The Red King Page 23

  When numbness swept through Andrew, icy and bitter, he welcomed its coming. Now he could think. He could remember. The villagers, yes, he must help them, and soon. He looked at the stones, at the bundle of hair in his hand. Yes, he could think. And he had an idea.

  “It has been one hour.”

  “No, please!” Idir begged. The sword was placed at his throat.

  Andrew could see now, who held that sword. He felt only mild surprise to see a familiar face.

  “Release him” he called, walking into the torch lit circle with his hands raised.

  Three guards placed themselves before him but the dark-haired man ordered them away.

  “And who are you? Do you bring me the Red King?”

  Andrew moved closer. There was blood and dirt on him but he was certain his face would be recognizable.

  Ortega held his sword out, point at Andrew’s chest. “I know you,” he said. He stared at Andrew, hard, his silver eyes carefully categorizing Andrew’s face. “Well, well, you are the little priest. I admit I didn’t believe you were the one he kept, despite Burke’s description. Yet, here you are.”

  “Ruaidhri has fallen. Release these people.”

  “Fallen, you say? You must think me a fool,” Ortega chuckled.

  Andrew held up Rory’s hair. “Your cannons fired on the ruins. He was crushed.”

  There was a murmur through the villagers, some crying, others praying. Andrew did not look at them.

  Ortega reached for the trophy but Andrew held it away from him. “I would like to present to you an offer.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Take this, the remains of Ruaidhri’s skull, to retrieve your reward from your employer. Take this,” Andrew turned his other hand to display the sapphire, “for your further benefit. It can only improve your standing, and hence, your purse. “

  Ortega considered his words.

  “And take me to your master.”

  Ortega was surprised by the final request. “What?”

  “Take me to your master, Maarten Jan de Worrt. I was meant for him, was I not? You’ll be able to return not only the gem, but the lost plaything of a madman. Again, would this not improve your standing?” Andrew answered. For Rory, his mind whispered.

  “And you want in return?” Ortega asked, curiously.

  “Leave this place and these people in peace.”

  “Captain!” One of the remaining guardsmen rushed into the circle. “We found them, four are dead, the rest injured but alive. They’re being taken to the ship now.”

  “And Ruaidhri? What sign of him?” Ortega asked, still looking at Andrew.

  “Soren saw him crushed by falling stones, Captain.”

  Andrew fought the tears burning his eyes. He swallowed hard. “Do you truly believe I could have taken this,” he shook the bloody remains of Rory’s hair, “whilst he was alive?”

  Ortega’s eyes narrowed. Andrew could sense his calculations, his machinations, for those eyes were beyond shrewd. “Give me those,” he told Andrew.

  “When we have agreed you will leave, with no more bloodshed,” Andrew stated, firmly.

  Ortega laughed, heartily. “I could have you killed, take what I want, and leave nothing but bones and ash. Why should I make any bargains with you?”

  “Because,” Andrew began, slowly, “I believe you were to take Ruaidhri alive. When you return with only his…scalp, who will bear the brunt of your master’s rage?”

  Those silver eyes flashed again, with rage and a bit of fear. “Do you think yourself a tastier morsel?’

  “I have heard much about Maarten Jan de Worrt,” Andrew said, his lips lifting in a small smile. “I think that I might be able to tempt him.” He lowered his eyes, scanned his form quickly, and looked back up. “I would require a bath, however, to be properly appealing.”

  Now Ortega frowned. “You are mad as he.”

  Andrew merely smiled sweetly and widened his eyes innocently. He was breathless with anxiety, waiting for the man’s confirmation was straining his composure.

  “Mister Frederik!” Ortega called.

  “Yes, Captain!” The young guardsman came forward.

  “We will leave, in peace,” Ortega said, inclining his head towards Andrew. “And we take on a passenger.”

  Andrew nodded back, and placed the sapphire and the…trophy, into the man’s open hands. “May I have a moment with this one?” Andrew looked at Idir, into his wide, horrified eyes.

  “A moment, that is all.” Ortega left them.

  When they were close, Idir stood from his where he kneeled and put a hand on Andrew’s arm. “What are you thinking, Andrew? Are you mad? Have you lost your senses?” he whispered, desperately.

