The Red King

  When he saw Rory, Andrew’s eyes filled with tears. “We’re going home, Andrew,” Rory said, leaning close, touching his cheek. He pressed a gentle kiss to Andrew’s mouth. “I love you. We’re going home.”

  Andrew’s eyes rolled back and he went still once more.

  There were voices, footsteps coming towards them. Laurent rushed into the room, laden with a wooden case and a heavy satchel. “You came with Ortega?” he asked, sharply, his expression dark.

  Ortega entered then, barking orders to his men as they filed in behind him. “Take it all and be quick about it.” He turned to Rory, saw Malik with his burden just beyond, and frowned. “Is he…”

  “He’s alive,” Rory finished, noting the relief softening the man’s features.

  “His wounds need tending,” Laurent snapped, pushing Ortega to one side. His lips were curled in a snarl. “Do not think this man will offer help. He has been complicit for far too long.”

  “Laurent,” Rory said, reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder. “Ortega brought us willingly. He sought us out after he left. He did not want Andrew here, either.”

  “And you trust him?”

  Rory smirked, casting a glance at Ortega before answering. “No, but he has been honorable thus far. I will take his word that we will be returned to my ship. If you cannot trust him, then trust me.”

  For a moment, Laurent looked as if he would spit in Rory’s face, but then he calmed. His features smoothed over and he took a deep breath. “We must see to Andrew. The lashings will fester soon if not cleaned.”

  “My cabin is at your disposal, Ruaidhri,” Ortega said, stepping forward. He looked at Laurent, his eyes somber. “You will have anything you require.”

  Laurent stared at him, his only outward sign of emotion the visible clenching of his jaw. He nodded and swept past him to exit the room.

  “Go; see to your own wounds, as well. This will not take long,” Ortega said to Rory.

  They began to leave, but Rory paused. He glanced around the room, into each corner, towards the open door leading to the bedchamber. There were four stone walls, timbers holding the roof, a fireplace with smoldering embers at the far end. The tables were bare, the corners emptying of all their wealth. Maarten no longer threatened in every shadow. It had ceased to be Rory’s hellish vision of pain and horror. It was just a room.

  “Ruaidhri?” Malik asked, waiting for his captain to lead.

  “Aye, Malik. Let’s go.”

  ***

  When Andrew was uncovered and laid face down upon Ortega’s elaborate bunk Rory’s strength left him. The voices of Laurent and Malik grew distant and his sight dimmed. For a moment he held himself up by pure will, but in the next the room tilted. He fell hard against the bulkhead, slid down until he sat with his legs splayed out before him.

  “Rory!” Etienne dropped beside him, hands tugging at the cloak despite Rory’s protests. When he saw the blood, the rents in Rory’s shirt and trousers, he sighed, “Oh, Rory, I do grow weary of seeing you bleed.”

  Chuckling, covering Etienne’s fingers with his own, Rory slurred, “Not so much as I tire of bleeding, my friend.”

  Laurent knelt, too, but Rory waved him away. “No, see to Andrew. I will keep.”

  “Can you remove his clothes? It will be easier to do it before the blood dries,” Laurent asked, his large dark eyes searching.

  “Of course,” Etienne answered, turning a fond smile on Rory as Laurent returned to Andrew. “I see you’ve rescued another one.”

  “This one was long overdue,” Rory said. He let Etienne pull the ruined shirt over his head, too tired to argue the assistance. Etienne winced at the gash on Rory’s chest, running alongside his collar bone, but did not speak as he reached for Rory’s boot. By the time they’d managed to get Rory undressed, Laurent had returned.

  “Andrew? How is he?” Rory asked.

  “He is strong,” was all the man said. Laurent’s hands were efficient; cleaning, anointing, and wrapping the wounds so deftly that Rory was all but dozing against the wall when he finished. “Drink,” he said, urging Rory to take the numbing draught he’d prepared.

  “Not yet. Find me clothes,” Rory told him. He put his hands over Laurent’s where they held the cup. “I’ll drink it, but only after we’re gone from this place.”

  He was given a caftan of velvet in a rich dark wine color. With a smirk he turned to Etienne.

