The Red King

by Rosemary O'Malley

  He worried with it, pulled at it, shook his leg in frustration.

  “Shhh…” he heard in the darkness. Fingers slipped into his hair, stroking his scalp and the back of his neck.

  “It hurts, Father,” he whimpered. His voice was deep now, not the childish inflection he’d had when the shackle found him.

  There was a shift and the hand in his hair wrapped around his ankle. The iron fell away and in its place was a soft ribbon.

  “I’m still bound,” he protested.

  “Does it hurt now?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I would not have you slip away.”

  As the words faded into the drum of his heartbeat, a light began to shine above him. It grew so bright, so quickly, that his eyes burned and watered and he still could not see.

  “Father?” he called, reaching out.

  His hand was taken and he was lifted to his feet. Eyes closed against the glow and afraid, the arms that wrapped around him were welcome. It was the lips he felt on his ear that startled him.

  “I’m not your father.”

  “You need a bath.”

  It was a murmur against his ear. Andrew cracked one eye open and was met with a soft smile. “So do you,” he said, voice still thick with slumber. “How long have I slept?”

  Rory’s arm tightened, pulling him closer. He threw a leg across Andrew’s thighs and draped elegantly on his chest. “Not long, but we’ll need to get back, soon. We have to deal with …unpleasant things before we make berth.”

  They remained silent for a few moments. Andrew petted Rory’s wildly tangled hair, comforting while indulging in the feel of the man pressed so tightly to him. He would have been perfectly content to stay there, naked on the cabin floor, for the rest of his life. “How do you bathe on a ship?”

  “Most of us go for a swim,” Rory answered, chuckling. “Otherwise, it’s a bucket.”

  “I don’t know how to swim,” Andrew confessed.

  Rory raised his head. He was smiling. “A bucket for now, then, but you’ll need to learn. I will teach you.”

  “What else do you plan on teaching me?” Andrew replied, tartly. He opened his mouth to receive Rory’s kiss, sighing when their tongues touched.

  “I have a compendium of lessons for you,” Rory told him, crawling up to cover him once more. Then he rose gracefully to his feet and stretched his arms above his head. “But for now, we go to the head for a dousing. I would be rid the grime and do not wish to inter my friend’s body to the deep still smelling of death and fucking.”

  Andrew blinked, snatched abruptly from his contentment by mention of the dead man. “Fleming!” he cried, sitting up. Trying to, at least, before the pain in his back stopped him. He gritted his teeth and muttered, “Oh, ouch…”

  Rory held out both hands. “Easy, you skipped some steps today.”

  Andrew took them, groaning quite differently as he was pulled up. Rory steadied him, holding him close and rubbing circles into his back. And lower. “I feel like I fell down the whole flight.” he said into Rory’s shoulder. He lifted his arms to wind around the man’s neck. “I didn’t know there were steps.”

  Rory gave him a gentle squeeze before releasing him. “Oh, there are many. I look forward to showing them all to you.”

  Andrew had not thought much about the ‘after’ when he gave himself to Rory. He’d only wanted to distract, to offer what he could of pleasure and fleeting contentment. Now, as he hitched the belt as tight as it would go, his mind was racing, full of contradicting thoughts. A lifetime of the teachings of the wages sin was hard to overcome and he felt the need for the ice cold water of the ocean to clear his head. He followed Rory out into the light, which was turning golden as the sun began its decent in the west.

  In truth, Andrew found he did not regret it. The horror of the hours before, of Acklie and Fleming and their subsequent deaths, made his fornication with Rory seem far less abominable. He was certain, in his own heart, that he would be better off asking forgiveness for his murder of the brigand Acklie than feeling shame for his seduction of the captain. He smiled at the word as he thought it, at the audacity of it, but there it was. Rory had offered him escape and yet he had pressed. He was surely the instigator of his own…deflowering.

  “You smile as if you have a secret, Coinin.”

  Malik’s voice startled him. “No secret, just thoughts, Malik. Too many thoughts and they sometimes present themselves in unusual patterns,” he answered, his grin a bit sheepish, despite his easy declaration. He looked up at his friend- yes, a good friend, he decided. “Which part is the head? I’m to bathe, apparently.”

