Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  It was just the sky now, nearly as gray as the grass in the darkening sky. It stirred the mess of hair that even the pretty maids had been unable to comb, sending strands into Ben’s face as he leaned his head to one side. There was no doubt he enjoyed their attentions, even if it was not the life he had known before.

  “It is new, is it not? To have not one limit and yet have no clear choices?” Why he asked Ben he did not know; Ben did not seem to mind being asked, simply scowling a bit harder as he maintained his silence. “’Tis strange to be here, in a field spread in all directions.” Empty horizons all, except for the glimpse of a steeple far off, a mark of guidance he might have said, if it would not have confused Ben.

  He could remember another field, that one green and pleasant, where the sun had been at his back and he had thought himself free. But he had not moved from the ground there until bidden, following another back into town. He had not even felt sadness to see the thatched roofs of houses rising over the low hills.

  Only the church was in view, not even the sun visible anymore, just a light behind clouds. He should not feel so surprised, René choosing a home with the church on the land, even if the man did not acknowledge it.

  His business must be concluded soon, and he would return or send for them. If he had conducted his business at a hurried pace, he might be returning now. James could not imagine René moving at anything less than full sail, and felt his brows draw together.

  There was no way except to travel into the city himself to get news, and he had sworn to remain here, after René had sworn to leave the family Saint-Cyr unharmed, his fury taking him from the bedchamber and from the house without another word to James. The word of a pirate, a small part of himself insisted upon reminding him, and he frowned at the uneasy waves of sickness in his belly.

  It was as foolish to let René leave his sight as it was let Ben run around without a careful watch. Promises meant nothing in the face of survival, and it was only to please him that they made the vows at all.

  “James?” It was rare to hear Ben so hesitant, and James lifted his eyes from the memory of their bed to stare into Ben’s confused face.

  “I believe you can choose, Ben.” The words even tasted odd on his tongue, salt and bitter and sweet, like the remnants of love in his mouth, washed out with wine. “With the consequences for a man to bear alone, he might do anything his soul will allow.”

  He thought his words had the touch of madness once more, but Ben was intent upon his face, nodding once and then closing his eyes. “You’ve not reason to worry.” Some decision made, Ben opened his eyes and glanced away in the same moment. “Any more than him.” With a smile so quick it might have been in James’ mind only, as imagined as the warm press of lips to his cheek, Ben darted back, sliding silently through the grass. “I’m hungry,” he called out as he ran, putting so much of the field between them that James could not help but feel the sting of rejection.

  In moments he was out of sight, and again James had the thought that it would be best to keep such a child within sight at all times. “Left alone, the beast will find them.” Ben had been absorbed the gleaming lights of the golden cup sitting on the church’s altar and so perhaps had not heard the surprising remark. But her face had been turned from James’, only the clean smooth lines of her headdress before him as the nun had watched Ben, her quiet breath ending her strange statement.

  He thought he might have jumped, his shoulders obviously hitching at the reminder of his word for Marechal, the same word the lady Mirena had used, and he had not been able to stop himself from begging her attention, calling out so loudly that even Ben had momentarily turned from the gold.

  “Lady?” There had been roses under the lady’s skin, colouring her a few shades darker than Mademoiselle Suzette and yet making her skin glow with all the more purity, and James had easily imagined her washing her face and hands in the clearest of waters, scented with the same soap that noblewomen bought from nunneries to keep the bloom of youth in their cheeks.

  Her small hands had crossed over her chest, pressing the simple wooden cross that hung there for a moment before she clasped them tightly before her. Only the fine lines of work and age across the back of her hands showed her to be perhaps older than his step-mother, not a single strand of hair showed from the sides of the white and black cloth covering her head.

  “They are damned in their innocence.” She had been as still as the painting of Mary; her dark prediction of the boy’s future making not even a glimmer of possible tears in her brown eyes. James had felt himself staring into those eyes in amazement, letting himself be distracted at the colour of burnt sugar and the long, thick lashes that dipped to rest against her cheekbones.

  “Then we must give them knowledge,” James had paused there, not quite certain if he were right to argue gently with such a servant of God, but not pleased with her meaning, if she had meant to damn even children who had committed no crime.

  Her eyes had opened wide. “Knowledge leads to temptation. Our souls are weak before its power.” Her mouth tightened for but a moment, and then she had clasped the crucifix hanging from her neck once more. “Would you not protect them from evil?”

  “Aye.” James answered now as he had then, for there was no other answer than that, to the death if need be, even if the frown had not left his face. She had leaned away even as he spoke, hearing a call it seemed, for she inclined her head at him and stepped softly from the chapel. Ben had smiled at her as she had passed, and James could only suppose that she had smiled in return.

  “Damned with a smile,” James whispered to himself now, letting the madness take his tongue. In spite of the chill in the wind now, he felt his skin grow hot, tight with anger that at last brought him to his feet. He had heard René’s fears, the nightmares that had frightened him to weeping in his fever, had seen that cross at his neck, a constant reminder of his destiny.

