Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  Theboucan clattered as Marechal extended his arms, grasping toward René with huge empty hands, and René’s went still at the terror in Marechal’s face as he came nearer.

  His breath and blood were hot enough to sting, and René pulled away from it though he had not meant to, straining to keep Marechal’s eyes on him as he fell back.

  “No!” A single angel graced them now, and René twisted his head away from Marechal as those hands found him and pressed at his shoulders, encircling him. He forced one arm up through the sticky air, hard into the steaming mess that burned across his hand and felt another wet sting across his cheeks. Marechal’s body jerked, crushing him for one moment, and René studied the way the man’s face contorted into something like what he had seen often, years ago.

  The lips curled into a near smile as his body trembled, pushing against René until his knees buckled. Hands shaking, René released the cutlass, pushing back against the mound of flesh smothering him, inhaling only when the heat of it was gone. Marechal still stood on his feet, swaying much as the sword in his middle swung from side to side. His eyes were wide, as heavy on René as his body, and René swallowed, stepping forward.

  “Not…yours,” he murmured through his teeth just once more, and grasped the dripping handle of his sword with both of his hands. Marechal did not move as he did this, and René cursed him for ever leaving him alive before he clamped his teeth down through his lip and tore the sword free of Marechal’s stomach.

  Guts poured from the wound, peeking obscenely out of Marechal’s body at René as he stood there and watched, pleased to look up into the man’s face as he stood dying.

  If his own body was pained he could no longer feel it, though he put out a hand as he stepped back, wondering if he would fall, for he could not even feel his feet. Marechal’s mouth moved, working over familiar words, but no sound came from him, or from anyone else. The angels and devils were silent now, their work done, and it was left to René to pray for the dead.

  “Damned.” There was an explosion of pain through his chest and belly, and the floor roared beneath him as Marechal stumbled back, his hands and arms limp on the ground, his head cracking on the old wood. Scarlet already stained the boards, and René stood still as the great chest moved once, breath sighing out between two pale lips. If the man spoke, it was not a confession but the name he had uttered before, and René screamed at him silently, nothing but fury that scrambled clumsily over to an empty body and plunged the cutlass point into the cooling flesh.

  The blade found its mark between the dead thighs, already well bloodied and René heard it slide into the quiet tissue, unsatisfied to find that it made so little noise. He pulled the sword free to stab at it again, and then down once more, grinding the tip until there was nothing but purple, fleshy meat, panting with each pull on his shoulder, frustrated at the silence from his Marechal.

  “No!” His voice was torn like red cloth and flesh as his weapon punctured the oozing spot and the body beneath him twitched, dead fingers flexing for one last caress. “No,” René addressed them in triumph, shouting it so that all of those in the streets could hear, and felt the world spinning around him, sickening his stomach already full of the stench of the charnel house.

  His fingers loosened their hold on the sword hilt and he turned his head and then his body, seeking the direction of the tilting world, trying to point himself like the needle of a compass.

  The points crossed, and he blinked the wet from his eyes, seeing a group of strangers standing in the small space before him, watching him. Would he be absolved now that Judgment was at hand, he wondered, vaguely, the words soft in his mind as he studied each face, from the light to the dark and then settled on one, serious and golden as it moved toward him, untouched by any of the red or lying white of pain.

  “James,” he tried to say, and it was only the spinning air that let him know he was falling, the long sigh of the dying heating his cold lips.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “W

  hat?” James heard himself shouting stupidly into René’s closed face and struggling for a moment to hold them both. René was a growing weight in his arms, so much heavier than he had seemed only the day before that

  James shouted again, a name, the first that came to his mind that was not René. “Mirena!” Many of her crew were wounded or worse, surely she had others to attend to now. James could hear the last of the fighting above them, knowing that her attention belonged there. And yet she had the manner of a possessive woman where René Villon was concerned, had said so well enough, with her touches and her glances, that he had a small hope that she would tend to René’s wounds now.

  There was blood streaming from René’s left shoulder, or mayhap not streaming any longer but merely trickling. James inhaled, calming himself only a fraction as he pulled the body closer to him with one arm and used the other to tug away the loose bits of cloth to inspect the wound.

  The cloth was sticky and hot with fresh blood, and he hissed to see the way the flesh was pulled apart, smooth at first and then jagged as though the blade had been tugged away roughly. He thought he saw the white of bone, had to swallow his vomit.

  Almost blindly, he flattened his already bloodstained hand over the wound, not wanting to see the damage and needing the flow of blood to cease. He felt the pulse of René’s heart, right under his palm.

  Alive. James inhaled painfully; he had not thought him to be living. René’s face was pale as milk, ghostly shadows under his eyes, glaring next to the brightness of the red that coated his chest and stomach and arms. Even his hands had been covered with it, and James licked his lips, remembering the savage joy on René’s face as he had thrust his blade into Marechal’s belly, had slashed it to pieces. And then afterward…

  “Let me see him!” A voice rang sharp in his ear, and James had only a dizzy moment to realize that it had been in English and thenL’Aranha was before him, squeezing herself between his body and René, tearing his hand away to peer at the wound.

