The Red King

by Rosemary O'Malley

  Rory watched Andrew’s face as he absorbed this. There was surprise, concern, then a blank confusion that wiped the lines of expression away. He blinked, his mouth moved but not clearly, and his head tilted. His eyes focused once more on Rory after a moment.

  I killed him. There was no question in Andrew’s eyes at this.

  “Yes, Andrew. You saved me. You tore him from me when he would have throttled me to death.”

  There was so much more, so many things that Rory wanted to say, but he held the words close to his heart. He could wait.

  You came for me. Again there was no inquiry, only conviction, in Andrew’s eyes.

  “Aye, I will come for you, always.”

  It was strange to watch Andrew’s gaze grow distant, as if turned inward, to see his face empty of the light and life that shone from it. Rory found that he hated it, even more than he hated seeing that face twisted in pain, or burdened with grief. The nothingness was worse than death; it was a mockery of everything he loved. He held his tongue, though, until awareness returned and Andrew saw him again.

  I know this, Andrew worded, carefully. He tilted his head again, studying Rory, his eyes now sad and a bit astonished. I do not know…you…or …of what you speak…but my heart …At this Andrew touched his chest and leaned closer, using his voice in the softest whisper, merely a breath, said with conviction, “I. Know. This.”

  A tiny spring, small and murmuring with hope and longing, welled up in Rory’s heart. He smiled, even as his composure broke. Through his tears he said, “It is truth. It matters not if you remember me now or tomorrow or if I must win you all over again. I will always come for you.”

  Andrew watched with brows drawn; nodding his understanding though his eyes did not show it. He waited until Rory had calmed, wiped away the wetness, and met his gaze once more. Gingerly, he reached up to touch his shoulder. I hurt. It is worse.

  The door opened, admitting Etienne followed by Laurent. The older man stepped aside to allow Laurent to pass quickly. He ignored the man as he tended to Andrew and went to Rory’s side. “Put on your boots and your cloak. Come for a walk. The fresh air will do you good.”

  Not taking his eyes off of Andrew, who was drinking a potion with a grimace, Rory said, “I can’t leave him.”

  “Rory,” Etienne said, gently wiping at the tears still damp on his cheeks, “You’ll help him best with a clear head and a stout heart. If you cling too closely he’ll only feel pressed to tell you what he thinks you wish to hear. Give it time, Rory. This will pass.”

  The words made sense but Rory still hesitated. He caught Andrew’s eye as Laurent began to anoint his wounds. “Will you be all right? If I take a walk?” he asked.

  Andrew nodded and gave him a small smile.

  Laurent glanced up. “I’ll bring him some broth and make sure he swallows every drop before he rests. Etienne is right, go outside.”

  Rory took a deep breath before bending to his boots. After he had cast his cloak across his shoulders he looked at Andrew again. “I will not be long.”

  He received another timid smile and the silent words, I know.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The clean, cold air did feel good. Rory felt more alert, more innervated than he had since he fell beneath the stones. Etienne was easy company beside him, silent but still comforting with his presence. It did not ease the ache within Rory, but it afforded him a clearer mind with which to face it. Together they stood at the gunnel, eyes on the horizon and the setting sun. There was land there; distant and dark. “Where are we? How far have we travelled?”

  “We’re nearing The Hague.” The answer came from behind him but he did not turn. Ortega joined him at the rail and continued. “I don’t wish to stray too close to the English shore for fear of incurring the wrath of Cromwell’s fleet.”

  The Hague. Calculating in his head, Rory concluded they had been under way for five days. There would be five more, at least, before they reached Ostend and the waiting Taibhse. He grunted. “So, war approaches?”

  “It seems inevitable. The English are never satisfied; they end one squabble only to seek another,” Ortega answered with an impatient wave of his hand.

  “Will you and your men be able to return?”

  Turning to face him, Ortega cocked an astonished brow. “What’s this? Have you concern for our safety?”

  Rory turned, as well, and spoke frankly. “You have done me a great service. I don’t wish for you to find trouble in kind.”

