Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  A rough, angry sigh did nothing to calm him. How he longed to beat the man senseless for standing there and taunting James to kill him. If by some work, James had done it, what then? This time René pulled in a breath and moved slowly down to the quarterdeck, one foot carefully before the next as if drawn there.

  James had found shoes, he noticed with surprise and quiet sound of displeasure. Or perhaps he had been given them. He was fortunate that his feet had fit in such delicate slippers, designed for some nobleman somewhere a long time ago. One of his men had likely realized that a man in their trade could not wear such things. Soft leather and satin lining, small bows to decorate the top, probably of the same fabric. They looked ridiculous on such strong, square feet, especially without stockings. Such apparel to make his first steps in the soil of the New World… René’s lips quirked upward despite his bad humour.

  He moved his eyes up over hairy legs and torn breeches to his bare chest and horrible growth of beard. At the face René paused, but James Fitzroy was no longer turned to him with eyes full of questions. Instead he was staring at the stone walls and cannon of the fortress, already growing over with green. His first sight of his New World, Jerusalem to the pilgrim.

  James’ body was still, his attitude one of surprise and expectation, and again the scene in his cabin drew itself into René’s mind. Not as he had had James over his desk, but after. The pose was the same.

  James had expected the New World to be different, René suddenly realized, and nodded to himself, continuing down toward the main deck, Marechal behind him. His James was more of an innocent than that child he was helping climb over the side, a virtuous lamb in a world of butchers.

  The child was slipping down easily now, proving that he had needed no help at all, but James did not see that. René stopped in place to stare back at the Englishman, feeling the heat of Marechal against his back where the other man had stopped as well. He pressed his lips together at that but waited where he was, shaping his mouth into a smile when James put his hands on the rail and prepared to disembark. There were others behind him; he ought not stand there like a gaping lackwit. James seemed aware of it, turning his head and moving at last, his long body quickly disappearing from view.

  A touch on René’s upper arm made him twist his head back and Marechal flinched at his look. “There are no children on my ship anymore,” he told the other man purposefully, his voice steady, and spun away just as the larger man’s eyes began to narrow. But the weight was lifted from his arm, and René moved swiftly across to Honoré to tell him of his change in plans.

  “Marechal will have charge of the ship for the next few watches.” He announced it loudly enough for Marechal to hear and then looked out over the edge of the ship toward the island. “I will take the next boat ashore. You may also if you wish it.” Honoré was probably burning for a woman by now and René had much to do. A rise in energy had him crossing to his cabin to straighten his hair and get his coat. As he came out he could sense Marechal’s eyes and dropped his shoulders carelessly, acknowledging the man without seeking him out. He owed Marechal no explanation, nor Thierry, though at least the man had the sense not to ask about the change.

  Miracle! Thierry retained his good sense all the long way from the boat to the land and kept his silence, talking only to Jean as they both rowed dutifully. Nonetheless, his eagerness reminded René again of a puppy, and he was amused enough to laugh at the way the man leapt from the boat in order to wade through water to the shore, to the women coming down toward the beach to meet the men from his ship. It was the way the women met all new arrivals.

  Loose hanging blouses showed more than hints of well-tanned bosoms, dropping to reveal more as the women lowered their arms to hitch up their skirts to cross the sand. Their faded skirts already revealed their legs, hiking them up was only to distract from their worn faces, but René admired the effort distantly as he disembarked with more grace than Honoré.

  With barely a nod to his navigator, René headed up the shore to the city, leaving the man to his pleasure. His own pleasure was to be had in a tavern, getting a good enough price for the English ship that he did not have to use his own funds to continue, or do anything that he did not wish to do to please annoyed backers. He also needed more wine, even some of the strong piss that the Portuguese liked to call wine would do.

  Hours later, smacking his lips at the pleasant flavor of a fine Southern wine, René was quite happy with the events of the day, and his purchase of a few casks. The English ship, stripped of even its cannon, had fetched a good price in talks, and his dealings with another captain would likely lead the profitable sale of the guns. Balls and powder of course, would cost the man more. To-morrow he would begin to see to supplies and the final arrangements for the ship, taking his time so that his men could enjoy themselves for a few days.

  Smiling slightly, his humour improved since that morning, René walked slowly through the streets as night took the last bit of light from the day. There had been no sign of Mirena at the past two taverns he had visited, but that meant nothing. There were rumours and stories of other men, Morgan sailing with big dreams, the activities of the Spanish, tales of politics in France. René listened to them all. Even rumours could affect his future, so he sat in each roughly-built house and drank, avoiding the rum but feasting on fresh pork slices and pieces of the island’s fruit.

  He was sticky with juice and wine now, the roasted meat turning in his stomach since he had not eaten so much in so long, and his feet unable to stop moving. Men were stumbling and shouting all around him, most strangers to him, though a few had the amazed expressions of those who had never seen such revelry and who now found themselves enraptured with it. Or perhaps they were simply land sick, their minds unused to the feel of solid ground beneath them. It happened to those who were not used to life on ships, they would lose all grace and fall over their own feet, collapsing weakly into their beds for days at a time.

