The Red King Read online

  “Hush, now, Andrew. Wait until the darkness clears and then you will see the truth,” Father Armand soothed.

  “Truth?” Andrew asked, calming as his hair was stroked.

  “Truth is light. Wait for the light before going on.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Not yet, mouse, but you will.”

  When Andrew woke again, he wanted an apple.

  “How are you feeling, little father?”

  He expected something else; fine bones, chiseled cheeks, hair the color of the morning sun and eyes so sharp and clear they reminded him of cut glass. As Andrew focused on the face above him, he saw dark, kind eyes and a broad face. Not handsome, but good and honest. He struggled for a moment, but eventually forced air across his sore, dry throat. “I’m…thirsty.”

  “Good. Some water, then.”

  A cup was brought to his lips. The water hurt, but he drank it greedily. “Thank you,” he said when it was taken away. His eyes, clean and free of the cloying ash and blood that had blinded him, viewed his surroundings with open curiosity. Sunlight, pure and golden, shone through a small window above his head. Rich cloths draped the walls, giving the room depth, shadow, hidden places. He lay in a sort of box with raised sides. It felt like a cradle, secure, with layer upon layer of soft fabric, creating a nest more comfortable than any he had ever known.

  Andrew took stock of himself, too, noting that he was, overall, unharmed. His face hurt in places, his wrists ached and his throat felt swollen and sore, but he was whole. Relief weakened him, and he felt tears sting his eyes. “You…you came back for me,” he said, looking up at the man.

  And up and up, for this man was a giant, surely. Sitting on a low stool, his bent knees rose above the edge of the bed. His chest was as broad as a barrel, his shoulders, perhaps two. His palm could cover Andrew’s face and the fingers were like the top of a bulrush. Even his voice, so deep and resonant that it rumbled in Andrew’s chest, felt big. “I did. It was only right, seeing as I put you there.” The man’s accent was much like his own, if a bit more northern. It was comforting to hear.

  Andrew shook his head. “You didn’t, not really.”

  “It felt that way, to my heart.”

  Andrew’s lips trembled, curling into a smile. “My name is Andrew. Who are you?”

  “I’m Malik.”

  “Ma-leek,” Andrew repeated, the name foreign sounding despite the man’s familiar Highland speech. “Thank you, Malik.”

  “Do not thank him yet.”

  From the shadows past the foot of the bed stepped a shade, an apparition from a dream. The man’s hair shone like fire; Andrew fairly imagined he could feel heat from it. Yes, there were the pale green eyes and high, finely cut cheeks rising strong above the bearded jaw. There was little emotion there, neither threat nor comfort, but Andrew felt a curious responding tremor as he was observed.

  “Where am I?” Andrew asked.

  The man placed a gentle hand on Malik’s shoulder. “Return to your duties.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  The captain waited until Malik—twice as broad and nearly a head taller—left the room. Once the drape had fallen back into place, he lowered himself to the short stool. His arms reached for Andrew, who instinctively withdrew as far as the cradle-like bed would allow.

  “I only wish to help you sit up.”

  Reluctantly, Andrew nodded. He rose to his elbows, looking down at his bare chest in surprise. He only now noticed his lack of clothing. When those arms lifted him the rest of the way, he shivered. Their strength was evident in the ease with which he was handled, the movement of the muscles as they pressed against Andrew’s bare flesh.

  Andrew held his breath. His heart was pounding.

  A firm cushion was slipped behind his back. Long-fingered hands tilted his face to the light, examining the cuts healing there. Finally those hands slid down to Andrew’s wrists, testing each by bending them slowly and carefully.

  This was the captain? This man who looked like a barbarian but was tending his wounds with the gentle touch of a Holy Sister? “Where am I?” Andrew asked again, pulling his hands out of the man’s grasp. His touch, while gentle, was…disturbing.

  “You’re thin. Did they feed you at all?”

  Abashedly glancing down at his smooth, milk-white chest, Andrew crossed his arms. “Some bread, with water.”

  “Mmm…I’ll wager that water was laced with opium, as well…to keep you docile. Are you hungry now?”