  Ortega smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “We will prevail. It will take more than a rigging’s worth of Inselaffen to capture this vessel. And you have done us service, as well, Ruaidhri, one which no man on this ship will forget.”

  “Don’t think this makes us friends,” Rory growled, pointedly removing Ortega’s hand.

  This time Ortega laughed. “Of course not!’

  Etienne took a step closer to Rory’s back. “Currently, however, we share a venture, and we shall make the best of it. Oui?”

  “You are already making the best of it,” Ortega said, only half-teasing. He cast a jaundiced eye at Etienne and asked, “How many of my men have you offered the use of your stable? Are the rides free, at least?”

  “Many of your men are already well-acquainted with my mares, Captain, and a fair amount of my stallions. They know my face. My time has been more of finding lost friends than pursuing new clientele,” the man replied, drolly.

  Ortega looked dour for a moment, but then chuckled. “I suppose it is true. My men seem to find your companions agreeable, Ruaidhri, if not yourself. Which reminds me, how fares young Andrew?”

  Rory still felt the strain of Andrew’s fugue and was unable to answer. Etienne took up the reply and Rory squeezed his arm in thanks. “He is still weak, Captain, but growing stronger. We are grateful for the use of your cabin while he mends.”

  “That is good, very good,” Ortega said, nodding as he looked out over the water.

  “Only a precious few of us survived in there,” Rory said, staring hard at the man. His words returned then, angry and unforgiving. “Had you looked one of the others in the eye, one from long ago, would you have stopped then?”

  Ortega was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. “I regret very little in my life. I find I have no time for it, no patience.” He turned to Rory and met his gaze. “I will not start now. I take full credit for my decisions and will not lament over things I can no longer change.”

  The anger in Rory swelled, threatening to explode into violence. He felt Etienne stroke his back, heard his quiet murmur for calm, and inhaled deeply. When next he spoke his voice carried no threat, simply conviction. “One day, Ortega, you will lament all that you have done.”

  “Then find your peace in that promise, Ruaidhri, and leave me to my fate,” Ortega replied, decidedly. He gave a small, stiff bow, and left them.

  “He’s right, Rory. Leave him to his fate. You have your own to consider,” Etienne soothed.

  “Have you told no one?”

  “Only Laurent.”

  Rory passed a hand over his eyes. “We should tell Malik.”

  Etienne sighed. “I had hoped to wait, to see if Andrew…improved. I think Malik will take it hard.”

  “He would want to know,” Rory persisted. “As would Yousef.”

  “Perhaps just another day? The thought of telling them rattles me, quite frankly, and we are so very rattled already,” Etienne confessed, his soft laugh without mirth.

  Rory considered his request. “Very well, we will wait. He could…the next time he wakes…Etienne, what if he never..?”

  Etienne took his arm, looping it through his own and gently guiding him into a stroll across the deck. “Never remembers you? I do not think it likely. Even now, when he looks at us without knowing our faces, he still trusts us. He knows we will not harm him.”

  “He is trusting; it is as his very core. It is his first instinct to give. What if he only trusts because that is his nature? If i
t has nothing to do with us or the feelings he harbors for us and it is only his way…what will I do? How will I ever,” Rory stopped to swallow, “bring him back?”

  “You are still the man he followed willingly down a dark path, casting aside his teaching and training to begin anew,” Etienne reminded him.

  “He cast aside nothing. All of his learning and his teaching came with him and he used it in tandem with what I showed him. He used it to help me, Etienne. To show me a different way,” Rory said, wanting to make him appreciate the depth of his fear. “If his past never returns to him, his patience and wisdom may be lost and he may never…”

  Rory stopped, throat tight and aching as he struggled with the panic threatening to overwhelm him.

  “Oh, Rory,” Etienne said, running his hand over Rory’s head. He pulled it close and kissed the curls. “There are so many reasons to love you, reasons beyond reason, in fact. You love him, dearly and passionately. Anyone can see it in the way you look at him, hear it in your voice when you speak of him. He will, too, and his heart will remember if his mind does not.”