  One large hand landed on his shoulder. “The bowsprit; the captain is waiting for you. Listen, first, don’t be alarmed if you are…” he looked concerned, “called out. There is little room for secrets on board a ship, especially one this size.”

  “What do you mean?” Andrew asked, wondering what else could have happened. He steeled himself for the worst.

  “You…” The big man was clearly discomfited. “You howled, Coinin.”

  “I what?”

  “It was not a howl, not in the truest sense, yet it was piercing. It fairly rang throughout the ship.”

  Andrew was speechless, red-faced and unable to think beyond his own mortification.

  Malik shook his shoulder. “They will more than likely jest until you wish to jump over the side. They do not mean harm by it. Think of them as brothers finding a tender spot to torment.”

  Andrew was rooted to the deck. He hesitated, dreading the walk to the bow. Ably facing his actions internally was a strength he’d been granted from birth, but seeing the knowing looks on the other men’s faces was a test he dreaded. He heard a call from above deck, one voice after another crying his name. “Andrew on deck! The captain calls for Andrew!”

  Closing his eyes, Andrew did not resist the urge to cross himself. He made his way quickly, but there were still howls all around. They followed him; it seemed every able man at work was privy to the joke. When he reached the head, he saw Rory already wet, the blackened blood and grime rinsed away and his hair streaming down his back. He also saw that Rory was trying to stifle a smile.

  Andrew looked at him with an ill-tempered frown and turned his back on the man. “May I have the bucket, please? I would like to rinse this taste from my mouth.” He yelled when the full contents of said bucket were dumped over his head. While he sputtered and shook his head clear, Rory moved up behind him.

  “Try to forgive them, Andrew. They don’t realize how tender your feelings are. They only want to accept you as one of their own and this is their attempt at…initiation.”

  “Initiation? They accept…it, what we did, so readily?”

  “Did you think they wouldn’t, that I would allow otherwise, as captain?” Rory took another bucket from Jack, who was dropping them to the waterline and hauling them back up. He poured it over Andrew more slowly this time, giving him opportunity to rub at the gore and dirt on his neck and chest.

  Andrew longed to strip his clothes off and clear away the…other, but could not find the courage to do so before so many eyes. “Is it wise to allow such familiarity?” he asked, nodding that he would take one more dousing,

  “It is unwise not to. It’s a test each faces before they are welcomed as part of the crew. I cannot accept a shipmate who will not support my command based on where I spill my seed. We leave them ashore if they’re unable to accept that not all of us follow God’s laws.” Rory obliged him and, when finished, handed off the bucket and put gentle hands on Andrew’s face. “They are loyal to me, and were also to Fleming. They welcome your presence, especially in his absence.”

  As if bidden, Malik’s booming voice carried across the deck. “Ruaidhri, he is ready.”

  Rory lost all cheer. “Bring him out.” He nodded to Jack, who pulled the plank out from its place along the gunnel. Malik returned, carrying the clean and properly dressed body of Fleming in his arms. When
he was placed on the plank, Rory carefully inspected his appearance. He straightened the buttons on the velvet doublet, made certain that his braid was tight and smooth. Brushing a stray lock from the man’s face, Rory nodded. His eyes were bright with standing tears. “Very good,” he said, his voice gruff with the effort of holding them at bay.

  Unneeded movement on the deck ceased, all hands were silent, mournful. No words were said, but each man stepped up to show respect. They touched their brow, as was the tradition. Others bowed deeply with hands clasped before them. One or two lay their heads on his shoulder, weeping openly. When it was his turn, Andrew moved closer to look down at Fleming’s face. He covered the man’s heart with one hand. “I will keep him whole, Charles Fleming. You have my word. Blessings await you in Heaven. Godspeed,” he said, eyes hot and aching but dry. He stepped back, away from the tableau of Malik at the plank, Fleming atop it, and Rory to the side.

