His anger did not scare me—even my Horse. It was the ravings of bitter old wolf.
“So tell me,” I said with a sigh. “Did you love Shane’s father, or did he love you?”
I thought he might explode with rage. He frothed for a time, the veins bulging in his neck, and his eyes protruded. Then he roared, “Jenkins, put them in the cellar! Chain them there! Chain them apart! I will have no acts of perversion under my roof!”
I heard Gaston’s sharp gasp. I knew he knew as I did, that we could fight, and if we were to fight, the time was now. I was not reeling in fear, surprise, or rage, though. I sat my Horse well. We stood in a quiet place with a battle before us and a shining light beyond it.
I turned to Gaston. Peripherally, I saw a stoney-faced Jenkins and his men approaching with pistols drawn. I held up a hand and he paused.
“My love,” I said quietly in French. “This is the test.”
I saw Gaston fighting to control his Horse. “I know.”
“Have Faith and Trust in Love.”
“Oui,” he said and the tension left his shoulders. And then in an amazing show of that very thing, he regarded my father with pity before turning to Jenkins with a bowed head and open hands. Thus we truly surrendered to the will of the Gods.
One Hundred and Thirteen
Wherein We Face Truth
When they saw we would go quietly, Jenkins and his men did not lay a hand on us. They led us down through the kitchen to the cellar. It was stone walled, and as big as half the house, with a low ceiling and great posts to support the floor beams. The walls were filled with shelves full of foodstuffs and household items.
Jenkins ushered us inside and regarded us with a worried sigh. “Please have a seat. I assure you, no harm will befall you this night. I ask that you but trust me for a short time.” He searched our faces.
Gaston and I exchanged bemused looks and nodded as one.
He turned back to his men at the door. “Go tell them what our lord said,” he ordered one man. “Wait in the kitchen. Warn me if he comes down,” he told the other.
“What should I say?” the second man asked with a worried frown.
“Stammer a great deal and trip him,” Jenkins said.
The man swore. “He’ll hit me.”
“I’ll shoot you,” Jenkins assured him.
The man did not bridle at the threat; rather, he seemed annoyed and resigned. “I don’t like this.”
“You think I do?” Jenkins asked.
The man sighed and withdrew, and Jenkins closed the door and turned back to us. Seeing we were still standing, he said, “Please sit. This might take some time.” He looked about and plucked two bottles of wine from a shelf, handed us one, and sat on a barrel.
With another exchange of bemused looks, Gaston and I doffed our hats and wigs and sat on some crates facing him.
“What is occurring?” I asked.
Jenkins finished a long pull on his bottle and sighed before studying us with curiosity. “Do you know the Earl of Whyse?”
I had never heard the name, and I shook my head sincerely.
“Well, my lord, he appears to have taken quite a keen interest in you. And he knows a great deal about you.”
“I have truly never heard of him, Mister Jenkins. Who is he?” I asked.
Jenkins grimaced and considered his words. “It is said in certain circles that he performs the same services for the king that I perform for your father.”
“The king?” I asked. “The King of England?”
He regarded me as if I were daft.
I sighed. “So the king’s man has taken an interest in me?”
“Aye,” Jenkins said. “He approached me over a month ago. He knew you would be brought to England—as we did.”
“How?” I asked.
He shrugged. “We received a letter from that damn fool Modyford. I doubt that is how Whyse heard of it—well, at least not directly.”
Gaston and I exchanged a glance. It appeared Morgan had told Modyford even before we went to Panama.
“Whyse knew there was bad blood between your father and you,” Jenkins continued. “He told me he wished to avoid an unfortunate incident upon your arrival.”
“So he wished to protect my father from me?” I asked. I did not like the sound of that, despite Jenkins’ hospitality and our not being beaten or in chains.
“Nay,” Jenkins said with an annoyed frown. “He wished to protect you—both of you. He was concerned that your father might harm you—as your father does intend—or that you would be forced to harm your father and the result would be difficult to hide.”
That did indeed sound as if the Gods had sent us a protector, but it filled me with alarm at not knowing the reason. “Why?” I asked.
“Damned if I know,” Jenkins said. “I was hoping you would tell me.”
I took a deep breath and thought of the ramifications: for one thing, it appeared we were safe from my father’s plans and wrath.
“So my father does not know,” I said.
Jenkins shook his head sadly. “I have been his loyal man for over ten years. I have doubted him on only one matter—well, two—that being his handling of his affairs concerning you, and his handling of Shane. Your father is a reasonable and wise man in all things save that of you and your cousin and the issue of sodomy. The very subject seems to drive him mad. It surely induces him to take risks that endanger his name. So, aye, I have said nothing to him—as the Earl of Whyse directed—using the king’s name. But nay, that is not the only reason I have not spoken. I have said nothing because I wish for the matter to end—at least the part involving you. Shane…” He sighed and shrugged. “That will not likely end until he dies of drink.”
“I wish for it to end, too,” I said. “It has cost lives, and it is likely it will continue to do so. It has forced everyone who cares for me to be uprooted and threatened time and again. It endangers my children. It casts a pall over my entire life. But even you admit it is a madness of my father’s. Do you think he will bow to the king—if the king is indeed involved, for whatever reason—on this matter?”
