Wolves

by W. A. Hoffman

  “I know she should be flogged,” Yvette said on her way to the cookhouse, “but I do not have the heart for it.” Then she stopped in her tracks and looked to Gaston with an apologetic grimace.

  He smiled good-naturedly. “No one will be flogged.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Non,” I agreed, “but I feel someone should be sold. But that might lead to her standing in someone else’s cookhouse telling them I’m a witch. Non… Non, perhaps she should be tithed to the Church.”

  Yvette laughed. “Oui: let her piss in their soup.”

  “Oui,” Theodore said. “Hannah is a fine cook. We will all have to do a bit more, as we are now short Henrietta and Muri, but I am sure we will manage.”

  I sighed. “Well, we are also very likely short the priests for the hospital. Gaston and I have discussed it, and if she is willing, we would like Hannah to serve there. She can care for Mistress Theodore as well. And… I would have her and Sam be freed. I think they have earned it many times over.”

  There were nods of assent all around, even—reluctantly—from Theodore.

  “Ah, you have sold your soul to the Devil you skinny bitch, and now you will get your reward. I hope you choke on it!” Muri hurled at Hannah.

  Hannah and Sam were frowning at all of us, and I was not sure how well they understood French.

  I switched to English. “Hannah, Sam, would you be willing to remain here and assist the household if you were free? Hannah, we would be interested in your learning our medicine in addition to your own and assisting in the hospital.”

  Her dark eyes became lambent and she nodded tightly.

  Sam appeared stunned. “Aye, Master Will. I will stay. I have nowhere else to go.”

  There is only one problem,” Theodore said. “I do not own Samuel. I sold him to your sister. She left him with us when she moved to the plantation, but he is still legally her property—or rather, Striker’s.”

  Sam’s face fell.

  “Nay, nay, do not worry, good Sam,” I said. “I will see to it. You will be a free man.”

  “Thank you, Master Will.”

  “And stop calling me Master.”

  “There is another problem,” Liam said. “Who is going to cook?”

  “Well, I caused this mess,” I said with a sigh. “I will cook.”

  I was rewarded with incredulity and doubt, even from my matelot.

  “Can you cook bread?” Theodore asked.

  “Cheesecake?” Liam added. “A good stew?”

  “I can learn,” I said with my arms crossed.

  “You can chop vegetables,” Liam said. “I will cook.”

  “Can you make bread?” Theodore asked.

  “I can,” Liam said, but he did not sound very assured.

  “Well, I can,” Theodore said. “My wife taught me.”

  Agnes had started to chuckle earlier in the exchange. “I can cook cheesecake and bake bread, and cook stews: Henrietta and Mistress Theodore taught me.”

  “I can chop vegetables and chicken,” Sam said.

  “Gaston and Liam excel at slaughtering hogs, and perhaps we should make boucan,” I said.

  There was laughter all around.

  “We will all take turns, like we do with everything else these days,” Yvette said. “We will make a list of chores and assign them. If someone excels at a thing, and wishes to do it every time it is needed, then that can become their job.”

  We applauded.

  “I think this is as it should be, now,” Gaston said as we towed a weeping Muri to the church’s rectory door. “It is more like we are truly members of the Brethren and not lords and ladies.”

  “I like it,” I agreed. “As we have discussed, I have never trusted servants—and I despise the owning of slaves. This way we are all a family.”

  “What about the two boys?” he asked.

  “Have we seen them in the last week?”

  He shrugged. “I have not. I hope they are well, wherever they are.”

  “I am simply glad we have not had to sell them.”

  Father Joseph answered our knock on the doorframe. He became quite flustered at our arrival. My Wolf told him to fetch Father Pierre.

  I dismissed my animal when the elder priest smiled warmly in greeting.

  “Will, Lord Montren, it is good to see you,” he said with seeming sincerity as he led us out into the rectory garden. He stopped when he realized Muri was with us, and he frowned with dismay at her bound hands.

