The Red King Page 5

  Andrew lowered the cloth to speak, but hesitated.

  “Speak to me plainly, Andrew, always.”

  There was something in his eyes, his face; a pensiveness that surprised Andrew. “I always strive to do so, Captain.” He paused, then said, “You’ve been very good to me, more so than even your vendetta would deem necessary.”

  Rory sat back in his chair. His hair was beginning to dry, curling out and away from his face and it caught the flickering light from the lone lantern. “Yes?”

  “I do not think that you are a pirate, even though that is what you wish me to think.”

  They stared at each other in the sparsely lit room for a long moment, until Rory said, “You’ve earned your shot. There’s no more need to pay your way. But my offer still stands.”

  Andrew’s heart was fluttering in his chest. He no longer felt the threat of necessity and was thankful for that, but he was also, shockingly, disappointed. Now that the choice was his and his alone, he felt it needed more careful reflection. “I am still considering it, Captain.”

  Rory stood, slowly, and bent to put their faces close together. “You are welcome to sleep here, again, tonight. I’m keeping track, though.” He gave Andrew a soft, gentle kiss, careful of his wounded lips, then put the bowl of catmint tea in his hand. “You will have much to make up for.”

  He took the lantern off of the hook and removed himself from the cabin, leaving Andrew smiling in the dark.

  ***

  They had lost the other ship. The storm blew them north, farther than anticipated. Andrew could feel the keen dissatisfaction coming from the men. They took it to heart that there would be others that they could not save. The frustration hung over the ship as they set course for Algiers and even the thought of home and comfort could not shake it.

  Andrew was treated with great deference now. Every man to the last had thanks to give to him. Andrew was discomfited by their shows of respect and kindness, from the extra bowl of cooked oats to the bowed heads and salutes normally befitting an officer, and he took every opportunity to express his wish that they treat him no different than each other. His arm did not pain him much by the next day and he wished to help with the daily duties. Not one would give him anything, assuring him that all was well in hand.

  Finally, he went to Rory. “I’m not useless and I do not require further rest,” he complained and his irritation was plain in his voice.

  Rory eyed him critically. “I can see the reason for their reluctance. You look like a bruised berry.”

  “My face has nothing to do with working on the ship,” Andrew answered, testily.

  “That all depends on who you ask, don’t it?” Fleming quipped as he passed them.

  “And it is hardly any of your business!” Andrew shouted after him.

  Grinning at him, an expression quickly becoming something Andrew sought to provoke, Rory said, “We are still making repairs from the storm. It may be a while before we are able to find a task for your skills.” He lowered his voice and his smile changed, “Although I may be able to offer you some distraction.”

  Andrew felt a stirring below his belly but before he could respond, Rory pulled a dagger from his belt.

  “Let me show you how to throw a knife.”

  In the hold, Rory showed him the specifics of stance, the proper grip, and then threw the small knife at a carved X on a beam. Andrew’s first attempt bounced harmlessly off of the bulkhead, two feet to the left.

  “Show me again, please.”

  Rory gladly did, standing behind him, lined up shoulders to hips with hands on Andrew’s wrist, his back. “Make sure you put your weight on the back foot, first, and step into the throw.”

  This time the blade stuck, but into a barrel some distance to the right. Andrew sighed as he retrieved the dagger, saying, “This will take some time.”

  As Rory stepped up behind him again, he said against his ear, “I hope so.”

  Andrew did not hide his smile. “I can practice on my own.”

  “You will, but I want to be sure you have the form right. This is important.” Rory stepped back, indicated he should continue.

  “For your vengeance?” Andrew asked, his mood darkened by the reminder.

  “For your protection. The more you handle the knife the better. It will become an extension of your arm.”

  Andrew met his stare. “Will you teach me to fight, as well?”

  “Yes, with hand as well as sword.”

  An image of his fist slamming into Acklie’s face briefly flashed in his head. Andrew nodded, “That would be useful.”

  Returning to form, he continued to practice in silence. Rory gently called corrections from behind, then beside him. Andrew accepted the instruction easily, finding in his heart that he relished the feel of the hilt in his hand and the sound of the blade striking home. Finally, there was nothing else to teach, merely diligent practice. He continued long after Rory left, losing himself in the repetitive motions.

  The motions allowed for a certain meditation, and memories of is prior life began to press upon him. One by one, he saw the face of Father Armand, the brothers in their white robes kneeling for prayer, the men who had reared him, loved him; in truth, spoiled him more than their doctrine permitted. He missed them, keenly, and grew angry at the return of his tears, wiping at them with a shaking hand. When he turned and threw the knife again, as hard as he could, he felt satisfaction when it struck home with a powerful ‘THUNK’. He felt his lips pull back in what was supposed to be a smile, but became more of a furious grimace. He let his anger build, using it to drive his arm, his aim, and by the afternoon bell was squarely hitting the target, every time.

  At length, he became aware of the change of light and a gnawing in his stomach. When he reappeared on deck he was greeted by Malik at the rudder. “You were down there all afternoon! What were you up to?”

