The Red King Page 24

  Water was in the basin. Andrew removed his doublet and shirt and splashed his face with his uninjured hand. He could not lose his control now. He needed it, depended on it. There was no time for his grief or his misery. Glaring at his reflection, eyes and nose red, tears still standing, he grit his teeth against the rising despair. He succeeded by focusing every ounce of rage he felt on the name Maarten. The tears fell, but his lips were no longer twisted from the struggle and the roaring in his ears faded. He splashed his face with more water and went back to the bunk.

  Exhaustion was pulling at Andrew now. He felt slow and heavy limbed, so much so that removing the boots caused him to break a sweat. It was draining, this feeling. It sapped his strength and his will, and all he wanted was to lie down. When his head sank into the pillow he moaned and rubbed his cheek against its soft muslin ticking. He curled up with his arms wrapped tightly around his chest, still in his breeches and stockings, and fell asleep.

  ***

  The door opened slowly, its hinges squeaking just enough to wake him. Andrew sat up, dazed by the bright sun filling the room. He had a moment of uncertainty, his thoughts muddled and unclear. He did not remember where he was or why he was there. Pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, he winced at the pull in his shoulder, the pressure on his palm.

  “Oh,” Andrew whispered as the events of the past days returned.

  Ortega was standing over him, smiling. He held a plate and a goblet and seemed to be in excellent spirits. “Good afternoon!”

  Blinking and bemused, Andrew said, “Afternoon?”

  “Yes, it is well into the afternoon. You drank too much wine, little father. What will that confession cost you, I wonder?” Ortega laughed.

  “I suppose my wounds and my exhaustion had nothing to do with it,” Andrew snapped, already weary of the man’s presence. “What do you want?”

  “Tsk, I am your host and concerned with your comfort. You didn’t present yourself for luncheon, so have I taken it upon myself to bring you a bit of repast,” Ortega offered the goblet first, filled with beer, gold and delicately bubbling.

  Andrew took it and drank greedily. It was light, almost sweet, and greatly satisfied his thirst. “Thank you,” he said, with more gratitude than he’d intended. He flushed and bit his cheek.

  “You’re welcome. Here, then, are some of the remains of our supper. I recall you liked the pheasant and bread.” Ortega presented the plate with a flourish and a small bow. Several small pieces of meat, still fresh looking and succulent, sided with potatoes, carrots, and two thick slices of bread.

  Still not hungry, Andrew took the plate and set it beside him. “Thank you, again.”

  Ortega bowed again. “And again, you are welcome. Eat, dress; when you are finished have your guard bring you to the deck. Some fresh air to help clear your head; that would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

  The man left. Andrew stared at the closed door for a long time, empty of thought. What he wanted to do was lie back down, sleep another day away, and then another. He wanted to sleep until the grey edges of his vision faded and the stone of grief lifted from his heart. He ate the food, despite his lack of appetite. Then he dressed, feeling as though his body were draped in lead. His wounds ached and felt hot beneath the bandages. As he washed his face he caught his reflection and paused to harden his expression into one of disdain. Schooling himself to remember his purpose, he lifted his chin and took a deep breath.

  “I will do this,” Andrew spoke, very softly, to the face in the mirror. “I will kill Maarten Jan de Worrt.”

  When he stepped out onto the deck he felt every eye upon him, but when he sought them out all faces were turned away. The strange silence was here, too, even as the men worked. Only the galleon spoke; her sails billowing, rigging and pulleys straining, and the wood itself was creaking as if she sought to fill the quiet with song. It was a small comfort, but Andrew was thankful for it.

  She was a beautiful ship, too; larger than the Taibhse, square-rigged with a fo’c’sle. The deck was remarkably clear of rope and barrel, allowing for freedom of movement and easy access to four brass guns, mounted on her gunnel. The cabins were below deck in the aft with the crew’s quarters in the fore, providing security and privacy for both captain and guests.

  “Where are we?” Andrew asked, looking to the man at the wheel.

  “Jeg ved ikke, hvad du siger,” he replied, not looking at Andrew but shaking his head.