  Prostitutes moved freely among the falling, careless figures, breasts swinging as they danced around half-clothed, enjoying the liquor the men were happy enough to drown them in. All seemed to have a bottle or reek of ale and rum and their screaming scraped along his spine whenever one of them would get too close. He ought to return to the ship, he was not comfortable amid the chaos of reveling strangers. The people who lived here needed these fools for their living, though to the men they were just people to serve rum and fuck in any space available, uncaring of the dirt staining their clothing, but René did not need to breathe in the stench of their debauchery.

  Some of those around him were men, embracing other men as if King Louis himself had not sent these women to the island to prevent just that thing. René studied a few of them with vague interest before turning his gaze away, as that child Ben had not. Seeing the wide eyes of the few of those watching, René could only imagine what his English passengers would think if newcomers found this so shocking. Turtle Island was nothing to the sins of Jamaica and Port Royal.

  “ Vous êtes seul, Monsieur?” The question was whispered heatedly into his ear and René snapped around to stare at the little whore addressing him. Her face was dirty, and plain, like most of those taken from the streets and prisons of Paris and Marseille and brought here. “You are lonely?” she asked again in slow English and opened her mouth again when he did not answer, probably to ask in Castilian. It was not the first time he had been asked that day, and would not be the last, so he merely shook his head impatiently and tried to move on.

  A hand slid up his thigh to his cock, cupping its soft length firmly. She had decided that words had failed, it seemed. René locked his hand around her wrist and jerked her arm away faster than he would have even for a cutpurse, even while he was shifting his body out of reach. The little whore’s eyes did not even change from their expression of clouded interest at his action though he might have hurt her, and his smile slid away to nothing. Focusing as much as he could in the fading light he could see that beneath t
he filth she was probably only a few years above four and ten.

  Letting out a furious breath, he twisted her arm and then thrust her to the side, hurrying away before she noticed the coin in her palm and followed after him to demand more. Not too far ahead was another tavern, so full that people stood in the street shouting for more liquor and tossing empty blackjacks over their shoulders. One of the discarded tankards hit another man in the arm and René stepped around him and into the building just as the man shoved the other drunk who had thrown it and began shouting at him in something that had the sound of the Dutch.

  “ Boerelul!” he roared as if trying to be heard back in his homeland, and the other man answered with something René could not make out. Both men were much larger than him and he cocked his head back at the first heavy sound of a punch; that needed no translation. Grunts and cries of encouragement followed, not nearly as interesting, but they attracted the attention of those in his way and René’s path was suddenly cleared.

  It was almost unbearable inside the wide room, the wet heat of the island combining with the torch smoke and the warmth of the bodies inside. The wine had flushed his face and added to his discomfort. René shifted, as if that would ease the pressure between his shoulders blades and dry the sweat running beneath his shirt and coat. He could have gone back to the ship where it was quiet and cool on the water. He should go there now. The island would be here to-morrow, and all those on it.

  The scuffle continued outside however, and he knew that drunken, angry fools would not stop to look before stabbing with their cutlasses or striking out at the nearest man they saw, and he had no wish to bleed for a spilled glass of rum.

  Muttering to himself, he snatched a full tankard from the hands of a plump, dark skinned woman and swept his eyes over the room. The liquor was halfway to his mouth when he spied a familiar pox-marked English face at the back of the room. René could not recall his name, but it was the man he had seen James in conversation with many times. He had seemed most interested in those conversations, and René frowned to think of the few words James had managed to say to him, each one full of condemnation. Whatever the two of English had talked about was of no interest to him.

  But the Englishman looked up and saw him watching, his sudden stillness making that apparent, so René bowed his head as if acknowledging some great noble and took a step toward him. His gesture was met with narrowed eyes, and then the other man looked away, reaching out and snagging a short figure with one hand.

  René glanced in the same direction then froze, taking a long drink of the rum without tasting much but its sugar sweetness. The Englishman yanked hard once and the small form of Ben was pulled back against him, then shoved back down onto the bench at his side. The wood looked to be hard, for the boy winced and glared at his captor. Then he snatched at the glass of liquor in front of the man and drank a few sips before putting it back and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. The marked man seemed not to care; his eyes were darting from René to the many women rushing about though he did not say a word.

  James was not with him. René knew it without looking for the tall man, unable to imagine him letting the boy drink anything but milk as if he were still a babe in his mother’s arms. As if milk offered protection. Then he swore at himself for ignoring the obvious, that the wide, ugly Englishman must be the boy’s protector, with James Fitzroy gone and Carter dead.

  “Master Villon!” The boy’s hushed shout of surprise should not have reached his ears in the crowded room, but René turned to his name without thinking and stared into the boy’s face. Man and boy were sitting at a table near an opened window, and a nearby torch provided enough light for René to see them, and for them to see him. It looked cooler near the window, and for that René headed toward it, shifting his gaze around the room and observing the other people inside as he moved.

  It was surprising that they had not seen him the moment he had entered; all the doors were visible from this table. Approving, René leaned against the wall next to the splintered wooden shutters and watched the doors. He ignored those at the table; merely scowling slightly when the ugly Englishmen ordered more of the ale he was drinking and dragged a laughing woman onto his lap for several moments. A few pinches later and she was gone, mercifully, taking her squeals with her. Then there was just silence and the brawl outside, growing louder with each moment. It ought to end soon.

