Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (92 page)

“How are you treating him?” Memories of the asylum in Florence returned and my gut churned.

“He must come to terms with what occurred. If images or thoughts of the flogging induce his madness, then he must be helped to become less sensitive to them.”

I did not like the sound of that. Panic clawed at me. Dickey could not understand what the bastard said, and Tom had not returned, not that he would have understood either – or aided me, apparently. And Doucette appeared so reasonable. I was the one raving.

“You have no right to treat him,” I said as calmly as I could manage.

“If he is not himself, it is my concern. It is the way of the coast.”

He snorted derisively. “Damn fool boucaniers. As if I care about their laws. This is a French colony governed by French law. In your case, my holding you here could be questioned,” he acceded. “But you are a foreign privateer and wounded. Until you stop raving and agree to return to your ship I am honor-bound to keep you from causing trouble in Cayonne. As for Gabriel, I am the only one who can make those decisions.”

“What do you mean?”

“He has been judged to be incompetent and remanded to my custody.”

“In two days? You have a court here…?”

“Non, years ago, by his father.”

“Non. You were paid to care for him but…”

“Non. After that. I began to correspond with his father upon arriving here. I wished to understand what was to be done with him. His father, though he has never imparted the details of what occurred, wishes for Gabriel to be cared for. He also does not wish for him to inherit. So he had Gabriel declared unfit and then remanded to my custody by a French court.

“Gaston never mentioned…”

“He does not know. I thought it would trouble him, and truly, there was no reason for him to know.”

My horror was boundless, and I knew Doucette read it for what it was. To my further surprise, he did not gloat. He appeared sad.

“I am sorry, Will. You must understand; this is for the best.”

I struggled to think. “Hold, you say you did not realize he is mad, but you accepted his care when he was pronounced unfit? Did that not seem..?”

“I thought his father distraught, and… politically motivated. I was well aware that something had passed between them. And,” he shrugged ruefully. “I have always thought it a matter of the inheritance.

Apparently there was some trouble with Gabriel’s mother, and the father is convinced she was mad, too. Though I think it likely he wished for an excuse to have the marriage annulled so he could marry another. I know of physicians that have been called in to advise on such matters. It is a… problem, if you will, of the wealthy. I believe your King Henry caused no end of trouble over the matter.”

“You are wrong.”

“How do you know? What has he told you?”

“Go to the Devil.”

“Come now, Will. It will aid him if I know all there is to know.”

“I will see you in Hell.”

He nodded sadly. “Your devotion is misplaced in this instance. Rest and we will speak again. I will send someone with laudanum. You need to sleep, and even if the pain does not keep you from it, I can well see your thoughts will.”

He left, and I pulled at my bonds until my wound ached nearly enough to send me under the waves of consciousness.

“Will?”

I looked around. I had forgotten Dickey.

“You must help. He intends… Oh, Lord…” I was struck speechless by the entirety of what he intended. He would endeavor to use me against Gaston.

“The priest comes,” he hissed.

I implored Dickey with my eyes and he nodded ever so subtly. The spark of hope ignited in my chest.

Dickey slowly rolled over and dug under his cot.

A throat cleared and I looked up to find Father Paul looking down at me kindly. He had a bowl, spoon, and stick, presumably to pry my mouth open with if necessary.

“Please do not make this difficult, Will. Doucette says you are quite distraught.”

“Sit down and be quiet,” Dickey said firmly.

Father Paul’s eyes went wide, and he sat on the cot and set the bowl and other items aside before raising his hands. I looked to Dickey, and found him holding a pistol.

“Now, release Will,” Dickey said.

Father Paul had understood the pistol well enough, but he did not speak English.

“Release me,” I snarled in French. “Thank you,” I breathed to Dickey as the priest untied my left wrist.

Dickey swallowed. “It is the least I can do. You are my friends, and something is amiss here. Even if I didn’t understand what he said, I understood. He is holding you against your will, and Gaston as well. I don’t know how much more I can do, though, it still hurts to breathe.”

The priest was eyeing both of us as he finished untying me.

“Can you walk?” I asked Dickey.

He nodded. “Can you?” He was not being facetious.

