Raised By Wolves 1 - Brethren (64 page)

“And someone once asked me why I didn’t go roving…” Donoughy said.

“It is good to know Davey took well to it,” Fletcher said. “However did you get him off the ship, my Lord?”

I bit my lip. “That is a tale for another time.”

Donoughy supplied us with a pair of hammocks. With so many dead, the shed was longer than needed to house all the men, and there was an empty set of poles next to the place where Donoughy and Fletcher slept. When I returned from relieving myself, I was amused to find that Gaston had strung our hammocks together between four poles so that they formed one wide berth. Fletcher was appalled.

When Gaston went to relieve himself, Donoughy whispered to me,

“My Lord, the men that um….” He sighed. “Well, they slip away into the woods for a bit.”

“We are merely going to sleep in it, I assure you.” I considered going to find Gaston so that we could talk, since the opportunity was obviously not going to present itself once everyone was bedded down, even in French. My manhood suggested maybe I could request a repeat of the night before, as well. I told it to be still. Its interest kept me from seeking my matelot, as I did not wish him to think that was all I wanted.

I arranged my weapons, and lay on the hammock, and waited for his return.

Shortly he did, and immediately rummaged in his bag. He found his jar of hog’s fat, which he swore by to keep the insects at bay. I could barely stand the feel of it on my skin. As I had already been bitten a number of times, I reached for the jar with resignation. To my surprise, he swatted my hand away. He looked along the shed. I followed his gaze.

As the lamps had not been put out yet, we could see the men preparing for bed. I noticed several men furtively slipping in together from the forest. If I had not seen them arrive together, I never would have guessed they shared any interest in one another. I also noticed some of the men glancing our way quite curiously. I did not feel condemnation, but I did feel as if I were in another place and time.

I remembered one evening at a château in Geneva in specific. The ladies had all retired, and the fire had burned down, and the men had been drinking cognac and smoking. Several of us favored men, and glances were exchanged; and on one pretense or another, a man would slip away and another would follow shortly thereafter, with the rest of us making silent bets as to who was next. There had been an air of romance and intrigue about it all; but in looking back upon it, I quickly decided I never wished to live that way again. I had ended that particular evening buggering a beautiful young man in a stairwell. Once finished, he had scampered off to bed with a whispered good night, and I had stumbled to my room alone and weary of spirit.

Donoughy put out the lanterns, all save one on a central pole, which he turned very low. I heard, but could barely see, Donoughy crawl into his hammock in the dim illumination. Along the shed there were embers here and there, as men smoked pipes. I heard Gaston leave the hammock. I turned to face where he would have been, and could barely see him in the darkness. I felt his hand upon my wrist, and allowed him to pull me off the hammock and out of the shed.

All was shadow except for the sky. The sliver of moon and the brilliant panoply of stars did little to illuminate the treeline or the bulk of the shed nearby. A steady cacophony of insects drowned all other sound. I could feel Gaston in my arms. My manhood was delighted, and began to rise for play.

“We did not have to….”

His lips pressed to mine and stopped my words. I pressed back gently in a soft kiss. He withdrew somewhat, but his breath was still upon my lips as he whispered, “I want to explain something to you, but it has been a long and trying day. If you do not wish…”

I kissed him lightly to still his words, as he had done to me. Then I caressed his cheek with the tip of my nose, delighting in even the feel of his day-old stubble. He was very still, but he did not move away. I covered his mouth with mine again and brushed my lips across his. He did nothing until I licked the corner of his mouth, and then he turned his head.

“I am not ready for that,” he sighed.

I did not protest, choosing instead to return to caressing his cheek.

I shifted my hands and rubbed the small of his back in incrementally lengthening strokes. He pressed against me, and I was sure he could feel my arousal.

“You may touch me anywhere,” he whispered.

I gasped ever so quietly, yet he heard it and gave an answering snort of amusement. Then he rubbed his body against me, in a way that confirmed my suspicion about his knowledge of my arousal. My hands found his buttocks and ground him closer. He slipped his arms around my neck, allowing me to run my fingers where I would. I proceeded to, with great delight, as I had dreamed of caressing the entirety of him.

