Raised By Wolves 3 - Treasure (94 page)

He was a mass of shadows.

“No,” he said softly and sadly. “You are correct; there is nothing to be gained by words now.” He turned away and walked up the stairs.

I sighed and went in search of the house’s storeroom. I had just liberated a promising-looking chest from amongst a phalanx of jars when I was struck in the head from behind. The chest went flying, and I was thrown down upon sacks of grain, my vision reeling and my ears ringing.

There was a weight upon my back, and my arm was seized and twisted behind me before I could gather my thoughts and muscles to move. And then when I knew I must move at all costs, the ungainly and yielding bags beneath me prevented me getting my knees under me or twisting about. The grip on my arm tightened.

“Stop struggling, Uly,” Alonso whispered in my ear. “You know you want this. I have seen what you want. I was a fool to be so gentle. You want to be taken. You have been waiting for me to take you back, have you not?”

Icy claws clutched my heart so that it stopped painfully for a moment, only to thud and thunder again such that I could hear nothing but the pounding of it in my ears. The words you know you want this twisted and tumbled through my mind, as if they fell down a deep and empty well, never to strike bottom and splash rage to the surface as they once had. I felt nothing, not even fear.

I did not feel helpless, either. Nor did the idea of what he wished to do as he fumbled with my breeches cause me lust as I had once feared.

My Horse had no interest in submitting to him. Nor did my reeling vision and pinioned arm remind me of Shane, though I was now actually in the position in which he had often put me. I stood beyond all that.

Alonso was correct; I was correct. We were now so very far beyond what words could accomplish.

I twisted up and away, hard, and felt something snap in my arm.

The pain cut through my aching and muzzy thoughts. I had a pistol in my left hand before I finished standing. I had thrown him off; but not far, as we had been next to the shelving. He knocked the gun away, grabbing my wrist and attempting to pound my arm to make me drop it.

I did, and tried to kick him, but my breeches were about my knees and hindered anything I could do with my legs. I could move my right arm, but trying to make a fist made my vision reel and my stomach clench.

I dove away, backing farther into the narrow room, and kicked my breeches free. He was diving at me: his eyes were black and full of his Horse, and I felt a poor peasant before an armored knight on a destrier born in the bowels of Hades.

I hit him with a jar of fruit. It cracked open and covered the side of his head in sticky yellow. When that staggered him, I began to empty the shelves upon his head. He retreated, covering his head with his arms. I pulled my rapier and followed, tripping on bags of grain, broken glass, and candied fruit.

We emerged into the house’s rear entryway, and he retreated further still into the dining hall, where there was room to maneuver beside a great table. He had his rapier and a dagger drawn. I knew I could clutch nothing with my right. I would have to block with the arm itself and see if I could take the dagger from him. I was already slipping on my blood and praising the Gods I could not feel the pain in my feet yet. One more wound would not kill me, but not receiving it might.

He closed, his eyes speculative: testing.

I parried confidently. I was better than he. I always had been.

He came again; this time the dagger was a flash to my right. I swung my bad arm, and felt the blade cut deep, but I did not manage to disarm him. He danced back, surprised at my attempt.

“Uly,” he whispered with equal parts admonishment and wonder.

I smiled and feinted; he parried and found a chair kicked before him.

I leapt atop the table and kicked the fruit bowl at him. As he dodged, I charged. He barely turned my blade in time, his right coming up in defense. He broke away and dove back.

And then there was another figure in the room, between us: a dark kerchief and ecru tunic. And then Alonso was falling back with a dagger in his chest. My former lover looked up at me with horror and surprise. I tore my gaze from him and found Hastings grinning up at me.

We stood still in a timeless moment. The lack of movement of battle was enough to allow my pain to catch me. I gasped and put all my strength into holding my shaking blade steady between me and Hastings, as my vision wavered and my stomach clenched.

Hastings smiled and stepped away, his hands wide. His words were quiet, barely audible over the pounding in my ears. “Thank you. I could not have arranged it better if I tried.” He gave a moue. “And I did try.”

He grinned again. Then he was gone.

I sank to the table, even that slow motion unsteady and graceless, but I did not collapse. I was proud of that. I glanced toward Alonso. He was dead. I leaned to the edge of the table and retched.

Dudley and Cramer found me there, sometime later. They had probably been speaking, but until one of them waved a hand before my eyes, I did not see them.

“Help,” I breathed.

