The Red King

  “Give me your hand, Ruaidhri, and let us be as comrades-in-arms; brethren with a single goal,” Ortega said, standing. He clicked his heels and extended his arm. When Rory hesitated, he winked and grinned. “Until we part, at least.”

  With a smirk pulling up the side of his mouth, Rory rose and took the offered hand. “Until we part, then.”

  Ortega smiled widely. “Excellent!” The bell sounded from the deck, announcing the end of the aforenoon watch. “Ah! Timely, that, I’m ravenous. Nils, what has Gregors prepared for our table?”

  Midday, and Rory had not checked on Andrew, nor spoken to his men. He opened his mouth to cry off, but Ortega took his arm and pulled him along.

  “Pheasant, stewed in the French fashion, sir,” Nils replied in heavily accented English. He fell in step behind them and added, “With fresh apples, I believe. He wishes to use them all before they fall into putrefaction.”

  “I would take one of your apples,” Rory requested, pulling his arm from Ortega’s grasp with a shrug. “But I must decline the meal, as I have put off seeing to my crew.”

  “Take all the apples you want, but dine with me first. I daresay you could use the sustenance,” Ortega answered, eyeing Rory’s loose shirt and doublet, long enough in limb but wider than Rory by a third. When he noticed Rory’s reticence, he said, “I believe Andrew would rather you eat and spend idle moments in conversation, than fret over him.”

  Rory felt a flash of anger at the impudence, but it faded quickly. It was replaced by a small dash of humor. “Andrew would rather eat the pheasant and let others talk around him.”

  Ortega laughed. “Yes, I gathered that. Where does he use it all, I wonder?”

  “Fuel for the fire of his spirit,” Rory answered, and let Ortega lead him.

  The food was good and Rory’s belly was full. Ortega plied him with brandy and was most engaging, and they dallied at length. The time was marked by six bells and all for the promise of apples, he told himself. In the end, it was only two apples. The rest had already been cooked and smashed, ready to feed the men as they shifted for the evening watch. These two were at least firm and relatively free of bruises, so as he left the dining quarters shared by the officers, he tucked them into his shirt.

  As the seventh bell rang, he left Ortega to seek his men. Under his arm he held the bundle of clothes, in his hand he carried the boots, and he moved out onto the deck. The fresh air was good, clearing away the sleepy remnants of the luncheon. He paused in his steps to breathe deeply and was hailed from portside.

  “Ruaidhri!”

  Yousef sat with the carpenter’s mate, hand turning a damaged belaying pin. A dozen more lay at his feet, awaiting his attention. “It does not surprise me to find you with the lathe and chisel,” Rory said by way of greeting. “Is this where you’ve spent your time?”

  “Aye,” Yousef smiled, cheekily. “Some of us are used to working for a living.”

  The mate covered his snickers with one hand and turned away.

  Rory scowled, only slightly threatening. “You’ll give these men a poor opinion of me, speaking so.”

  “Hah! I cannot damage your character, Ruaidhri, for nothing you do surprises anyone.” Yousef nodded to the mate and they laughed together.

  Narrowing his eyes at his crewman, Rory warned, “Laugh now to your leisure, we’ll be back to the Taibhse soon enough.”

  Neither man stopped chuckling. “Never fear, Captain, your legend will remain untarnished.”

  Rory relented, laughed, and tipped up an empty crate to sit upon. “Have you seen Etienne today?”

  “Mid-morning or thereabouts, but not since. He’s spending his time with Laurent, helping him relearn his native tongue,” Yousef said, then cocked a saucy brow and said, “Or whatever they choose to call it?”

  “A little discretion, Yousef,” Rory scolded, yet he still smiled.

  Waving a hand at the mate, Yousef told him, “Oh, he doesn’t care. Most of ‘em don’t care past a rat’s ass, think any of ‘em would say boo to him if they did? What’s more? Etienne doesn’t care past a rat’s ass.”

  “Laurent may care.”

  “Now, see, he’s a broken bird, that one, but he’s not once taken a bit of trouble. One of the bilge men set hands to him the first night and Laurent broke two of his fingers! No one’s given him worry since,” Yousef said, happily scraping at the pin between his knees. He grinned at Rory once more. “He’s going back with Etienne; with him, if you take my meaning.”