He frowned at me and finally shook his head. “Nay, I do not believe even the king could sway him. And from what you told your father, you are as stubborn and as mad as he? If the king orders you to put the matter aside and appease your father, will you?”
“If by the matter I must put aside, you mean Gaston, nay, I will not,” I said.
“Then you are indeed as mad as he is,” Jenkins snapped. “He will not live forever, my lord. Why can you not appease him? Your love of this man here is not natural. It is not a right granted by God. Why die for it?”
I sat back and snorted. “My father is a stubborn man, Mister Jenkins. He will likely try to live until he is eighty or more to prevent me from having any enjoyment in my life that does not meet his moral standards. I will not live for him. I owe him nothing. His parentage of me was a reluctant duty I doubt he wished to perform. He has never liked me or wanted me as his son—even before he knew of my perverted desires. He has always wanted Shane as his offspring. I am sorry for both their sakes that there is no legal—or natural—way for them to both have what they wish.”
Jenkin’s jaw fell agape. “What are you saying? Why would you assume such a thing? He despises you both. He would never take Shane as his heir.”
I was surprised by his apparent sincerity: I supposed much had changed in my latest absence. Still, I snorted again. “Now, perhaps; and I am glad to hear it. I do not believe that was true when we were younger, though. He allowed Shane to drive me from his house. He apparently knew that Shane and I were lovers, and it was surely he who poisoned Shane’s heart; and then the bastard sat back and allowed Shane to abuse me in the hopes it might put me off men. That much my dear father actually admitted—when I had returned after ten years. Ten years in which he did not seek me. Ten years in which he kept Shane at his right hand.”
His mouth was hanging open again. “
You and Shane were lovers? My God, that explains much…” He shook his head and looked away with a furrowed brow.
“I believe Shane’s father and mine were lovers as well,” I added.
“I heard your accusation, my lord,” he said stiffly. Then he gave a resigned sigh. “I have heard other rumors passed down through the servants to that end. And I suppose I heard of Shane and you, but I thought they referred to the other and dismissed it as more foolish prattle.”
I sighed and looked to Gaston.
He appeared as confused as I. “Your father must have lost him,” he said quietly. “Or perhaps he never had him.”
I realized I would never know.
Jenkins was studying us. “Do you know what he wished to do to the two of you? Nay, nay, how could you?”
“Break me to his will and kill my lover,” I said.
“Aye and nay,” he said, and guilt crept over his face. He considered the wine bottle in his lap. “He wished to force you to kill your lover.”
Gaston’s sharp gasp was echoed by mine.
“The damned monster,” I said. “And he thinks sodomy is perversion. I cannot understand how…”
Jenkins was shaking his head tightly. He met my gaze. “Your father does not despise sodomy in itself. He speaks openly of viewing it as an unfortunate vice, much like whoring.”
“But…” I began.
He shook his head and held up a hand. “Nay, the thing that drives him mad is your indiscretion; your apparent feeling that this love you feel is a thing you deserve or have a right to possess; and your defiance of the laws of man and God—and of his will. He did not care who Shane buggered, as long as Shane never saw the same boy twice. And he spoke of you with regard, and harbored hope that your time in Christendom had ended your foolish fancies; until you wrote him and indicated you had a lover. Then he became concerned. He sent you a wife to cure your confusion; and then... Well he began to hear things from Jamaica that indicated you had not put your lover out and that you were being very indiscreet. Then he began to conceive of ways to bring you to heel. He is appalled that you would abuse the family name and your title in this manner.”
“But is it because I have a thing he could not have?” I asked. His words explained so very much, but the knowledge fanned my anger instead of easing it.
Jenkins frowned. “We cannot know that, my lord. We can suppose it, but we cannot know it. And I will not disparage your father’s name by speaking of it anywhere other than here.”
“What are your feelings on sodomy?” I asked.
He sighed. “I feel a man can enjoy pleasures that God did not intend.” He shrugged—and would not meet my gaze.
“But in the end,” I supplied, “he must put aside his foolish fancies, and become a moral man who beds his wife—and only his wife—for the production of progeny—as God intended?”
Jenkins met my gaze with compressed lips. “Collins said you had some odd notions.”
I snorted. “How is Collins?”
Jenkins took another pull on his bottle and sighed. “Blind.”
“He had some strange notions,” I snapped. “He thought I would be thankful. I suppose my father thinks I would be thankful as well. Or perhaps he is not so very delusional, and he knows I would hate him forever if he accomplished his horrific scheme.
“Why is it, Mister Jenkins, that some men feel driven to expect everyone to applaud their poor and sad choices? They make a choice that results in their misery; and then… pride, I suppose, dictates they cannot reverse it; and then they feel compelled to decide that since this has occurred to them, everyone must share in the misery. And then they justify it in the name of God as if they could speak for the Divine. Why do men do that? Why do they engage in such an obvious child’s game? Why exercise such hubris and truly risk angering God? Are they just that damn stupid?”
Obviously discomfited, he stood and set his half-empty bottle on the barrel. “I will leave you to await the Earl.”
