The Red King (41 page)

Andrew’s eyes rolled back and he went still
once more.

There were voices, footsteps coming towards
them. Laurent rushed into the room, laden with a wooden case and a
heavy satchel. “You came with Ortega?” he asked, sharply, his
expression dark.

Ortega entered then, barking orders to his
men as they filed in behind him. “Take it all and be quick about
it.” He turned to Rory, saw Malik with his burden just beyond, and
frowned. “Is he…”

“He’s alive,” Rory finished, noting the
relief softening the man’s features.

“His wounds need tending,” Laurent snapped,
pushing Ortega to one side. His lips were curled in a snarl. “Do
not think this man will offer help. He has been complicit for far
too long.”

“Laurent,” Rory said, reaching out to lay a
hand on his shoulder. “Ortega brought us willingly. He sought us
out after he left. He did not want Andrew here, either.”

“And you trust him?”

Rory smirked, casting a glance at Ortega
before answering. “No, but he has been honorable thus far. I will
take his word that we will be returned to my ship. If you cannot
trust him, then trust me.”

For a moment, Laurent looked as if he would
spit in Rory’s face, but then he calmed. His features smoothed over
and he took a deep breath. “We must see to Andrew. The lashings
will fester soon if not cleaned.”

“My cabin is at your disposal,
Ruaidhri
,” Ortega said, stepping forward. He looked at
Laurent, his eyes somber. “You will have anything you require.”

Laurent stared at him, his only outward sign
of emotion the visible clenching of his jaw. He nodded and swept
past him to exit the room.

“Go; see to your own wounds, as well. This
will not take long,” Ortega said to Rory.

They began to leave, but Rory paused. He
glanced around the room, into each corner, towards the open door
leading to the bedchamber. There were four stone walls, timbers
holding the roof, a fireplace with smoldering embers at the far
end. The tables were bare, the corners emptying of all their
wealth. Maarten no longer threatened in every shadow. It had ceased
to be Rory’s hellish vision of pain and horror. It was just a
room.

“
Ruaidhri
?” Malik asked, waiting for
his captain to lead.

“Aye, Malik. Let’s go.”

When Andrew was uncovered and laid face down
upon Ortega’s elaborate bunk Rory’s strength left him. The voices
of Laurent and Malik grew distant and his sight dimmed. For a
moment he held himself up by pure will, but in the next the room
tilted. He fell hard against the bulkhead, slid down until he sat
with his legs splayed out before him.

“Rory!” Etienne dropped beside him, hands
tugging at the cloak despite Rory’s protests. When he saw the
blood, the rents in Rory’s shirt and trousers, he sighed, “Oh,
Rory, I do grow weary of seeing you bleed.”

Chuckling, covering Etienne’s fingers with
his own, Rory slurred, “Not so much as I tire of bleeding, my
friend.”

Laurent knelt, too, but Rory waved him away.
“No, see to Andrew. I will keep.”

“Can you remove his clothes? It will be
easier to do it before the blood dries,” Laurent asked, his large
dark eyes searching.

“Of course,” Etienne answered, turning a fond
smile on Rory as Laurent returned to Andrew. “I see you’ve rescued
another one.”

“This one was long overdue,” Rory said. He
let Etienne pull the ruined shirt over his head, too tired to argue
the assistance. Etienne winced at the gash on Rory’s chest, running
alongside his collar bone, but did not speak as he reached for
Rory’s boot. By the time they’d managed to get Rory undressed,
Laurent had returned.

“Andrew? How is he?” Rory asked.

“He is strong,” was all the man said.
Laurent’s hands were efficient; cleaning, anointing, and wrapping
the wounds so deftly that Rory was all but dozing against the wall
when he finished. “Drink,” he said, urging Rory to take the numbing
draught he’d prepared.

“Not yet. Find me clothes,” Rory told him. He
put his hands over Laurent’s where they held the cup. “I’ll drink
it, but only after we’re gone from this place.”

He was given a caftan of velvet in a rich
dark wine color. With a smirk he turned to Etienne.

“One of my best, Rory. You are the Red King,
after all.”

It took both of them, Laurent and Etienne, to
help him stand after he’d struggled into his boots. He turned to
the bed, saw Andrew lying so still, and reached out. He nearly
fell. Etienne eased him to the edge to sit.