  For a moment Rory rested his cheek on Etienne’s shoulder, grateful for his understanding and his comfort. He was too overwhelmed to speak and could only clutch Etienne closer, hoping the embrace would convey his appreciation. He exhaled, shakily, and whispered, “I would return to him, now, please. If you think I’ve had enough fresh air.”

  Etienne laughed and released him. “For now, but I will fetch you again tomorrow. It will do you no good to hide away and I’ll not be responsible for the suffering of your spirit.”

  Upon returning they found Laurent sitting beside the bed, straight and tense in the chair, watching over the now sleeping Andrew. “He is healing and is ready for heartier meals. I’ll try to convince the cook to make something soft, perhaps pressed potatoes or peas. This ship has better food than I’d thought possible at sea.”

  “Ortega enjoys his luxuries,” Etienne remarked, taking Rory’s cloak for him.

  “Did he…say, anything? To you?” Rory asked, his eyes only on Andrew.

  “He asked me my name, how he knew me. I didn’t know how to answer,” Laurent said, looking down at the floor.

  “Tell him the truth, always,” Rory said, sparing the man a glance and a gentle smile.

  Laurent pursed his lips, nodded.

  Rory noticed his troubled look. “Laurent,” he called, waiting until the man raised his eyes. “Tell me the truth, always, as well.”

  The words came soft and haltingly. “I’ve seen this, before, when the terrors became too much. Some went away completely, never to make another sound, even as Maarten destroyed them. One, though, was stronger, more resilient. The boy was younger than Andrew, but his story was similar.”

  “Tell me,” Rory said, sensing there was more.

  “He kept his wits until Maarten made him... He forced the boy to kill a dog, a puppy, with his bare hands. I think he could have born what Maarten did to him but to hurt something else, something innocent, was too much. He wandered in this state for two days, not knowing his own name or how he came to such an end, and submitting to whatever Maarten wanted because he did not know anything different. He hanged himself, in the end. He never recovered his mind, but he knew enough, even so.”

  “Remarkable” Etienne commented.

  “The intellect is more powerful than we credit. A man can set his mind to overcome much,” Laurent said.

  “Yes, I am aware. I meant the compliment for you. You have retained your mind, your soul, even in such depravity. You are remarkable,” Etienne told him, smiling warmly.

  Laurent’s pale face colored and he looked back down at his feet.

  “You don’t think it is his injury? But that is something he has done to himself, willingly, if unaware?” Rory asked, settling on the edge of the bed.

  “That is what I think, based only on what I have seen. If he is ashamed of what he has done, or afraid of what others will think of his actions, it would be easier to not answer questions. But he would not lie. Not to you.”

  “Andrew would never consent to torturing anyone, no matter their evils,” Rory said.

  Laurent nodded. “It seemed so, to me. It could be that he wishes to take it away, erase it, and by wanting enough it has turned his mind. It could have made him mad, as mad as Maarten, but he chose to forget instead.”

  Rory sighed, rubbing his face. “How do I bring him back?”

  “I don’t know,” Laurent answered, forlornly. “I’m sorry.”

  Etienne stepped closer. “Torture, Rory? What have you not told me?”

  “Not just now, please, my friend,” Rory pleaded, raising his red and tired eyes.

  “I’ll tell him,” Laurent offered, looking to Rory for approval. At his nod, the man rose.

  “Take a turn with me above deck. I daresay the air will do you good, as well,” Etienne said and held up Rory’s cloak for him. They left without speaking.

  Rory went to the pitcher and took a lengthy drink. His thoughts were whirling, pressing out against his skull and threatening to burst free, if the pain in his head was any indication. It made the healing aches in his body seem like pinpricks, mere distractions. The throbbing at his temples only increased as he moved slowly back to the bed. He removed his boots and stretched out beside Andrew, atop the blankets and so close to the edge that one shift would see his backside smacking the wooded deck. Then he curled onto his side and watched Andrew sleep, a favorite occupation.