  Ben had not even attempted to charm her. She had won him instead, with only a light touch to his head and that smile, the beauty of her face making his restless feet grow still. The wind was growing stronger, tugging James’ hair free of the ribbon at his neck, and he let the strands whip his cheeks as he turned his face from the house and back to the distant church.

  It would not be long before it rained, but he let his feet turn to match his gaze, walking without speed toward the small church on René’s property. He did not think today was a day of observance for the Papists. The building might be as empty as before, dying flowers spread out over their altar resembling more a pagan festival still enacted in the country than the remnants of a morning Mass celebrating the Lord.

  She might be there, the nun from before. He doubted there could be many of them caring for such a small parish. He had not even seen a priest on his earlier visit. But he could ignore her and pray as best he could in a Romish temple.

  An hour, perhaps two, until the darkness outside would force him to decide. His promise was for nothing if René had betrayed his, and he would not stay here indefinitely. No matter René’s thoughts, James was not born to wait on his decisions. Nor would he sit by while René injured himself once more. He could bear the lie on his soul to keep René living, and wondered if René had supposed otherwise when he had made the strange demand.

  When the rain was gone the air would smell clean, cleaner than the city, as clean as only sea air could be. Way up in the middle of the sky down to the dirt under his shoes, it would be cleansed, water from God and not the blood of man. Not yet.

  Looking up, James stopped his feet and angled his head back. Drops touched his lips, so small they dried the moment they touched him. He saw the water through the glass of his spectacles, appearing from the clouds above just as it came down, disappearing with only traces of a chill left behind on his skin.

  Slowly, his eyes fell from the clouds to the hard gray stone in front of him, observing scowling faces that he knew were meant to seem beautiful, curious as to whether or not they would have l
ooked beautiful only in their moments of death, knowing what awaited them in Heaven for their sacrifice. He thought he would look grim at that moment, that he would only be happy to know his sacrifice had not been in vain.

  His eyes continued lower, to the wooden doors, already splashed at the edges with a darker shade where the rain had hit them. With a strong push, they opened, and he stepped inside just as a flash at the corner of his vision spoke of lightening.

  If there was an answering rumble of thunder, it was nothing to the banging of the heavy doors behind him. He paused to wait for it regardless, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dimmer light inside the church as he did. Some light came through the coloured windows, but someone had lit the candles along the aisle, tall worked-iron candelabras at the end of each pew, each one glowing bright and orange, flickering at the wind he’d brought in with him.

  Despite the smoke stinging at his eyes he saw her figure right away; she knelt at the front of the church, before the altar though slightly to the side. It looked as though she prayed deeply, for she did not start as the door closed.

  James walked down the aisle, his gait on land still unsteady, but silent. He wore no hat, but ducked his head toward the altar and got to his knees easily on the opposite side of the lady, pleased to find a cushion on the floor for his comfort. He rested his arms on the small railing before him and bowed his head. It was only once he had clasped his hands did he realize he had no words to pray. He did not think a common prayer was suited to a Romish church, but would not have said their words even had he known them.

  He had sat in a pew in Port Royal, rows behind Sir Marvell, and he had not prayed then either, his shame at his acts not so distant as it was now. Now there was only a sinful sort of pride in them. He could not ask forgiveness either if he did not repent, and if he failed to humble himself even that much, had he the right to beg for God’s ear?

  If these trials had been intended to test his obedience to the Word than he had failed them, as he had felt only contentment to wake with fierce eyes glaring down at him, had been blessed to see Ben laughing as any other child might. He had caused death with his actions, once with his own hands and it had not yet left his dreams. Until his last day he would ask forgiveness for that at least, but he did not think his course would have been different, even with his knowledge now.

  An ache in his arms made him aware of his changed posture, his weight heavy as he leaned closer to the altar, and he forced himself to pull away, tightening his clasped hands until his palms were flat together.

  Eyes closed, he heard the sigh at his right, the feather-soft reminder that both angels and devils breathed the same air, and he knew he would place his soul in jeopardy once more to save René’s life.

  Brown cloth, dotted with spots from the rain, appeared before him and James realized he had opened his eyes. He studied his legs for a moment longer, remembering them wrapped in black fabric much less fine; his pose similar to what it had been then, praying only for mercy.

  Lifting his gaze to the altar, he saw it empty as it had not been yesterday, and wondered if he were to stay, would he witness the rites the Catholics had burned for. Once more he felt the need to bow his head before that bare table, and he nodded to it deeply as he rose, keeping his eyes down until he was fully to his feet. He turned on his heel and stopped in place to find the nun still there, standing half an arm’s length away.

  “My apologies, Lady.” He spoke immediately, his face a touch warm to think he had been so lost to not notice her slight figure until he had nearly knocked her back. James put out a hand to steady her and quickly withdrew it, surprised when the lady reached and placed her hand to his arm.

  Just a light touch, and then her hand darted away, fluttering in the air before returning to her breast. James directed his gaze quickly to her eyes, wondering how he had not noticed the sparkle in the layered brown when he had beheld her eyes the day before.

  “You seem more beautiful than I remembered, my love.” Her greeting was delivered in a breathless whisper, and yet James felt himself flinching backward, looking to the ceiling, to the door, certain that the words had been as loud as gunfire. He could feel his heart’s pounding at his throat, and he swallowed, his mouth dry of words.

