Broken Wing

by Judith James

  “Thank you for your comforting words, Valmont.”

  “You are most welcome, St. Croix. I confess, though, that I am somewhat troubled.”

  “Truly? There is something that troubles you in our present circumstances, Chevalier?”

  “Yes,” he answered, ignoring the sarcasm. “Consider that we were never brought before the Dey. The practice is to parade the new slaves before him, so he may choose those he wishes to keep or ransom. If we are sold clandestinely, we will not be listed, and therefore not protected or brought to the notice of any European embassy. It also means that that the buyer is taking a very great risk and must be expecting a worthy return. I know that I’m not worth such an extraordinary risk, so it must be you, St. Croix. Who are you?”

  “I am nothing, and no one, Chevalier,” Gabriel said, genuinely perplexed.

  “That’s unfortunate. It would appear our new master may be in for a severe disappointment, which he will be more than likely to visit upon us.”

  Gabriel moved restlessly as the effects of the laudanum began to wear off. Fatigued by the effort of conversing, burdened anew by the familiar pain in his arm and chest, he allowed himself to drift again, flitting in and out of consciousness. Sarah, where are you? I’m so lonely here, so tired, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find her again. The voice of the chevalier hummed steadily in the background until the nurses came and shooed him away. Exhausted, he drifted to sleep.

  Suffering from massive infection, Gabriel hovered near death for several days. The chief surgeon had been promised a hefty purse of gold should his patient recover, and he applied all his knowledge and considerable attention to winning it. Dysentery and dehydration were treated with medicinal salts and copious amounts of liquid. He was sedated with laudanum to reduce his movement and his pain, and his chest was bound tightly to keep the ribs from grating when he coughed. His arm was broken and reset properly and the dead tissue was cut away from the wound before it was treated with salt, stitched closed, then splinted and wrapped again. Fortunately, he remained insensate through it all. Young and strong, he slowly began to respond.

  As his fever abated and his condition improved, the dosage of laudanum was gradually reduced. When he finally awoke, he was surprised to find that more than two weeks had passed. Concerned to see no sign of the chevalier, he managed to reach out a hand and catch the sleeve of one of the nurses. When he stopped, he asked him what had become of his companion.

  “Gone, gone,” the man replied somewhat nervously. “Your friend has been sold. He has left the city.”

  Exhausted by the effort, Gabriel closed his eyes again. In the short time he’d known him, he’d come to rely on the chevalier‘s vitality and relentless good humor. He’d been an amiable companion under trying circumstances, and he was going to miss him. He wished him well, wherever he might be.

  Gabriel drifted in and out of sleep over the course of the next few weeks as his bones slowly knit and his body healed. Onions and oranges, white bread, raisins and figs, had all been added to his diet. Someone wanted him to get better, but after more than two months, he still had no idea who or why. It was early December now by his crude calculations, and the days were cool and wet. He was certain he had enough money to buy his own freedom, but he wasn’t allowed pen or paper, and was given no opportunity to write. Sarah and Ross would be decorating for Christmas, expecting Jamie home from Truro, expecting him and Davey to arrive at any moment. Davey would tell them he was dead, drowned, and he couldn’t tell them otherwise. Sarah would … his heart clenched in dread and anguish, and he pushed all thoughts of home away.

  A commotion at the doorway drew his attention. Several men had entered the infirmary, bearing a litter and talking excitedly in Arabic. From what little he could understand, the Dey was coming to inspect the bagnio. Money changed hands, a large purse was given to the surgeon, and then they came for him.

  “Hurry, hurry,” the surgeon prodded, “you must leave immediately.” Gabriel resisted, struggling to climb to his feet, but the surgeon pushed him back. “No, no. You have been sold. You can no longer stay here. You must go to your new home. To your new master. Maybe he will let you write. Maybe he will ransom you. Go now. These men are here to take you to him.”

