The Red King Read online

  THE RED KING

  Rosemary O’Malley

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2012 Rosemary O’Malley

  Cover design by Laura Carboni

  Edited by Shannon Ryan

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously; any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to Mary Ellen, my inspiration and my lifeline, David, my most favorite romantic leading man, Steph, who bailed me out and kicked my ass when necessary, and the dashing heroes of my youth, from Robin Hood to D’Artangan, Percy Blakeney to Peter Blood.

  Special dedication to Cullen and Rowan, for there is no better motivation.

  Prologue

  The corsairs claimed he grew out of the bowels of the ship itself as a demon, a jinn, whose beastlike form he took for the slaughter. He struck silent, fast, killing most of the crew before the first body was found. He and the other men who took the ship threw the last of the living members overboard with their dead shipmates. They renamed the ship Taibhse—ghost, in the Irish tongue. From that point forward, he was called Captain.

  After taking a ship full of captives bound for the block off the coast of Majorca, one of the liberated was heard to call him “Murchadh.” It meant sea warrior, appropriate for his triumph. Those he rescued he delivered to the port of Algiers where many made their own way. Some stayed with Captain, swearing loyalty to his flag until they met their own end.

  He was most often called “Ruaidhri,” or The Red King. His penchant for wearing his fiery hair long and uncombed added a touch of romance to his deeds. He was a careful ransomer, keeping the women and children safe, honoring the aged, respecting those who showed respect. For those who did not, they would have no tales to tell, for dead men cannot speak. All who left his charge spoke of his gallantry alongside his brutality. Men thought him something of a bon sauvage. The women found him handsome and compelling, but their stories always lacked a certain…outrage.

  When the papers were sealed condemning him a pirate, they simply read “Rory or Rorik, also known as The Red King.”

  PART ONE: ANDREW

  Chapter One

  “Áve María, grátia pléna, Dóminus técum. Benedícta tu in muliéribus, et benedíctus frúctus véntris túi, Iésus. Sáncta María, Máter Déi, óra pro nóbis peccatóribus, nuncet in hóra mórtis nóstrae. Ámen.”

  Chink.

  “Áve María, grátia pléna, Dóminus técum. Benedícta tu in muliéribus, et benedíctus frúctus véntris túi, Iésus. Sáncta María, Máter Déi, óra pro nóbis peccatóribus, nuncet in hóra mórtis nóstrae. Ámen.”

  Chink. He moved forward to the next link. His chains were now his instrument of prayer.

  “Boy, if you don’t shut your mouth, I’ll cut your lips off.”

  A knife was on his chin. Andrew kept his eyes closed, but muted his prayers. Blessed Mother, take me from this torment. If my death need be, please hasten its approach. I beg you, do not abandon me to these men.

  “You can’t cut him, Acklie, don’t even touch him. We did not keep him clean and sweet just for you,” another man said. It was a voice Andrew recognized.

  The knifepoint traced his bottom lip. “Aye, clean and sweet, indeed…Come on, pretty, show us your eyes.”

  Andrew stiffened when the knifepoint ran up his cheek, resting at the corner of his eye. Acklie’s foul breath blew across his face, causing him to wince. “Now, pretty.” The sharp point dug and Andrew obeyed.

  Acklie’s face was only inches from his. It was scarred from scalp to chin on the right side, as if it had been painted by flames. One eye was scarcely open, but it was filmy and blind and did no good anyway. There was no hair, no eyebrow; nearly the entire right side was a swatch of gnarled, damaged flesh. The smile directed on him was pulled tight into a grimace that well suited the lascivious nature with which he licked his lips. If there had not been such cruel hunger in the man’s eyes, Andrew would have felt pity.

  The other man came closer but all Andrew could make out in the shadows was a dark figure in plain cloth. He spoke with the voice of privilege. “He’s a special gift for Maarten himself, from the Saracen ship. How they got him, I have no notion. They said he was meant to be a priest and that he’s untouched, and that they even had to kill a few of their own men to keep him in said condition.”

  “A priest, my arse,” Acklie muttered, his expression queerly intense. “Boy’s got lips made for polishin’ my bell-end. I’d say it needs some spit an’ shine, right now.”

  Acklie’s thumb crooked behind Andrew’s lower teeth and forced his mouth open. He pulled until Andrew was face down in his lap. The smell was wretched, like rotten meat in an old latrine. Andrew felt his stomach lurch but it had already emptied thrice over.

  There was a motion, something swift and sudden that caused Acklie to straighten. “I will not tell you again, Acklie. This one is to remain untouched. Ease yourself upon the woman, if you must, but keep your hands off him.”

  Acklie’s hand opened. “Aye,” was all he said.

  Released, Andrew sprung up and away. Acklie was motionless; smiling though the other man had a knife of his own and was holding it at Acklie’s throat. Pushing himself into the corner, Andrew drew his knees to his chest and pressed his forehead to his hands, resuming his prayers in a desperate whisper until someone spoke in his ear.

