Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (39 page)

Like two wet dogs, Gaston and I worked our way back down the ship to our alcove, only to find Pete and Striker fucking in it.

Gaston rolled his eyes heavenward. “I would beseech God,” he whispered, “but if He exists He is responsible for all of this….”

“And why would he bother, on our account, to change the course of events he liked well enough to set in motion?” I finished his thought.

“Precisely,” he said.

The lanterns were being extinguished and soon there was nothing but darkness and rain. I was cold.

“To Hell with it,” he sighed. He crawled into the alcove, and with a chuckle I followed.

“You’reWet,” Pete noted between strokes.

“It’s raining,” Striker gasped.

“Truly?” Pete asked and stopped to listen. “So It Is.”

This set Striker to laughing. “Pay attention to what you’re doing, you numbskull.”

“Like This?”

Striker grunted and stopped laughing, and the panting continued for another minute, until they achieved their end in a harmony of groans and quiet swearing.

During this, Gaston and I sat with our backs to the wall and waited. I shivered, and to my dismay found myself horrified rather than aroused. The whole situation was evoking the memory of my first time with Shane once again.

My remembrance was vivid. Cold English rain had pelted us as we rode like madmen to reach an old hay shed, the only shelter in sight. We entered with our mounts, and the place quickly smelled of wet horses and old hay. We were soaked through, and we had not been dressed for the sudden change in weather. It was almost cold enough to see our breath. Laughing around chattering teeth, we doffed our wet garments and dove into the hay to try and warm ourselves. One of us suggested getting closer to share our heat. Cold flesh had found cold flesh, and carnal feelings had emerged as the warmth returned. Hands rubbing to produce heat slowed and explored as goose-bumped skin turned to satin. Like blind baby birds in a nest, we groped each other in that hay.

Touching on the other what we wanted the other to touch. Mouth finally found mouth and we squirmed together until the pleasure came and we had to wipe our hands and bellies clean.

In the present, the cold and the rain gripped me anew, and I was almost overwhelmed with the urge to run. I waged war against it, as it would have done me no good. On a ship there was nowhere to run, and these were the people I could trust most in this place. So I sat and listened to men making love while pressed shoulder and hip against a man I wanted, and I remembered how these things could go so very wrong. I vowed to be still and hope that everyone would sleep soon and forget my existence. My body chose to betray me, though: not in its usual fashion or by way of the usual culprit, but by shivering, violently.

To my dismay, I found myself relieved of my weapons and pulled down amongst them, so that Gaston was pressed against my back and Striker my front. I did not have the strength to fight or even find the voice to protest. My mind was frozen in terror, just as surely as my body was stiff with cold, with muscles held rigid to keep myself from shaking apart. To my relief, no one rubbed or explored, there was only the pressing and holding, and the warmth. In time I stopped shivering, and the fear receded.

I trusted the Gods.

Wherein I Come to Understand a Number of Things

I woke feeling warm and cozy. There were a blanket and arms wrapped about me and the beat of a heart at my ear. It was oddly disconcerting: I could not remember waking this way before, yet I felt completely comfortable with my surroundings and not the least alarmed. I hazarded to open my eyes, and there was darkness which slowly resolved into deep shades of grey. In the position I lay, pressed to someone’s breast, I could only see a shoulder, a wall, and a bit of ceiling. I could smell blood. It took a bit of time, but I slowly recalled who and where I was and the events of the night before. At length I surmised I was with Gaston in the cabin. It was the only explanation that made any sense; all others involved the last week of my life being a dream. That being said, I did not remember moving into the cabin. Nor did I remember removing my clothing.

Anxiety began to clutch at me, and I squirmed in his grip enough to look about. He was clothed. We were indeed in the cabin. It was filled with stacks of oilcloth-wrapped muskets. I could hear snores and wheezing, and I guessed the other ill men were with us, somewhere beyond the weapons.

Gaston’s hand was on my forehead. I tilted my head back to regard him. “What transpired?” I asked in French.

“You became feverish and delirious. We decided to bring you in here and warm you.”