“I will not know until I try.” I smiled weakly.

“Tell him to sit down,” Dickey instructed.

I relayed the command, and the priest sat.

“What do you feel we should do with him?” I asked.

“Do you wish to kill him?” Dickey asked carefully. He did not appear to like that idea.

“Nay.” And I truly did not, and not just because of the trouble it might cause. “Let us render him unconscious or restrain him, or both. If we start killing priests in a Papist colony, we are done for. And I feel he is not to blame.”

Dickey nodded.

I slowly pulled myself up to sitting and got my legs off the bed. The room spun for a moment. The pain pounded in my temples.

“My son, this is a foolish thing,” Father Paul admonished quietly.

“Non, non, you are the fool involved in foolish things,” I breathed.

“Lie down.”

He lay on the cot I had occupied, and I carefully tied his hands as mine had been. Then I stuffed a wad of sheet from the next cot into his mouth, and wound the excess around his head so that he could not dislodge it, with one last fold over his eyes so he would not be staring at us. After all that exertion, I felt the need to nap; and it did not bode well for the endeavor. I forced myself to keep my mind on the tasks at hand.

“Do you have all your weapons?”

Dickey nodded. He had pulled himself to standing and appeared as unsteady as I felt.

“Do you know where mine are?”

He shook his head and handed me the pistol he had brandished at the priest. Then he knelt gingerly next to his cot and began to pull out the rest of his gear from beneath it.

“We cannot fight, Will,” he gasped.

“I well know it. I wish for you to go to the ship and fetch our friends.

They can fight.”

He regarded me with grateful eyes and then regarded the door with trepidation. “I do not know where the ship is.”

“On the water,” I smiled wanly. “Downhill. I believe that will be to the right.”

He grinned back. “I think I shall find it, then. What shall you do?”

“Sneak about and locate my matelot.”

“Can you stand?”

I thought he had already asked me that; and then I realized I had not truly done it yet. I stood slowly and found it no worse than sitting. I nodded.

“Do not do anything foolish until we… or rather, our friends return,”

he panted as he stood again. He handed me his rapier.

“Dirks, please. I do not feel I can wield that.”

He passed me his dirks. “Me, neither.” He smiled and donned his repaired tunic slowly. “If I am forced to duel betwixt here and the ship, I am a dead man,” he gasped through the fabric.

“I do not think that will be necessary, though Doucette had men who attacked us. If we are lucky, they will not be about or not recognize you.” And there was one other. “I am concerned you will encounter Tom.”

He finished pulling his tunic down. “Do not be. He will not stop me.”

There was great assurance in his words.

“Then God speed and thank you.”

“Be careful,” he whispered and walked slowly to the door.

I was startled to look about and find two other men in the room.

Both ailed, though, such that they did not seem cognizant of me. I walked slowly to the door leading to the surgery and the house and considered my options. The pistol seemed ready. I unsheathed one of the dirks. I did not wish to shoot anyone. The noise would draw too much attention. I was in no shape to battle even a fat priest with a knife, though. It would be best if I were not seen at all. Even if the viewer did not know I should not be about, they would still question my walking around clad only in breeches with a bandage wrapped around my middle.

Thus I listened carefully at the doorway, before slipping through and into the interior courtyard. It appeared to be late afternoon, and the shadows were long. I was relieved when I heard talking and saw a gaggle of women and boys about the cookhouse at the back of the space.

Thankfully, Madam Doucette, the Negress, the boys, both white and black, and several other servants were clustered about the cookhouse partaking of something hot and delectable. Madam Doucette declared loudly that the cook had outdone herself. I silently commended the woman myself for distracting the lot of them.

I made my way along a wall, cursing the design of the house. If it had been a large English manor, I would have been able to traverse its length via interior corridors well blocked from sight. Here, all was open to the sky, breeze, and prying eyes.

Once I reached an auspicious corner for hiding, I leaned on the wall and considered the architecture from a different perspective.

Where could they have put Gaston, if he were in this building at all?

There was no cellar. The lower rooms were all used up by the medical facilities and dining room and Doucette’s study. I doubted he would be in the bedrooms upstairs, but I supposed they could have him trussed or drugged. These rooms would be damnably difficult to search, as the lot of them opened onto a balcony that was easily visible from the cookhouse.