  Surprised, Rory took a moment to digest that information. “Clearly, I haven’t been paying attention.”

  “You’ve had your own troubles to bear, I’d say.”

  Rory nodded. “Perhaps, but it is not an excuse. Malik?”

  “You know Malik; he never met a stranger. He’s got half the able seamen aboard wishing they could jump ship and sail with you!”

  “I doubt we’d have room for them all,” Rory muttered, then chuckled at the thought of it.

  “Have you seen Andrew?” Yousef went from jovial, if a bit lewd, to serious in an instant.

  “No,” Rory answered, softly. “Not since morning last.”

  “Those for him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what are you waiting for?”

  Rory stared at Yousef as he went back to trimming the wooden pin. After a moment, Yousef looked up, rolled his eyes and said, “Oh, pardon me. What are you waiting for, Captain?”

  “You keep that up and I’ll see you at the mast,” Rory threatened, able to restrain his smile. Mostly.

  “Aye, Captain. My apologies, Captain,” Yousef said, grinning wickedly.

  After clapping Yousef on the back and sending the giggling carpenter’s mate a sour look, Rory rose and took up his burdens. His friend was right, it was due. Andrew would need time, for consideration, deliberation. Even if Rory dreaded the outcome, he owed it to Andrew to give him the choice.

  Rory knocked and called. “Andrew? I will count to twenty and knock again, then come in.”

  There was no sound on the other side of the door while he numbered the seconds in his mind. He knocked the second time, announced himself, and entered. The room looked the same, but Andrew…ah, Andrew was clear eyed and upright. He leaned against the bulkhead with a book in his lap, wrapped in blankets, supported by cushions. Just the sight of him made Rory feel more alive.

  “You look better today,” Rory told him, smiling. He stepped forward, moving slow with his arms held away from his body.

  Andrew watched him, warily, from his place in the far corner of the bed.

  “Clothes, provided by the captain of this vessel. He sends his regards and wishes you good health,” Rory said, setting the garments on the table. The boots he set on the floor. He reached into his shirt and pulled out the apples, polishing them each on his sleeve as he continued. “You are…were, fond of apples…I do not know if you remain so, but I thought, perhaps, now that you are able to….”

  He looked back to Andrew’s face to see him tilt his head as he stared.

  “Do you want one now?”

  Andrew nodded.

  Smiling a little, happy to have communion even in this small way, Rory asked, “Would you like me to cut it?”

  A frown passed over Andrew’s features, briefly, but then his eyes brightened and he nodded again.

  Rory unsheathed his dagger, kept it held before him point down as he palmed the fruit. He cut it into halves and meaningfully returned his dagger to its place before picking up the pieces. Slowly, he stepped towards the bed, stopping an arm’s length from its edge. He bent at the waist and reached out to set the halves atop the blankets, as far from Andrew as he could. Then he retreated back to the table, placing it between them. Andrew leaned over and plucked one from where it rested.

  Watching him take a bite and chew with closed eyes, Rory lowered to the captain’s chair and waited. A moment passed in silence, only broken by a small sigh from Andrew as he savored the sweetness and crisp text
ure of the fruit. He looked back to Rory and sent his thanks with a smile. Rory returned it, so happy to see it again his own may have looked a bit drunk.

  After Andrew had taken another bite, he asked, softly, “May I have a moment? I have things I need to tell you, matters that must be addressed.”

  Andrew pursed his lips, then licked them and nodded.

  Rory clenched his fists under the table where Andrew could not see. I will never speak of torture again, for now I know what the worst of it is, he thought, taking one more deep, cleansing breath before continuing. “Do you know anything…about before? Has anyone told you?”

  Andrew held up his empty hand, thumb and forefinger held apart by an inch.

  “A little?” Rory asked. Andrew nodded and he chuckled. “You know that you have friends; Etienne and Laurent, who bring your meals, Malik and Yousef, crewmen from my ship who think of you as a brother. There are many more at home who are fond of you and who miss you, even now.”

