The Red King (5 page)

“Everything,” Rory said, sliding his thumb up
to press under Andrew’s chin, raising his head as he did so. Their
eyes met. For Andrew, in that moment, the world…shifted.

He licked his lips, but did not get the
chance to speak. There was a shout from the bow. “Captain!” It was
Yousef; his voice was deep and rich and musical. “Wind changing
speed and coming from the north!”

Eyes still on Andrew though his hand had
dropped away, Rory called back, “Any sight of lightening?”

“No, sir, but the clouds grow tall,” Yousef
answered.

“Grow tall?” Andrew asked, unable to quell
his curiosity.

“Yousef uses words like one would paint a
picture,” Rory told him, sounding and looking pleased with Andrew’s
question. “The clouds will sprout upwards, like smoke from a fire.
It is not always sign of a storm, but the cooler winds at our backs
combined with what the clouds hold could very well bring one upon
us.”

The thought of being ship-bound in a storm,
subject to the wind and waves at their worst, made Andrew feel a
bit queasy. “What do you do?”

Rory smiled. “I send a man aloft to scout the
horizon and then ready the ship. Are you ready for another trip up
the mast?”

Andrew smiled back, his fear forgotten with
the promise of another glimpse of the wide sea around him. “I
am!”

Andrew was not set in the swing this time. He
was hurriedly hoisted with a rope around his chest, and clung to
the topmast to keep steady. He could see the storm, to the north,
as predicted, and it was magnificent; a roiling black cloud,
turning the sea below it to dark grey. There were flashes of
lightening within the darkness, intermittent but awesome streaks of
white tracing through the billows. Turning his head, he scouted the
south and saw a sail shimmering in the distance. Was it the same
one from that morning? Was it Acklie’s ship?

The wind was indeed blowing cold now, casting
a chill over him as he was lowered. “There is a storm, coming from
the north. It looks…vast.”

“Did you see anything else?” Rory asked,
helping him off of the line.

“The ship from this morning, I think,” Andrew
said. “Still headed southwest.”

“With the weather gods at our back, our
course is set,” Rory muttered. He looked at Fleming and nodded.

“What does that mean?” Andrew asked, eyes
moving between the two of them.

“It means that we’re going to ride that
storm,” Fleming answered with a grin. “And perhaps catch that
ship.”

Andrew was in the captain’s—
Rory’s
,
quarters once more, helping to secure the few loose items kept by
its occupant. There were drawers below the cradle-like bed, panels
that would slide out and flip up to secure and preserve small
items. He thought it wonderfully practical and said so, marveling
over the retracting basket of apples. “So simple, is it part of the
original design?”

Rory was seated, watching him, in his hand
another apple. “Algerian craftsmen, master ship builders. Storms of
this magnitude are not uncommon here, especially during the warmer
months, and they designed their ships accordingly.”

Andrew paid attention, always eager for
instruction. He took a seat on the floor. “The sail construction is
far different and would seem to allow for faster mobility, more
like a kite than a windmill.”

“The sails are raked to catch the wind close
to the deck, to help the bow stay above the water. It provides
upwards momentum instead of forcing down and forward. It moves the
ship more efficiently and aids against capsizing. Without a wheel
the winds can blow us where they wish if they are strong enough,
but we take to the oars willingly when the need calls. We have the
experience,” Rory finished, smiling.

“The sensible nature of the design is quite a
surprise. Why do the navies use such slow moving beasts when faced
with this?”

“Guns. Firepower. Utter destruction is more
impressive than stealth.” Rory finally cut into his apple.

“I suppose an actual hit would be
devastating, if they manage to hit you.”

Rory smiled and cut two slices, handing one
to Andrew. “You will be a joy to teach.”

The words were spoken lightly, but Rory’s
gaze became heated once more as he watched Andrew eat. “I haven’t
agreed to anything,” Andrew said after he’d swallowed his
apple.

Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, Rory
said, “You don’t strike me as the priestly type. You are
too…earthy, more a sprite of the forest than a child of God. How
did you get yourself in an abbey?”