  Rory bent to him last, pressing a long kiss to his forehead. “You bastard, you bloody rutting bastard. How am I to do this without you?” he whispered. He pressed his face to Fleming’s cheek for a moment more then stepped back. “We commend you to the deep, Charles Fleming. Keep watch from the sea, for we may join thee, more soon than late.”

  At his nod, Malik tipped the plank up and let the body slide swiftly into the dark blue water.

  After another long moment of stillness, Rory spoke over the wind and waves. “We give him a proper sending in Algiers. The faster we get there, the sooner we toast to his memory. Get cracking!”

  “Get cracking!” the men cried in unison.

  Andrew moved to the gunnel and looked down at the water. The ship was far past where Fleming had dropped in, not that he expected to see him there floating just below the surface, but he was struck by the swiftness and suddenness of his departure. He wanted to mourn, to be sad and angry for Fleming, Rory…himself. He wondered what it meant, that he was not.

  “Fleming was not one for carrying on, putting dirt in his hair or tearing at his clothes.” Rory was beside him, back against the rail and arms crossing his chest.

  “I gathered that about him, early on. He seemed….much in love with life,” Andrew answered.

  “Much in love with life.” Rory smiled. “He would have liked that.”

  Andrew looked at him, troubled. “I’m not so sad that he’s gone. I feel lucky that I knew him, even for so short a time, but still, I don’t wish to cry and lament his loss, or yours, or even mine. How can that be? What kind of person does that make me?”

  “It makes you strong, resilient; able to furl and fold when necessary. It means you are open to catch the carrying wind and find the right course,” Rory said, fingers finding his cheek.

  “It makes me a sail?” Andrew asked, drolly. He raised his eyebrows irreverently but pressed into the man’s palm.

  Rory laughed and pulled him close. “It seems it makes you a saucy Jack with a clever tongue.”

  “I feel like I’ve been here…forever, that this is where I am supposed to be,” Andrew said, not laughing with him. “It’s as if my life before just doesn’t exist, doesn’t matter.”

  “Your life made you. It helped you grow clever, slow to anger, quick to care and brought you to a place where those gifts promise to be appreciated. Your life matters, Andrew,” Rory told him. He set Andrew before him, facing the bow. “Try not to regret what brought you here. Look to tomorrow, and the new world you are about to discover.”

  Andrew was going to argue, but then the salt spray caught his face, a current of air stirred his short, dark locks and he raised his face to the sky.

  PART TWO: RORY

  Chapter Ten

  Rory forbade Andrew leaving the ship until he returned with clothes of proper fit and a pair of stout boots. There had been some argument about that, but he had expected it from the spirited young man. Andrew had insisted he was not a child and could very well attend the initial excursion. Rory silenced him by saying he would not be the one carrying him over piles of rotting food and dung, and he certainly did not relish sharing his bed with someone who had stepped in the offal, unshod. Andrew had backed down, but his rebellious frown did not smooth away until Rory kissed him.

  “I promise to return as soon as I have them. I won’t be long.”

  The streets of Algiers were familiar to Rory; even the twisting narrow alleys of the market place offered no mysteries to him. He called the region his home, the city in particular, and treasured both its beauty and its squalor. The libraries, scholars, and healers in the High City knew his face as well as the tavern and shop owners below the citadel. He had even been escorted to the walled center of the city after rescuing one of the Turk’s favored sons from an over amorous Dutch merchant.

  He greeted his favorite clothes maker with a smile. Amira was a beautiful woman of mixed blood, with skin the color of cinnamon bark and wide dark eyes. Her warm heart had ample room for all and she loved Rory as a son. She was the closest to a mother he could remember.

  She accepted his kiss on her cheek. “You look terrible. Your man is not caring for you as he should.”

  “Fleming is gone, Amira.”

  In her wisdom she did not ask how or why, but she took his hand and led him to her table. She called for tea and the Persian pipe and sat with him until he had spilled the tale of his own accord.

  “God will take him, Rory,” she said, still holding his hand. “No matter what evil he committed in this life, he did not do it joyfully. There was no true evil in his heart.”

  “I have enough evil in my heart for both of us, Amira.”

  She frowned. “What you have is hate and anger, and more than a little self-pity. That is not evil.”