  Swallowing, Andrew nodded. “I smell apples.”

  The captain smirked, stood slowly and walked the short distance to the table. Above it hung a basket and into this he placed his hand. When he withdrew, he held a shiny, dark red apple. He took the dagger from his belt and cut into the fruit. “Take small bites, and chew carefully. Your throat is still not fully healed,” he said, handing a small slice to Andrew.

  Mouth watering, Andrew took the pale fruit and had a bite. Though he was famished, he obligingly chewed slowly. He sat with his eyes closed, savoring the crisp texture, the sweet juice. When he opened his eyes again, the captain had returned to the stool and sat staring at him.

  “You’re as pale as this apple,” he said, slicing his own piece. He then pointedly placed the apple onto his tongue and let Andrew watch it disappear into his mouth. “No doubt you were locked away in a cold, dreary cell, saving yourself for God.”

  Andrew, despite his prayers for humility, was still proud on occasion. “We tilled the earth for our food, masoned our own buildings. I was not always this thin. The color of my skin is of no importance in God’s work.” After a pause, he asked again, “Where am I?”

  “You are in my cabin, on my ship.”

  Another ship. More dangerous men.

  “Why your cabin?”

  “You were in need of care, more than the ship’s hold could offer,” the man said, cutting another piece of fruit and passing it to Andrew. He took another for himself, smirking as he chewed. “Unless you’d rather we laid you out on the galley table. Like a sweetmeat.”

  Andrew swallowed against a surge of emotion, something hot and uncomfortable that left him strangely unsteady. “What did you mean when you said, ‘Do not thank him?’ What do you intend to do with me?”

  He was eyed, critically, and became increasingly aware of a certain heat in the captain’s gaze. “My intentions are not…firm…as of yet, but we have time.”

  Andrew felt flushed, down to his toes. “Who are you?”

  “It’s my turn now. Your name?”

  “Andrew.”

  “Just Andrew?” There was a hint of amusement in the question.

  “I have no family. The brothers only ever called me Andrew.” Retelling it now was so strange, so distant; it did not feel like his life.

  “And your age?”

  “I just passed my eighteenth summer.”

  There was a pause, during which the man’s gaze tracked a lazy route down Andrew’s chest and then back up to his face. Andrew’s flush became a blaze.

  “You are Scottish?” Andrew gave a slight nod. “From where?”

  “The nearest town was Abernathy.”

  “And how had you come to be in Spanish waters?” The man’s voice was still soft, but carried great authority. He stared hard into Andrew’s eyes while he waited for an answer.

  Andrew looked away, down at his hands, his bruised wrists. “We were en route to Galicia…on pilgrimage to Camino de Santiago.”

  “You’re a priest?”

  Tears stung his eyes. “No, I’m not.”

  “But you traveled in the company of priests, monks. Holy men.”

  “Yes,” Andrew whispered. “But I am not of the order.”

  The man sighed, deeply. “I confess that I’m puzzled. Why would you be in the company of holy men if you were not one of them? Were you their…pullus?”

  Frowning, Andrew mulled over the word. “Their chicken?”

  He was met with laughter. In
deed, the man laughed hard so that his cheeks flushed and his eyes watered. “Never mind, boy-chick.” He sobered. “They took your ship. Did they keep anyone but you?”

  “The captain’s wife and her brother; they were put on another ship.” Andrew’s voice was small, his eyes on his hands where they rested in his lap.

  “Where did this ship go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  There was a moment’s silence, only ended when Andrew raised his eyes. The captain was staring at him with a dark, menacing look. “Do you know anything?”

  Andrew was taken aback. “I know…” he began, but his throat closed. Swallowing, he fisted his hands in the blanket over his legs and said, “I know they were put on another ship and that everyone else was…murdered. Is that not enough?”

  “No, for they will go to their deaths if you do not remember.”

  “Oh...oh, God in heaven,” Andrew choked. He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking, trying to pry the memories open like a tightly nailed crate. “Harrier, a harrier was taking me north. And a man named Acklie took the others.”