Andrew frowned. “I was left there. Father
Armand, God rest his…soul” he paused to make the sign of the Cross,
but stopped himself when he touched his heart, “found me on the
threshold, a pink, mewling babe. He thought I was a changeling. He
told me so many times. He raised me as a monk, hoping that I would
follow into the order, or priesthood. He thought to thwart the Fae
that dared to leave me at steps of God’s house. I had not taken
vows, though, and had no plans to.”

“Why is that?” Rory prodded, taking another
slice of apple for himself.

“I wanted to be God’s servant,” Andrew said,
his voice soft, melancholy, “but I wanted to do it in the world. It
needs care more than a cold, stone sanctuary.” He felt the threat
of tears and rubbed his hand across his eyes. “It is of no matter
now. That life is gone.”

“Gone? Surely you have the learning to…”

“I no longer have the….grace…for it,” Andrew
interrupted, his eyes still burning. “God turned away from me, away
from men who so faithfully served him. And I have turned from
him.”

“You sound like a petulant child, not a
prospect.”

“Aye, you catch my meaning,” Andrew answered,
meeting his stare with red, but now tearless eyes.

“You are most intriguing, educated and
innocent, bitter and yet somehow emboldened at the same time. You
know, you must know, that it is not as common a state as you would
think, even in monasteries….no, especially in monasteries,” Rory
observed. He slid from his chair to kneel in front of Andrew. “Have
a bite,” he said, holding the apple up to Andrew’s face. Andrew
reached up to take the offered fruit, but Rory pulled it up and out
of reach. “A bite,” he repeated, and slowly lowered it to Andrew’s
mouth.

Andrew parted his lips, both unsettled and
strangely spurred on by the gesture. He took the offered bite,
chasing the juice with his tongue as it ran down his chin. Rory
watched, his own tongue touching to his lower lip as if in
sympathy… or hunger.

“You say that I am uncommon; what do you know
of monks and abbeys?” Andrew asked, not angry, only curious. Rory
smiled again. Andrew now recognized the bright look in his eyes. He
felt a shiver start in his shoulders, but fought to control it.

“I know what comes out of them,” the man
said, still with that rapacious gleam. “Tell me, in the whole of
your time in their care, did not one of them try to seduce you?
Force you?”

The question startled Andrew. He blushed,
stammered, looked down at the floor. “What…why…no. Never. Well…I
overheard Brother George confessing once…he, ah, thought of…my
bottom…bare.” He recalled the day; he’d too young to know precisely
why the words were so villainous, but they had unsettled not only
himself, but also Father Armand. The days following were more quiet
than usual and Father Armand had watched him, closely, and he was
left on his own far less often, afterwards. Despite this strange
experience, his memories of Brother George were wholly
affectionate. “He never said anything to me, but the things he said
to Father Armand were…”

“What?” Rory asked, leaning closer.

“I…I cannot repeat them.” Andrew felt even
his ears grow hot.

“And what punishment was deemed appropriate
for this sin?” Rory asked, smiling.

“After his penitence he was sent to bathe in
the stream. It was mid-winter; he nearly lost four of his
toes.”

Rory laughed, a derisive sound. “Because he
wanted to touch your precious arse? Fools, the lot of them.”

“To keep his vows and honor God! He faced his
sin, repented, and was absolved.” Andrew defended, standing. When
Rory followed he stood his ground, not retreating despite their
closeness. “Not that you would understand such a thing,” he
continued, more temperately.

“Ah, that got you spitting,” Rory said, his
smile changing from scornful to smug. “Your defense is quite
impassioned. Are you sure you don’t wish to take the cloth?”

Andrew found his breath stolen again; the
nearness, the heat of the man was overwhelming. “It seems somehow
inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate? You have done nothing to
warrant a change of heart. You are still pure.”

“Not…entirely.” His voice was softer
still.

His smile fading, Rory tossed the apple
aside, wrapped an arm around Andrew’s middle and pulled roughly.
“Tell me, what became of Brother George and his interest in your
bottom?”

“I was a child and he was a kindly servant of
God. Whatever he may have thought, he never acted upon it.” Andrew
was trembling, but had no desire to be released. He was caught in
the captain’s gaze, in the web of feelings spun by his touch.

