Raised By Wolves 2 - Matelots (77 page)

“Your Admiral must prize his surgeons highly,” the portly sharp-nosed man said.

I met his gaze with fire in my own. “This has not a damn thing to do with Morgan.”

Portly looked from Gaston to me and frowned speculatively.

Gaston smiled. “You speak for the Gods,” he whispered to me in French.

I kissed him, just a chaste buss upon the corner of his mouth, but it was not a kiss between brothers.

The prisoners gasped and stood silent as one.

“I always wanted to do that in a church,” I whispered in French.

“Among other things?” he teased.

“Oui, though I feel we lack the time today,” I said with mock sorrow.

He smiled, and kissed me briefly, though he did take the time to find my tongue with his own for a short caress. “Get them to Morgan and return to translate for me.”

I glanced at Pete and the others as I turned to go: they were laughing.

“You be the Devil himself to ’em,” Bones said.

“Excellent,” I grinned.

“Worry not of Gaston,” Nickel said, “None will get behind him.”

Behind him, Pete’s gaze told me none would get behind any of them.

I thanked our friends and waved the delegates to me. “Let us go speak with the Admiral, then.”

They seemed ill-inclined to follow me anywhere, but Portly worked up his courage and stepped out, and the rest fell in behind.

Morgan adopted a self-important air as we approached. I introduced him in a courtly manner and allowed the Spanish to introduce themselves as I knew not their names. Thus I learned Portly was called Escoban, had been a captain in the army, and was now the town’s magistrate. The others were equally prominent in Puerto del Principe’s civil structure, and had much to lose. Morgan asked them to raise fifty thousand pieces of eight, or he would burn the town, not around their ears, just to the ground so that they had nothing left. They gasped and protested and said it would take weeks to raise that sum. Morgan gave them two days and horses. He assured them the interrogations would continue while they were gone, so the sooner they returned, the fewer the people who suffered.

They were off finally, and I was free to return to the church. A good hour had passed, and I was hungry. I smelled roasting beef somewhere nearby, and considered fetching some for Gaston but quickly dismissed it. It would not be polite to be seen eating until the prisoners were fed.

So I asked about food for the Spanish. Morgan had forgotten, and most of the hunters were quite disgruntled when he ordered them to give up one of the carcasses. They delivered it still smoldering and partly raw to the church, and unceremoniously dumped it inside.

Thankfully, all the commotion had attracted others of our crew, and I was able to leave Liam and Otter to butchering the steer for the prisoners while Cudro watched over them. Now that I knew those around me would be fed, I went out and returned with a hunk of meat for Gaston and me, taken from another roasting animal: one that was done through.

When I returned, I faced the crowd before me with dismay. There were close to a thousand people, with more being brought in all the time as they were found on the ranches. I realized the one steer was not going to solve the hunger issue. I was appalled and filled with guilt.

More than half of those present were women and children. Other than the hundred or so by the doors, the rest of the men were old, infirm, wounded, or adolescents.

I could not immediately see Gaston in the pool of humanity; but looking up, I could spy his angels, Nickel and Bones and two other men, in the architecture: perched so that they could rain musket fire down upon anyone below.

As I stood there, another set of families was delivered to the church.

I guessed they had been hiding somewhere at an estate. The matrons had children ranging from adolescence through infancy. They clucked about as they stood in the doorway and their eyes became accustomed to the light. One of the children drew my eye because she was no longer a child, but a very pretty young lady who looked to be of marriageable age. The unmarred portions of her mud- and blood-smeared gown appeared surprisingly white in the shadows; and she staggered about, trying not to trip over those there before her, as she left her mother behind to work her way into the church, all the while calling for “Ernesto”.

I followed her path, looking for my own love.

When I found Gaston, he was amputating a gangrenous leg. I backed away and found myself surrounded by hungry eyes. I tore the meat I carried into smaller chunks and distributed it amongst the children.

Gaston was relieved to see me when at last I felt it was safe for my stomach to approach.