  “Acklie sails his ship south and I go to my own. My word will keep the men from stuffing you with their pricks. It will not, however, keep them from running you through should you cause trouble. Look at me and tell me you understand.”

  Andrew looked. The other man now knelt next to him, familiar but not comforting. His dark-skinned captors had given him to this man, a liaison to Andrew’s understanding. The liaison had black hair, clean and shining in the half-light, swarthy skin, and was smooth faced. He would have been handsome had Satan himself not stared out through his cold, gray eyes. Andrew nodded.

  “Pray, if you must. Pray for a hundred days. There is no help coming for you.” The man left, taking the lantern with him.

  Taking up his chains, Andrew began the Áve María once more, even as he wept.

  There was no way to track the passage of time in his small, dark space. The only refuge he had was sleep and that he did, finding it hard to remain awake even frightened and desperate as he was. He was given water, some bread, and his bucket was cleaned rather punctually, but he never saw much more than a sliver of light and a featureless shadow brining his rations.

  When he was lucid, Andrew suspected he was in a hidden compartment. Sounds were distant except when the small hatch was opened. He could hear muffled voices and the heavy fall of boots on the planks above him. None of his own cries were answered and only served to leave his voice raw
, a mere rasp. Lying quiet now, on his side with his arms wrapped around his knees, Andrew felt numb. He could not even find the strength to pray anymore, for all his frantic appeals had gone unanswered.

  His prayers had been for the captain of the small brigantine carrying them to the Spanish coast. The man had been kind, had spoken fondly of his son and his wife and their dogs. He had been one of the first to fall, neither flinching nor cursing when he was struck by a boarding axe. Such a brave man he’d been, a good man, ordering Andrew to hide even as he bled to death.

  Then Andrew crouched in the hold, his beads clutched in his hand and words of supplication spilling from his lips. His head still rang with the sound of steel hitting flesh. Father Armand, beloved mentor and who had raised Andrew from a babe, committed his final sacrifice by throwing himself in front of Andrew. A life of peace ended on a curved sword. The others fell, also; all around him Andrew heard their cries as they were stabbed and cut and beaten. Brother George reached to take Andrew’s hand before the light left his eyes and then Andrew was pulled away.

  He had prayed for his own rescue, even as he was dragged to the deck of the ship. His clothes had been torn from him, hands spreading him, stretching his arms and legs wide. “No…please…” he had begged. His tears were laughed at, his pleas ignored. He shut his eyes tight and asked God to take him.

  When warm blood splashed across his face, Andrew thought his prayer for death had been granted. Instead his attackers fell atop him, bleeding and screaming as they were slain by their shipmates. Their bodies were dragged away and tossed overboard, some of them not even dead. Darkness has swamped Andrew’s vision, then, as his fear and shock overcame his strength.

  He’d revived to the feeling of hands on him once more and he’d cried out, struggled against their hold. This time he was merely examined: hair, eyes, teeth, groin and the sensitive space between his buttocks. All the while he wept and prayed. He was left in a huddle on the deck, naked and trembling. He heard a heavy footfall and raised his eyes to the man who stood over him; the liaison

  The man grabbed his chin, raising his face higher. After a moment of intense scrutiny, a swipe of the thumb across his lips, and an assessing gaze on his youthful body, the man released Andrew.

  “Clean him. Get him clothed. The harrier can take him north, Acklie can take the others.”

  Buckets of icy water, straight from the sea, were dumped over him until he shuddered. Still chattering, a shapeless, high-necked sheath of plain muslin was forced upon him. Bound hand and foot, Andrew was thrown over the shoulder of a large seaman for passage across the plank. Without a word, the man carried him down into the hold, laid him on the floor, and exchanged his fibrous bonds for metal ones.

  For an instant, their eyes met, and Andrew thought he saw something like pity in the other man’s gaze. He held up his hands, pleading for mercy, for freedom. Those eyes, dark and sad, turned away. The door closed.

  Andrew’s last bit of light had come when Acklie and the other man had arrived to bolt his shackles to the floor. When the hatch was closed, the small room was dark as night. The air grew stale. He could not stand up nor fully stretch out. And though he wished for death, he ate the bread and drank the water when it was given, unable to simply forfeit his life. That was when he stopped praying and cursed his cowardice.

  From seemingly far away, there came a thunderous clap and the ship tilted sharply, enough to make him slide into the cell’s wall. He could not hear voices, but the cannons shook the deck beneath him. The ship rolled to the other side; he had to brace his feet against the walls to prevent being thrown again.

  Attacking…we must be attacking another ship…

  As he realized this, there was a sharp crack and the top portion of his cell was blown open. Shards of wood flew at his face, cutting him, missing his eyes only by chance. After wiping the blood from his vision, he could see out into the hold. Cannon shot tore through whatever lay before it, leaving bodies, limbs and viscera to greet him. Some fell in on him, painting him with more blood. It was then he smelled the smoke.