  “Shhh,” Andrew answered. “When all of the men are gone, go to the woods until the sun rises. I wouldn’t trust them not to open fire on you as we are leaving. Don’t forget Brighid. She likes apples and pears and soft oats. Tell Malik he is my brother and my angel and…” Andrew had to stop, for the tears were coming.

  “No, no, you mustn’t,” Idir said, also crying.

  “What else can I do? You must be kept safe. Rory…if you can move the stone, will you please, take him from there? I think,” Andrew’s strength faltered and he choked on a sob, “I think he’d rather rest in the sea. Please.”

  Idir could not speak for weeping. He nodded, kissed Andrew on both cheeks, and bowed to him.

  “Your moment has expired. If you wish this village left in peace, you will come now,” Ortega said.

  Andrew turned to go, pausing when he heard Titrit cry out, Malla Izza wail. He put one hand out as if to quiet them, and followed Ortega to the skiffs without looking back. He would not regret leaving them or trading his life for theirs. He would never regret coming to Tipaza. He would not think on his life here or the joy now gone. He had only one purpose left.

  In the skiff, back to frozen silence, Andrew watched as the clouds cleared and lit the ruins in silver and white. His fingers tightened over the vial of hemlock, hidden neatly in the swaddled bandage on his hand. He would have laughed, had he not been so numb. He would be the one to kill Maarten Jan de Worrt, after all.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Do you not like the food?”

  Andrew stared at the man across the table. Ortega was chewing on a bit of pheasant, pausing a moment to wipe daintily at his mouth before taking a healthy drink of wine. “I’m not hungry,” he answered, blandly.

  Ortega stared back, his eyes sharp with his examination of Andrew. “You’re an unconvincing liar, but no matter,” he said, waving a hand in dismissal. “Eat or don’t, it will be only you that suffers.”

  Andrew considered this, looked at the finely prepared food, and conceded by taking a small bit of meat and a piece of bread. He was not hungry, but he needed his strength, his wits, and starving himself would only hinder.

  He did not look at the apples.

  He took a bite of the bread and watched Ortega, warily, wondering what the man was about. Since boarding the Rovfugl he had been treated with alarming consideration. Andrew had thoroughly expected treatment similar to his first confinement; a too small cell, chains, drugged water and only the barest necessities. Instead, he was shown to a cabin, complete with a narrow bunk and, of all things, a window. A wooden tub was provided and filled with lukewarm water for him to bathe in, and the ship’s surgeon had come afterwards to tend to the still oozing wounds on his hand and shoulder.

  There were new clothes, as well. They were not as comfortable as his ruined tunic and trousers, but well-constructed and fashionable. The shirt had the same sort of wide, lace- trimmed collar seen on Ortega and his personal guards, and was so white it burned his eyes. There was a velvet doublet and loose breeches, both blue and silver with slashes to reveal soft grey. There had been a moment of hesitation before he’d donned them, wondering what kind of repayment would be expected for this donation, but common sense won over disdain. They would soon be in colder waters,
and the heavy, plush fabric would serve him well. There were black stockings that felt very much like silk against his legs and high boots that slouched down to his calf. Once fully clothed, Andrew did not feel like himself. That was good.

  There had been a mirror in the room. Andrew looked at his face, really looked, and practiced a hard, cold expression while taking stock of his appearance. His hair had grown longer, thick and curling over his forehead. The lamplight cast it in shades of chestnut with hints of gold. He still did not require a barber’s touch as his face showed no sign of whiskers. He was thankful for to tempt Maarten he would need his youthful appearance be ever present, not marred by shadows of manhood. His eyes were striking, yes, as blue as the velvet he wore and wide and round. He still had his freckles, perhaps more from his time in the sun, but that served yet again to keep his appearance childlike and fresh. The sun had also kissed his cheeks and lips, turning them a darker pink. When he bit his bottom lip it turned red and plump, as if it had been painted.

  All the better to be the whore, he told himself, ignoring the ice that ran in his veins.