“I’m curious, what did he say? Did he want to
touch it, stroke it… perhaps strike it and see the shape of his
fingers rise as welts upon it?” As he spoke he spread his hands
across the rounded curve of Andrew’s bottom, the tips of his
fingers branding his skin through the rough fabric of his
breeches.

Andrew swallowed, flushing clear to his hair.
“He wanted to…kiss it…” He felt Rory’s fingers tighten and his
mouth went dry.

“Just kiss it?” Rory arched the smallest bit,
pressing his body against Andrew, a provocation. “Or did he want to
pry open your ass and devour it, to press his tongue in that tender
hole?”

Andrew waited with his lips parted.

“Mmmm…yes, I see in your eyes that is what he
wanted. I also see,” he said, bending his head, “that you want it,
too.”

Rory did not have to hold his head steady,
nor immobilize him…Andrew simply opened his mouth. He was hot,
burning all over one moment and then shivering and chilled the
next. When Rory kissed him this time he was not afraid, not
exactly, but his heart pounded just the same. It was a different
sort of kiss than he’d been given before; this was slow, deep, as
if Rory were trying to memorize the feel of his lips, the texture
of his teeth. He suckled, drawing on the man’s tongue in his mouth
as if it were his sustenance, his only lifeline.

This pleased the captain, who breathed his
own sound into Andrew’s mouth and bent him back. He left off
kissing Andrew’s lips and moved to nuzzle at his ear. “Yes,” he
whispered, “a joy to teach.”

He withdrew slowly, setting Andrew an arm’s
length away.

Andrew was panting, shaking, eyes wide.
“Captain?” he asked, confused.

Rory laid a gentle hand on his cheek, his own
eyes dark. “We still have work to do.”

The storm overtook them that night and drove
them hard. Andrew was huddled close to the mizzen mast, eyes closed
and head bowed against the driving rain. He had already retched
twice from the rolling of the ship and still his stomach ached and
twisted with every crashing drop. He was tied off to the mast, a
precaution all the men shared, though his line was considerably
shorter than the others. He was of no use to anyone, too sick and
exhausted, but he refused to go below. It was worse in the stifling
dark.

Every other man was at work, holding the ship
steady with oars as she rode the violent waves of the storm. Rory
and Malik manned the rudder, steering the ship to keep her upright.
Andrew could hear shouts, commands passed from man to man, but the
wind blew so hard he could not make out the words themselves. When
he dared to look at the captain, he found the man grinning wildly,
laughing into the tempest as the beak pointed skyward once more.
Andrew found his eyes lifted to the clouds, quite against his will,
and was sure he would be doubled with cramps once again. On the
downward arc he felt the now familiar roll and pressed his face
closer to the mast.

He felt a curious shudder against his cheek.
Opening his eyes, he looked to the rigging. A spar had cracked, and
as Andrew watched, it broke away. The line attached came loose and
began to thrash in the wind like an angry snake, pulling free of
the laces. The sail began to unfurl. Andrew’s mind raced, taking
into account the direction of the winds and the speed at which they
traveled; the added sail would not be a help. In converse, it would
push the smaller, lighter ship farther leeward, allowing the waves
to thrash from above as well as below. The ship would capsize.

With a flash of fear, urgency that threatened
on panic, Andrew looked to Rory. Malik had the rudder under his arm
and was leaning against it, while Rory pulled from the other side,
both of them using all their weight to bear it windward. Andrew
tried to call their names, but the words were blown away. He looked
up to see the sail unwinding more fully, the line slipping further
from its laces. The only way to stop further catastrophe was to
catch the line and hold it fast, keeping the sail lashed. The only
person who could do it was himself.

He pulled himself to his feet using the line
to which he was tied. The sail billowed in its loosening rigging,
hitting him in the face and knocking him backwards. For a moment he
was stunned, the pain in his nose and mouth turning to numbness
after a moment’s shock. Shaking his head to clear it, he reached
out again. With slow, steady hands, he gripped the sail and
gathered it, fingers cramping as he fought the strength of the
wind. Even as the ship rose and fell, he kept the up motion of his
hands. He was hugging the mast, keeping the sail bustled between
the wooden post and his body. When at last he felt the eyelets of
the lacings, he was trembling with the effort of holding it
secure.