Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (88 page)

“We both know I only succeeded in that endeavor because of Pete’s involvement. If it had just been you and me it would have been an even match; non, not even that. I have seen you fight. You are far better than I, unless we are at each other with rapiers. I could not have struck you down by myself. If I become your enemy when you are in that state, then our demons will battle and we both may not survive.”

Our eyes held for a time, until he realized the correctness of my argument; and his head sagged back on the tub in resignation. I sat back upon my heels in relief.

I continued with his hair. He began to sob bitterly.

“I am an abomination.”

“Non.” I held him.

“I have harmed the only people who have ever loved me.”

“I do not think that makes you an abomination. You have not done these things with malice.”

“How do you know?”

I had often had these arguments with myself. I knew there was no winning them. All one could do was drown them in some fashion until they passed.

“I love you, and I want you to sleep now. If you love me, you will rest.” It was unfair but necessary.

He nodded meekly, and I hauled him out of the tub and dried him.

I put him to bed and stroked his hair until he slept. Then I sat in the tepid water and cried.

I wondered what more the Gods wanted of us.

Wherein We Journey Through Darkest Night

We woke to a light rapping on the door. I was surprised I had dozed.

“Sirs, dinner will be served soon, and the guests are arrived,” the boy said.

“Hold, hold.” I had wanted something; and as I staggered to the door, I remembered. I handed him a small coin. “Please fetch me some hot water for the basin, not the tub. And a bottle of wine. And what guests?”

“The Fathers.”

“Fathers? Priests?”

He nodded.

“Bring wine.”

He scampered off.

“I hate priests,” I said. “You cannot trust them. One errant thought at dinner under the guise of intellectual discourse, and then five years later you write a paper the Church dislikes, and suddenly those words uttered under the effects of wine and cheese are brought back to haunt you by an inquisitor. That happened to an acquaintance of mine in Vienna. He escaped with his life intact only by agreeing never to publish again.”

Gaston pushed himself up to sit against the headboard. He appeared calm and a little bleary. I wanted to ask how he felt, but that would indicate there might be reason for him to feel poorly. Though I was sure he had not forgotten that afternoon, I did not want to do anything to make him dwell upon it. I crossed to the bed and embraced him.

“Wine?” he queried with a grin. “Do you need fortification before dinner in order to dine with priests, or do you feel I need to be inebriated lest I fly into a rage and butcher everyone at the table?”

“I so dearly love you,” I whispered.

“Will, please do not ever stop.”

“I will do my utmost not to, though you may do your utmost to convince me otherwise.”

He kissed my lips gently. “Tonight, after you argue with priests, please make it all go away.”

I chuckled. “I will do my utmost to thoroughly distract you.”

Our kiss was interrupted by the boy’s return. He had brought one of the Negro boys with him again; and they had a bottle, kettle, ewer, basin and towels. They set them all upon the desk. I thanked them and they left with happy smiles.

“Will you assist me in shaving?” I asked and uncorked the wine for a long drink.

“If you trust me with a blade at your throat,” he said, only partly in jest.“I would bare my throat for you any time,” I chided gently and sat in the chair. I lie my head back and closed my eyes. He made quick work of shaving me and trimming my hair. I thought on it, as I could not speak while we were thus engaged, and found that I did trust him. Even at his darkest, I did not believe he would kill me. There was a distinct possibility he might injure me, but I did not think he would set about to take my life with malicious intent. Perhaps I was a fool, but I knew I could not live without these foolish notions; so I shoved all others aside.

We finished the wine and donned our spare clothes and favorite weapons, and looked a little less rakehell than usual. At least we appeared fairly clean and well-kempt, despite looking like buccaneers with little attire and many swords and pistols.

I did not question our arming ourselves for dinner at a friend’s house. As we would be dining with priests, I found our armament comforting. I was also not surprised that Gaston reapplied the mask. I briefly considered having him paint one on me.

Thinking of his defiant behavior with Doucette reminded me of another thing. “Your name is Gabriel?” I asked.