  Andrew held up the dagger. “Learning to throw, apparently, though I confess to not fully accepting its usefulness. What adversary will stand still as a stanchion, and let me throw a tiny knife at him?”

  “The captain knows what will serve, Coinin. You can trust what he tells you.”

  Andrew smiled at this new soubriquet. “Why little wolf?”

  “You’re learning the ways of the pack, are you not? Soon you will be as deft a hunter as the rest of us.”

  “I meant, must I always be little, Malik?”

  “You are all little from where I sit,” the mountainous man answered, laughing, and Andrew laughed with him.

  “I’ve heard many of the others tales, but not yours. What brought you here?” Andrew asked, curiosity forestalling his hunger for the moment.

  Malik looked confused. “In truth, I do not remember. I can recall small things; mostly feelings, sometimes faces, but all else is lost. When the captain found me, I was washed ashore outside of Tunis. I was wounded in the head, dying, and he…” Leaning closer, he said, “This was told to me by Fleming, who is a spinner of wild tales, but it feels familiar to me. The captain fetched a mystic, an old Arabic magician, who knew where Death held me. He opened my head, peered into my very skull, and took out the parts that were leading my soul the other side. I woke up a week later, healthy and hungry as a babe, but I have no memory of my life before that morning.”

  Andrew was spellbound. “Nothing?”

  “Aye, I can recall the language and ancient stories of my people…our people, Coinin; how to hunt, trap, and fish, rig and sail this vessel, yet I do not know even my name. Malik was chosen for me by the mystic. It is supposed to mean ‘angel’, as if heathens and Muslims know of such things.”

  “The man who raised me was educated at fine schools in many places before he shunned Earthly distractions. His way was influenced by Augustine and Columba, but he knew too much of the world to follow their path, blindly and utterly. He taught me that Muslims pray to the same God of Abraham as Christians and Jews. Though they be foreign to us, they are far from heathens. I see your skep
ticism and will not argue the point except to say that this mystic saved your life, and the captain knew he would. It must have meant something or he would not have gone through the trouble. ‘The captain knows what will serve’, a very wise man once said,” Andrew told him, smiling. “And the mystic was right, Malik. You are an angel. Who else would return to a burning ship to save a boy chained to a deck, a boy he didn’t know, but an angel?”

  Malik looked embarrassed. “I am glad I was able to help you.”

  Andrew left him there with a small, reverent bow and a very sincere, “Thank you, Malik.” He went in search of dinner, following a rich, hearty smell to find its source a stew of lamb and figs. While he ate he contemplated Malik’s story, the stories of the crew, and the curious meaning they gave his own tale.

  There was the sense that this was destined, as though there was a greater plan in this world of pain and death he found himself. This was not entirely the captain’s design; no, it was much broader, painted by a fuller brush. It unnerved him, thinking that there was a reason he was here, and that perhaps was the reason he found himself wanting to stay. He wondered, then, if it was part of this design that he accept Rory’s offer.

  At first it had been his fear of the captain himself that prevented his acceptance. There was so much at stake and so little by way of return, how could he agree? That fear had faded and been replaced by a burning, longing curiosity. With a wider array of options, albeit not enough to Andrew’s liking, he found that the initial payment did not leave him cold with terror. There was still fear, certainly, but it was of the future. What would be the cost of finding this Maarten, of killing him…how high would it be? He could not help but be afraid, not that it would take his life, but that he would be left alone once more.

  It came to him that he liked it here, on this ship with these men, and would stay on to learn to be one of them if he could. He wanted to help these battered souls, to see them find peace. In this short span of time, spent with men damaged by the ever present avarice of Man, he had learned a deeper appreciation for life. It was a far richer tapestry than he’d ever imagined while hidden behind the stone walls of his quiet abbey. This was what it meant to be alive, truly what it meant to serve.

  That thought caused Andrew’s appetite to wane and he set his cup down. He returned to the deck to stand at the bow, letting the wind and spray blow into his face as the sky darkened. He stayed there for a long time.

  “Are you counting them?”

  Andrew jumped. He looked over his shoulder and saw Rory not far from him. The man’s handsome countenance was cast into silver by the moon. “Counting?”

  “The stars; you have the look of someone who wishes to know their numbers, even though they know there are some things that will be forever beyond them,” Rory answered, moving closer now that Andrew had acknowledged him. His hands very carefully took Andrew by the waist, giving him time to withdraw.

  Sighing, Andrew turned back to the sky. “I don’t know what I seek, Captain. I have always had someone to ask before, somewhere to turn for help when I was confused. I no longer have that.”

  Rory nodded, his hair brushing across Andrew’s cheek and causing a shiver. Thinking him chilled in the night air, perhaps, Rory slipped his arms around him, pressing closer.

  “There is a point when your decisions become your own, Andrew. It is the most vital point of becoming a man, more important than breadth of chest or hair on your chin. I’m sorry that you face this now, after losing so much.”

  Though his mind was racing, Andrew stayed silent. He had so many questions, so many doubts, but he pushed them aside to rest against Rory, in the circle of his arms, as the ship moved through the velvet night.

