The Red King (29 page)

“Did Etienne show no remorse?”

“He did,” Rory’s face was dark now, with
remembered anger and betrayal. “But it hardly counts in the face of
what happened.”

“Has it happened since?” Andrew was troubled
by Rory’s continued resentment.

“Does it matter?”

Surprised, Andrew scoffed at those hard
words. “Does it matter? Rory, if Etienne truly did not know, if he
truly regretted it, then he deserves forgiveness. He did not do it
for profit, only in carelessness.”

“That does not excuse the indiscretion.”

Andrew stood, coming closer to Rory. “Why do
you do this? Find reasons to shun the love others have for
you?”

“What do you mean?” Rory looked up at him
with anxious eyes.

“Surely, you must see that you carry these
shields with you. At every turn you place them before you to
counter any show of concern or affection. You don’t do it with me,
not anymore, but there are others who would offer you so much if
you would let them,” Andrew said, one hand coming up to stroke
Rory’s hair. “Do you think yourself unworthy? Do you believe so
many would be willing to care about you if you were?”

Rory put his hands on Andrew’s hips and
pulled him closer. He pressed his face into Andrew’s stomach,
rubbing his cheek there. “I don’t know. I thought I knew myself. I
was certain of what I wanted. Now, everything is different and I
question my every motive.” He turned his face up to meet Andrew’s
gaze. “I can blame you for that, I suppose, but you are the one
thing I do know.”

Fingers resting upon his face, Andrew told
him, “Know this as well; you have a crew of loyal men devoted to
you. They believe you are worthy. You have friends like Malik,
Idir, and Etienne, who think you deserving of their trust and
kindness. You had Fleming's endless devotion, and you have me,
every part of me, and I love you.”

“For that, I am unworthy.”

“No, my king, you are precious and valued and
beyond worthy. I will convince you, someday,” Andrew whispered,
smiling, aching for Rory’s pain. He stroked Rory’s face and hair,
and they spent a quiet moment, simply staring at each other.

Malik’s voice came from the door. “Captain,
she’s ready!”

Rory stood with his arms around Andrew’s
waist. “Back to land then, and back to training.”

“We can do this, Rory. We can and we will.”
Andrew still held his face, searching his eyes for faith, for
belief. It was there; small, barely shining in the dark past that
still cast its shadow over them both, but it was there.

The hour was late. Wind howled outside,
bending the trees and pressing entry against the heavy carpets
covering their windows. Inside was warm, though, and lit with a
single lantern. They reclined together, wrapped in blankets and
tangled in each other. Rory nestled his head into Andrew’s
shoulder, his leg thrown across Andrew’s thighs, and his thumb
traced patterns on Andrew’s chest.

“What will we do when this is over?” Andrew
whispered. It felt wrong to speak normally just then, as if they
were in a holy, sacred place.

“We’ll come home.”

Andrew chucked. “What I mean to ask is what
will we do with ourselves, day after day, if there is no training
or searching, no ship to sail or revenge to extract?”

“Oh,” Rory said. Andrew felt him move,
something like a shrug. “Whatever we wish.”

“What do you wish, Rory?’

Silence answered Andrew’s question. After a
moment, he felt Rory shiver against him.

“I’m sorry, Rory. I…” Andrew said, his hand
moving down the man’s arm, soothing, easing.

“No, I’m fine,” Rory said, lifting his head
to place a kiss on Andrew’s jaw. “In truth, I’ve never given much
thought to ‘after’. I suppose it seemed too distant a dream to be
real.”

Andrew met his gaze. “Not so distant now,
perhaps.”

Rory smiled at him, but it was sad. “I won’t
count the venture over until the deed is done.”

“Pretend with me, then, and tell me what you
want to do,” Andrew said, turning on his side so they faced each
other, heads close.

After a moment of careful thought, Rory said,
“I think I would like to grow an orchard; olives, nuts, apples,
apricots…anything that will grow.”

“A farmer?” Andrew asked, disbelieving.

“It is good honest work. “

“You would be a farmer?” Andrew asked
again.

“I come from a long line of farmers. I am
Irish,” Rory said, grinning at him.

“It would be tedious for you,” Andrew
said.