  The man grunted. “I know Acklie. Where was he going?”

  “South was all that was said,” Andrew answered. He waited a beat, and then asked, softly, “Where were they taking me?”

  The captain studied him, so long and knowingly that Andrew lowered his eyes to his hands once more. “Esbjerg. You were going to be presented to a man named Maarten Jans de Worrt. He calls himself a count, uses his vast wealth and intelligence to influence the Danish king. He’s permitted to plunder for the flag of the Danes and take the choicest of treasures for himself. He contracted those men, gained them permission to raid the Spanish coast. I’ll wager when they saw you, the brigands thought you would offer him…,” he paused, reaching out to lift Andrew’s face to his, “great pleasure.”

  Andrew shuddered.

  “You could have found yourself in Algiers to be made a eunuch for the Sultan’s harem, or worse, added to the harem itself. You could have been sent to finish your life in piss and shit, chained to the oars. You could have been used by the men until they tired of you and they threw you over the side. You were put in that room for your own protection, so you would remain…priestly, until Maarten could have you. You, boy, were lucky.”

  “Lucky?” Andrew snapped. His eyes opened and he stared at the man in disbelief.

  “Aye, lucky to be alive.”

  Andrew’s tears fell freely now. “They killed my mentor! My family! They killed all of them…there were none left!” He clutched at his hair, shuddering, unable to catch his breath. “I only wanted to serve as Christ commanded! To be…God’s Own…”

  “Then it is good we found you, for God does not want us.”

  This sentiment echoed what was in Andrew’s heart. The simplicity of it broke him.

  “Do you still thank us for your rescue?”

  In his distress, his uncontrolled sobbing, Andrew did not notice the man leave.

  ***

  Later, exhausted and empty, Andrew lay unmoving when he heard the captain return. The man did not sit but bent over the bed, one hand supporting his weight as he brought his face low, so close Andrew could feel his breath. “I can help you.”

  Andrew stared at him, watery-eyed and wretched. “How?” he whispered.

  “Face your pain, Andrew, and it will give you strength. Help me destroy this man, the one who set these events in motion, and you will be set free.”

  “Free from you?”

  “Free from the hell you carry in your heart.”

  Andrew was empty. He was lost. His life was over and he had nothing. “I’m no warrior.”

  The captain drew his eyes away from Andrew’s lips. “I detect a keen mind behind your winsome face. You’ll have time to learn what you need to know.”

  “I am not winsome,” Andrew replied, frowning.

  The captain tilted his head, lifted his other hand to run fingers lightly down Andrew’s cheek. He smiled when Andrew shivered. “Your innocence is appalling. I find it almost…painful.”

  “Then you should leave me alone,” Andrew said. He licked his lips with a dry tongue.

  “You’re in my bed.”

  “You put me in it.”

  The man’s smile returned. “Are you sharing it with me?”

  Andrew saw himself lying beside this man, their bodies pressed close within the bed’s narrow confines. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

  “Please, leave me alone.”

  “You forget you travel in the care of a pirate. Arrangements for your safe passage will need to be made. We must agree to a price.”

  “A price?” Andrew asked, weakly.

  “How much do you think you’re worth, hmm?” The man’s thumb traced his bottom lip.

  Andrew opened his mouth but no sound came.

  “Think on it, Andrew.”

  And then he left.

  Andrew lay awake in the darkness for a long time after, thinking of his value, and his painful, appalling innocence.

  Chapter Three

  The captain let Andrew be the next day, allowing him rest and more healing. It was Malik that brought him more water, broth, and on the third day, a set of clothes. The borrowed shirt and trousers were too large, but they were clean, soft and well worn. There were no shoes to fit him, but the deck was warm and well maintained, smooth under his bare feet.

  Malik had fetched him for breakfast, drawing him out with the promise of heartier fare. Andrew found the cooked oats and nuts, garnished with dried gooseberries, extremely satisfying. He was ignored by most of the other men in the galley, a handful just off the watch. Only one or two even looked in his direction and they were disinterestedly courteous. They were all surprisingly clean, shaven and groomed. He asked Malik how this was so.

