smelled food. Its siren call was more than our torpor could resist, and at last we crawled from the hammock and dressed.
Much of the mayhem of the exchanging of rooms had disappeared from the balcony, and our people were gathering in the atrium for the evening meal. Hannah and Samuel approached us before we could join the others. They appeared grim.
“I would speak with you both, but I feel you have a thing to tell me.” I said.
“Sadly, aye, Master Will,” Hannah said. “I would tell Mistress Rachel or Master Jonathan, but…”
“Of course, what is the matter? Let us see if we can resolve it.”
Her face pinched with disgust.
Sam coughed. “I caught Muri pissing in the soup, Master Will.”
“Oh Gods,” I sighed. “Are you sure?”
He nodded tightly. “I saw her squatting in the cookhouse, and then I saw her pull a bowl from under her skirt. And she put it in.” He appeared quite sincere and concerned.
“No one can eat it,” Hannah said. “And even if she had not attempted to poison everyone, she has wasted good money. The soup was to last for three days.”
My stomach chose that moment to growl its displeasure. “Is there anything else to eat?”
Hannah’s gaze flicked to my belly and she graced me with a thin smile. “You two do not eat enough as it is. Aye, there is bread, cheese, and sau
sage, but nothing hot.”
“We will all make do,” I said. “I suppose we should talk to her.”
“She must be punished,” Hannah said sternly, “and now she will have to be watched whenever she cooks.”
“Aye,” I said sadly. “Actually, I would rather she never cooks again—for us.”
“I do not want her in the house, either,” Gaston said.
“All right,” I assured them. “We will speak to her and then… feed the soup to the dogs I suppose. Once we have her out of the cookhouse, would you two please prepare some meal of what we do have available?”
“We will look at all the food and see what else she has done,” Hannah said.
“Aye,” I sighed.
Gaston and I went to the cookhouse, with Hannah and Samuel following a discreet distance behind. We found Muri humming a happy tune while ladling soup into a tureen.
“From what I understand…” I began to say, but at the sound of my voice she whirled, spied me and shrieked, brandished the ladle in my direction, and took off for the other door. Gaston and I cursed and gave chase. She was plump, not at all accustomed to running, and greatly hampered by the milling and agitated dog pack. We had her down before she reached the gate. She screamed and hurled invective in her own language as if we were beating her. We were going to take her to the storehouse, but putting her in the presence of other valuables seemed unwise: putting her anywhere she could do damage seemed a poor notion. We dragged her—she would not stand despite our imploring her to be reasonable—to the stable and bound her hands to a post. By this point, the entire household was gathered in the yard, including Theodore.
“Sam saw her piss in the soup,” I told them.
There was much cursing all around.
Yvette stormed forward to squat before her wild-eyed servant. “Did you piss in the soup?”
Muri appeared momentarily apologetic to her mistress, and then she looked to me and spat. “I will not serve him!”
Yvette’s fist balled, and even Muri flinched as if she would be struck, but her mistress relaxed her hand and turned away with an angry snarl.
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