  “She has not been harmed,” I said quickly. “We are merely trying to keep her from running off. She refuses to serve me, and she pissed in the soup. We cannot trust her to cook for us. We thought we would donate her to the Church. If she seems prone to piss in your soup, you can sell her.”

  Muri glared at me and threw herself at Father Pierre’s feet. “Please Father, I will be good for you. Do not make me go back to these witches.” She pronounced the wonderful English word she had learned from Henrietta quite poorly.

  “Truly, you should take her,” I said amiably, “because I will lose my patience soon and strangle her.”

  “I see,” Father Pierre said with a thoughtful nod. “Well then, we will gratefully accept the donation of this fine slave. Stay here a moment, will you?” He took the rope binding her and led her into the rectory.

  He returned a moment later and led us even further from the shadowed doorway and stopped with his back to it. He released a heavy sigh. “I am sorry, Will.”

  “I know. I do not blame you,” I said sincerely. “Does that bastard have powerful friends; or at least ones sympathetic to his cause?”

  “I feel he does,” he said grimly. “In time, you may not be able to remain here.”

  I nodded. “Well, so be it, then.”

  “Are you a heathen?” he asked.

  “Beyond being born and christened in the Church of England, possibly—surely enough to see me hanged or burned if they learn of me—which now they will.”

  “Please convert, for the sake of your immortal soul, and for your very life, please join the Church. As we have discussed, I believe God is quite forgiving and tolerant. You merely need to accept Him into your heart and profess it with sincerity; and then no matter what battles you fight with other men over matters of dogma or scripture, you will at least see Heaven’s gates when you die.”

  “I know that would be prudent, Father,” I sighed—with frustration at his closed-mindedness, and not at my stubbornness—“but it would be a lie, and as we have discussed, I will not lie to God.”

  “Then may He have mercy on your soul. Where will you go?”

  “We do not know: surely somewhere beyond the purview of the Catholic Church. But first we await news from the Marquis.”

  He looked from me to Gaston and back again with sad eyes. “I fear for you, both of you.”

  “We will live as we wish,” Gaston said. “Even if we must die for it.”

  “My son, that is…” He sighed. “Well, it is your choice, and I suppose it is truly a matter for God.”

  It was, and that was why—despite all I logically knew that could be marshaled against us—I was not afraid or swamped by despair.

  I changed the subject. “What of Henrietta? Need I make arrangements with my sister, or will she remain here? And Liam, who is a good Catholic despite his association with me, wishes to have his son back.”

  He sighed. “She is… a pious woman whose head Father Mark has filled with anger and foolishness. She does not wish to go to the Strikers. She feels their household is as rife with perfidy as yours. She has become convinced that if she cannot persuade her husband to seek a position with a proper Catholic family, she has no choice except to leave him in order to preserve her soul and that of her children.”

  I smiled grimly. “Well, Liam professes he does not wish to have her back, either; though he does admit he might calm some if this matter is allowed to cool and she ceases referring to him as being our servant. He is not ou
r servant, by the way.”

  “Ah, I see,” Father Pierre said. “Well that is sad. As it is, the situation is thus in the eyes of the Church. Unless she makes an accusation of witchcraft against her husband, which she has not done, she has no right to take his children from him. I have explained this to her. Father Mark even admits this. He feels Liam is being misled by you, but he does not feel that Liam is anything other than a good Catholic.”

  “That is good to know,” I said with relief. “So, does she wish to remain here on Île de la Tortue, or return to England, or—now that she has converted to Catholicism—does she wish to go to some Catholic country? Liam is willing to provide her with a modest fortune to see to her needs. She is a sensible and frugal woman, I am sure she could live quite comfortably in many places—with or without a position. But she will not take his son with her. And, she will, of course, never marry again and neither will he.”

  He raised his brow. “On that matter, the Catholic Church has no record of their marriage, since it was not performed in the Church.”

  “Ah,” I said. “And so, can their marriage be annulled?”