  “Have you come to take us back, then?” The abruptly asked, low growl of a question raised René’s head and he glanced at the Englishman with an arched brow.

  “Why would I want you?” he responded instantly, shrugging and making a show a drinking the accursed rum. Why the English liked it he would never understand.

  The marked face grew wrinkled as the man frowned and René thought vaguely that no amount of beauty patches would ever make it lovely. Mirena would laugh at him for it, for showing his blood in such a way, but it was the truth. If this man was forcing the child to caress such a face then he deserved a death as drawn out as Carter’s.

  René looked to Ben and found the child studying the scene outside with wide eyes, curious, but not shocked. They stared with the same calm interest at the tavern maid as she returned, peering down into her bodice, and then moved on to observe the ale itself.

  “What about James?” the man demanded softly. The boy turned to face the man first, whipping around at the words, and then a moment later René did the same, breathing softly through his nose. The liquor heated his face, and he shifted slightly so that the breezes might come through the window to chill him. When he did not speak, the Englishman—Pym— René suddenly remembered his name, went on tightly. “Do you seek to keep us with you?”

  “I cannot watch the whole island.” René dropped one shoulder carelessly and switched his cup from one hand to the other. Looking at Pym he caught the expression of disbelief and almost grinned to see it. “I have released you. I have no care if you go or stay.” Perhaps the man was slow and did not comprehend that when René had sent him from the ship he had meant it.

  “James thought…” the Englishman Pym began and then stopped, rubbing his strong neck with one hand. The child reached up as if to do it for him but froze with one arm out, and peeked up at René through long eyelashes, waiting like a good little pet; without James he was not sure where to look. No longer amused, René set the blackjack of rum down on the table so hard some liquor splashed onto his lace cuffs. He stared at it blankly and then blinked and lifted his chin.

  “James thought what?” he snapped, his voice so thick he was not sure the English understood. Pym’s face flushed with feeling, most likely anger, though he hid it a moment later by ducking his head.

  “James thought you might try to…keep us.” The fury was still with him, evident in his restlessly drumming fingers, but his face looked calm enough when he finally raised it once more for René to see. It made René wonder for a small moment what he knew, what James had told him.

  “Keep you?” René repeated slowly and then jerked his head up. His sharp laughter only angered them more, he knew, but he could not stop, not when it was so funny. He hurt inside when he finally quieted, and had to hold his sides to keep more from spilling out. Two sets of eyes regarded him narrowly once he looked back at them, accusingly, and he pushed himself against the wall to stand up. “You will find new masters, if you want them,” he finished, his voice hardening at the end.

  The child blinked once and René found himself distracted enough into staring only at him. His eyes were more green than brown, watchful and distrusting, nearly hidden behind a mess of unruly hair. He was too young still to have the look of a man, though old enough now to no longer be mistaken for a girl by any one not blind drunk. Little eyebrows were drawn together in confusion, likely at his words, though judging from the curve of his mouth, the boy had understood more than Pym.

  “What if I choose to stay with you?” The Englishman was asking, his voice overly loud. “Then a place might be found for you.” Re
né answered without thinking. A strange request from an Englishman. There were plenty of other ships that had no allegiances to anyone but themselves and the Brotherhood. But what of Ben? Or was he asking for the child as well? His mind raced around in circles and he looked away from the child and focused on the Englishman. “Where is James?”

  He bit his tongue in his haste to close his mouth, the salt of his blood mingling with the distilled sugar of the rum. The furious question hung in the air between them, swinging in the breeze from the window, and he let one hand fall to the hilt of his sword.

  “He’s nae here.” Ben stuck out his chin and went silent after that, having the appearance of having said all he was going to say in defense of the man who had abandoned him. René did not even bother to look at him, watching for Pym to speak. The man sighed, then rubbed his neck again.

  “Out searching for ways to get…away from here,” he replied at last, carefully, and René snorted. There were many ways out, but none thatle prêtre James would find to his liking. He had only one thing to sell, and passage, even as cargo, cost dearly. He would learn that soon enough, perhaps he already had, and imagining his wide-eyed shock and struggle to contain his anger was enough to return René’s earlier smile to his face. It did not endear him to those watching, but he hardly cared if they loved him; he knew they did not.

  “ Bonne nuit.” He took his hand from his sword at last to push the tankard of rum in their direction. He did not wait to see if they took it before turning and walking slowly from the tavern, tossing a coin at the nearest maid, the one that had not minded the attentions of Pym.

  Outside the air was cooler though still heavy, fragrant with wine and sweets and frantic screwing. There was some blood upon the ground, but not much, just a little stain leading to the curled up body of a large man. The man was groaning and holding his stomach, but mumbling enough for René to know that the world would have to live with him for some time more. Ignoring the ass before him, René looked up and down the streets, noting absently that now that it was truly dark no one seemed to have any lingering cares about enjoying themselves. It was like a festival for a saint’s day, only it occurred every day, every night, until it wore on the soul and one had to leave the island or go mad.