  Sighing, Andrew wandered to the gunnel, eyeing the dark shadow of land in the distance.

  “Saying farewell to Africa?” a voice said at his shoulder. Ortega stepped up to the gunnel and leaned on it, facing him. “We’ll clear the strait by the morning bell. Once the sun sets you will no longer have to bear the sight of it.”

  The sun was indeed lowering in the west, already turning a dark burnished gold. Andrew stared at the horizon then back at the land. Farewell. Forever. His chest was suddenly tight, crushing, stealing his breath. He gripped the side rail and choked back sickness, putting a hand over his mouth. He felt strong hands at his shoulders and he was turned to face Ortega.

  “It happens, don’t be alarmed. You looked too long on the horizon. Try not to focus on the passing land,” Ortega said, holding him steady. He did not seem surprised by Andrew’s state; trembling, pale, weak and distressed.

  It took Andrew a moment to regain his control, and it was flimsy, at best. He cleared his throat, wiped his eyes, and said softly, “I would like to return to my cabin, please.”

  “It will not help. Fresh air is best,” Ortega told him.

  Ah, he thinks I’m sick, Andrew thought. Let him, it will help.

  Ortega took his arm and draped it around his neck. “If you insist, but you’ll be worse off for it.”

  “I only need to rest.”

  “It is clear to me that you need more than rest. You are obviously distressed, and I can guess why,” Ortega said.

  Andrew gritted his teeth. “Can you?”

  “You’re terrified, as well you should be. You need to end the folly you intend and not give yourself to Maarten.” Ortega deposited him on his bunk.

  Andrew covered his face with his hands, rubbing at his burning eyes. “You are mistaken, it isn’t fear I feel.” He looked at Ortega then and said, “Thank you for your assistance, Captain.”

  Ortega replied with a polite bow. “I’ll leave you to rest. Join me for supper again; you’ll be sent for at the proper time.”

  Alone, Andrew went to the basin again and splashed his face. “I can do this. I will…” he said to himself, his voice breaking, choking on the words. He clenched his hands in his hair and pulled, hard enough to make his head throb.

  The final lesson; focus. Concentrate on what you mean to do. Refuse to acknowledge any and all distractions. Focus. Focus. Focus…

  At last he felt the flood of emotions recede, not fully, but enough for him to take a deep but still shaky breath. The face Andrew saw in the mirror this time did not have that hard look. It was defeated, all thoughts of happiness and peace ripped away and left with nothing but the most meager shell of humanity. Try as he might, he could not recall the mask of indifference. His eyes continued to fill with tears and his mouth was drawn down in a grimace.

  Andrew wondered how he could face Maarten if he could not even stem the flow of his tears. He desperately needed this control, needed it as a weapon and a shield. As he stood shaking, watching his expression crumple and struggle to reform, he clenched his fists. The pain in his palm flared, causing him to gasp, and clearing his mind for an instant. In that moment, his face relaxed and his eyes cleared. “Ah,” he whispered to his reflection and sent his fingers straight into the bandaged wound.

  That was better. His vision sharpened. His face smoothed over.

  “Like the martyrs, enduring the worst tortures without a cry. I see now, how that is done,” Andrew said, testing the steadiness of his voice. Then he laughed, at himself, his audacity. He stared hard at his face
again, nodding satisfactorily. “You are no martyr.”

  Then he took himself back to bed, keeping his mind occupied with questions for Ortega, and away from the fact that the seat of his joy, his ultimate happiness, was fading from view with every passing moment. The ships movements lulled him to sleep, but his dreams were ghastly; full of bright sunlight, warm hands, and green eyes.

  When Andrew was called to supper, he was back in control of himself. He’d slept, fitfully, but enough to chase the weight of fatigue from his limbs. He had wiped himself from head to foot with a soft cloth and a newly filled basin of cool water. Dressed in the borrowed finery he felt himself distant and protected, at least his spirit was, and was prepared to engage in ‘polite conversation’ as he ate.

  Ortega greeted him with a smile. “Ah! You were right, you look better for the rest.” He waved Andrew to his chair.