  Andrew pointed at him.

  “I love you heart, mind and soul. I love you with my whole being,” Rory said, plainly, meeting Andrew’s intense, unreadable stare. “I know that you do not remember, but you told me the same, once.”

  Blushing, Andrew looked down at his lap. He glared at the remains of his apple half and reached for the other.

  “We will rendezvous with my ship before the week is out. Etienne, Malik, Yousef, and I will be boarding it. We sail for Algiers and Ortega will return north,” Rory stated, thinking it best to profess all, and do it quickly. “My hope is that you will return with us but I will not make any assumption as to your desires. I have secured passage with Ortega for you, plus assurances that he will see to your well-being for the future. If you do not wish to stay with him, he has agreed to take you…where ever you would like.”

  Andrew was frowning severely now, his eyes on the pale, open face of the apple.

  “You have choices, Andrew, and the freedom to make your own decision,” Rory finished. He stood and Andrew raised his head, lips parted as if he wished to speak. Rory shook his head. “Think on it. You’ll not be disturbed save for your meals. If you wish it, and if you feel strong enough, you can dress and step out for some air. None will stop you.”

  With trembling legs he moved towards the door. He looked once more to Andrew before he left, saw him staring hard at the apple in his hand, and left before he could fall to his knees and beg Andrew to come with him.

  He went straight to the quarterdeck, desperate for the wind on his face. He stumbled as his feet twisted in the lines and had to lean against the gunnel, close his eyes for a moment. He looked towards the horizon, at the sun hanging low and golden above the dark line of land. Though winter approached, as they moved south the wind was still warmer than the blistering cold of the North Sea. It blew now steady and swift, the late afternoon sky free of clouds, fair sailing all but promised. His mind was treacherous, though, turning his thoughts to Andrew and what life would be without him. A simple day’s end, warm, content, and the assurance of more to follow settled into dread he could no longer bear. His hard won calm fled and he wept into his palm, heedless of the attention he called until he was taken into a firm, steady embrace.

  “Rory, Rory…hush now,” he heard Etienne say against his hair.

  “I…gave him…his choice,” Rory cried, hiding his face in the man’s shoulder. “What if he doesn’t come? Etienne…what have I done?”

  As Etienne sought to soothe him, his back felt the weight of another’s hand.

  “If you had forced your hand, it would never have been right between you. You did it the proper way, Ruaidhri,” Yousef said behind him.

  “I should not have,” Rory croaked, unable to stop the flow of his tears now that they had begun. “I only just have him back, within reach, and I sent him away. God, I am a fool!”

  Etienne held him, tightly, and his only answer was to press a kiss to Rory’s head. They stood like that for some time, and Etienne never loosened his hold.

  When Rory straightened the sun was lowering, bleeding bright orange into the sky as afternoon stretched into evening. He saw that Malik had joined them and now hovered behind Yousef, both of them grim and silent. All but the necessary crewmen of the Rovfugl had left the quarterdeck, affording a modicum of privacy. His throat hurt, as did his head. When he spoke, his voice was gruff and broken.

  “I need a drink.”

  Quiet laughter came from them all. His face wan and eyes red from shedding his own tears, Etienne said, “By all means, let us find one.”

  They filed down the steps to find Ortega waiting for them, a glass bottle with basket weave on its bottom in his hand. “Nils said you might need this.”

  Etienne smiled at him as Rory took a lengthy drink of rum. “Your Captain’s mate is quite the ready provider. You should give him more credit.”

  Ortega opened his mouth to answer but there was a commotion from the hatch leading to the living quarters. It opened with a slam to admit a disheveled and hastily dressed Andrew. His breeches were only partially fastened on either side, cinched at the laces but not tied. The shirt fell open over his chest and was half in, half out of the trousers. He looked frantic, wide-eyed and red faced, as he stumbled out into the sunlight. Squinting, he spun on his heel, searching the faces around him until he saw Rory. He swayed dizzily when he stopped and raised his hands to press the knuckles against his eyes. In his right, he held the other apple.

  There were voices all round. Etienne called his name. Malik cried, “Coinin!” Laurent spoke quickly and apologetically. “He wouldn’t wait for me to come find you. He wouldn’t let me help him dress.”