“Andrew,” he called, softly, his fingers
tracing the blood stained cloth wrapped around his forehead.
“Andrew, open your eyes, please.”

Andrew did not stir.

Gentle hands pulled him away. “He will open
his eyes again,
Ruaidhri
. His heart beats, strong and
steady,” Laurent said.

Rory’s shoulders were covered with the heavy
cloak once more. Etienne took one of his arms and draped it around
his neck. “I can hear Ortega above. One would think he’d found
Paradise from the joy in his voice,” he said, half-amused,
half-bitter.

“Take me up,” Rory said, finding he had no
strength to laugh with him. He needed what was to come, though, as
much as he had needed Maarten’s death. His spirit demanded it of
him.

Ortega was indeed shouting, standing on the
rail and holding on to the shrouds. His men responded with equal
vigor. “Time to go! We need never see this forsaken rock again,
lads! Hoist the anchor and ready the guns!”

When he saw Rory, leaning heavily against
Etienne as they made their way to the gunnel, Ortega leapt to greet
them. “I take it you have your treasure?” Etienne asked, crossly,
and yet still amused.

“All that I could want, and more,” Ortega
answered, bending low over his knee.

The ship was more alive than Rory had seen
it. The men were calling across the deck, shouting to each other,
and even laughing. It was a sharp contrast to the staunch silence
they had held before. It gave Rory a sour taste in his mouth. “If
Maarten’s gold was all it took to find your happiness, why did you
not act sooner?” he asked, bitterly.

Ortega laughed and if Rory had not been weak
and injured, he would have slapped the man’s face, despite his
assistance. “And rob you of your vengeance? I would rather have
your anger now than to have faced your wrath, then, truly.”

Rory tensed and gritted his teeth. Etienne,
ever observant, tightened his grip on Rory’s waist. “Let it be,
Ruaidhri
. The end has come. Why let his humor ruin the
moment?”

“If he had acted earlier, none of this would
have happened. Andrew would not have come,” Rory seethed.

“Or you may never have met Andrew, at all,”
Etienne chided, gently. “Do not waste your time on ‘ifs’,
mon
amie
.”

That gave Rory pause, and he remained silent
as the ship prepared to leave its moorings. Andrew’s smile, his
laugh, the warmth that he shared and the heat he inspired…all of it
was so closely bound to his soul that Rory could not fathom a life
without them. He felt a stab of vicious spite and he refused to let
those thoughts darken his heart now. Not the pain of his past, of
what Andrew had suffered, or how it could have never been.

“It is a lesson hard learned, but valued all
the same,” Laurent said. He had come to stand behind them, with
Yousef and Malik. He saw Rory’s look, a mix of anger and alarm, and
added, “The surgeon is with Andrew. He’s not alone.”

Nodding, silent, Rory stared straight ahead
as the ship pulled away, steering north into the sea to jibe and
return. When the ship was headed south once more and the
slott
appeared alongside, Ortega appeared beside him. He
laid a firm, unsympathetic hand on Rory’s shoulder, and Rory was
silently grateful for the lack of pity in his grip even as he
swallowed his grunt of pain.

“
Ruaidhri
,” Ortega said, smiling
broadly and pulling Rory out of his lament. “Give the order.”

Rory’s lips pulled back from his teeth and he
shouted with all of his remaining strength, “Fire all!”

Five shots from the deck below, in rapid
succession, hurtled towards the fallen south walls. They struck
true, and the kegs of powder stowed by Yousef in the ruined end of
the keep caught. The explosion was thunderous and the heat struck
them from where they stood on deck. Then, as a though pushed by a
powerful hand, the rest of the keep tumbled over. There was a great
commotion among Ortega’s crew, cheering as they sailed away from
the fallen structure.

It was over.

“It was more than the gold,” Ortega said,
suddenly. Rory glanced his way but the man did not meet his gaze.
“Maarten had all of us tethered to him, in one way or another; if
not by what he had done, then by what he had not done. He had
Frederick’s ear, and his trust, and has had more than one mother,
brother, wife and child under his thumb. A single messenger to the
king and they would all be put to death; for treason, witchery, any
of a dozen false claims. It was not always so. None of us had any
inkling of what was to come when Prince Christian died and
Frederick took the throne. We would have deserted, would have
raised the black flag as sure as you if we’d but known.”