  “It is enough,” Rory drew on the pipe and blew the sweet smoke out of his nose, changing the subject by saying, “Amira, I need clothes.”

  “You have already gone through the last order?” she asked, incredulous.

  “No, not for me,” Rory said with a smile. “I have a new crewman and he’s of a smaller stature. Do you have something ready? He can hardly walk without the breeches falling from his hips.”

  “I am sure I can find something. Most Arabs are not so big as you northern men. They may be good enough for Algiers, if you take my meaning. Nothing a foreigner would think is fine,” Amira said. She rose and pulled him to his feet. “Come, tell me what you think will be fitting.”

  As he was leaving, Amira pressed upon him a palm frond filled with honeyed dates and tied into a neat package, saying “You must eat. How am I to rest knowing you are so thin?” He smiled and kissed her cheek once more.

  Rory made his way back to the ship with a parcel of clothing under one arm, sugared dates in his hand, and a pair of soft brown boots tied together and slung over his shoulder. The honey had begun to leak through its wrapping, dripping between his fingers down the back of his hand. By the time he crossed the plant onto the Taibhse he was sticky all the way to his wrist. He greeted Malik, who had volunteered to stay behind and mind the vessel as well as Andrew.

  Malik smiled and nodded. “Aye, Captain! Did you get the little wolf something to clothe himself in? He looks most pitiful in what he has, like a babe in a baptismal gown.”

  “I did, Malik. You needn’t worry.” Rory looked around the deck, empty except for the two of them. “When does your watch end? I know a clothes maker who would love to see your ample proportions in her shop.”

  “Amira! Her shop would be a most welcome sight and I would go there straight away, but my watch will not end until the sun sets. The midday prayers are approaching and I see no reason to go into the city until it awakens for the afternoon.”

  Rory chose the moment to address a matter of some importance. “Malik, in the future I’ll be in need of a First Mate. Fleming and I discussed it at length long ago and we both agreed you would be the best man for the job. Would you consider taking the responsibility?”

  Malik was moved, almost to tears. “It would be my honor, Captai
n. Thank you.”

  “I feel I must remind you that I ride into dark waters. I can’t promise you’ll return,” Rory said, wanting Malik to be fully aware of where he was heading.

  “Ruaidhri, I would not be standing in this glorious sun awaiting the touch of a loving woman if not for you. I owe you my life and would repay it in kind if ever asked,” Malik vowed.

  It gladdened Rory’s heart to have that assurance. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “It will, eventually, come to that, Captain. It’s betwixt then and now that matters.” The men shared a moment of quiet understanding before the soft sound of bare feet on wood was heard.

  “Are those for me?”

  Rory turned. He found it curious how simply looking upon the boy made him smile. Andrew stood clad only in the too large breeches, pale and bruised and delicious. “Aye, it is all for you.”

  Andrew’s bright eyes were drawn to the shining, sticky mess in Rory’s hand. “What’s that?”

  “Let’s get inside and I will show you.” Rory nodded to Malik, who touched his forehead in salute.

  Rory watched Andrew as he carefully laid out the items the parcel contained. The boy had a bright eyed look to him, somewhere between overly excited and verging on tears. Rory understood the vows of poverty taken by the aesthetic brothers, but they’d had a child in their care. He imagined a younger Andrew, all eyes, ears, and freckles, sitting on a cold stone floor with nary a wooden horse or boat to stretch the imagination. Rory’s heart clenched a little; could they really have been so austere in the face of such innocence?

  “You seem overwhelmed, and by such simple things. Did your holy order did not believe in gifts?” Rory asked, at last, when Andrew smiled at the bright red sash tucked within the robe.

  “We gifted each other every day, from our robes to our meals, to the baskets in our garden. Each was treasured as much as the brightest gold. And I had gifts; my own rosary and a crucifix Father Armand requested be blessed by the Bishop. I even had a small book of prayers. It was plain, but my name was scribed on the inside,” Andrew answered, smiling soft, but sad. He looked at Rory, eyes narrowing. “I know what you’re thinking.”