“Which one?” I asked.
He frowned and met my gaze. “Whyse, I hope. Though if your father should arrive first, I suggest you hold your tongue and not anger him. My lord.” He left us.
I sighed and tried to rein in my Horse. I understood his need to fight, though. And here we were, in a position to do so if we desired.
“Do you think this is a further test?” I asked.
Gaston sighed. “I do not know, Will,” he said quietly, and I could hear the strain in his voice.
I embraced him. “I am sorry.”
“For what?”
“For thrashing about in the traces.”
He chuckled. “You are merely tossing your head. My Horse is well; he sees a path of escape—though he does worry that it is a trap.”
“Do you believe in this Lord Whyse?” I asked as doubt nipped at my heels as well. “This does seem far too easy.”
“I must,” he said.
I pulled away to regard him and found his mien as troubled as he sounded.
He sighed. “I need hope, or I need to be bound; else I will attempt that path of escape.”
“You are doing very well,” I assured him.
“I have faith, but now I do not feel I know what is expected of us.” He smiled weakly.
I took a deep breath and thought on it. “I suppose we wait to see what the Gods bring next—and behave accordingly. So far, things have gone much better than I expected. I learned a great deal from Jenkins; and though the substance of it angered me, I know I should be grateful. This is what I came for.”
“So your father behaved as you expected?”
“Somewhat—he is much as I remember.” I changed our tack to lighten the mood. “Do you feel I resemble him?”
Gaston shook his head with wonder and not refutation before frowning with thought. “Oui and non. He is a big man.”
“Oui, I recall thinking I would be as tall as him someday; but it never occurred: perhaps that is why I never felt I grew up.”
He chuckled and gave a small sigh and smile. “I am pleased you will never grow into him. Are you sure you are his?” He did not appear to be entirely in jest: there was a hopeful note in his voice.
I laughed. “You would not ask that if you had met my mother. I cannot imagine any man I would wish to own as my father wanting to bed her—especially not in the name of misbegotten passion.”
“Truly? Then where did you come from?”
I smiled. “That was the great question throughout my childhood—asked by everyone.” I regarded him seriously. “Did you think my father would be like yours? Did you harbor a secret hope of that?”
He nodded. “I have wished for us to come here and be pleasantly surprised—to find that our dread was unnecessary. And that wish has been answered, perhaps, but from another source. Your father is… mad. Not the passing madness of a man at odds with his Horse, but the chronic illness of a man who…” He frowned in thought. “Has lost his soul, perhaps?”
“For much of my life, if I had known of Horses and Men and Wolves, I would have said my father had killed his Horse, but… Truly, I never saw him angered as he was tonight. I would say that is an angry Horse. But perhaps it is another beast entirely. Then again, Chris likened your Horse to a demon. And I have found myself comparing what must have been Shane’s Horse to one as well. And we have even called our own demons at times.”
“Demons are angry Horses no one can ride?” Gaston asked.
“Perhaps they are angry Horses without a rider. As we discussed; alone, they are but beasts that do not make choices with an eye on the road ahead. They just run where they will.” I looked to him. “You rode yours very well tonight: if the Gods are testing your Horsemanship, I cannot see where you did not pass. I am proud of you.”
He indicated the cellar around us. “It is not finished, yet.” Then he smiled. “But oui, I think we should take pride in what we have accomplished so far. No one is dead—save Thorp.” He shrugged.
I sighed. “I feel
we have done the correct thing, the honorable and wise thing, but I am disappointed. We will have solved nothing when this Earl rescues us—for whatever nefarious purpose he might have. My father will still be a threat to us. And though I feel I know far more now, I still do not know for certain what drives him. And, I do not think it can be known. He might not even be aware of the cause. I envision it as a black box he has placed in the cave. It casts a shadow he shies away from, but he does not know what it contains.”
Gaston smiled. “I cannot imagine a man knowing what drives him to madness and not attempting to cure it, either.”
I smiled as I thought on it. “It is a great tenet of Christianity that suicide angers God; because it is a show of hubris to discard the sacred gift of life that God has bestowed in His infinite wisdom. But any creature has life. Man is special and unique amongst the beasts because we have the ability to reason. I think that is our Divine gift. I feel the Gods are likely angered by any man who refuses to claim the Divine birthright of a rational mind.
“And so, if a man sees he is in pain or ails—whether in body, mind, or soul—and he knows the cause, he should act to heal himself and prevent further harm. And if he does not know the cause, he should seek it. Any other course of action is akin to suicide. Thus I believe my father killed himself years ago, and now he wanders in Purgatory.”
Gaston sighed and smiled. “Your mother must have taken a lover.”
I laughed. “I always wished to be the child of gypsies—or the faerie folk: some changeling left on the steps of a village cottage on the night of the full moon, and given to the childless lord and his barren wife—but then my parents gave me two sisters.” I shrugged. “And there is a resemblance.”
“Oui, I suppose,” my matelot said with a frown. “But only a little in the face. Nothing else of your body reminds me of Sarah.”
I laughed. “I seem to recall you once had quite an interest in her body because it was a woman’s and bore a resemblance to mine in the face.”
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