“You brought so many to their deaths. Not
just to Maarten, but others just as cruel,” Laurent said, his voice
low but vibrating with fury. “It’s hard to feel pity for you in
light of such suffering.”

Ortega waved a hand, dismissively. “I don’t
want pity, or forgiveness. I made my choice and have profited,
handsomely, but the time was right to end the arrangement. Talk of
war has cooled my men’s blood, and I confess to wishing for the end
of this eternal dance many times. When I came for you,
Ruaidhri
, I had hoped to persuade you to work with me,
despite our…history. My men were too efficient, you see, and I
thought I had missed my chance.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” Rory
asked, unable to determine his purpose.

“Because it no longer matters,” Ortega
answered, plainly. He turned to face Rory, eyes narrowed and shrewd
yet somehow still respectful. “If I had said these things before
you had Andrew safely by your side once more they would have seemed
false.” He looked to Laurent, then, and said, “I don’t begrudge
your lack of trust; I have no right to it, but I would like you to
know that I will no longer be a party to the stealing and selling
of human flesh. I have my fortune and will seek another life. I am
done with this one.”

Laurent still glowered. “It will not be so
easy for the rest of us.”

“No, but there is little I can do in that
regard. All I can say is that you are alive, which always affords
one another day. I suggest now that you take
Ruaidhri
below
and put him to rest, beside his beloved, of course. I have a canvas
slung with my men and I am sure one of the others can share a cabin
with you,” Ortega said, bowing slightly to Laurent. He clapped Rory
on the shoulder once more and joined a group of his men on the
quarterdeck.

Rory cast one more glance at the distant
glow, the ruins still burning bright like the morning sun on the
horizon. “Take me back to Andrew,” he said, and gazed upon it no
more.

Laurent had cleaned Andrew enough to treat
the wounds and left him on his side to prevent pressure on the
lashings. There was still blood on his face, his neck and chest,
his hands. Rory sat, eyes on Andrew’s unmoving form, while Etienne
removed the cloak and bent to take off his boots. “Bring me some
water and a cloth,” he said, softly.

“You promised, Rory,” Etienne told him,
standing and looking down at him with a disapproving frown.

“Etienne,” was all he said, and the man
sighed.

The basin was set beside him, joining the cup
of tonic Laurent had left on the little table. Etienne handed him a
scrap of fabric and stood at the end of the bed. “Drink the tonic,
first, then, so that I know you will be forced to lie down when it
starts working,” Etienne ordered, crossing his arms over his
chest.

Now Rory sighed, but he drained the cup
quickly, grimacing at the odd, stringent flavor. “What is it?”

“A mix of pagan medicines and opiates,
according to Laurent. I believe the witch hunters call it a ‘flying
potion’. It was used in childbirth, once, before the Council
enforced their ridiculous rules. You’ll find it most effective,”
Etienne answered, his voice more gentle now that Rory had taken
it.

Nodding, Rory reached out to dip to cloth
into the clean water. “I will rest, Etienne. You don’t need to
stand guard,” he whispered, carefully wiping the blood away from
Andrew’s mouth. Rory did not turn when he felt movement beside him,
but he paused when Etienne bent to press a kiss to the top of his
head. He rinsed the cloth clean as Etienne left the room.

He did not speak while he bathed Andrew as
much as he could, barely dragging the scrap across the black
bruises on Andrew’s throat and the purple and red bite on his
shoulder. He paid special attention to Andrew’s fingers, removing
all trace of filth from in between and around his nails. They
seemed to be the only part of Andrew that was not battered or torn,
and he put his mouth on them for a moment, just to remember the
taste. Andrew did not stir once, even when Rory slid into the bed
beside him.

Rory took Andrew’s hands in his and curled up
as close as he could. Close enough to see the scant movement of
Andrew’s chest as he breathed, to feel the air as it passed his
lips. For a time he simply stared, but then his fingers moved to
gently trace Andrew’s jaw and brow.

“I love you, Andrew,” he said, so softly he
could barely hear it himself. He said it over and over as his
fingertips brushed curls, eyelids, nose, and then back up to
retrace their path. Laurent’s potion began to do its work; Rory
felt his aches ease and his limbs grow heavy. He could not fight
the weariness any longer and contented himself with the warmth of
Andrew’s hands in his as he fell into sleep.