When I reached his chest he gasped, “Not there,” as I brushed his scarred right nipple. “It feels… odd.”

I slid my hand to his left nipple and he held still, and let me fondle it. His breathing caught a little, and he made the happy humming sound.

As I continued to explore and touch, though, I began to realize that he was not breathing shallowly or writhing or moaning as I would if similarly handled. There was a response, but it was dim. Instead of redoubling my efforts, I slid a hand between his waistband and the rippled wall of his stomach and dipped into sacred realms. I found him flaccid. My fingers teased and cajoled and explored for a little while. He twitched against me as if I tickled him on occasion, but his manhood gave no reaction. I withdrew my hand and held him close.

He truly held no interest in me. I endeavored to hold the disappointment at bay.

His voice was tight. “You must understand that it is not you.”

“Non,” I said gently. “It is men in general. Oui. I understand.”

“Non, non.” He swore quietly. “Will, I do not think it would matter if you were a woman. I do not feel...”

Now I understood. I shoved aside my rising guilt at my prior thought, and tried to comprehend what this meant to him.

“When was the last time…?” I feared I knew the answer already.

“That night.”

He did not need to explain what night. Apparently it had scarred more than his voice and skin. My manhood was shriveling in sympathy and fear. Still I asked, hoping for something, “And nothing since?”

“An occasional twitch. I sometimes wake from dreams and there is evidence it performed on its own; and I am relieved as it is not wholly dead, only to my waking mind.” He sighed. “Will, you must understand that your touch feels very good. I just do not react as I know others do.

As I see you do. As I know I would have before. I do not want you angry with me.”

“How could I be angry with you?” I murmured. “In all honesty, I now feel guilt at the incidences where I have been angry or frustrated with you before. I now understand. I am sorry. I wish you had told me weeks ago,” I said with wry amusement. “It would have made our lives easier.”

He murmured into my neck. “I know. I was afraid. I feel less a man for it, and when asked I have lied. You are the only person I have told.”

“Not all of your scars are on the outside, either,” I said. “I knew this, but not to the degree.”

He held me closer. “As I said before, you give me hope. Now that I have you, I find myself hoping this wound can be healed.”

“I love you,” I whispered and crushed him to me, as his words had made my heart ache again, and not in sympathy to his pain and loss.

I loved him with an intensity I had never felt before and could not express. “We will find a way.”

I struggled to even think of a way to confront the problem. Bestowing or receiving touch had not brought him alive. It was a thing of the mind and not the body. That was where he needed to heal.

“We will suture it with patience,” I said, and hoped he could hear my smile. “I will use my blood for balm if necessary.”

“Non, not yours,” he said sadly. “I have given the matter great thought and I fear it is more a matter of lancing and draining and possibly even bleeding. There is one other time when it functions, though thankfully I have never acted upon it; and that is when the madness grips me.”

I could not help myself, I groaned and looked to the stars, not for guidance but as a reminder that unreachable and unfathomable things can be quite pretty to look upon.

I kissed his temple. “It is all tied together in some Gordian knot in your mind, is it not?”

He nodded against my cheek.

“I am sure it would help greatly if you would but tell me what occurred,” I said. “If it is difficult to speak of or remember, we could fill you with rum. I promise no matter what occurred I will never judge you harshly.”

“I cannot.” He choked on the words. “Truly, Will. It is part of the knot. It is a dream, and to even think of the few images I have is to court madness. I know I sinned, and I know my father’s rage was justified, but the how and why of it I do not allow myself to know.”

“Hush, then. We will not attack it directly, or even tonight. Let us sleep and see what the morrow brings.” I rubbed his back, and slowly he calmed, and stopped clinging to me with desperation.

I watched the stars and wondered at the strange turns in our lives, and whether or not we could be considered blessed or cursed to have discovered one another. I decided blessed, as I could not imagine living without him now.

Gaston sniffed away his duress and shifted in my embrace. He pulled his arms from around my neck, and I felt something pressed against my chest.