  “One of my best, Rory. You are the Red King, after all.”

  It took both of them, Laurent and Etienne, to help him stand after he’d struggled into his boots. He turned to the bed, saw Andrew lying so still, and reached out. He nearly fell. Etienne eased him to the edge to sit.

  “Andrew,” he called, softly, his fingers tracing the blood stained cloth wrapped around his forehead. “Andrew, open your eyes, please.”

  Andrew did not stir.

  Gentle hands pulled him away. “He will open his eyes again, Ruaidhri. His heart beats, strong and steady,” Laurent said.

  Rory’s shoulders were covered with the heavy cloak once more. Etienne took one of his arms and draped it around his neck. “I can hear Ortega above. One would think he’d found Paradise from the joy in his voice,” he said, half-amused, half-bitter.

  “Take me up,” Rory said, finding he had no strength to laugh with him. He needed what was to come, though, as much as he had needed Maarten’s death. His spirit demanded it of him.

  Ortega was indeed shouting, standing on the rail and holding on to the shrouds. His men responded with equal vigor. “Time to go! We need never see this forsaken rock again, lads! Hoist the anchor and ready the guns!”

  When he saw Rory, leaning heavily against Etienne as they made their way to the gunnel, Ortega leapt to greet them. “I take it you have your treasure?” Etienne asked, crossly, and yet still amused.

  “All that I could want, and more,” Ortega answered, bending low over his knee.

  The ship was more alive than Rory had seen it. The men were calling across the deck, shouting to each other, and even laughing. It was a sharp contrast to the staunch silence they had held before. It gave Rory a sour taste in his mouth. “If Maarten’s gold was all it took to find your happiness, why did you not act sooner?” he asked, bitterly.

  Ortega laughed and if Rory had not been weak and injured, he would have slapped the man’s face, despite his assistance. “And rob you of your vengeance? I would rather have your anger now than to have faced your wrath, then, truly.”

  Rory tensed and gritted his teeth. Etienne, ever observant, tightened his grip on Rory’s waist. “Let it be, Ruaidhri. The end has come. Why let his humor ruin the moment?”

  “If he had acted earlier, none of this would have happened. Andrew would not have come,” Rory seethed.

  “Or you may never have met Andrew, at all,” Etienne chided, gently. “Do not waste your time on ‘ifs’, mon amie.”

  That gave Rory pause, and he remained silent as the ship prepared to leave its moorings. Andrew’s smile, his laugh, the warmth that he shared and the heat he inspired…all of it was so closely bound to his soul that Rory could not fathom a life without them. He felt a stab of vicious spite and he refused to let those thoughts darken his heart now. Not the pain of his past, of what Andrew had suffered, or how it could have never been.

  “It is a lesson hard learned, but valued all the same,” Laurent said. He had come to stand behind them, with Yousef and Malik. He saw Rory’s look, a mix of anger and alarm, and added, “The surgeon is with Andrew. He’s not alone.”

  Nodding, silent, Rory stared straight ahead as the ship pulled away, steering north into the sea to jibe and return. When the ship was headed south once more and the slott appeared alongside, Ortega appeared beside him. He laid a firm, unsympathetic hand on Rory’s shoulder, and Rory was silently grateful for the lack of pity in his grip even as he swallowed his grunt of pain.

  “Ruaidhri,” Ortega said, smiling broadly and pulling Rory out of his lament. “Give
the order.”

  Rory’s lips pulled back from his teeth and he shouted with all of his remaining strength, “Fire all!”

  Five shots from the deck below, in rapid succession, hurtled towards the fallen south walls. They struck true, and the kegs of powder stowed by Yousef in the ruined end of the keep caught. The explosion was thunderous and the heat struck them from where they stood on deck. Then, as a though pushed by a powerful hand, the rest of the keep tumbled over. There was a great commotion among Ortega’s crew, cheering as they sailed away from the fallen structure.

  It was over.