  “Help!” Andrew screamed, voice still weak, struggling against his shackles. “Please, someone help me!”

  His shackles held him to the floor; he couldn’t stand, couldn’t even raise his hands to thrust them through the hole. The smoke thickened and he choked on it, but still continued to twist and pull. His wrists were torn and bleeding but remained bound.

  “Help me! Please!”

  He heard the fire now, devouring the wood with creaks and pops as flames swept the hold. The air corrupted, first gray, then black, even as his strength waned.

  One large, excessively muscled arm shot in through the hole. Its massive hand seized the chains.

  “Hold on, boy,” he heard, as his vision began to waver. There was the sound of straining above him. Then the bolt ripped free with a loud thud. Lifted by his chains, Andrew felt himself rise. But before he was free, he slipped into darkness.

  ***

  “Is this the one?”

  “Aye, Captain. He was being sent straight to Maarten.”

  Andrew heard voices, felt fresh, clean air on his face, and inhaled. Immediately he began to cough, a violent hacking that hurt from his head down to his gut. He tried to open his eyes but they were heavy, sealed with ash and blood.

  Fingers lifted his chin. One of his eyes struggled open. The light hurt and it took him a moment to clear his gaze. He was greeted by a curious, otherworldly sight. The man had fire-red hair lit from behind by the sun, long, unbound and curled away from a high forehead. Straight brows framed eyes that regarded Andrew with interest, if not concern. There was a beard, pointed, groomed and in stark contrast with the mane.

  “Yes, I see it now. Beneath the filth, this one would please him.”

  Such an odd manner of speech, English filled with different vowels, strange accents. Beginning to cough again, Andrew doubled over as pain wracked his lungs. He felt himself lifted as the command was given. “Strike his chains and take him to my quarters. Bring water and get Fleming. If the boy lives through the burning of his lungs, he may be of use to us.”

  Andrew’s open eye rolled up to the man carrying him. This face was kind, with a gentle smile. He had seen it before. “Ease your mind, abban.”

  Andrew recoiled at the word. It meant little abbot and he was not a priest, though it had been his mentor’s wish. The reminder pained him. Andrew tried to say as much, but he was weak and his throat was raw. So he closed his eye, let his head roll onto the man’s chest and dropped back into nothingness.

  ***

  The voices near Andrew were speaking of him.

  “You can’t keep the boy. He will be in the way, a distraction.”

  “To whom, Fleming?”

  “Everyone!” Fleming punctuated his opinion by slamming something, perhaps a tin cup, against wood. “He’s a child, a sheltered novice, with nary a whisker on his chin. What can he do besides pray and preach? You saw how protective Malik has become already; it’s going to get him killed!”

  “Malik feels a kinship to the boy, which is to be expected. I do not think he will be so easily distracted as to cause a danger.”

  “And what about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Do you think me blind or just a fool? You intend to have him, whether he fits into our plan or not.”

  “This boy is an opportunity. Either Maarten will receive a whore instead of a virgin, or the boy will throw in with us and help us.”

  “How can you be so sure Maarten will care?”

  There was a deep, throaty chuckle. “Oh, he’ll care. He will want his gift returned, especially after his men report the beauty of that gift.”

  Andrew opened his eyes. He saw two men—the man with the wild red hair and another with a long golden braid. They sat at a small table, an apple halved between them.

  “That’s why you let them live,” Fleming sighed. “But will the gem not be enough? Must you must still use this innoce
nt?”

  “The gem was from Maarten’s coffer. Coffers exist to be plundered.” The red-haired man chewed thoughtfully on his piece of apple. “The boy is different. A gem plucked from Maarten’s bed.”

  “You’re a damned fool. You’ll get him killed and yourself in the bargain.”

  “And you’ll be by my side, I’m sure, to witness the event in person.” The redhead smiled.

  “T’will be the only way I will believe it, my friend.”

  Chapter Two

  The orchard smelled lovely, fresh and white and sweet like the fruit it bore. As a boy, barely ten summers grown, the orderly lanes of aged trees gave him peace. He wandered through the rows, idly touching and welcoming the solidity of their bark, the serenity of their strength. Beneath his small hands there was power, life, and the promise of tomorrow. Even as child he could see the glory of being, and he rejoiced in it.

  The light through the branches was fading, though, and he knew it was time to turn back.

  When he rounded on the next path, all went dark.

  The trees became a labyrinth of walls and iron chains, scraping his fingers as he felt his way. In his fear he tried to run, but he was caught at the ankle and he crashed to the ground. His hands flew out to catch himself and instead of grass, he felt wooden planks. When he tried to stand, he found himself caught by an iron shackle. It was heavy, cutting into his skin “Help!” he shouted, or he tried to, but his voice was muffled as if the inky black around him were a heavy blanket. “Someone, help, please!

  A warm hand brushed the hair from his head. “It is just darkness, little mouse.”

  “Father! Father, I am caught!” Andrew cried, seeking the comfort and warmth of his mentor’s touch.