I swore and sighed heavily and hid my face in his chest again. “I Raised By Wolves - Brethren

sincerely apologize for being such a bother.”

He snorted with what I hoped was amusement. “You do not know the half of it,” he whispered. I looked up at him and found his eyes kind, though his face was grim. “Can you sit? I need to relieve myself.”

I nodded and reluctantly pulled away to sit slowly. I felt sore all over, as if I had ridden hard for days. I wrapped the blanket tighter around me and pulled my knees to my chest to sit against the wall. He stood slowly and carefully picked his way to the window. It was daylight again, but I was not sure if the light was muted due to it being dawn or to the clouds and rain. As he opened a window and the quality of sound changed, I realized the incessant noise residing at the edge of my thoughts was the steady patter of rain. So it could be any time of the day. “When?” I asked.

“I do not know the time. You became ill in the middle of the night.

We are under way.” He finished and returned to sit next to me.

“I was delirious?” I hoped I had not said anything of an embarrassing nature. It was a stupid thing to be concerned with, when my life had been in danger.

“Not raving,” he supplied quickly. “Though incoherent.” He appeared exhausted.

I spied my clothes drying over the back of a chair. For someone as unfamiliar with intimacy as I supposed him to be, dealing with me, naked and delirious, must have been quite the chore. “Thank you. For caring for me. I know it was…”

“We were almost…” He stopped and sighed and rubbed his temples.

“If not for Striker, and oddly, the cook, and to some degree Siegfried, the Bard, Liam, Otter, and most especially Pete, we would both be in irons amongst the pigs awaiting marooning. This would all be due to my… temper. The damn surgeon wished to bleed you, and I would have none of it. He said you were under his jurisdiction if you were unconscious, and I disagreed. As your matelot, I have the right to make those decisions when you cannot, and bleeding can be added to the list of things which lead to… my loss of control. I did not have a bout last night, thankfully, but it was close, and Bradley now views me as a loose cannon he does not wish to sail with.”

I tried to imagine the roaring altercation that must have occurred in front of the whole crew in the rain and dark.

“And I missed all of this, pity,” I said as lightly as I could.

He smirked briefly, and then truly smiled as he turned to regard me.

“Oui. You do not know how lucky you are.” His mask had been rubbed away by last’s night’s exertion and the rain, leaving dark smudges all about his eyes. Despite this, he looked younger.

“So, will we be allowed to stay, or will we be left wherever we careen?”

“I think it will depend upon Bradley’s mood this day.”

“Which is bound to be pleasant in light of the weather.”

“If we are left on Hispaniola, it is not a great difficulty.” He shrugged.

“Perhaps it is a great difficulty, but it does not mean death. Depending on where, we can make our way to Petit Goave or across the Haiti to reach Île de la Tortue.”

I decided not to say anything of how my current physical condition would factor into the odds of our success. “I owe you a great deal.”

He shook his head. “Non, you do not. That was the first time I have become embroiled in a conflict on someone else’s behalf. I think that is a good thing, somehow. It made me feel useful.”

“Would that mean you are emerging from your cave, oh great Chiron?” I teased.

He chuckled. “It would not be because you are Hercules.”

“Non, it would not. I am quite far from being a demi-god of strength, though I have angered a number of goddesses.”

“And recently a surgeon,” he added.

“Though I have befriended Apollo, Adonis, and the cook.”

We were laughing now, and one of the ailing men complained. We apologized and tried to stifle our snickers, but it was to little avail. And thus was how Michaels found us when he entered the cabin. I sobered as he handed me a mug of some brew.

“Good to see you more yourself,” he said.

“Thank you, for this, whatever it is, and the help you offered last night.” I glanced at Gaston curiously.

“It were nothing,” Michaels said. “Damn surgeon. That is broth ta help ya get yar strength back and warm yar belly.”

“No purgative properties?” I asked with a grin.

He chuckled. “Nay. Other than bein’ yourself and in good humor, how ya be feelin’?”

“He is no longer feverish,” Gaston said. “The solution you prepared last night seemed to relieve some of his duress.”