“Have you eaten?” I asked in quiet French. “I was bringing you food but…”

“I gave all the boucan and dried fruit I carried to the pregnant women,” he said irritably. “I am fine.”

He did not appear fine. He looked tired and strained.

“What may I do to aid you?” I asked.

He sighed in thought. “Ask the priests of the physician’s and surgeon’s houses. I need their apothecaries and anything else they had.”

I turned to a young priest and relayed Gaston’s question. All the priests looked relieved that the matter had been broached.

“All of the physician’s things were packed away until another one would come,” the first priest we had encountered said.

“Can you send someone with me to show me where?” I asked.

They discussed it amongst themselves and decided on a younger priest. Gaston listed the things he wished for and I dispaired of finding them, even if they existed, unless they were well-labeled in Latin. I collected Cudro at the door, and assured the guards outside that we could handle one priest without needing to truss him.

At the physician’s house, we found everything packed away in several trunks. After pawing through them, I found my fears realized.

The vials and jars and pots were not labeled in Latin, but by their initials in Castilian, and by a poor hand at that.

“I may as well attempt to decipher chicken scratches,” I told Cudro.

“We had best take it all.”

He chuckled and went to get more men.

He returned with six of our men from the Queen, including Burroughs and Ash. We took the four chests to the church. I alone carried nothing, as it was felt the prisoner priest should not be left to walk about unfettered whilst we were all burdened. I thought this ludicrous, but did not argue.

As we walked, I told Cudro, “We will need to procure another steer or two as well.”

“For what?” Burroughs asked. “The bloody Spaniards? Let ‘em starve.”

It was much as I had heard when getting the first steer.

“Most of the prisoners in the church are women and children.” I said.

“They all look ta be fat. Goin’ without for a few days won’t kill ‘em,”

Burroughs said. “It was how I lived as a child. There’s never enough food.”

I looked at the men around me and was reminded of Pete, who had not even known his father’s name or his own age, and then of the boys on the road to my uncle’s. I sighed and surrendered the field. I, who had rarely gone hungry, had little understanding of it. Still, I felt the way of the centaur surely involved aiding the weak.

Gaston was delighted with our four chests of treasure. He eschewed the labels and identified the contents by smell and sight. Once he knew what a thing was, he had me label it anew with ink the priests provided.

Soon we were back to work. We amputated several more limbs, performed two surgeries, cauterized countless gashes that Gaston said would putrefy if sewn closed, and saw to a number of ailments not resulting from the battle.

All thanked and blessed him as he tended them. The priests worked tirelessly alongside us. Under Liam and Otter’s watchful eyes, they tended the small fire at the front of the church and the pot for boiling Gaston’s tools. They did not even argue at this curious procedure.

Through it all, I was his ears and mouth and second set of hands.

Hours passed, and the light pouring through the stained glass windows waned. We began to work by lamplight. At last I noted with relief that the priests were no longer hurrying us along to another patient; we had nearly exhausted the supply.

Then there was a scream in the dark. Our men reached for weapons, and everyone else stilled to find out what the matter was.

The young priest ran toward the sound into the back of the church. He returned a few moments later and said, “Come quickly.”

Gaston and I hurried to follow him. Our weaving path through the pews and aisles led to a family. I recognized the matron as one of those I had seen entering the church that morning. More importantly, I recognized the lovely young women whose head she now cradled in her lap.The priest held out his lamp and the matron raised the blanket covering her daughter’s body. The spreading pool of blood would have been visible even in dimmer light.

“Senora, what has happened?” I asked.

“She was… she was… ruined…,” the woman sobbed.

“Here? In the church? Someone used her?” I asked.

“No, no, senor, before, when they found us. They pulled her…”

She shook her head and chewed her lip to stop her words. “She was to marry. But even he is dead this day. He was wounded and he died, and now…”

“She has taken her own life,” the young priest said sadly.

“She had a blade?” I asked, and knelt beside her.

“A little knife,” the matron wailed. “She asked someone here for it, to defend herself if it should happen again. That is what she told us, and then she went to lie down. I came to look at her, and ask her how she was, and I found her…” She trailed off in sobs. “Help her, senor. You must help her.”