“Hold this,” he whispered.

“What?” I took it and recognized the jar of hog fat. “Oh, I need that. I have been bitten a dozen times.”

“We will remedy that,” he whispered.

I felt his sticky fingers on my brow, and I closed my eyes and let him coat my face in a thin sheen of the noxious stuff. I ran into his fingers as I started to scoop some out to work on him.

“Non. Allow me,” he whispered.

With amusement I let him do my neck and arms and even my legs.

I had not thought the spreading of it could feel so pleasurable as when someone else did it. I sensed his game when his fingers slid up under the legs of my breeches; so did my manhood. I captured his hand as he reached for the jar again.

“Non.”

“I want to.”

“You do not owe me anything.”

He sighed and pulled his hand away and slid it under my tunic. “I want to because one of us can. I learned that last night.”

“If it is for your benefit, then I of course I will not deny you.” My chuckle stopped abruptly when his fingers found a nipple. With a sigh I rested an arm on his shoulder and leaned into him. Then it was his turn to chuckle quietly as his hand slid into my breeches and I gasped.

I locked my knees and threw my head back to watch the stars. A pleasurable time later, they all seemed to move of their own accord, and I slumped against him.

I could foresee myself becoming quite pampered. Yet I despaired of ever knowing whether the Gods were on my side or not.

Wherein We Have Dreams

The next morning, I told everyone we would return shortly, and we rode to the Passage Fort. We made a leisurely go of it, and I endeavored to instruct Gaston in riding, or of greater import, becoming comfortable upon the beast. He did well, but I knew it would take him several days to truly become accustomed to it. So I told the livery boy we were not yet finished with the animals, and we paid him for the entirety of the day on the promise he would let the sorrel and the bay to no one else.

In contrast to his demeanor during the pleasant morning ride, Gaston became uneasy as we approached the ferry wharf.

“Is something amiss?” I asked.

He shook his head and sighed. “There is so much noise here. I react poorly to crowds and…”

There was a crash nearby, and I whirled to find a man cursing at another over a broken wagon wheel. The contents of the dray, a series of large copper kettles, had clattered to the ground. When I turned back to Gaston, his arms were crossed and his eyes closed. I tentatively slipped my arm over his shoulders.

He took a deep breath, and released it slowly. His eyes opened and found mine.

“I do not like towns. They are unpredictable. It takes time for me to adjust to them. I must be vigilant or the horse shies.”

“I will endeavor not to let you be thrown,” I said seriously. I kissed his temple.

“Take it elsewhere,” someone grumbled.

I had a pistol aimed at the speaker’s head before I saw him. He threw his hands wide, backed off, and quickly skirted us. I realized we were standing in the road as I returned the piece to my belt. Other people were regarding us, but I thought it unlikely they would say anything now.

Gaston was smirking at me. “You are as skittish as I.”

“Oui, we make a fine pair, do we not?”

“Oui.” He smiled and kissed my cheek. “Let us go before someone dies.”

I kept my arm around him as we walked companionably to the ferry.

“You can recognize this man?” Gaston asked as the boat was pushed off. “Oui.” I described what I remembered of Creek.

“It is midday. Sensible men, who are not English,” he gave me a teasing look, “avoid the sun and rest in the afternoon here, much as the Spanish do.”

“I would think him prone to sensibility, or drunkenness, such that now is when he would be rising.”

“Then let us go to the wall leading to the Palisadoes.”

Thus when we arrived at the landing, he led me left and east on Thames, into a part of the town I had not ventured before. We took a lane to High Street and proceeded toward the wall. The cay narrowed considerably on this end, so that there was only one set of lots on each side of the road, though they were deep and filled with larger buildings than houses. I was amused as we passed a prison. It seemed incongruous in this place. When we reached the Landward Fort, I was pleased to see that it was indeed a wall of stonework with cannon. It separated Port Royal from the spit of land leading to Jamaica. There was an open gate, and no one was being challenged as they entered.

“What do you propose?” I asked when Gaston stopped inside the wall and looked about.