  “It was more than the gold,” Ortega said, suddenly. Rory glanced his way but the man did not meet his gaze. “Maarten had all of us tethered to him, in one way or another; if not by what he had done, then by what he had not done. He had Frederick’s ear, and his trust, and has had more than one mother, brother, wife and child under his thumb. A single messenger to the king and they would all be put to death; for treason, witchery, any of a dozen false claims. It was not always so. None of us had any inkling of what was to come when Prince Christian died and Frederick took the throne. We would have deserted, would have raised the black flag as sure as you if we’d but known.”

  “You brought so many to their deaths. Not just to Maarten, but others just as cruel,” Laurent said, his voice low but vibrating with fury. “It’s hard to feel pity for you in light of such suffering.”

  Ortega waved a hand, dismissively. “I don’t want pity, or forgiveness. I made my choice and have profited, handsomely, but the time was right to end the arrangement. Talk of war has cooled my men’s blood, and I confess to wishing for the end of this eternal dance many times. When I came for you, Ruaidhri, I had hoped to persuade you to work with me, despite our…history. My men were too efficient, you see, and I thought I had missed my chance.”

  “Why are you telling me this now?” Rory asked, unable to determine his purpose.

  “Because it no longer matters,” Ortega answered, plainly. He turned to face Rory, eyes narrowed and shrewd yet somehow still respectful. “If I had said these things before you had Andrew safely by your side once more they would have seemed false.” He looked to Laurent, then, and said, “I don’t begrudge your lack of trust; I have no right to it, but I would like you to know that I will no longer be a party to the stealing and selling of human flesh. I have my fortune and will seek another life. I am done with this one.”

  Laurent still glowered. “It will not be so easy for the rest of us.”

  “No, but there is little I can do in that regard. All I can say is that you are alive, which always affords one another day. I suggest now that you take Ruaidhri below and put him to rest, beside his beloved, of course. I have a canvas slung with my men and I am sure one of the others can share a cabin with you,” Ortega said, bowing slightly to Laurent. He clapped Rory on the shoulder once more and joined a group of his men on the quarterdeck.

  Rory cast one more glance at the distant glow, the ruins still burning bright like the morning sun on the horizon. “Take me back to Andrew,” he said, and gazed upon it no more.

  ***

  Laurent had cleaned Andrew enough to treat the wounds and left him on his side to prevent pressure on the lashings. There was still blood on his face, his neck and chest, his hands. Rory sat, eyes on Andrew’s unmoving form, while Etienne removed the cloak and bent to take off his boots. “Bring me some water and a cloth,” he said, softly.

  “You promised, Rory,” Etienne told him, standing and looking down at him with a disapproving frown.

  “Etienne,” was all he said, and the man sighed.

  The basin was set beside him, joining the cup of tonic Laurent had left on the little table. Etienne handed him a scrap of fabric and stood at the end of the bed. “Drink the tonic, first, then, so that I know you will be forced to lie down when it starts working,” Etienne ordered, crossing his arms over his chest.

  Now Rory sighed, but he drained the cup quickly, grimacing at the odd, stringent flavor. “What is it?”

  “A mix of pagan medicines and opiates, according to Laurent. I believe the witch hunters call it a ‘flying potion’. It was used in childbirth, once, before the Council enforced their ridiculous rules. You’ll find it most effective,” Etienne answered, his voice more gentle now that Rory had taken it.

  Nodding, Rory reached out to dip to cloth into the clean water. “I will rest, Etienne. You don’t need to stand guard,” he whispered, carefully wiping the blood away from Andrew’s mouth. Rory did not turn when he felt movement beside him, but he paused when Etienne bent to press a kiss to the top of his head. He rinsed the cloth clean as Etienne left the room.

  He did not speak while he bathed Andrew as much as he could, barely dragging the scrap across the black bruises on Andrew’s throat and the purple and red bite on his shoulder. He paid special attention to Andrew’s fingers, removing all trace of filth from in between and around his nails. They seemed to be the only part of Andrew that was not battered or torn, and he put his mouth on them for a moment, just to remember the taste. Andrew did not stir once, even when Rory slid into the bed beside him.

  Rory took Andrew’s hands in his and curled up as close as he could. Close enough to see the scant movement of Andrew’s chest as he breathed, to feel the air as it passed his lips. For a time he simply stared, but then his fingers moved to gently trace Andrew’s jaw and brow.