I touched her chest and felt the weak beat of her heart.

“She still lives,” I said.

I looked up at Gaston, wondering why he was not beside me. I found him staring at her in horror and surprise. The same emotion gripped me with icy claws as I realized what he must see.

I stood and took his face between my palms, willing his eyes to mine.

He met my gaze distantly.

“Does she look like Gabriella?” I breathed.

He gave a short little bark, as if he were caught between tears and remembering to breathe.

“She does not,” he said at last. “I know it is not… but the white and the blood and…It is difficult.”

He pointed, and I looked down at the girl again and saw the little blade clutched in her bloody hand.

“And she wished to die,” I whispered softly.

He nodded. “I cannot… She will die. She… The wound is… She sliced… I can see it from here. She did not stab. She sliced. The blade is long enough. Her intestines are ruined.”

I pulled his eyes back to mine. “We need to get you out of here.”

He shook his head. “I am not… running… I am…”

“Senor!” the matron called. “Help her!”

I kept a firm grip on Gaston’s wrist and looked down at her. “I am sorry. He says she will die. Her intestines are badly damaged.”

The woman wailed and turned on the priest. “Give her the Rites before she passes. She is not dead yet.”

The young priest stood and shook his head sadly. “She has taken her own life.”

“No, no!” her mother wailed. “She is sick with grief. It is as if those animals did it to her. They took her life.”

“By your own words, Senora,” the priest said. “I am sorry.”

I swore. Gaston growled. I turned back to him.

“Send her to Heaven,” Gaston rumbled. “Do not let her die by her own hand.”

I knew what he meant. “Not in front of you,” I whispered.

He closed his eyes. “Do it.”

“You will not move from this spot?” I asked.

“I will not move,” he hissed.

I thought it unwise; but the thing had already been seen, the damage already done.

I released him, and knelt beside the girl again. I met her mother’s eyes and whispered, “Do not watch.”

Her face froze into an ageless mask, and her gaze drifted from my face to the dagger in my hand. She held her hand up. “One moment.”

She leaned down and gently kissed her daughter’s forehead. Then she sat up straight and met my gaze again. She nodded and closed her eyes.

I stabbed the girl through the heart, coming up through her ribs, the way Gaston must have done when he took his sister’s life at her behest.

I wiped the blade on her gown and looked to the priest. He was regarding me with wonder.

“She was murdered,” I said calmly. “I suggest you bury her as you would any other here killed by heathen dogs. Tell her mother she will go to Heaven.”

He nodded soberly and looked to the matron. “She will go to Heaven.”

His gaze returned to me. “May God have mercy on your soul.” He crossed himself.

I wished to tell him a number of things, but I knew it would not matter. I wished to tell him I did not believe in his Heaven or Hell; but I could not do that with any honesty, and that scared me.

I collected Gaston, who still stood with his eyes closed. Pete and Cudro raced with us to the door.

“What is wrong?” the big Dutchman asked.

“I hate religion,” I growled.

He shrugged, but his curious was upon Gaston. Behind him, Pete was poised to strike, yet he looked to me for some cue.

My matelot was withdrawn: lost in thought. I could well imagine what he saw within the halls of his memory: the great house of his birth; his sister’s chamber; her great bed with its folds of linen, and her, a paler thing upon a field of paleness; her hair spread all about, the color of his, the color of blood, like that which must have marked her lips from all of her attempts to expel the death eating her lungs and sapping her life; him kneeling above her, drugged by her insistence, having just succumbed to her seduction and his own desire: not for lust of the body, but for some comfort of the soul. And then the knife in her ribs, the spreading stain of blood upon the bedclothes, the light fading from her eyes, and then the darkness overtaking his as the enormity of what he had done at last pulled him under to wait for his father’s wrath like a lamb left for slaughter. The pounding in my ears was the drum of the hooves of his madness coming to run us down and drag us away. I ran outside, towing him with me.