  Feeling the first stirrings of hope since the beginning of his captivity, Gabriel offered no further resistance. They were hurried through the courtyard and out onto the street. Gabriel had been feeling much better over the past two weeks, and as his strength returned, he’d taken every opportunity to move about the infirmary, clutching onto tables and walls until he could manage on his own. He’d been careful to appear dangerously fatigued, feigning collapse on occasion, thinking it prudent to appear as ill and weak as he could for as long as he was able. Now, as they moved through the city, he was watchful and alert. It wasn’t his intention to escape. Not yet. It would be far wiser to wait and see if he might arrange a ransom.

  He was delighted nonetheless, when his escort made their way to the western gate and out of the city. With the walls behind him, his chances of escape had increased dramatically. He asked in broken Arabic where they were going, and was cuffed for his troubles, but he did receive a surly reply.

  “We go to Bilda, slave, twelve miles to the west. We must carry you all the way when it is you who should be carrying us. Now shut your mouth before I shut it for you.”

  Gabriel suppressed a grin. Things were definitely improving.

  Bilda proved to be better than he had dared hope. Nestled beneath the snowy heights of the Atlas Mountains, peaceful, lovely, and close to Algiers, it had become the preferred home of so many of the ruling Turks that it had no need for the garrison and fortifications that many other towns had.

  They approached a large rectangular house that enclosed a tiled courtyard with two fountains, a beautiful trellised garden, and a lush grove of fruit trees. Gabriel noted two well-armed men guarding the entrance. Two more guards were stationed on the flat roof. The northern wall was given over to stables, and he caught a glimpse of delicately shaped muzzles and flashing eyes, no doubt belonging to the Barbary steeds Sarah so much admired. It seemed that his patron—he refused to use the word owner—was a wealthy man.

  “You are here now, slave. Walk.” The litter was tipped over, spilling Gabriel into the dust. He rose quickly to his feet, brushing dust from his hands, smiling dangerously.

  “You think to look me in the eyes, slave? You have much to learn.” The guard struck him a blow across the face, splitting his lip and drawing blood. “The master will soon have you begging and wagging your tail like the dog you are.”

  Unable to help himself, Gabriel looked him in the eyes again, his own glittering and hard, and spat blood at his feet.

  “You dare!” the guard roared. Throwing him down he pulled out his whip and began flailing away at him as the others joined in, kicking, and punching him as he lay on the ground, knees drawn to his chest, trying to protect his newly healed ribs. He suppressed a scream when his bandaged arm was struck with a vicious boot. Fighting nausea, he reflected that Davey might be right when he said discretion was the better part of valor. His vision began to dim and he surrendered gratefully to the black wave that tugged at him, as an angry voice in the distance snapped commands.

  “Leave him be! What are you about, you fools? How dare you! You will pay for this. You will all be very sorry. Now lift him and follow me.”

  The voice was vaguely familiar and he struggled to place it, but before he could, the darkness pulled him under.

  CHAPTER

  26

  Gabriel opened his eyes and heaved a long sigh. This was becoming a bad habit. He’d taken to fainting like an insipid society miss, and each time he did, he woke, battered and confused, somewhere new. He didn’t need to move or turn his head to see he was locked in a cell. The dreary little room was about eight feet in width and contained a cot, a stool, and a jug for water, and he seemed to be chained by the ankle to the wall. A tiny window
with iron gratings, close to the ceiling and too high to look out, afforded a little light. Frustrated, he kicked out his leg, rattling the chain.

  “That can be most annoying, St. Croix, when a fellow’s trying to get some sleep.”

  “Valmont!” Gabriel sprang from his cot, only to be brought up short when he reached the end of his chain. The chevalier was in the cell facing him, sitting cross-legged on his cot, saluting him with a grin and a wave. His face was bruised and swollen, and he appeared to have been badly beaten.

  Gabriel grinned as well, and gave him a deep bow. “My apologies, monsieur. And might I say, I did not truly appreciate what agreeable company you afforded, until I was deprived of it. It is very good to see you, mon amie.”