  “I love you, Andrew,” he said, so softly he could barely hear it himself. He said it over and over as his fingertips brushed curls, eyelids, nose, and then back up to retrace their path. Laurent’s potion began to do its work; Rory felt his aches ease and his limbs grow heavy. He could not fight the weariness any longer and contented himself with the warmth of Andrew’s hands in his as he fell into sleep.

  When Rory opened his eyes again the cabin was dark. Someone had come in to lower the lantern and had spread another blanket atop them. It was warm and quiet, only the barest sounds of the ship could be heard over the water moving against the hull. He wondered what had woken him, thought that maybe it had been the bell, but then he felt the pull on his hand.

  “Andrew?” It came out on a breath. He couldn’t speak any louder, so tight was his throat.

  There was movement beside him and then a gasp.

  “Wait! Wait, let me light the—” Rory cried, sliding towards to edge of the bed.

  He was not released but was pulled back, one hand brought to the side of Andrew’s face. He felt the words as Andrew’s lips moved across his palm. Hold me, Andrew mouthed, repeated and repeated until Rory had taken him to his chest.

  “I will always hold you,” Rory said, his voice breaking, and his arms wrapped around Andrew to keep him close.

  Andrew clung to him, pushing his face into Rory’s chest and his lips traced the words into Rory’s skin.

  Alive…alive…how…love you…alive… and then there was the spill of tears and a breathy sob.

  Rory shushed him, soothed him by stroking his hair. “I will tell you tomorrow. Sleep now. I will not let you go.”

  I love you…Rory, I love you…

  “Shhh,” Rory whispered. “I have you, Andrew. I have you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  There were no tales told the next day. Or the day after.

  They slept. Rory woke for water and food and another potion. He did not leave the room, barely wandered from the bed except to relieve his body’s urgency. Andrew did not fully wake, seeming to drift in a state of half-dream, half-aware. His lips moved as if he spoke, his face showed emotions isolated from the rest of his stiff and wounded body. Though he obeyed Rory’s gentle commands to swallow the water and tonic, it was clear that the action pained him. Tears leaked from the corners of his unopened eyes and Rory knew that if his voice were not hampered by his wounds, there would be moans, whimpers. At one point Andrew choked and Rory pulled him up to sit, stroking his back as the coughs racked his body. Rory remained upright with him, resting against th
e bulwark and holding Andrew cradled to his chest.

  He must have fallen asleep again, for there was a touch to his arm that startled him.

  “Forgive me,” Laurent said, softly. “I’ve brought more food. You should eat.”

  Rory scanned the platter in his hands. “The bread…is it good?”

  Smiling, Laurent set his burden down and plucked the golden triangle from the offerings, passing it to Rory. “It’s very good; freshly baked and sweetened with currants.”

  The first bite was enough to make Rory groan. “I would know the makings of this, to share with Andrew,” he said, his arm tightening, curling Andrew in closer to him. “When he is able.”

  Laurent sat on the edge of the bed. “He will be able, soon, after the swelling goes down,” he said, leaning over to look at Andrew’s throat. “It is not as bad as I thought; perhaps he is a fast healer.”

  “Perhaps,” Rory echoed. He felt a smile stretch his lips, remembering a bruised face and swollen mouth, neither of which had stopped Andrew from kissing him. The smile faltered as questions rose in his mind; questions with answers he needed but did not want. The bread was suddenly too dry, sticky and cloying as he tried to swallow. Laurent handed him a cup of water.

  “Was it…did Maarten…” Rory was unable to speak the words.

  Laurent folded his hands in his lap. “Are you sure you wish to know?”

  “I must. He will tell me in his own time, but I need to know first, and deal with it in my own way,” Rory said.

  “I understand,” Laurent said. He sighed, straightened his shoulders, and looked into Rory’s eyes and began. “Andrew was different, from the start. He did not cower or beg for mercy. He did not wait to be taken. I think it surprised Maarten, at first. He watched Andrew with a light in his eyes, almost as if he were,” Laurent paused, searching for the words, “infatuated. It was the closest to true emotion I had ever seen from him. He had Andrew bathed and oiled, dressed him in finery that had lain in chests for years.”