  “Please,” James asked her, though what he meant by the question and her strange reaction to it made his mind swirl. She jerked her head up and her body back, only a moment later seeming to remember her glare and returning to her examination, eyeing James carefully as she stepped closer. She murmured something in her own tongue as she looked at René, but did nothing as though, like James, she could hardly breathe.

  “What do you know of medicine?” he put to the silence, and feltL’Aranha stiffen. “Will he die?” Someone wondered, too far behind them for James to care enough to turn around, though he recalled now that there had been others in the small corridor with him, strong hands holding him in place as though he had been going to leap between the two men facing each other below them. The man seemed to need time to speak, and James could only think that no one could breathe well in the clouded, dark air of the bowels of this ship.

  Above of all this, before, it had been only too easy to breathe, salty sea air and the meat smell of blood nothing to him as he had run across the narrow plank of wood and found himself in the midst of something like Hell. Men screaming and bodies twisting and in the eye of it all, untouched, the man he had thought to be the Devil, smiling as he had spun on his heel and plunged a knife into a man’s heart.

  Untouched by naught but a few drops of blood across his face as he had pulled himself away from the man he had killed. A member of his own crew dead, but he had been clean of any sign of harm, just as he had been for the long moments that James had watched his dark form slipping through the melee from one ship to another. He had barely remembered to watch himself, his dry eyes had been so intent, and could still feel the swing of a blade over his head as he had ducked and dashed over the slippery boards toward Villon.

  The first of two blades at his back, and he had not been fast enough to stop the second one from sinking into his flesh. “I will need to sew it,” Mirena’s lips thinned, and James imagined her distaste at such a womanly occupation, noti
cing the new cut across one of her cheeks, already drying. It would leave no mark on her, and James thought feverishly how odd it was, that neither of them would he be marked by the events of this day.

  “I will not have him here.” James nodded once, to acknowledge her, and then searched the room without seeing, remembering at last that there was more than just this room and this bloody ship.

  He did not look at either L’Aranha or the body lying grossly below them as he bent down and carefully slung René’s legs over his other arm, leaving his limp body resting against his chest. René made a pained noise, grunting wordlessly and lifting his head for a moment before dropping it.

  James blinked away the memory of the broken body lying on the floor of the inn, dizzy when it blurred with the bloodlust that had shone like gold from the man’s face only moments ago.

  Despite himself, James metL’Aranha’s gaze and saw her slight nod before she flicked her eyes down toward René’s face and jerked her head toward the stairs.

  Men stood in their path, and James squinted over the rim of his glasses, staring until their faces took on familiar shapes. “Pym?” He put a name to one and stopped for a moment, held in surprise to see the man still alive. Surely the lady’s crew had put them all to the sword. Yet there he stood, a frown crossing his scarred face as he stared back. He wore only breeches, and those were tattered, but he looked well enough that James could tear his eyes away, focus upon the steps below his feet.

  It hurt to move, and René was heavy, so heavy that James paused at the top, leaning one shoulder against the wooden wall as he peered around the bodies of those still in his way. Some light was reflecting off the thick, low clouds, so bright that tears came to the corners of his eyes and James had to lower his gaze, flinching and looking away to some middle space when he saw the bodies hacked and mutilated on the deck.

  Any jewelry the dead men might have been wearing was missing, but James was turning away from the sight of them, jerking his head once behind him as he remembered the flash of gold at Marechal’s neck. That it was the necklace Villon had worn, James was strangely certain, but that was all his mind would allow, and he thrust himself forward onto the deck, hiding his shudders when the ground beneath him was wet.

  Two men were in his way, but James shouldered past them, barely noticing that they resisted. Ahead of him was a familiar door of slashed wood, and he took one hand from René’s body to push it open, sweeping his gaze over the room and no longer surprised to see how little it had been changed.

  The desk was the same, though bare of charts, and James shifted his arms to lay his body down upon it, freezing when René tossed and angled his head to murmur inaudible words into his ear.

  James looked up, blinking when L’Aranha was there on the opposite side of the desk, already reaching out to pull white hands from his shoulders and urge René back onto the flat surface.

  The wound was truly bleeding now, spewing out blood so rich and dark that it seemed impossible that René’s chest moved. “Hold him down, English.” L’Aranha swore at him when he did not move, and James clenched his jaw and put one hand at René’s shoulder and the other at his side, wincing when without a thought, the lady grabbed fistfuls of Villon’s shirt and tore it into two wide pieces, baring his mangled shoulder.

  Slim hands appeared before James’ eyes, and he jerked his head up to see one of the men from moments ago, now holding out a spool of coarse thread and a long needle. He frowned down at René’s body and then up at James, and James remembered him at last, the navigator who had held the scorched maps and watched Carter’s execution with barely a twitch.

  The woman took them and swiftly threaded the needle, even humming softly to herself as she did, and James was suddenly sure that he was dreaming, that he had been dreaming for some time now. Why else would he have boarded this ship at all, or done the horrible thing that he had done, whatever his reasons? There was no other reason for this madness, for a part of him knew that René Villon was not a man who bled to death on a desk, or allowed himself to be carried like the dead hero in a play.