  “Sadly, that’s always the way, St. Croix. No one seems to appreciate me until I’m gone. It might give a more introspective fellow pause. I am very pleased to see you, as well. You were so ill when I left, that I did not expect you to survive.”

  “I’m not that easy to kill, Chevalier. Do you know what we’re doing here? And what’s happened to you? You look a bloody pulp!”

  “I have some idea. As to the bruises, I have met our master, and he’s been urging me to convert, well, in a manner of speaking, anyway. I have proved uncooperative so far, and so he punishes me,” he said with a shrug.

  “You don’t strike me as a religious martyr, Valmont.”

  “I’m not, dear boy. It’s not that kind of conversion he seeks,” he answered with a slight smile.

  “Ah, I see. I had hoped you would be ransomed by now, Jacques. How long have you been here? Have you contacted your family yet?”

  “I’ve been here two months now, Gabriel, and yes, I wrote my family and received a very prompt reply.”

  “And so? Do they redeem you?”

  “Alas, no, they have refused. My father explained it to me quite succinctly in his reply. It seems that my views are too republican, my taste in women too ill advised, and my sense of duty and humility to my father nonexistent. He disowned me in writing, with a great deal of satisfaction. He has done so in the past, of course, but I had rather thought it metaphorical, something to be taken back one day over heartfelt tears, et cetera. I had forgotten how heartily he detests me. He has always doubted that I am truly his son, you see. One can hardly blame him. My mother has always delighted in acting the whore, and he has always been a vicious and vindictive bastard.

  “I am abandoned to my fate, and it will be most convenient and not the least displeasing to him if I never find my way home. He may content himself that his less-than-dutiful, and less-than-certain second son, is deservedly suffering for his many sins. His final words were, ‘May your slavery teach you the submission and humility you would never learn from me. It will be good for your soul.’”

  “Ma foi! He sounds like an unnatural father and a sadistic tyrant.”

  “Ah, you’ve met him then. Pay me no heed, though, I beg you. It has been a trying week, else I would never have burdened you with such maudlin nonsense. And what of you, friend Gabriel? Have you any news of ransom?”

  “No,” Gabriel answered shortly. “I’ve not been given the opportunity to write or contact anyone.”

  “That is troubling. I’ve heard disturbing things about our patron, and after meeting him I don’t doubt them to be true. He is said to have established a flourishing trade buying and selling to a certain type of client. Although it’s not acknowledged, such practices are widespread. No doubt he will seek to sell me to some lusty sodomite now that I am useless for ransom. I have no talent for humility or submission, as my dear father has already noted. I am not long for this world, I expect. No doubt he intends to do the same with you once you are fully recovered.”

  “Then we must apply ourselves diligently to our own rescue, Chevalier.”

  They were left in peace over the next week as they recovered from their respective beatings. Their only visitor was a mute, elderly slave of undeterminable origins, who never looked up. He came once a day to bring them food, fresh water, and remove the slop bucket. The food was passable and plentiful, and Gabriel was recovering quickly, exercising as best he could in his cell, and practicing the deadly steps that Davey had taught him with imaginary sword and cutlass, working to regain his strength.

  The chevalier was teaching him Arabic, and they spent much of their time conversing in that language, discussing what they had seen of the compound, and how they might plan an escape. Gabriel continued to exaggerate his frailty, even in the presence of the old slave, but in truth he did feel dizzy and disoriented some of the time, and his sleep was like that of the dead.

  It was almost Christmas, and Jamie was back for the holidays. They’d feasted and feted and now he lay content, stretched on his stomach, lazily watching the fire as it crackled merrily in the grate, chasing away the December chill. He shifted his position to make room for her, as she came to sit beside him on the bed, both of them hypnotized by the flames. He grinned and purred when she began running her hand gently up and down his back, caressing his buttocks. She leaned in close to whisper in his ear.

  “Réveille tois, mon ange.”

