Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (94 page)

“When I look in your eyes I know what is real. You are a beacon, and I am lost without you.”

“I will be whatever you need me to be, my love. When Doucette told me…”

His eyes narrowed. “What?”

I told him all that Doucette said. Gaston became distraught, and his breathing quickened. I saw the madness light his eyes again. He snarled curses at Doucette and his father for a time, and was thus engaged when Striker entered.

I waved Striker to sit. Then as best I could in the hammock, I took Gaston’s face in my hands. “Look at me.”

He recoiled with terror. I released him and waited. His eyes were on mine, though.

“I love you,” I murmured.

“He made me look,” he whispered in French. “He touched me with them.”

I cursed my stupidity. “That will not happen again. You are safe here. Come here and let me hold you.” He snuggled against me again, burrowing his face in my shoulder.

With a little urging, Gaston rolled with me so that I could lay on my back and regard Striker. He had set two items on the table. One was a small money box with a crest upon it. The other was a leather satchel.

“We have your weapons and bags from the house as well,” Striker said.

I smiled. “I was wondering if we would see them again. What are these?”

“Gaston’s.” He patted the box. “He is a wealthy man. Apparently, Gaston’s father has been sending money for his upkeep every year. That bastard Doucette was honest enough to keep it for him. That and money that Gaston was sent here with. Of course, Doucette was receiving a stipend from the father as well, for caring for his son.” Striker looked as if he had a great many questions, but he did not ask them.

“How much?” I asked.

“Five hundred Francs a year.” He frowned. “To Doucette. He sent Gaston a thousand a year. This chest is full of Florins.”

“Holy…”

“I do not want his money,” Gaston spat.

“Well, my love, I do not want my title, but you have persuaded me to hold on to the possibility of it while it may be of use. We will do the same with your father’s money.”

Striker chuckled.

I took my eyes off the chest and regarded him. “So Doucette just gave it to you?”

He shook his head. “Nay, his wife did. Doucette wished to meet with you, or rather Gaston. He wishes to apologize and explain himself. I told him I thought that unwise. So did his wife, partly because of concerns that you might hurt him further, and partly because he is doing poorly in the aftermath of the wound and the beating. He has a great headache, apparently. His words were slurred as if he was drunk when I spoke to him.”

“They probably have him drugged.” I shrugged.

Gaston frowned. “Or a severe wound to the head.”

I shrugged again. “What is in the satchel?”

“She said you may find that of more import,” Striker said. “There are apparently French legal papers in here, and a number of letters from Gaston’s father.”

I sagged deeper into the hammock with a great sigh of relief. Gaston peered across my chest at the satchel with great interest.

“May I ask?” Striker asked diffidently.

“Tell him,” Gaston said.

I was not sure how much he meant, so I decided to stick to the particulars. “Gaston’s father had him declared unfit to inherit and insane, and remanded him to Doucette’s care. Gaston did not know.”

Striker swore. Then he peered at us curiously. “May I assume Gaston’s father is as noble as yours?”

“You may. They are cut from much the same cloth, after a fashion,”

I smiled.

“My father scarred me,” Gaston said.

I was surprised at his admission. Striker merely nodded and looked at the chest. “It would seem he suffers guilt over it.”

“He should not,” Gaston said sadly. “I did much to anger him.”

“But not…” I sighed as he gave me a baleful look.

He buried his face in my shoulder again. I looked back to Striker. “I understand we cannot kill Doucette. So when do we leave?”

“Nay, he is well loved here and… he has deflected all blame from Gaston; still, many are angry that someone would shoot him in his home. And we have not been willing to explain why to the common crowd. We will leave with the wind at sunrise, unless you have other concerns.”

I did not, but I was not sure of Gaston. “We will talk. So we will sail to Port Royal?”

He shrugged. “Not both ships. We want to keep the Virgin Queen out of sight until after I have a chance to deliver those emeralds.” I raised an eyebrow at the name and he grinned. “The Bard named the brig after Queen Elizabeth. I think it fine, as she was the patroness of the great hero Drake. Yet the Bard said it had a thing to do with her being Shakespeare’s patroness, but I know not what he was prattling on about, as he was drunk.”