  “Honoré.” Mirena barked the man’s name once, without hesitation, and he jumped to attention, turning to grab a stub of a candle then dashing around until he had lit the wick. He held it aloft though it added only a little light, and placed a hand next to James’ on René’s good shoulder.

  As if that was all she had needed, L’Aranha ducked her head and went to work, pinching the torn sides of flesh together and sliding the needle and thread through them. James had only a moment to contemplate how smooth and small her stitch was, and René’s eyes fluttered open, his mouth opening and twisting in obvious pain though he made no sound.

  The muscles under James’ fingers jerked and tensed and James pushed back down without thinking, his eyes trained on the other man’s face asL’Aranha inserted her needle into his flesh once again. This time Villon’s mouth moved, small gasps escaping, that quickly became cries, and his wide eyes looked from L’Aranha to James, as full of questions as a child peering through the dark.

  But he did not seem to recognize them, for he frowned and renewed his struggles, kicking out when his arms could not budge. Mirena’s hand slipped in the blood, and she cursed crudely over the shocked shout that the touch brought from René. James allowed his eyes to move at last, flicking to her scowling face and then back down to René.

  “Move,” he addressed the navigator in the man’s tongue and tossed his head toward René’s legs, already shifting his body to have a better hold on René’s chest. “Quicker,” he snapped at the woman, and kept his eyes on her fingers, swiftly knitting the flesh together with the thick, black thread.

  “The blood,” she said once, quietly, and James let out a tense breath as he understood her meaning, taking one hand from the body to yank free the sash he had been given to carry his borrowed sword. Wanting to turn away, he instead shoved it against the wound, soaking up the blood that interfered with her work.

  “Seen many battles, Englishman?” The navigator questioned him in a steady enough voice, and James felt the muscles in his neck stiffen, though he shook his head. Some streets of London were battle enough to satisfy anyone’s thirst for blood, but that was not what the man had meant.

  The blood on James’ lower arms and wrists itched as it dried, but he ignored it, licking the sting from his upper lip asL’Aranha tied the thread and bent her head to cut the loose string with her teeth.

  With the snap, René fell back heavily on to the desk, his head cracking on the wood before James had even time to realize that he had been arched up from the desk in those last few moments.

  He leaned down over his body, blinking to see some colour now in René’s face, his eyes closed as if he were sleeping. “It is the pain.” L’Aranha answered him though James knew he had not spoken, and he looked up at her just as she raised her wet hands, red down even beneath her nails, as stained as his own though still fresh, as stained as most of René’s middle. “But he is alive for now.”

  “We must wash him,” James told her seriously, already removing the shredded shirt with his shaking hands, carefully sliding it free of limp arms. The breeches would stay for now; James shivered at the memory of René’s near nakedness and felt the shiver under the white skin now, odd since it felt warm to the touch.

  The lady’s brown eyes were thoughtful as she studied him, and then she shrugged, looking to the door.

  “I must see outside now, but I will return.” “And what of the prisoner?” Honoré spoke with urgency, but it was clear from the way the lady turned back that she did not know what he referred to. James frowned as well, and watched the navigator carefully remove his hands from René’s ankles and step back. “We took a man for ransom, were ordered to before…”

  That he did not finish was hardly important, forL’Aranha’s eyes widened. “Who?” she asked harshly, and cursed René viciously when Honoré answered. “You stupid ass!” she spat at René’s body while the name of Et
ienne Saint-Cyr rang in the air around them. “Now we cannot return to Port Royal, if we had wanted to.” She glanced to James as she said it and then turned and left the room without another word.

  James licked his lips and found them dry and broken. “Why?” he asked Honoré quietly, and the man shrugged as the woman had done, looking after her, unwilling to tell or perhaps truly ignorant. “Where is water?”

  “Here.” A bottle was tossed at him, and James barely caught it. He swallowed to see Deniau stranding in the frame of the door, but scraped the wax off with his fingernails and impatiently yanked out the stopper. “Villon will want that more than water,” the black man commented impassively when James stared at the deep purple of wine and did not move.

  Inhaling sharply, James bent at last and splashed some of the wine carefully over René’s mouth, parting the red lips with his fingers when René did not respond. His thumb smoothed over the slightly rough jaw line, wiping away droplets of the liquor before he removed his hand. Then he took the bloodied sash and splashed more of the wine onto the few unsullied inches, setting the bottle aside as he wiped clean René’s stomach and chest as best he could.

  It smeared pinkly across already rose-coloured skin, and James bit his lip as he poured more wine onto the scrap of cloth and dabbed around the red, raging wound. “ Damne!” René cried into the air, shaking, and James jumped back from him, reaching for the bottle. He let a few more drops fall to René’s lips and watched how quickly they dried, growing alarmed at the flush to René’s cheeks, which had been so pale only moments ago. “Je brûle,” he whispered, his voice scratching as though he had not had a drink in days.

  “Fever?” James asked aloud though he knew the answer, just as he knew what it meant. “So quickly,” he finished quietly and felt the bottle snatched from his hands. Deniau took a long pull from the top, his throat moving as he swallowed most of it, then he slammed it back down onto the desk, coming to a stop right next to James.