  Even with the ugly gash across his forehead, bruising black and purple near the cut fading to a garish yellow-green around the edges, he found Andrew to be the most beautiful of all creatures. The sun’s kiss had faded, leaving his flesh the softest, palest ivory. It made his brows and lips seem darker, caused his wounds to look all the more dreadful. The fresh bandages of bleached muslin were clean and still not as fair as the skin they rest against.

  “You look so much like the boy I first saw,” Rory said, quietly. He reached out, carefully traced the edge of the bruise where it faded into the shadow of Andrew’s hair. “Hurt and scared. Alone. Yet you never looked away, even when I frightened you apurpose. You refused to be cowed by man or beast or storm. You made the lot of us look like mewling children with your patience and your kindness. Even your rage guided you to help others, to save me. You, Coinin, are fearless, and so I refuse to accept that you are afraid. You told me once not to hide myself, to always be free with you. I tell you now the same; nothing you have done will make me love you any less. Nothing will ever make me turn away from you.”

  Lowering his voice even more, Rory whispered, “I love you, Andrew. I want you beside me, always. Whether it be you as we parted or this new, wholly innocent you, I need you. I will hold fast for as long as it takes.” He folded his hands beneath his cheek and watched. And waited.

  Someone shook his shoulder. Had he fallen asleep?

  “Ruaidhri,” a deep voice rumbled. “Wake, please, Captain.”

  “Malik?” Rory asked, pushing up to his elbows.

  “Is it true, Ruaidhri?”

  Rory rubbed his eyes. Blinked. “What?”

  “That he doesn’t remember.”

  “Malik,” Rory said, his drowsy muddled thoughts sharpening instantly. “Oh, Malik, my friend, I would that it weren’t true.”

  The man was clearly distressed; his eyes were red and his face was drawn. “But he knew you. Etienne said he knew you when he woke.”

  “He did, twice,” Rory answered as he sat himself up fully. “I wish Etienne had not told you, just yet. We’d agreed to wait…”

  “To wait?” Malik interjected. He stood, running a hand through his ample black hair. “Hesitate to tell me he suffers the same malady as I do? To what purpose? How could you keep it from me?”

  Raising his hands before him, in supplication and apology, Rory said, “It wasn’t meant as a slight. We wanted to be sure. He could wake tomorrow and remember all, Malik. His injury is not like yours. He ne
eds no trepanation, no burr hole dug out of his skull.”

  “Then why? Why would he not remember you? Us?” Malik began to pace, his long legs only allowing three or four steps at each turn.

  “Malik, please, you’ll wake him. He needs his rest, now, above all else,” Rory said, standing, reaching for his friend to offer comfort.

  “Let him wake! My face would send a blind man into the sea. It will jar him, rouse his mind and mayhap he will know me! He will know my face and then all…,” the man stopped. Tears rolled down his broad cheeks and his voice cracked. “All will be well, Ruaidhri.”

  Rory guided him to Ortega’s elaborate chair and urged him to sit. Kneeling beside him, Rory waited while he regained his control, hands gentle on his massive shoulders. “All will be well, Malik. It will be for I am not content to wait for Andrew to recall my face, nor will I wring my hands for all the moments lost. I will fill his mind and his heart with new love and new recollections. I will be to him a friend first and then woo him with all the fire in my soul.”

  Malik drew a breath. “As you have done for me.”

  “As I have done for you,” Rory answered. Then, with a sly grin, he added, “Except for the wooing.”

  Malik’s laugh rumbled low in his chest. “Except for the wooing.”

  “We will meet the Taibhse in a few days, my friend, and then we will put this ship in our wake,” Rory continued.

  “Aye, and then we will go home,” Malik said with a smile. He threw his huge arms around Rory and pulled him close. “Thank you, Ruaidhri.”

  “There are not enough thanks under the sun, Malik, for all that you have done for me,” Rory said, overwhelmed by the man’s affection. He returned the hold, waiting for Malik to release him with a patient sigh.

  Malik wiped his face with one hand as he pulled away. “You should come above deck tonight, dine with the crew. They are not so disagreeable, if not overdone.”

  “I cannot leave Andrew alone for so long. He is still our wolf, steady and true at heart, but a cornered wolf is…”