“After all this time, tedium would be a
welcome change.”

Andrew imagined Rory walking through rows of
green, vibrant trees and felt his eyes grow hot and prickly. “Aye,
I can see it, perfectly.”

“And you?” Rory asked.

Raising his eyebrows, Andrew told him, “It
seems I will be a farmer.”

They laughed together at that. Rory hushed
Andrew with a soft kiss and said. “I would like to know, Andrew.
Please, since I know you will not be a priest.”

“No, most assuredly not a priest,” Andrew
said, rolling his eyes. “I wouldn’t mind being a scholar; learning
and studying, perhaps teaching.”

Rory was staring at him, not smiling.

“I will be a farmer, and gladly,” Andrew
said, placing gentle fingers on Rory’s cheek.

“That is hardly fair.”

“Perhaps I will be a scholar of trees, a
botanist, like Theophrastus, or Bauhin and Cesalpino. I will help
you grow the most delicious of olives and the sweetest of apples,”
Andrew said, smiling broadly.

Rory laughed that low rumble that made
Andrew’s mouth go dry. “I sense an ulterior motive in that.”

Andrew laughed with him and threaded his
fingers through Rory’s hair. When Rory was quiet again, he asked,
“What is it?”

“The end is still a far cry off,” Rory
answered in a whisper.

“Then we take the moment as it comes and
treasure each and every one,” Andrew answered. He kissed Rory’s
lips. “I love you.”

Rory deepened the kiss and rolled over,
pulling Andrew across his chest. He tugged Andrew’s hair, tilting
so that he could reach Andrew’s throat. Andrew felt the fire stoked
low in his belly, despite their vigorous lovemaking a few short
hours ago, and wondered briefly if it would always be so…

There was a low boom in the distance,
startling both of them. “What was that?” Andrew asked, muscles
tensed and pulse racing.

Rory slid him to the side and sat up. The
sound came again and this time there was no mistake. “Cannon
fire!”

The mellow warmth in Andrew changed to a cold
dread. “The
Taibhse
would not fire, not so close to the
village.”

“Get dressed. Hurry,” Rory told him and then
jumped to his feet.

Andrew was dressed in his black tunic and
trousers and pulling on his boots when next the cannon sounded. He
waited for Rory to belt his sword, watching him with a furrowed
brow. “You truly expect us to need our weapons?” he asked, the
worry settling in as a chill in his bones.

Rory glanced at him from the corner of his
eye. “I don’t like this. No one would fire on a village this small
unless they wished to destroy it.”

Nodding, Andrew tied a lengthy thong to each
end of his staff and slung it across his back, as Rory had
instructed. His dagger he tucked sheathed into his boot, for he
wore no belt. “I pray we are wrong,” he said, for which Rory had no
answer.

When they stepped onto the trail leading to
the village, they heard the cannon again and then screaming.
“Raiders!” Rory cried, cursed and broke into a run.

“Wait!” Andrew called, following.

“There’s no time! They will take what they
can and destroy what they cannot,” Rory shouted, his eyes dark with
fury.

Andrew looked him in the face, put his hands
on Rory’s shoulders and said sternly, “We are but two against a
raiding force. We must consider that we’re outnumbered and act
accordingly, else it will be for nothing.”

There were more screams, the cries of
children. “Andrew, there is no time,” Rory repeated, more softly
but more desperate.

“I’ll take the goat’s path,” Andrew offered,
and released him. “Please, please be careful.”

Rory held Andrew’s face and pulled him close.
“Keep out of sight,” he said, and then kissed him, fiercely. Then
he sprinted away, disappearing into the dark.

Andrew almost called out again and demanded
that they go together. He heard another child crying and swallowed
his fear. Letting Rory go, he took to the hidden path. The late
night sky was starless and the clouds allowed no hint of moonlight.
He knew the path well now, avoiding the roots that would trip a man
and the holes that could twist an ankle, leaving him broken. The
wind blew strongly enough to cover any sounds as he raced through
the brush, leaping the obstacles with ease. He reached the tree
line between forest and village in time to hear a volley of
gunshot.