  A bolt of ice ripped through him, stopping his heart, chilling his blood, and freezing his soul. His eyes flew open and met Valmont’s, watching silently from across the corridor. His breathing was harsh and ragged, and he was turned to stone, unable to move as those hateful hands rested on the small of his back. Deliberately, he slowed his breathing and strove to armor himself, to find that hard, chill space that none save he could enter. He knew he would need to if he were going to survive. When he’d found it, he was able to answer.

  “I’m awake, de Sevigny.”

  “Good, good! I’m so very pleased you remember me, Gabriel! I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to acquire you. I suspected it was you as soon as that rascally corsair described you to me. He always lets me know when a beauty arrives so I might purchase him first. You’re as lovely as I remember. You should really call me ‘master,’ though, you know, and I should punish you for your disrespect. But I do want us to be friends, as we were in the past. Do you remember? So in the future you may call me ‘Monsieur le Comte.’” He patted Gabriel on the back and rose to leave.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb your rest, my dear. I just came to see how you were progressing, and to renew our acquaintance. Rest now. I’ve had laudanum put in your food to help you sleep. I want to see you better. I have plans for you.” He turned to look at Valmont. “He’s very handsome, isn’t he, Gabriel? Is he your lover? No? Well, no matter, I have plans for him, too. I have plans for you both.”

  Gabriel lay there, his eyes black with rage, his heart twisted with hatred, his soul cold and still, as something long dormant stirred to life.

  “How is it that you know this man, St. Croix? How is it that you know him so well?”

  “I was forcibly converted as a child,” he said flatly. And after that there was nothing else to say.

  Monsieur le Comte de Sevigny fairly skipped up the stairs. He was very pleased. Very pleased, indeed! He had done well for himself in Algiers. He’d had contacts here for many years, and it had seemed an ideal home when The Terror had swept across France in the wake of the revolution. He had converted to Islam willingly. Accepting circumcision and remembering in which direction Mecca lay seemed a small price to pay for the social advantages it gave him. He had enthusiastically entered the slave trade and was now far wealthier than he had ever been in France. He specialized in providing beautiful, well-trained men and boys for private sale to discriminating buyers.

  It had been his intention to ransom Valmont. His blood was a bit too blue for him to have easily disappeared, but surprisingly, his family hadn’t wanted him. Well-made and strikingly handsome, he would fetch a small fortune once he was properly instructed. Gabriel was another matter entirely. He had thought never to see him again. He had been enraged when he’d dared to run away, punishing him and sending him back to the cesspool he’d fou
nd him in. But there had been a quality about him, something untouchable and proud, a distant reserve he had never been able to breach. He had thought about him often over the years, and had realized that he’d never really possessed the boy. But now he owned the man. His body, at least. And he wouldn’t be satisfied until he owned his soul.

  Gabriel remained locked inside himself. He didn’t eat or drink, knowing his food was drugged. He said nothing to Valmont, was hardly aware of his presence as he struggled to restore the defenses that Sarah had made him abandon. He’d let himself relax, become weak and unwary, but that was over now. This was war, and if he was to be the victor he needed to focus. He needed to hold himself remote, detached, and above all, to rid himself of feeling—and think!

  He paced his cell all day, restless, almost eager for the battle to begin. When the key rattled at the top of the stairs he was prepared. When the Comte reached his cell with two guards in tow, he was stretched on his cot pretending to sleep. He let de Sevigny shake him awake, feigning confusion and fear, looking at him with sullen eyes as the guards waited, blank faced in the hall.

  “I’ve been very patient with you, Gabriel. I have paid well to restore your health, and I’ve given you time to heal, but my patience is at an end. There’s no need for you to live in these conditions. I can change them like that,” de Sevigny said, snapping his fingers. “If you submit to me, I will remove those chains and you will live in comfort.” He sat beside him, snaking an arm around his waist and drawing him close. “You would like that, Gabriel, wouldn’t you? I could give you gold, a fine horse, beautiful clothes … and a bath.” He wrinkled his nose and let go of him with a laugh.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what? Speak up, my dear.”

  “Yes, I would like it. To have clean clothes and a bath … to be free,” Gabriel said, his voice a blend of pleading and defiance.