  “I do not think Papa noticed me slip away,” she added when James did not speak. The stiff cloth of her headdress bent as she leaned her head to one side, the pose so like the Lady Suzette’s flirtatiousness that he felt his mouth falling open. All his recent grace was gone it seemed, but he managed to snap his jaw closed, biting his lip to recall the stories of corrupt convents.

  “Madame…?” One word spilled from him at last, and he held his breath as she blinked, the lights falling away from her face as she drew her delicate eyebrows together. “I am sorry.” She shook her head as though to recover her wits, and then she seemed to grow pale, her eyes large and stricken. “I am sorry,” she said once more, and James put out a hand to calm her, resting it gently at her shoulder.

  “The fault is mine,” he assured her easily, for in truth he had not looked before he had moved even if that was not what either of them spoke of now.

  “I…” Her mouth was slack for another moment, and then James could no longer see it, only the crown of her headdress as the lady lowered her head and kept her gaze on the floor. “Do you seek the Father?”

  “Nay,” James replied quickly, his belly twisting a bit at the suggestion of speaking with a priest. But he spoke too quickly, for she raised her head a fraction to peer up at him. A moment after that her chin was up and at such an angle that James felt himself a naughty, heedless boy of twelve once more.

  “You are English.” She arched one eyebrow in such a way that made it not a question at all, and yet James wondered at her surprise. René spoke so disparagingly of his accent he doubted any could hear him and not know his origin. “You had a child.” Her eyes left him at last to search the small chapel for Ben, pulling away from his touch at her shoulder to grasp tightly at the cross hanging from her neck.

  James frowned at her gesture, not pleased with the reminder of Ben, and her pitying words about the boy’s soul. That she had meant to be kind in speaking her beliefs kept him silent, straightening up slightly when she turned back to face him.

  “He is not here.” She accused with her eyes if her voice remained even, quiet as her fingers worked at the wooden crucifix. “I had hoped…” Abruptly, her face softened, her chin lowering to the humble degree James had seen the day before. “I am a selfish woman. I beg forgiveness.”

  She shivered as though a breeze from the storm outside had swept past and looked quickly back over her shoulder, as though expecting another to appear. James followed her gaze and saw no one, though he noticed the door leading beyond the chapel itself, hidden in shadows some distance away.

  Her fingers were restless on her cross, too fast to recount prayers, too rapid to be the rhythm of a remembered song, and James felt his mind focusing on the slim, white fingers, the unease with which they held that cross and yet would not let go of it.

  “You care for him?” The woman spoke suddenly, and James’ shoulders hitched. He could only wonder how long he had stared at her in silence, and he felt his face heat and forced himself to meet her eyes.

  Her gaze was so fast upon him it might have been sewn in place, and though he knew not why, James felt his blush increasing, his face and neck quite warm. He answered hurriedly, since he had not yet done so, and saw that his single word had not eased the force of her stare.

  “With all of me that exists.” Hearing his own foolishness would have made his blush return, if it had ever left him. But the words were truth, and he would not recant.

  “Yet he is not here, now.” Almost, James could imagine her with a knife at his throat, as though the lady Mirena’s deadliness were to be found in all women, even a servant of God.

  “He is at supper.” He answered with more calm then he felt, curious at her intensity when she had only spoke
n a few words to Ben on their visit yesterday. If she breathed, James could not hear it, and opened his mouth in order to fill the silence, feeling the need to soothe her even if he knew not why. “Shall I bring him back for a visit?”

  Another view of a church, even such a one as this would not harm the boy. Truthfully, he thought Ben would benefit from a visit, another opportunity to bask in a woman’s adoration. A bit of cosseting would bring more colour to Ben’s face, so long as she did not speak to Ben of what she had said to him.

  “You will be kind to him?” He could not stop himself from demanding, a lack of gentleness in his tone. His words ended in a small gasp as the lady fell back a step, her hand at her heart as though she had indeed been wounded, and then she was turning and walking away.

  She was far away from him in a moment, through one arching doorway to the alcove beyond, her body shadowed outlined by the tiers of melting candles stacked upon the table before her. James studied the straight line of her back, thinking it as unforgiving as Ben’s not long ago, and swallowed, seeking to apologize if only to bring her back. He had frightened a lady of the cloth with his blundering tongue, and thought perhaps there was too much of the sea still left in him.

  “I am sorry, Lady.” She was still, unmoving and quiet as the candles sent flickering traces of light and dark on the walls behind her. James put a hand to his mouth, biting the end of his thumb for a moment before pulling away his spectacles and wiping them distractedly on his coat. “But I will curse myself if I must, to keep them…him safe.”

  He thought she moved, but could not be certain, pinching his glasses back in place only to find her hand holding a thin piece of wood, setting a tall, fresh candle’s wick aflame. “God himself is a Father. He knows our pain.” The hissing smoke of the new candle was louder than her whisper, creating a dry prickling at his eyes even from this distance. James blinked, feeling his chin drop in a nod before the sensation had left him. “How old is the child?”