  “Despite recent developments I have not spent much time on ships. I’m still growing accustomed to the rocking,” Andrew said. He sat and shook his napkin out over his lap.

  Ortega smiled. “Indeed.” He watched Andrew drink and spoke again. “Be sure to curb your intake of wine, or tomorrow will be as uncomfortable as today.”

  Andrew shook his head, licking his lips clean. “It has passed. There will be no more sickness. In fact, I’m quite hungry. May I begin?”

  “Of course,” Ortega answered, taking up his stiletto to serve himself, as well.

  Andrew felt the man’s eyes on him, constantly. It did not stop him from treating himself to a healthy portion of roasted pork and honeyed yams and eating them with great gusto. “What will our polite conversation be about this evening?” he asked, not looking towards his host.

  “For a priest and a captive, you carry yourself well. One would almost believe you a young nobleman,” Ortega commented.

  “I was never a priest, or a monk. I was raised by holy men to be astute and observant. They are gifts I do not take for granted,” Andrew replied, reaching for his goblet.

  “But you were a captive,” Ortega said, his voice half-teasing.

  Andrew met his gaze over the rim of his cup. “Yes. I was.”

  “And yet, you wish to place yourself back in captivity. I confess that it puzzles me,” Ortega said, frowning now. “You have the sharpest of minds, a pleasing demeanor and a face that would tempt angels; why would you put yourself in the hands of…”

  “A sadistic madman?” Andrew supplied.

  Ortega nodded.

  “I have my reasons,” Andrew answered, driving his fingertips into his palm.

  “You would be a brilliant protégé. Work for me, with me, and the world can be yours,” Ortega told him.

  Andrew smiled, sadly, and stabbed the back of his hand with his fork beneath the table. “But I never wanted the world and there is nothing in it that makes me want to stay.”

  Ortega was silent for a long time after that. He sat watching Andrew eat, his elbows resting on the table and hands folded beneath his chin. Andrew ignored him, finishing his plate and shoving it away. After finishing his wine, Andrew sat back, threw one leg over the arm of the chair, and waited.

  The silence stretched; Ortega simply stared as if expecting Andrew to do…something. Andrew refused to become irritable, or incensed, by the man’s strange behavior. He sat calmly, growing drowsy, and closed his eyes. His head fell forward, jarring him awake though he did not know when he fell asleep.

  Ortega was no longer across the table but seated next to him, twirling his stiletto in his fingers. When he noticed Andrew was looking at him he sat forward, eyes bright and curious. “You mean to let Maarten kill you, is that it? It is a strange form of suicide, to be sure, but I don’t think that it is your only objective.” He lifted Andrew’s chin. “Tell me what your plans are, Andrew.”

  Andrew shook his head, pulling away from Ortega’s hand. “No, stop it,” he said, his words slurred, sluggish. His head fell forward again and he only wished to sleep, but Ortega pushed him back up with a hand on his chest.

  “Why do you go to Maarten?” Ortega persisted, gently.

  Andrew felt the stiletto poke into his neck, just enough to hold his attention. “I’m tired now,” he said, eyes drooping. He could barely see; everything was blurry and distorted.

  “Tell me your plans and you may rest. Come on, now,” Ortega persisted, taking his chin more firmly and shaking.

  Andrew’s eyes were barely open. He parted his lips to speak; his voice was so low he could hardly hear himself. “I plan…to kill him. I want to kill the bastard.”

  “Well, now, that is a surprise…” the words faded into darkness.

  Andrew could recall those words when next he opened his eyes. He was not in his bunk but a larger one, framed elaborately and draped with red velvet. He pushed up onto an elbow, head swimming and sickness threatening. He groaned and fell back, curling up on his side to hold his stomach.

  “I owe you an apology.”

  Andrew cracked one eye open. Ortega was sitting next to him with a cup in his hand. Andrew closed his eyes again and moaned. “Go away.”

  His head was lifted and the cup pressed to his lips. “Drink it.” He let his lips part and cool, sweet cider flowed into his mouth. Ortega leaned closer as he spoke. “It’s the laudanum that has made you sick. I may have given you too much and for that I’m sorry.”