“What ’appened?” Dudley asked. He appeared very worried.

“Alonso attacked me,” I whispered.

“Why?”

“He sought to make me love him again.”

“Ohhhh…” Cramer breathed. “Daft bastard.”

“Where are your breeches?” Dudley asked.

I looked down and saw I was naked save my tunic. I pointed toward the storeroom.

“Gaston,” I said. “Please find him.”

“Aye, aye,” Cramer said. “‘We’ll take ya to ’im. But ya got glass in yur feet.”

Dudley returned with my breeches and said, “I’ll go fetch yur matelot.”

They talked quietly for a moment about the wisdom of separating. I tried not to listen, as I did not wish to become frustrated if one of them would not do as I wished. Instead, I looked at my aching right foot and regretted it.

Thankfully, Dudley did go, and with one eye upon the door Cramer set about giving me water, assisting me with donning my breeches, pulling glass from my feet, and binding my wounds.

We were almost ready for me to attempt to stand when we heard the clatter of men entering. I looked up hopefully, expecting to see worried green eyes, and found Norman instead.

He looked at me with concern; then at Alonso; and then at the evidence of our battle. He came to me. “You are to come with us.”

I nodded. I thought we would surely encounter Gaston on our way to the hospital, so I need not worry about anything other than walking on my hastily bound feet and not moving my arm, for which we had not yet fashioned a sling. As I did not feel I could bend it without fainting, I had not been in a hurry about the sling.

But Norman and his men led me to the town square; and when I protested, they closed in around me, which prompted Cramer to call them all fools.

“You killed a man,” Norman said.

“Nay,” I said. “Hastings did.”

He regarded me as if I were mad. I began to feel very ill, and it was not from the pain.

We went to the courthouse; and as I had dreaded, Hastings was speaking with Morgan. They turned to me as I entered, and I could see Hastings fight a grin; but Morgan appeared appalled at my condition, and he regarded Hastings speculatively.

“I told you they fought,” Hastings said with a shrug.

I shook my head and approached Morgan.

“What did he say happened?” I asked. My words seemed quiet even to me, but I felt too weak to make an attempt of projection. It was hard enough just to speak.

Morgan regarded me with concern. “Nay, what do you say happened?”

“Alonso attacked me. He… We were lovers long ago, in Florence. We came upon him in Porto Bello, and he came to sail on the Virgin Queen because… he held hope of gaining my love again. And… He decided he would take me back by force this day. He… attacked me. We fought.

And then Hastings appeared and stabbed him.”

It sounded insane, and I saw that judgment in Morgan’s eyes. I nearly thought I should ask if it would be better if I said I had stabbed Alonso. It would be more believable.

“What has he said?” I asked again.

Morgan shrugged. “He says that he heard sounds of a fight, and came in and saw you fighting Alonso, and that you stabbed your lover.”

“He was not my lover,” I said. “Not… now.”

Morgan leaned his head to the side and grimaced a little. “He says he has seen the two of you trysting.”

I did not look at Hastings. I did not wish to see him grinning. I wondered what he thought to gain by this. Why claim Alonso and I were lovers? Was there some law against that in the articles I had forgotten?

He was already claiming I killed a man. It was my word against his as to who attacked who.

“Why?” I asked Morgan.

He frowned at me. “Why what?”

“Why would he say that?”

His frown deepened. “Will, are you well?”

“Nay, my arm is broken and cut, my feet are bleeding, and I have been struck in the head.”

Morgan nodded. “Sit down.”

“Aye,” I said. He had been swaying for a while now, and I realized it had actually been me. “I need to see Gaston.”

“Of course,” Morgan said as he led me to a chair.

I sat. “I did not kill Alonso. I was going to, but I did not.”

“Well, imagine that, he is as mad as his matelot,” Hastings said.

I turned to him. “What do you want?”

He looked away quickly. “Justice.”

“That is shite,” I said. I turned back to Morgan. “What is this about?

Am I on trial?”

Morgan shook his head and spoke as if he were addressing an imbecile. “He has accused you of murdering a man. You have accused him of murdering the same man. It is your word against his. Matters of this nature are settled by duel. But you cannot duel.”

Hastings snorted. “It’s ironic. He’s been trying to goad me into dueling him for weeks. But now he can’t. How convenient. Perhaps your matelot will stand for you. That’s if he believes your story and not mine.”