I peered out cautiously and found the room we had used. Its shutters were open. Most of the upper rooms were open, except for one.

To reach it, I would have to crawl up the stairs and along the inner edge of the balcony.

I crept to the closer stairs. I would be mounting them in the open.

Once at the top, I could drop from sight again. I listened; there was still a great deal of conversation at the cookhouse. I peeked out; no one was looking this way. I stepped out and started up the stairs. It was not easy, and I made slow work of it; but I heard nothing untoward as I went. When I reached the top, I collapsed, not entirely due to a need to conceal myself. I knelt there against the wall and caught my breath until the world stopped spinning.

There was a creak and I glanced over and saw a skirt.

“Will?” It was Madam Doucette.

I stayed down and lured her in. She did as expected, and knelt beside me with a gentle hand on my back. I set the pistol down and grabbed her arm with my right hand. I put the point of the dirk under her chin with my left. Fear suffused her features and she screwed her eyes closed and panted. Then I saw the scar again and I gasped.

“Oh, God, I am sorry. I am sorry. Truly, I mean you no harm, and I do not wish to be cruel, but I must find Gaston and I cannot allow you to stop me. Do you understand?”

“Oui. Do not hurt me, please. I beg you.”

“Will you call out?”

“Non.”

I took the dirk away but maintained my grip upon her, such as I was able in my condition. She covered her mouth to hold in the sobs.

“Mistress?” someone asked from the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes shot wide with renewed fear.

“Please, I beg you,” I whispered. “Help me. I just wish to take him and go. Please. You will never see us again.”

“Mistress?” This time I recognized the voice as being the boy’s.

“What is it, Jean?” she asked. Her back was to the stairs, thankfully.

“Is something amiss?”

“Non, non, I just… I am helping… Will… fetch something from his room.”

She made a fine go of sounding normal, but my eyes narrowed at her choice of words. She shook her head subtly.

“Isn’t he wounded?” Jean asked.

“Oui, and a bit drugged, but we shall manage. I need to speak with him, anyway. Go eat some more pie.”

I heard him on the stairs. “But…”

Madam Doucette frowned and her voice hardened. “Must you question everything? I am capable of caring for myself on occasion,” she snapped.

“Oui, madam,” Jean sighed and scuffed his feet off across the courtyard.

She pressed her fingers to her lips again in regret.

“I am sorry,” I whispered. “You can apologize to him later. For me as well.”

“He was here when I arrived; he is… fond of me. I am his first infatuation.”

“Then he will forgive you,” I smiled. “You will help me?”

“Oui, though I am sure you will see that you need not be so concerned.”

“Have you seen Gaston... since…?”

“Non, Doucette said it was best if only he saw him. Gabr… Gaston is… mad, non?

“Oui.”

She seemed relieved I understood this. “The doctor is afraid he will try to hurt someone else. He is in the end room, here.”

I had been correct; it was the one with the shutters closed. I nodded, and she helped me slowly regain my feet. I wished to tell her the truth of it all, but I did not want to risk her cooperation until I saw the state Gaston was in. It occurred to me that he might be in such a state that I could not handle him alone. I hoped Pete and Striker would arrive soon.

There was a lock on the door, and she fumbled with a keyring. None of the keys worked. It was a poor little hasp upon the door, designed to keep the curious out and little else. If I had my health I could easily kick the door open. I shoved a sheathed dirk behind it and pried. She helped me and two of the nails popped loose. We opened the door.

I did not know what to expect. My heart was in my throat. And then I saw him, and a roar started deep in my chest. I clamped my hand over my mouth before I could release it. I was distantly aware of Madam Doucette collapsing to the floor next to me with a sob.

Gaston was gagged and strapped in a heavy chair so that he could not move, not even his head from side to side. He was naked. That was not what I wished to scream about; nay, I wanted to tell the Gods about all the whips hanging about the room so that if he opened his eyes he could not avoid them. Thankfully his eyes were tightly closed. His breathing was ragged and he had clawed the wood of the chair so that his nails were cracked and bleeding.