The Red King Page 22

  "Charles knew Etienne, thought him to be trustworthy. He was bereft for weeks afterwards and it doused their fire for one another, at least for a while," Rory said, his crossing his arms over his chest.

  “What profit was there for Etienne? What did he have to gain?

  Rory frowned. “He was making a deal with a man to keep a particularly lovely girl in his stable set aside for special visits when the topic of the Taibhse arose. Etienne casually mentioned that we would be patrolling the coasts of Morocco and the man went to Tunisia, to the home village of that lovely girl, stole her sisters, and most of the other children, destroying the town in the process.”

  “Dear God,” Andrew muttered. He took a breath. “The man was a slaver, wasn’t he?”

  “He was, and even if Etienne did not know, he should have kept our location behind his teeth. Our biggest strength was surprise then; we did not have as much skill or knowledge as we do now and we used the fear of our stealth to keep some of those men at bay,” Rory explained.

  “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.

  Chapter Twenty

  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.”

  There were voices, coming closer.

  “Go!”

  Andrew stumbled to his feet and ran as best he could with his head swimming and his shoulder throbbing. He found his way to a villa, the last corner standing with walls only waist high, and ducked into the shadows. Taking a moment to calm his breathing and his sick, aching head, he waited. He listened for the sounds of a fight, but heard nothing. The silence was maddening.

  Peeking around the edge of the wall, he saw four men in armor moving slowly across the paved causeway. They were alert and cautions, eyes seeking every corner and shadow with swords raised high. One of them pointed, suddenly, shouting, “Det! Det!”

  Rory came out of the darkness like a charging lion, Andrew’s staff in one hand and his own sword in the other. With frightening alacrity he dispatched the first of them, the sword neatly piercing the man’s throat. The next he bludgeoned with the staff, hitting so hard Andrew could see the blood arc high from his damaged face. The third had enough presence of mind to parry and dodge, avoiding the swift death visited upon his fellows, but not enough to pull up his lunge. Rory neatly severed his arm, striking between the vambrace and gauntlet. When the man opened his mouth to scream, Rory sliced through this neck, cutting off the cry. He kicked the man away as the forth raised a p
istol…

  And shot it into the sky.

  Rory started for him, but did not get far before the familiar thunder of cannons rolled across the bay. The signal was all they had waited for and they let lose their volley with precision. The colonnade at the cliff exploded, sending great pieces of marble in all directions, shards splintering into deadly projectiles. Rory and his opponent were both knocked to the ground. Another standing wall disintegrated and a piece caught Rory as he was rising to escape. It hit him a glancing blow to the head and he fell again, but still struggled to his feet and ran.

  Rory made it to another wall, this one still tall and rounded and topped with capstones too large to quarry for the village’s building material. Andrew could see blood, dark and wet, running down his face, his chest. There was one last booming report from the sea. Andrew saw Rory wipe the blood from his eyes and look up, just as the top of the wall shattered and the rest of it came crushing down upon him.

  “NO!”

  Andrew was running, mindless of his shoulder, his hand, the danger, seeing only the pile of rubble beneath which Rory lay. He was nearly there, could see one hand, a bit of hair and he called, “Rory! Rory!”

  The last capstone fell, sliding from its place to roll and stop atop the pile of stones.

  Flinging himself down on his knees, Andrew dug at the rocks, at the earth beneath them. He screamed as his hands slipped and his fingers bled and yet he continued. He was able to move some smaller pieces, to see the hand and hair once again, and he put his own into the small space to touch. “Rory, Rory, please,” he whispered, seeking warmth, the thrum of a heartbeat at his wrist. There was not enough room. He couldn’t tell.

  Seeking the tangle of hair, Andrew found it and stretched farther to feel for Rory’s face, his skull. To his horror, he felt nothing, just a wet, sticky mass of hair. Unattached, torn away, as if the skull was crushed, gone. Andrew pulled out his hand and looked at it; a gory trophy of auburn locks, with a bit of scalp still clinging.

  Andrew retched, violently. He collapsed beside the rubble, sobbing. For a while it was all he could do, no thoughts of escape or rescue, of the danger to him or the villagers could penetrate his pain. He was weak with it, struck dumb and deaf and helpless. All he could see was Rory, looking up as the wall fell and then the stone rolling into place. The vision restarted itself, again and again, and Andrew did not fight it.