Crouching, Andrew took the staff from his
back and held it before him defensively. Quick and quiet he darted
to the closest house, sliding along its wall until he could peer
around it. There was only one man there, standing as if on guard.
He did not look like a raider to Andrew. This man wore a cuirass,
its polished metal catching firelight from somewhere up ahead. He
also wore also vambraces and gauntlets of the same quality as the
breastplate.
No
, he thought,
this is no slaver
.

The man’s back was to him. Andrew slunk to
the next house, and to the next. There were men at every open
space, all similarly garbed. He continued up the row of houses
until he heard voices. The language was unfamiliar to him; throaty
and guttural.

German? No. Dutch?
Andrew froze.
No…

“Some of you speak English.” It was not a
question, spoken by a man Andrew could not see yet.

“I speak English.” That was Idir.

“Then hear what I say, and share it with your
brethren.”

There was a pause, and then the sound of a
sword leaving its sheath.

“My name is Alejandro Pena Ortega. I‘ve come
for the man Rorik, whom you know as
Ruaidhri
, or the Red
King. There is a bounty upon his head, a purse of great size, and I
would have it.” He waited while Idir translated. “However, I am not
a greedy man. I would share the gold with anyone who helps me find
and capture this man.”

Idir completed the statement. There was no
response.

Andrew’s fingers were like ice, clutching the
staff so hard they began to ache.

“I know he is here. I want him alive. It
would be better, for you, to tell me where he is. Now.”

Andrew took advantage of another gust of wind
to sprint back to the first house. There he crept up behind the
armored man, took careful aim, and knocked him unconscious with one
blow. He caught his body before it fell, and dragged him back into
the shadows. Moving swiftly, Andrew approached the next man and
lifted his staff.

“If you do not tell me,” there was a pause
and a scream “I will kill one of you for every hour I lose.”

This one let out a cry before Andrew could
strike, but he hit the man in the face anyway. He dropped like a
stone. Andrew left him there and ran, back into the trees. He heard
crashing behind him, heard someone shout “
Stoppe!
,” and the
report of a pistol. He ducked when the bark of a tree shattered
beside him but kept running. When the path split he veered left,
taking the route to the ruins. He was far ahead of the
man—men?—behind him and when he broke through to the column lined
road he dropped to his knees.

Andrew waited, breathing heavy and trembling,
but holding the staff up just the same. There was crashing,
stumbling and cursing in the brush and he tensed. When the man
burst forth Andrew sent the staff straight into his face. The
second one fell atop his comrade and Andrew brought his weapon down
across the back of his uncovered head. He barely had time to
register the third man, who had come out onto the ruins behind
Andrew. The sword swung and was blocked, but he rallied and with
the next swing caught Andrew across the shoulder.

Andrew cried out and fell back, stumbling and
landing hard. Again the sword was raised and lowered, this time
swiping across the palm Andrew held up, instinctively. His other
hand brought the staff up to parry the next blow and he scrambled
back, away. His back hit one of the broken columns; he braced his
feet and pushed himself up. His staff was on the ground, useless
with both arms injured.

“
Hvor skal han?”

Andrew shook his head, not understanding. He
watched the sword rise.

“I am here!”

In a blur the man was taken down, borne to
the ground. Before a cry left his lips, his head was twisted around
with a sickening crack. Straddling the lifeless body, Rory looked
up at Andrew. He saw the blood soaking Andrew’s shirt, the pallor
of shock turning Andrew grey and shaky, and was by his side in an
instant.

“Shhh,” Rory soothed, taking him by the waist
to help lower him to the ground again.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I should have never
tried to fight them,” Andrew said. He hated the trembling in his
voice, in his hands, and felt ashamed. “It’s not a raid, Rory.
They’re after you.”

Rory tore the shirt away from his shoulder.
“Easy, shhh, you did well,” he said, touching the wound, moving
Andrew’s arm, making sure the damage was not deep. He took Andrew’s
hand and moved each finger.

Wincing, muffling his pained cries as the
injury was manipulated, Andrew told him “They will start killing
the villagers if they do not find you.”

Rory pulled his shirt off and tore it into
pieces. Quickly, he wrapped Andrew’s injuries, the muscles in his
jaw working. He was tightening the last knot on Andrew’s hand when
there was more rustling in the brush. “You cannot fight now so stay
hidden.”