  “Oui, or rather, it is already as if it does not exist unless we recognize it. What occurs if she returns to England concerning that matter is a different issue. She will be married there and subject to the Church of England’s doctrines.” He shrugged. “I will tell her of Liam’s offer. I do not know if she has thought that far down the path she is running.”

  We thanked him and retreated to the sanctuary of our house. Even as I thought of it being a sanctuary, I recalled that that too was on tenuous ground. I stopped us outside the door and told Gaston what Yvette had told me about Doucette’s will.

  He shrugged. “It is just as well. We will not be staying anyway.”

  “I am sorry,” I breathed as I realized the magnitude of that statement. “I know you wished to remain here.”

  He shrugged again. “I will be as I am—and practice medicine—wherever we choose to go. My only desires are you and the wellbeing of the children.”

  “Now who is granting absolution?”

  He smiled. “It is not your fault, Will. It was an unfortunate chain of events. We could blame Henrietta; or me for having a bout and forcing you to do a thing which made you need to pray so openly; or Rachel for allowing things to progress to such a tragic point without telling anyone; or… the Gods.” He gave a helpless shrug.

  He was correct, and I acquiesced willingly. “It is as it is; but, it does force our hand.”

  “Oui: how do you perceive it?”

  I sighed. “When the Magdalene returns, we must make plans to deal with matters in England in some fashion, even if we have not heard from your father.”

  “What will you do about your father?”

  Ideas had been buzzing around my mind from time to time on that matter. I had ignored them until now. It was time to examine them. “Perhaps we can sneak into the country and arrange an accident in such a manner that none will suspect murder.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “I have been researching poisons, but unless I can discover one an English physician would not know, they will call it murder.”

  “And suspect my physician lover,” I sighed. “I was thinking of slitting his throat and burning his house down around him, so that there is no flesh left to examine.”

  “I like that,” he said. “The difficult part would be staying long enough to insure that no one attempted to rescue him.”

  “In London, I do not think anyone will bother searching for him if we set an entire street on fire. And we will need to kill anyone who might seek him before the tinder is struck.”

  “That will be ruthless,” he said with a frown, and then nodded with resignation.

  “It is a thing of my Wolf. You see why I have not wished to contemplate it, and have hoped to avoid it. Innocent lives will surely be traded for ours. I wish to avoid that.”

  “I know,” he sighed. He straightened his shoulders and smiled glumly. “But first, we should locate a ship to use for our escape, in case the Magdalene does not return—or at least not before Father Mark can bring the Church down upon our ears.”

  “Oui, let us discuss that with the others. We should speak to Pete and Striker, and I must arrange for Sam’s freedom.”

  “Perhaps Sarah has hot soup,” Gaston said.

  I laughed, and looked at the darkening sky—the sun had set while we spoke to Father Pierre. “Pomme is sure-footed enough to carry us there in the dark.”

  We went inside and found we would not have to ride anywhere: Striker and Pete were sitting at a table being regaled with the day’s events by Liam. All welcomed us, and Agnes seemed particularly delighted at our arrival. I was soon holding little Jamaica and Gaston had Apollo. We sat and divested ourselves of weapons: we had learned that pistols, kicking feet, and inquisitive fingers do not mix after Apollo very nearly shot his father in the thigh our first week here.

  We dandled the babes, sipped wine, ate cold sausage and cheese, and waited until everyone finished laughing about Muri and the soup. It was good to see everyone merry, but not drunk—including Striker. I happily noted he was only drinking wine. Theodore also seemed bright-eyed but relaxed.

  By the time expectant eyes turned to us, I knew what I must say.

  “Let us gather everyone,” I said. “Where are Sam and Hannah? I assume Mistress Theodore cannot join us?”

  “Nay, my wife is sleeping. Hannah is with her, but I will fetch her,” Theodore said. “I believe Sam is in the cookhouse. Oh, and I have discussed that matter with Striker.”

  Striker nodded. “He’s a free man.”