  Chapter Seven

  It was morning; the sun was starting to seep into the hold. Andrew was half-awake, still feeling Rory’s arms around him, wondering how much longer he could stop himself from accepting the man’s offer. He craved the touch of his hands, the feel of his mouth, and felt his body respond to their memory. He moaned, very softly, when his mind led him to recall the slip of Rory’s tongue on his. There was a hot, throbbing pressure between his legs; the sort of pressure the brothers told him was the Devil’s call. This time, though, summoning the scripture did not ease the heaviness. His mind wandered, envisioning Rory’s mouth elsewhere on his body but he still resisted the urge to pleasure himself. It would take more than a daydream to break training of rod and penance.

  “All hands! All hands!

  It took Andrew a moment to fully wake up, and when he did he had a bit of trouble getting extracted from the hammock in which he had been sleeping. He could hear running, yelling, and the sounds of frantic preparations all around him as he pushed himself up off of the floor.

  Catching one of the men by the arm, he asked, “What’s happening?”

  “We’re under attack!”

  “What?”

  “The damned raider ship circled around after the storm. They placed themselves between us and land and approach at full sail with guns ready. Unless you have a station for battle, I suggest you stay below.” The man left him there.

  Andrew ran onto the deck, anyway, searching for Rory. He saw him in the rigging, moving across it quickly, effortlessly, securing and releasing lines in order to set to full sail. His hair was loose, his expression savage but joyful, and he shouted orders down to Fleming. “We have the wind, leave off the oars! We need the guns, Fleming! Ready the guns!”

  Rory saw Andrew then, standing unsure in the midst of it all, and leapt down to land gracefully before him. Andrew was breathless, both with fear of the coming battle and from his sudden, thudding heart. “I don’t know what to do,” he said.

  “You will stay below, out of the line of fire. We can out maneuver her, but there will still be rifle fire as we pass. I want no chance of you being hit by a stray bullet.” He took Andrew’s face in his hands and kissed him with great feeling before moving on to the foremast.

  Malik passed him then, carrying a large basket atop his shoulder. “Follow me, Coinin. I have work for you.”

  Andrew was set to striking the shot for the small cannons being readied on deck. “See how they’re smooth, perfectly rounded?” Malik said, holding one up so that the sun lit the surface. “We need them dented, dimpled, to make them fly straight. Take the hammer and set to, and hurry.”

  Andrew did hurry, ignoring the pain in his fingers when he missed. He was too focused to be worried, a fact that he took for granted until the heard the first of the warning fire. It seemed so close. Too close. When Malik returned for the basket, Andrew asked, “How much danger are we in Malik? Please, tell me.”

  Malik said, “You need to stay below. You need to do as you were told.”

  “I don’t think I can stand not knowing…not helping. I have to do something!”

  Malik left him without answering.

  Undeterred, Andrew climbed the steps to the top of the hold. He peered out but kept low, barely raising his head above the rim. The men were quiet; those not working the jib or rudder were stationed at intervals with weapons ready. He could not see Rory or Fleming at all. He saw Yousef kneeling nearby with a belaying pin in one hand and a boarding axe in the other. “Yousef,” he said, wanting to call out loudly but not wanting draw attention to himself. “What is it? What’s happening?”

  “The captain means to board her. We have to circle the ship until we can come about the side. It will take more precision than might, so we have to listen careful for the commands. So far they haven’t even had a chance to try and broadside us, but their rifles are ready. Keep low.” It was the third admonishment he’d received and it touched a nerve.

  “I can do something! I’m not helpless!” he said, his newly discovered temper flaring.

  Yousef quirked an eyebrow at him and said, “Get to the kitchen and help prepare for wounded, we’re likely to have many today.”

  Andrew punched the wooden frame at his side. They were all correct, of course,
Andrew was useless here. He abandoned his spot and followed the instruction, finding a handful of men already at the tables. He was given a long bit of raw muslin and set to tearing long strips for use as bandages. He had just begun when there was a barrage of gunfire from above. It was not their own.

  “That would be the schooner. They know we’re too fast for them big guns so they’ll to try to pick us off with little ones,” one of the other men told him when he jumped.

  “How successful should we expect them to be?” Andrew asked, his voice quavering a little. The sounds of the small cannons echoed through the room.

  “Not as much as they’d like, to be sure. We’ll do more damage with our nine-pounders than them with those big guns. She’ll be boarded and that’s when the real fighting begins.”

  There were more sounds of battle; guns, shouts, even a few screams. Andrew could make no sense of any of it. He sat as still as a statue, his entire body tensed and aching, listening to the fury up above them. At one point he caught himself whispering a prayer, his lips and heart leading while his mind was spun up in anxiety. There was a wrenching noise and the ship shuddered all around them, knocking them all sideways as the two vessels were brought alongside.

  It had taken much less time than Andrew expected. In fact, less than they all expected.

  “Oh, a bad sign, to be sure.” The man who’d spoken to him before said this with a shake of his head.

  “Why? What does that mean?” Andrew hated not knowing, hated having to question everything.

  “Means they want us on their ship; could be for slaughter by far greater numbers or surrender…I know which one’ll cross the captain’s mind. Now’s a question of whether it’s worth it to complete the attack.”