I sucked breath into my lungs as the fog parted and I saw where he sailed.

“Are you daft?” I asked. “That is what this is about? You think you will win?”

Hastings smiled slyly at me before donning a mask of self-righteousness. “I will defend my honor. I am tired of you and your matelot making groundless accusations against me.”

“I am tired of you breathing,” I said.

There was a commotion outside, and Gaston entered with Pete, Striker, and Cudro. My matelot saw me and ran to my side. His eyes were frantic with worry. His hands began to explore my injuries.

I laid fingers on his lips and pulled his eyes to mine. “I will live.

Hastings wishes to duel you,” I whispered in French. “He thinks he will win. He is very devious. He is making accusations designed to anger you.”

“Did he do this to you?” Gaston hissed, the Horse filling his eyes.

I frowned. “Non. Alonso. And he is dead. Be wary. Hastings thinks he will win,” I cautioned again.

The Horse melded with the man, and I saw cunning and power such as I had rarely seen in my man’s eyes. I smiled.

He grinned. “He wishes to die,” he breathed.

“Kill him,” I breathed. “I want to go home.”

Gaston stood. All this while, Morgan had been explaining the conflicting charges and the need for a duel.

When he finished, Hastings asked Gaston, “So will you stand for your matelot?” He spat the word. “Even though he has been fucking some Spaniard behind your back?”

Gaston snorted. “I would defend my matelot’s honor even if you claimed he had been fucking you behind my back. Name your terms.”

Hastings’ eye narrowed ever so slightly at that. He looked to Morgan.

“I only ask to choose the weapon. I know this man’s reputation. I feel choice of weapon is the only advantage I can gain.”

Gaston shrugged. “Name it.”

Hastings, despite his smooth mask, could not contain his smile of triumph. “Whips.”

There was a hush and then murmuring about the room.

Gaston laughed unpleasantly. “That is your secret weapon? Good.

Here. Now. To the death.”

“With whips?” Morgan questioned. “To the death with whips?”

“It will be long and painful,” Gaston growled.

Morgan backed away with narrowed eyes. “In the square, then.” He led everyone outside.

Hastings frowned over his shoulder at Gaston as he went. I saw concern in his black eye, and it gladdened my heart. Then he slid his eye patch from one eye to the other as he stepped into the light. I feared some other trick.

“Be careful,” I whispered to Gaston.

He leaned down and kissed me lightly, and I saw great regard in his beast-filled eyes. Then he stood and looked to Pete and Cudro.

“See to Will,” he ordered, and walked out the door.

They did not bristle at his command. Instead they moved to help me stand.

“Will, what the Devil happened to you?” Striker asked. “Morgan said…”

I waved his words away. “Not now. Later… When I am drunk or drugged… or both,” I gasped as I tried to put weight on my right foot to take a step.

Pete picked me up and carried me outside.

The men had cleared a large circle between the courthouse steps and the central fountain. Pete set me on the lowest step and ordered men aside until I could see.

Gaston and Hastings stood in the circle. Someone had already found them whips: great bull whips some fifteen feet in length. There was a murmur of incredulity all about the square as Gaston grasped his and inspected the length of it quickly before snaking it back to test its weight and suppleness with a sinuous roll of his arm and shoulder. I smiled: he had been wise to not tell anyone he had conquered his fear of whips. It would be Hastings’ death.

Once both men were armed, Morgan verified that they knew the terms. This fight was to the death, with whips to be used as the only weapon.

When the order to begin was given, Hastings hesitated; Gaston waited. Then the eye-patched man moved. He was fast and strong, and the braid roared through the air at Gaston. My matelot did not flinch.

He raised his left arm and took the blow so that the end of the whip wrapped around and around his forearm, drawing blood and raising a welt as it went. Then Hastings stood holding the end of a tether. Gaston deftly looped his whip so it was shorter, and snapped his opponent, so the tip wrapped around Hastings’ back, shredding cloth as it went and biting deep to draw blood on the man’s right breast. Gaston did it again and again, each blow sounding like a pistol crack, until Hastings released his hold on his whip with a curse and staggered away with blood lining and dotting his tunic. Gaston grinned and stirred the air with his left arm, until he had coiled Hastings’ whip around it like a sheath and held the haft in his hand. Then he lazily slithered his whip back and forth across the cobblestones: striking like lightning on occasion, leaving welts on Hastings’ legs and driving him back.