  “We’re supposed to be filthy animals because we’re pirates, that so?”

  Andrew sputtered. “I meant no offense…”

  Malik and the other men laughed. “We took none, abban! The captain likes a clean ship, and that includes us all. Our ship is smaller, faster, true, but we don’t have the deep hold for long distance storage. We keep to the coasts, close enough to furlough when needed. Most of us prefer it so. Some have families to visit.”

  Andrew was amazed. “You’re able to come and go at your will?”

  “The only bounty on this ship is the one from the Dane. To the people on this coast, we’re protectors,” another man, Bill, interjected. “We protect from the ones who take slaves.”

  “Like those we pulled you from,” Malik added.

  “How did you come to be on that ship, Malik?” Andrew asked, a question that had been foremost in his mind since he’d woke.

  Smiling, the large man said, “The captain and his man, Fleming, they had me sign up. I’ve done it before and each time they have freed the ones in chains. I used a piece of polished tin to signal them. It was that light that brought them to us, to save you. He once had me send messages, using birds! Can you imagine?” Malik laughed, heartily, clapping Andrew on the shoulder.

  “I know of such things,” Andrew said softly. “The aviary at Danoon had been used for such communication. Brother Jean had been especially fond of the birds.”

  Malik heard the sadness in his voice. “I’m sorry, abban, for your loss.”

  “Please, don’t call me that,” Andrew asked in a whisper. “I’m not a priest.”

  “I am sorry,” Malik said again.

  Andrew drew himself up and met the man’s concerned gaze. “I know, and I thank you for it.” He looked around him and asked, “What can I do in all of this? I know nothing of ships or sailing but I’m no stranger to hard work.”

  “There’s work aplenty. We’ll find you something,” Malik told him, clapping him on the shoulder and knocking him off of the bench.

  Once out on the deck, Andrew stared open mouthed up at the sails. They were triangular, slanted towards the aft and slung low over the bow. The deck was narrow and clear
, no rise at the fore but the mizzen rose to allow for cabin and hold. Men held lines for all three sails, using the wind to its fullest advantage for there was no wheel to steer by. At the stern, atop the low quarterdeck, was a rudder the size of an oak tree. He found the ship beautiful to look at, more at ease with the movements of the wind and tide than the larger, square-rigged vessels he’d seen. “What manner of ship is this?” he asked.

  “She’s a xebec.” The answer came from behind him. As he turned, a figure dropped down in front of him. The captain, his lion’s mane tamed and tied at the nape, was a hand’s breadth from him. Andrew took a startled step in retreat and bumped into Malik, who steadied him.

  “Thank you,” he murmured to the big man, but his attention was on the captain. “Say it again, please.”

  “Xebec,” the captain repeated, and Andrew watched his mouth. The word flowed from his lips, graceful and exotic.

  “Zeb-ek,” Andrew attempted. “It has a strange feel, but it rolls on the tongue.”

  The captain nodded with his eyes on Andrew’s mouth in return. “It does, at that. What else is your tongue feeling?”

  Andrew’s jaw dropped and his cheeks warmed.

  “He says he’s ready to work, captain,” Malik offered after the silence stretched past his comfort.

  Andrew swallowed, licked his dry lips, and offered, “I’m small, but not weak. I’m no soft-handed aristocrat. How can I be of service?”

  To his surprise, the captain smiled. He was exceedingly handsome when he smiled. “Let me know how your tongue feels.”

  Malik fairly rolled his eyes. “I’ll be in the hold,” he said before he walked away.

  Andrew did not, could not, speak again. Then the captain outright laughed. “How are you with high places?”

  The question surprised Andrew, who turned his head and had to clear his throat before he could answer. “I’ve never had trouble with them before.”

  He was tied off, set into a sort of swing and hoisted to the top-most rigging. The wind blew more fiercely here, the sway of the mast more keenly felt. Andrew loved it, felt as if he were a kestrel riding on the air. He was amazed at how far he could see, how much water there was, how much sky. It was massive, so much more than he ever imagined in his small stone room.