  “Has someone told him?” I asked. There were guilty frowns. I smiled. “Well someone fetch him and give the poor man a glass of wine. I wish to have everyone hear what I have to say.”

  Bones slipped away to the cookhouse and soon returned with a timorous Sam and another bottle of wine. Hannah appeared in the hospital doorway and remained there as Theodore returned to his seat.

  “Sam, you are a free man,” Striker said.

  As we cheered and applauded him, Sam looked as if he would faint, but he took the wine Bones proffered and smiled widely.

  Theodore turned and nodded at Hannah. “I will draw up the papers for both of you tomorrow.”

  She bowed deeply.

  “Now,” I said and stood—with Jamaica on my hip. “I have much to say. I will speak in English. I believe Madame Doucette is the only one who does not speak the language?”

  Yvette frowned at me for a moment before saying in heavily accented English. “I learn.” Then she said, “And Agnes will translate for me,” in a sing-song manner in French to little Elizabeth, who bounced and laughed happily in her lap.

  Agnes was nodding as she came and took little Jamaica. I was relieved: I did not know if I could keep the child entertained while speaking seriously.

  “Afore ya start,” Liam said. “Any word o’ me wife?”

  “Father Pierre will speak to her. He says she does not wish to live with any of us. I made it plain that you will have your son, and tendered your offer of returning her to England. The Father noted that your marriage is not a Catholic matter.”

  “That be right,” Liam said happily. “Thank God.”

  There was amusement all around. When it settled, I began.

  “First let me apologize for being a stubborn bastard and not being a good Catholic,” I said. They laughed. “I know I should simply lie about the matter, but it seems very wrong to lie to God—or about God.”

  I was awarded warm and loving smiles from everyone—even Hannah.

  “Father Pierre says that the bastard Father Mark very likely has friends who would not be troubled by burning a nobleman’s son. It is undoubtedly only a matter of time before the pompous priest receives the permission—and men—to attempt my arrest. I have no intention of surrendering to them when they arrive. It would be best if I were not here. And, as the Church often views men and wo
men guilty by association, my problems have once again endangered all of you. For that I can never adequately say how sorry I am.”

  “So where will we go?” Striker asked with surprisingly little animosity. There was truly not an angry or disgruntled face among them.

  “We could not stay here, anyway,” Yvette interjected in French. “Doucette’s will gives this house to the Church.”

  There were knowing nods, and then the eyes were upon me again.

  “I should think it is still possible for everyone to be safe in France for the time being. That is, if the Marquis will take you in. Of course, Gaston’s last letter to him told the man a thing he surely did not wish to hear. So we do not know his disposition toward us in light of that news.”

  “Aye,” Gaston said, “I have ended our noble family line by marrying a woman I will never bed again—a woman who has borne me a daughter; and I have refused to live in a manner that will allow me to inherit in France.”

  “It just proves you’re made for each other,” Striker teased.

  “Thus, as we have discussed, I would not have you rushing off to France without hearing from him if it is at all possible,” I said.

  “YaSayin’WeGoes TaFrance, ButNotYou. YaCan’tGoTaFrance. WhereYaBeGoin’Will?” Pete asked with a knowing look.

  “England. Gaston and I will go to England and settle matters with my father so that, at the very least, everyone will once again have the option of living on English soil. I truly wished to stay on French soil and live happily to spite him—until we could find a way to thwart him; but now that I will shortly become an outlaw in France, that is gone; so I will finally do what must be done.”

  There were worried faces and Liam said, “There be other ways, Will. We can learn Dutch. No one wants ya ta sacrifice yourself. What ya said when ya came back is right. It canna’ be done without hangin’.”

  “Aye, aye,” I said. “If it is known, but I have been thinking, and—though it is likely innocent men will die in the doing of it—it can be done and survived if it is made to look like a natural or accidental death; and, if the person doing it is very careful and never seen. I must sneak into England, disguise myself, and live very carefully until I discover by plan or providence the perfect opportunity. It could take months, or even longer.”