  “Quiet!” Rory shouted and all fell silent. It was plain to see that Andrew was furious, seething, and Rory wondered what it could mean. “Andrew?” he asked, stepping forward.

  Andrew’s shoulders tensed and Rory just managed to knock away the apple as it rushed towards his face.

  “What was that for?” Rory started to ask, wishing he could list and tally Andrew’s rapidly changing emotions, if only to avoid further items thrown at his head. Before the words could leave his lips, however, he was hit with Andrew’s full weight as the man lunged at him. He was caught around the neck and held tight enough to feel Andrew’s heart beating fast against his chest.

  There was a rush of air across his ear. “You would leave me?”

  “Andrew?” Rory asked, cautiously. His arms wrapped loosely around Andrew’s body.

  “You were going to leave me.” It was barely a whisper, but it was loud enough to hear the hurt and desperation.

  “Look at me! Andrew, look at me!”

  They pulled away enough to see each other’s faces. In Andrew’s eyes Rory could see anger and fear….and love.

  “You remember? Andrew, do you remember?” Rory asked, hope and joy warring with suspicion in his heart.

  His answer was a kiss.

  Chapter Thirty

  There was a commotion in the distance, registering somewhere in the back of Rory’s mind. He rejected it, focusing every minute part of his being on the man in his arms. They kissed, again and yet again, parting only long enough for Rory to murmur “I love you” and for Andrew’s mouth to soundlessly answer. He tightened his hold and Andrew stiffened, fingers clutching at his shoulders. “I’m sorry!” Rory cried, alarmed, and released him.

  Andrew did not. Instead he breathed his words into Rory’s ear. “Don’t let go. Please.”

  “I won’t,” Rory whispered in reply. “Never again.”

  “Rory!”

  His name was spoken sharply in his other ear. He jumped and looked over his shoulder. Etienne was grinning so widely that Rory could see he still had all of his teeth. “I do hate to interrupt, but the captain has taken the lead to the bow, just now, and there may be a problem. Before we go into battle, might I have a moment with Andrew?”

  Reluctant though he was, he allowed Andrew to pull away and slip one arm around Etienne’s neck. He bu
ried his face into the soft, silver hair and was still. Rory watched Etienne’s face, certain that Andrew was whispering to him, as well, and saw the man’s eyes widen and fill with tears. Then there was a laugh.

  “He was certain it had to be your choice, Andrew,” Etienne said, pausing to drop a kiss to Andrew’s temple. “But Laurent and I planned to give you some of his tonic and while you slept we would smuggle you across in burlap. Malik had already agreed to carry you.”

  Andrew looked at Rory and they both turned to Malik. The man shrugged, his shoulders like capstones. “It seemed to be the only way.”

  “We’ll not be sorry,” Yousef quipped, leaning on Malik, who was a solid as a stanchion. “We’d rather face you at your worst, Andrew, than face Ruaidhri without you.”

  “I had no knowledge of this,” Rory said when Andrew’s eyes met his once more. “I told you, I would not force you and that the choice was yours. It’s your own fault if you trained me too well.”

  Smiling, Andrew put his lips to Rory’s ear. “Henceforth, you are to never leave me without my express permission.”

  “I will hold you to that, though it would have more weight if the others could hear you,” Rory whispered in return.

  “We’ll put it on paper, with their signatures as witnesses,” Andrew decreed.

  Rory laughed and pulled him close. “We shall do just that.”

  “Report to your stations! All hands! All hands!”

  Ortega rushed by them, cursing. “Damned poor seamanship, watching your romance unfold like addled milkmaids at a Mummer’s play.”

  “Captain!” Rory called, releasing Andrew and following.

  “I did try to warn you,” Etienne called after him.

  “There is a ship, Ruaidhri, on the horizon. It appeared whilst we cheered and cooed after your pas de deux,” Ortega growled, pulling the spyglass from his belted waist. He thrust it into Rory’s hands. “It flies the Blue Ensign.”

  From behind them, Etienne was heard to groan. “Alas, that unfortunate accent.”