I chuckled. “It has to do with his name.” I explained about Francis Bacon.

Striker shook his head. “That clarifies a great deal. So, we wish to sail the Virgin Queen west up the coast of Jamaica and careen her there.

There are some suitable beaches. I’ll deliver the Mayflower back to Bradley.”

I nodded. “I have no complaints, but we will talk.”

Gaston was silent.

Pete arrived with a bowl of something I guessed was broth, and a plate of meat and cheese, and a bottle of wine. My stomach growled at the smell of it. They left us, and I regarded Gaston.

“Untie me,” he said quietly. “For now, while you are awake. I would read those letters and feed myself.” He wormed around so I could reach his bonds and release him. He rolled back around and embraced me, once his arms were free. I returned it, despite the growing pain in my side from all of the moving about.

“You will have to help me sit,” I murmured when at last we acceded that we could not squeeze each other into ourselves through the strength of our arms alone.

He frowned. “I would rather you lay still.”

“I would rather I pissed and shat.”

With a sigh, he aided me in easing out of the hammock and relieving myself. I was surprised I needed help with the last, but I was far weaker than I had assumed while reclined. He finally sat me in a chair, and I sipped broth and water under his watchful eye. Meanwhile, I watched with longing as he consumed the cheese and meat.

He asked several times if I wished for laudanum, and I refused. I wished to be clear of thought until we were well away from Tortuga.

Once finished with our repast, we opened the chest and regarded its contents for a gold-dazzled time. He was indeed a wealthy man. Once this had seeped through his mind, he closed the lid with a snap, and I regarded the unicorn rampant coat of arms of the House of Sable on its lid. There were wolves in the Dorshire and Marsdale arms. It had much to do with my thinking of the nobility as wolves as a child. I thought the unicorn appropriate for Gaston. I knew not of its applicability to his ancestors.

“Sable,” I mused. “Saw-blu. Sand. As Say-bull, it is an animal in English, or the color black.”

He frowned as he sorted the packets in the satchel.

“I am ever the animal,” he snorted and opened a document to read it. I puzzled at that. “What was your given name?”

He smoothed the page flat and turned it toward me. I read where he pointed. “Gabriel Dennis Michel David de Sable.” It did not explain his animal reference.

“It is not the name I was raised with,” he said. “Father stripped me of that.” At my curious look he added, “I was Comte de Montren. They called me Renard in school.”

“Ah, oui, I can see them calling you a fox.”

“And now I am a sable,” he sighed distractedly.

“Non, you are a centaur, names are meaningless.” I fingered the carved shield on the chest and recalled again the achievements in arms held by my ancestors. “I gather the de Sables were noble.”

“These are my great-grandfather’s arms. I wonder why my father chose to send it. Perhaps it was lying about, or perhaps he wished for me to remember the rest of my ancestry. I possess nobility of all lines,”

he sighed wistfully. “My mother was the daughter of a Vicomte, and her mother, the daughter of a Marquis. My great-grandfather was the Comte de Sable. My grandfather impressed the king in a war and was granted the title of Marquis de Tervent, which my father now holds.”

Pride had blossomed in his eyes as he spoke. I thought it likely he valued his nobility far more than I.

“Your father may have stripped you of title, but he can not take the blood from your veins. Cannot a Frenchman be noble by birth without a title?”

“Oui… though...” He shook his head and smiled. “It is no matter. I am Gaston the Ghoul, and a centaur and matelot to Lord Will the Fool.”

I laughed, as pleased with his jest as I was relieved that he would make it. “What other accolades might one need?” I teased lightly.

He regarded me warmly. “I can think of none at the moment.”

“You will always be gentilhomme to me.”

“I feel I will always be so in my heart,” he said thoughtfully. “Raised by and with wolves as I was, I know not how to conceive of myself as a commoner.”

I nodded solemnly and perused the rest of the document bearing his birth name. It was the one Doucette had spoken of. It granted him guardianship of Gaston. It was signed and sealed by the magistrate, and then again by the Marquis de Tervent, who I now knew to be Gaston’s father.