  Now he sat at a sumptuous supper, hosted by a slaver; a gentleman raider with thick black hair tied at his nape and eyes the color of polished steel, solicitously seeing to his needs with manners more befitting of a banquet hall. If one sliver of humor had remained in Andrew’s heart, he would have laughed. As it were, he silently ate his bread and sipped his wine, not speaking unless provoked. The food was delicious, at least, and he took a second helping of pheasant as his goblet was refilled by a liveried guard.

  Ortega did not miss this. “I suppose the meager fare of the village has changed your tastes, though I imagine you have never eaten as richly as this. What did the monks feed you? Water and barley?”

  Andrew did not answer. He drank his wine, keeping his face impassive even as he felt a keen desire to throw it in the man’s face.

  “You don’t need to maintain this charade, boy. I know full well what you think of me. I care not whether you hate me or condemn me, but conversation over our meal is only,” Ortega paused to smile, “polite.”

  Meeting his steely gaze, Andrew said, “The weather was quite pleasant today.”

  Ortega laughed; a full belly guffaw that set him back in his elaborate seat. “Are you sure you’re not an Englishman?”

  “Quite sure.” Andrew took another bite of meat.

  Nodding, Ortega lifted his own goblet in salute. “To the spirit of the Scotsman, then.”

  Andrew conceded, raising his own, “And the madness of Danes. Or is that not polite?”

  “I find your humor charming, but I would not taunt Maarten. He will not take it lightly,” Ortega said, chuckling. He speared several potatoes with his stiletto and dropped them onto his plate. He ate silently for a bit, watching Andrew avidly, as if he were trying to deduce some hidden mystery. “You do know what he will do to you, don’t you?” he asked, resting his chin on the back of his hand.

  “I have an idea.”

  “Do you? You think to seduce him, to soften him? I will tell you now that it is not possible, he offers nothing but pain and death,” Ortega said. He was serious now, pointing the stiletto at Andrew as he spoke.

  “I do not seek softness,” Andrew answered. He finished his wine again.

  Narrowing his eyes, Ortega asked, “What do you seek?”

  Andrew met his gaze, tilting his head and curling his lips in a small, mocking smile. “Why do you ask?”

  Ortega stared a moment longer, then pursed his lips and went back to his food. “Yes, you are tempting, but I am no sodomite. You have something else that I want.”

  “What would that be?” Andrew asked, with only mild surprise.

  “I wish to be free of Maarten,” Ortega said. He smiled at Andrew’s raised eyebrows. “He is a millstone, a yoke that chafes.”

  “Yet you do his work. You follow his orders,” Andrew stated.

  “And skim his coffer,” Ortega confessed. Sitting back, he waved his dagger, point at the food, the lush furnishings in his spacious cabin. “I like these comforts. I have gladly lent my back to the man who could sponsor them, but I would like more.”

  Andrew sat back, as well, rubbing his uninjured hand across his tired eyes. “You make no sense.”

  “What don’t you understand? I wish to have his wealth to continue making my own. If I could take his treasures, his ships, have a fleet at my command I could tap the untouched Americas. Saint-Dominique grows larger every day, tobacco plants are difficult to harvest, and they must have new backs to bear the load,” Ortega said. He shrugged one shoulder. “I wish to supply them.”

  “You would take them slaves?” Andrew asked, his lip curling in disgust.

  “It is lucrative. I excel at it.”

  Andrew shuddered. “How am I supposed to help you?”

  Ortega stood, tossing napkin down on his plate. Walking over to Andrew’s chair, he put one hand on the back and leaned in, close, before speaking. “You join me, and you convince Ruaidhri’s crew to do likewise.”

  For a moment Andrew was too shocked to do anything. Then he opened his mouth and laughed, loudly. He laughed until tears fell from his eyes. “Join you? If any of them see your face you’ll be lucky not to lose it!”

  “There will be some who will wish to join. There always are,” Ortega said, calmly.

  Andrew still chuckled, his eyes still streaming. Reaching for his wine, ignoring the man as he crowded him, he said, “You think only of yourself, of your mercenary crew. The Taibhse is manned with loyal, steadfast and honest men who would rather cut their own throats than conduct themselves on such business.” He took a long drink. “But, if you would like to ask them yourself, settle your accounts before you go.”