“Aye, that’s an old one I learned from a fellow of Romany descent. I can give you the ingredients if you wish.”

“I would appreciate that very much,” Gaston said.

I felt as if weeks of my life had vanished rather than hours, as Gaston and Michaels conversed about herbs I would never remember the names of. Apparently this area of Gaston’s knowledge was once again due to the monks. I took an inventory of my skills and abilities, and found few of them related to bringing about anything good or useful in the world. I was a collection of useless facts, and my skills were all related to harming people in some fashion.

Michaels inquired of the other ailing men, and left to fetch more broth since they were awake. He informed us it was midday and we were cruising the coast looking for a likely spot to careen, though we would be able to do nothing until the rain stopped. All the while the ship was filled to overflowing with hogs and hungry, cold, and wet men.

I was sure our days on this vessel were numbered, as there was no way I could foresee this all putting Bradley in a more reasonable state of mind.

I had donned my still-damp clothing, and we were discussing whether one or both of us should return to the deck, when Striker entered. He appeared exhausted and in a foul temper, but he smiled at the sight of me. He squeezed into the small floor space Michaels had occupied and kept his voice low.

“You look better.”

“Aye, I feel better than I suppose I felt last night, though I remember none of it. We were just discussing if it would be in our best interests to return…”

“Nay, it’s miserable, and you’ll only ail again, and we’ve had enough of that.” He regarded Gaston. “And you should stay out of sight.”

Gaston did not appear pleased with what that implied. “I apologize for...”

“For what?” Striker said and grinned. “Though threatening to hack Cleghorn to bits and feed him to the pigs was perhaps not in the best interests of diplomacy.”

“And I missed all of this,” I sighed theatrically.

Striker chuckled. “Aye, you lucky bastard. Your matelot was going to take on the whole damn ship to keep you from being bled.”

“As I would have wished, had I been lucid.” I was almost moved to say that it would not have killed me, though, and I would rather have been bled than both of us thrown over the side. But I understood Gaston’s reasons, to the extent I was able, and I did not feel it was within my rights to discuss them with Striker. “Why would Bradley not respect my matelot’s decisions on the matter? And likewise, why would Cleghorn not?”

Striker considered it quite soberly before smiling and chuckling to himself.

“Maybe he’s right,” he said and shrugged. “Pete thinks it’s because they fuck women or want to.”

I had a glimmer of what Pete meant in mind, but I could not yet focus it. “What would he mean by that?”

“Pete feels women are the root of all evil,” Striker said. “They create nothing but trouble, and they rain all manner of destruction upon men foolish enough to fall prey to them.”

I found myself chuckling. “I have known other men who felt thus.

I do not agree with them; however, I can occasionally sympathize. Why would Pete feel thus?”

“I think his mother died early in his life. And his father, if that was who the man truly was, had a succession of wives or mistresses after that; and they all disliked Pete and his siblings, or at least cared none for them. Then Pete was cast out on the street at a young age, and he lived with a gang of boys. The older boys sometimes had girls, and they caused all manner of trouble for the younger ones; and so he never learned to trust or even like women, and he always had other boys. He’s never been with a woman, and he intends to die without ever having been despoiled by one.”

“In some ways that is tragic,” I said.

Striker shrugged and smiled.

“How does this relate to Bradley and Cleghorn?” I asked.

“Cleghorn has a wife in Port Royal, and Bradley is looking to get married and settle down as a planter.”

“Ah, so in the name of the choices they have made or intend to make, they choose not to give credence to the state of matelotage, because if it were marriage then…”

“Bradley is already married, to Siegfried,” Striker whispered. “And any man who has known them for a while can see the strain this is causing betwixt them.”

“I have seen signs of it, and I do not know them well. And how does all this sit? Not the matter between Siegfried and Bradley, but the matter of the dispute last night – with the rest of the crew?”

“Most, even ones such as Cudro, who truly dislikes the two of you,”

he regarded us in a fashion that said he wished to know why, “have come forward once they heard the details of what transpired, and said that Bradley and Cleghorn were in the wrong.”

“Truly, that is good to hear. So why must Gaston stay out of sight?”