“We must remedy this, somehow,” I said. “Or you must never set foot on French soil again. I would have Theodore read it, but I would have to translate it for him. Still, we may parse something of interest from it.”

He nodded and shrugged. “I will not return to French soil, except to kill Doucette.”

“And then this will be but a small matter on your list of concerns.” I smiled.

He fingered a single folded sheet before opening it quickly and reading. He passed it to me. It was from Madame Doucette. She wished us well, and apologized sincerely for all that had occurred. Someday I wished to thank her again, but as the next time I saw her we would likely be about to kill her husband, I doubted she would judge me sincere, or kind.

He took up another packet. It appeared to be a letter, and it was addressed to Doucette.

“This is my father’s hand,” he said with reverence. There were eight of them. He handed the first to me. “Read them, please.”

“Aloud?”

“Non, read it and tell me if I wish to.”

I did not argue that I could not know that. As my eyes flowed over the rough script, I tried to envision the man who had put pen to page.

All I could conceive was an older version of my matelot, and I wondered as to the accuracy of that image. Perhaps Gaston favored his mother.

Either way, the letters banished the monster I had conjured when first I learned the identity of the man who had so marred my love.

His father’s tone was quite formal to Doucette. He did not know the physician, and occasionally it was apparent he did not wish to know the man. He was thankful someone was watching after his son, and he sent money to insure Gaston’s well-being and as payment for Doucette’s continued services as guardian. He never addressed the incident directly, or the events related to it, but he expressed great regret and sorrow concerning them. He endeavored time and again to explain that Gaston was mad, and it was a condition as inherited as the title should have been. He did not wish for Gaston to be treated or mistreated in any way. Reading the letters, it was hard to believe the man had beaten his own son within an inch of his life.

I passed each to Gaston as I finished it, and he too read them. We did not discuss their contents. He began to weep by the third letter.

When we finished them, he sat quietly and watched the lamp. I watched him.

“I shall write him,” he said softly.

“To what end? I am not passing judgment; I am merely curious.”

His eyes and tone hardened. “To tell him of Doucette’s… betrayal.

To tell him I resent being remanded into anyone’s custody and I do not want his damn title.” The surge of anger passed. “To tell him I forgive him.”

I had known he forgave the man, but the breadth of that forgiveness was very clear to me at the moment. “That is noble, and I admire you for it.” He studied me. “I think of what you have told me of your past, and I would not forgive the one who harmed you; yet you can see why I do not blame my father, oui?”

“Oui, I can.” I had not thought in terms of meting out forgiveness for my own suffering. I could not conceive of it. I mulled it over. Shane would never receive my forgiveness, as what he had done had been perpetrated with malice; and though I had been party to it, I had not provoked him. And then there was my father.

“I cannot forgive,” I sighed.

“Not even yourself?”

I looked at him sharply and found him smiling kindly. I sighed again, and shook my head as I understood his intent.

“I do not know. I still believe you can and should.”

“Will, I committed incest and fratricide,” he whispered.

I sighed. “Oui, but you did not do it with malice. I do not believe your sister felt sinned against. She was on her death bed, so you did not take her from the world so much as hasten her going. And as she was dying, there would be no issue, no mad, sickly or otherwise enfeebled offspring.” I winced at my poor choice of words. He was mad, and his sister had been sickly, and under that argument against incest, one could wonder at the relation of his parents. “You harmed no one and were in turn harmed.”

A thin, reluctant smile twitched at his lips. “Will, can I truly do no wrong in your eyes?”

“I would duel Saint Peter for your honor. Yet since neither of us profess to believe the gates of Heaven follow the final night, it is not cause for concern.” I cupped his cheek and held his gaze steady.

“Forgive yourself.”

He captured my hand and kissed my palm. Then he shook his head.

“I do not know how. I think of all the things I have done.” He touched my bandages.

“That was an accident.”

His eyes slowly returned to mine; and once there, they seemed to gaze into my soul. He found something to his liking in the depths or shallows of my being, and he gave me the ghost of a smile.