  Still hovering, the man put the point of his stiletto to Andrew’s neck. “I’m trying to be generous, Andrew. You have already refused part of the bounty. What can I offer you to have your support?”

  With one fluid movement, Andrew had the dagger plucked from Ortega’s fingers. He threw it almost carelessly, sticking it neatly into the deck. “You can take me to Maarten, and I can be off of this ship of corruption.”

  “Are you stupid? Are you mad?” Ortega said, his mild demeanor suddenly threatening. He took Andrew’s jaw, held it tight enough to bruise, and turned Andrew to look in his eyes “Maarten will take what he wants from you. He may knock your teeth out to make your mouth a proper cunt. He could castrate you and leave you as only a sheath for his sword. He will starve you and offer you his shit to eat. He will brand you, whip you, cut you and smile, like an angel, while you beg to die.”

  Knocking his hand away, Andrew snarled, “How long have you known what he was and yet you let him be? You brought him victims, children and innocents to torture so that you could fill your purse. You are no better than he.”

  Ortega considered his words, smiled, and then chuckled. His pleasant attitude returned as if it had never left. “I will not deny it.”

  Watching the man as he left off leaning over him and bent to retrieve the stiletto, Andrew asked, “You ask me if I am mad but you seek no defense when accused of flesh mongering for a sadistic murderer. I tell you it is not I who is mad.”

  “We shall see,” Ortega continued, sheathing the dagger. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Now, Andrew, our supper has ended. We’ll have a glass of sherry, but I suppose you do not take a pipe.”

  Andrew was shaking when the guard-servant pressed a small, crystal glass into his hand. He bit his lips to keep them from trembling. When Ortega appeared next to him once more, to gently touch the rim of their glasses together, Andrew jumped.

  “Drink, dear boy. You have some time to consider what I’ve said,” the man told him, patting him on his injured shoulder. He smiled when Andrew winced. “Plenty of time.”

  Then he dug his fingertips into Andrew’s wound.

  Andrew clenched his teeth and said, clearly, but in a pained voice, “Then I shall decide at m
y leisure, and bid you good evening.”

  “Drink the sherry first. You’ll thank me,” Ortega ordered, but released him. Andrew drank it fast, in one swallow as if it were a draught of medicine. He coughed and wheezed as Ortega laughed. “Take him back. Put a guard at his door, preferably someone who would not wish to take his pretty ass to bed.”

  “I don’t need a guard,” Andrew told him, rising from his seat.

  Looking him up and down, Ortega chucked again. “Yes, you do, and you should thank God your friend Acklie no longer sails with me. He wished to taste you. He spoke of it repeatedly.”

  Stepping closer, Andrew told him in a low, dangerous voice, “I killed Acklie when he tried. I stabbed him right through his throat and laughed in his face as he bled on the deck of the Taibhse.”

  “And so, you, too, are a murderer, as well as a sodomite. Judge not, little father,” Ortega said, softly, and nodded to his man to take Andrew away.

  Andrew was escorted to his cabin in silence. He saw no one else in the narrow passage as he went. It was a strangely quiet ship. The lack of boisterous calls, chants, and bawdy songs that had filled the Taibhse tore at Andrew’s self-control. He found the silence eerie, unnerving, and overwhelmingly sad. Once ensconced in his room, he straightaway ran his fingers along the crevice between the door and frame, feeling the glass vial secure. He had not felt safe hiding it in his bunk and so had peeled away the aging caulk to create a perfectly sized gap. The vial would have to be felt to be found, and Andrew suspected that this cabin saw little use.

  There were now linens on the small bunk, as well as a pillow and a coverlet. His lantern had been refilled and swung gently with the movement of the ship, its wick burning low. Sighing, Andrew sat, marveling at the sinking warmth of the down-filled blanket. He ran his fingers over it, clutched it in his fist for a moment. Rory’s descriptions of his captivity, surrounded by every imaginable luxury even as he was tortured and tormented, flared like striking sparks from flint. They were bright and hot and caused his eyes to burn and his vision to swim.