He froze and then sighed. “Oui. Please do not call me that. It is my name no longer. Though your pronunciation is sufficiently different to…”“Ah, I am sorry, Gah-bree-el.”

“I do not like to hear that upon your lips.” He frowned.

“Then I will not say it ever again. May I ask, though, is that your given name or your surname?”

“Given.”

“And Doucette has used it…?”

He shook his head. “It is complicated. I knew not what else to allow him to call me, and he began to do so when I was healing. I chose to allow the familiarity to continue. I do not wish to discuss it.”

“May I ask if you were named after the angel?”

“Oui,” he shrugged. “But it is no matter.” His look hovered betwixt imploring me to change the subject and demanding I do.

“I understand,” I said sincerely. “I am sorry. I just felt the fool when they spoke of you and I did not know who they spoke of. We have never discussed your name.” I shrugged apologetically. “So you view even that aspect of your life before the Line as truly dead?”

He nodded. “It is only here that I am in limbo betwixt the two.”

I sighed at my stupidity yet again. “I will endeavor to anchor you to your real life here and distract you.” I embraced him, and he relaxed a little. “But first indulge me a moment longer,” I teased. “Why are you called Gaston?”

“That appellation was given me by a Dutchman I met on the Haiti,” he sighed with a small smile. “Gaston was a name he used for Frenchmen. I think it was a mispronunciation of Gascon, and he meant it as a joke, since people from Gascony are purported to be loud braggarts.”

I chuckled. “And you are anything but.”

He shrugged. “The name stuck, as many names like it do amongst the Brethren. I am happy with it in that regard. It means nothing.”

“It means much to me. I can not conceive of calling you anything but. It is now the name of the object of my deepest desire and greatest wonder.” I nuzzled his neck.

He rolled his eyes, only to grin a moment later and kiss me deeply. I was reluctant to leave the room. Unfortunately, my stomach had needs.

Everyone was already in the dining room, but they had not been served as of yet. Doucette sat at the head of the table and watched us critically. Madam Doucette regarded us curiously from the other end.

There were three priests of varying ages sitting along one side. I smiled amiably and Doucette introduced us to Fathers Pierre, Paul, and Mark.

The young priest we had seen in the hospital was not among them. I noted that Tom was not among us either.

“Excuse me, our friend Tom…?”

“He speaks no French, and I believe he tried to tell me he wished to remain with your wounded friend. So I took him dinner and some books,” Madam Doucette said. “He seemed content. Is that acceptable?”

She appeared concerned.

“Oui, oui, I was merely curious,” I assured her with a smile.

We sat opposite the priests, with Gaston to Doucette’s right. A young Negress served soup. I realized we would be having a dinner of courses.

This seemed in keeping with the fine pewter, white-washed walls, and delicately-carved table.

“So, Will, you are English, non?” Father Pierre asked after he finished saying grace. He seemed to be the oldest.

“Oui, I am.”

“Your French is excellent, and you possess exemplary table manners.”

“For an Englishman?” I teased.

He frowned momentarily, and then smiled. “For a fliebuster.”

“Ah, well, thank you. I never managed to impress my mother or my governess; yet I have never been asked to leave a table. At lease not for my table manners,” I corrected quickly. Gaston chuckled beside me.

“What were you asked to leave a table for?” Doucette asked with mischievous curiosity.

“In the matter of one of the instances I cannot discuss the particulars as there is a lady present; and in the others, I believe I offended my host in some fashion, generally with the discussion of politics, religion, or some other matter that many thought I should leave well enough alone.”

“She is not a la…” Father Mark, the youngest, said – and trailed off quickly with a jerk, as someone had kicked him. Father Paul, I assumed. He was next to Father Mark and appeared alarmed. Father Mark looked far more annoyed than repentant.

Everyone was quiet. Madam Doucette studied her plate. Doucette was exchanging a grave look with Father Pierre. Their heads came together, and they whispered to one another.

“Father Mark,” Father Pierre said quietly when they finished, “we will speak after dinner.”