  “Why on earth would you give me laudanum?” Andrew asked, raising his voice far too much and clutching at his head as the sound echoed in his skull.

  “Most people feel pleasant, relaxed. I didn’t expect you to react so poorly Here, drink some more,” Ortega said, his voice very soft. He tipped the cup, letting Andrew sip at it.

  “But why?” Andrew whispered.

  Ortega sighed. “Information. No one would willingly hand themselves over to Maarten Jan de Worrt, especially if they were familiar with his particular…tastes. I wanted to know what you were planning, if it would affect me and how.” The man set the cup on the floor and leaned forward on his elbows, putting his face close to Andrew’s. “You and I have a common goal, Andrew. We could do this together and benefit healthily from it. I meant what I said about a protégé. You’re the cleverest creature I’ve ever met and I can only dream of what your mind could conceive.”

  “Killing Maarten is my only purpose. It is the only reason I am still alive,” Andrew whispered, looking into Ortega’s eyes.

  They stayed there for a moment. Ortega did not look away, but he nodded, tilted his head a bit, and said, “I see that you mean it. I will not try to dissuade you, not now. I offer my assistance.” He shushed away Andrew’s argument and retrieved the cup. “Drink this and go back to sleep. We’ll discuss this when you are awake again.”

  Andrew did as he was told.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Andrew pulled the cloak around him a little tighter. It was warm, if a bit elaborate; fur-lined wool, hooded and falling to his ankles, even he could appreciate the rich crimson of its color and the way it draped and moved around him. It did not keep out the chill completely, though he was willing to admit that the damp, leaky slott was not the only reason he trembled. He cast a glance towards Ortega, standing beside him, looking calm and elegant in his black velvet. It was a stark contrast to the anger he’d seen in the man the previous evening.

  “You are infuriating! How will you best this man if you are dead? The most powerful revenge would be to live, to sit at the head of his fortunes. You would live a life of luxury if you would let yourself!”

  Watching Ortega as he paced, Andrew was struck with a realization. “They’ve always remained nameless, faceless, chattel to be traded and sold. I am the only one you’ve ever spoken to, aren’t I?”

  Ortega sent him a scathing look. “Have faith that I see the error in that.”

  “The damage is done, though, isn’t it?” Andrew asked, a small smile curving his lips.

  Now the man ignored him, even though he’d personally seen to Andrew’s appearance. The bl
ue velvet was taken away and replaced with white; white on white, with silver braided frogs and elaborate stitching. There were no slashes, no blousing, just trim velvet and silk. There was even a silk wrap on his still healing hand. Andrew wanted to clench it now, but the preceding days had done their work well, and he resisted.

  There were still moments of weakness, left over from the fever that had wracked his body. Andrew had torn the stitches in his palm and, before the surgeon could catch it, infection had taken hold. He remembered very little, only snatches of conversations above him, dreams skirting the edge of his awareness, and the flash of hot and cold as the fever undulated through him. He had lingered in delirium for three days and for that he was grateful. It was three less days to remember, three less days to face before it could all be over.

  Only one thing remained with him from those fever dreams; a request…no, a command, to hold on. Hold on, as long as he could. Andrew did not know what it meant, but the memory of it had caused his heart to flutter. Now, it was what he kept as his focus, instead of the pain he’d been causing himself. It helped him find the strength to stand in this decrepit hall and wait…wait to be called into Maarten Jan de Worrt’s rooms.

  Ortega looked at him now. “This is your last chance, Andrew. I could introduce you as my apprentice, or my partner, and spare you…” his words trailed off.

  “I cannot, but,” Andrew paused, took a breath, “thank you. You had no reason to help me, to care for my wounds or my illness. Nor dress me in such finery. I am deeply grateful for your assistance, Ortega.”

  “Alejandro,” Ortega replied, softly. “My name is Alejandro.”

  Andrew smiled. “Your name means defender of man; if only that were so.”

  Ortega was pale and silent after that.