The young priest appeared resigned to this, and he returned to eating with the stiff composure of someone who knows all eyes are upon him. I wondered if anything else would be said at the moment. I was appalled. Madam Doucette was still, and flushing slightly. She would not raise her eyes.

“Father Mark, is it?” I said with a jovial demeanor. “Let me explain a little to you of manners. First, if you are at a table with any woman in her own house, she is a lady. If she is your host’s wife, she is a lady.

And if a gentleman in your presence, who you might assume is able to acquit himself better than you in combat, says she is a lady, she is a lady. Now, I would suggest you apologize.”

Father Mark frowned. “Are you threatening me, sir?”

“Oui, I believe I am. Are you feeling threatened? If not, perhaps I should renew my efforts.”

“Will, you cannot threaten a priest,” Father Pierre said with bemusement.

“I beg to differ,” I said with an affable smile. “As long as I am willing to accept the consequences of my actions, I can threaten whomever I choose. Let me rephrase that, as there is a variable involved. I can attempt to threaten whomever I choose. The perception of whether or not they are threatened lies with the individual I mount the attempt with.”

“But he is a priest,” Father Pierre said. “But I forget; you are a Protestant of some variety, are you not?”

I did think before I spoke. I knew I would never be able to travel in a Papist country again. “Non, I am an atheist.”

Father Pierre blanched. The other two priests regarded me with shock. Madam Doucette’s expression was one of awe; but whether this was from wonder or horror, I could not discern. Doucette and my matelot were fighting losing battles against the expression of their amusement.

I continued. “So, Father, are you implying his faith renders him incapable of fear and therefore he cannot perceive himself as being threatened? Or are you implying that the Church should prove a larger threat by far to anyone who attempts to threaten their priests?”

“Neither,” Father Pierre sputtered. “He is a man of God and should be accorded respect. Apparently such a thing does not matter much to you, though.”

“Non, it does not, and that is partly due to my observation that the men of God never seem to have a great deal of respect for God’s other children. And if this is suitable to God, I have very little use for Him.

What right does God grant Father Mark, there, to cast aspersions upon his hostess?”

“She is a whore,” Father Mark said.

“I am a married lady!” Madam Doucette shrieked, and hit Father Mark full in the face with her soup, pewter bowl and all. Whilst he squalled and fell back onto the floor, she stood and looked about wildly.

Her gaze settled on her husband.

Doucette was clapping and cheering. “That is my girl! Now you feel better, non?”

She thought on it, and grinned sheepishly with a nod.

I looked to Gaston, and he appeared as surprised as I. Father Paul was trying to assist Father Mark in wiping soup from his face. Father Pierre stood with a great deal of dignity.

Doucette looked up at him and smiled affably. “I do not think that reprimand will be in order now, Father, as Madam Doucette has finally decided to speak her own mind on the matter.”

“I see that,” Father Pierre said with a trace of masked amusement. “I think we will take our leave.”

Doucette obligingly walked them to the door.

Gaston leaned to me during the confusion and hissed, “Damn you, Will, we have not even made it through the soup and already you have threatened a priest and driven them from the house! Are you in such a hurry to return to our room?”

I laughed. “You said you wished for me to distract you; I merely endeavored to start as soon as possible.”

Madam Doucette was giggling behind her hands. I met her green eyes over her steepled fingers.

“May I assume that Father Mark has been an ongoing matter of concern?” I asked.

She nodded. “Monsieur Doucette is always telling me that I should speak my mind and that I have a right to do so. That I do not have to take insults from any man any longer. It is hard for me. It was before; and now, after,” her eyes flicked away. “It is harder still.”

I wondered who had slashed her thirty-three times, and knew I would never ask. Her profession had come as no surprise to me, considering what Gaston had once said of Doucette’s clientele. I assumed a member of her prior clientele had scarred her, but perhaps there was another story.

“Allow us to toast your victory this evening, then,” I said, and raised my glass. Gaston followed suit.

Doucette yelled, “Wait, me too,” and hurried to join us, after pausing to kiss Madam Doucette on the cheek. We toasted her; and then Doucette politely ordered the next course from the serving girl who was trying to clean up the mess.