Raised By Wolves 2 - Matelots (26 page)

“Thank you,” I managed to say before Gaston was upon me.

“And what about the gash on your own damn fool head?” Striker yelled.

“I will instruct someone on what to do,” Gaston snarled. “Get boiled water from Sam, and rum.” He glared at them. “You may bind me again after I finish.”

Pete dropped into my view. “Will?”

“He will care for me,” I said doggedly. “Please help him.”

Pete nodded.

Sometime later, we were both stitched to Gaston’s satisfaction, and Pete was rebinding him to the bed. Cudro was gathering up the needles and soiled bandages. He had been the one to work on Gaston’s wound.

I slowly went to lie on the bed next to Gaston. My sides ached from the kicks they took, but Gaston had pronounced my ribs sound. They did not feel so at the moment. I wanted something for the pain, but my matelot said I could have nothing until my head cleared. I could not understand how that was going to happen when it ached so.

Theodore leaned over me. “Is there anything that needed your attention today?”

I struggled to remember. Something of import had occurred yesterday. Then I remembered. I chuckled ruefully. Thank the Gods I wasn’t to see Sir Christopher until tomorrow. But there was something on the agenda for today. “Agnes.”

“Oh, the girl, will she be at the Vines’?”

“I would imagine so,” I gasped.

“What should I tell people?” Theodore asked.

“They got into a brawl in a tavern,” Striker said with a tired sigh.

“That will not reflect badly upon their character amongst gentlefolk?”

Theodore asked with bemusement.

“Oh Hell,” Striker chuckled. “Is there anything that can be said about these two that will not?”

“Go to the Devil,” I sighed.

He chuckled. “Tell them some of the crew was involved in a brawl last night, and they waded in to sort through the matter. That shouldn’t sound too bad.”

“I think that will do,” Theodore said. “Should they be left alone?”

“Aye,” I said. “Please.”

I could not see them, but I well knew they were exchanging looks.

Pete leaned over me. “Do Na Cut’Im Lose.”

“I will not. I promise,” I whispered.

“I do not want him to,” Gaston said.

“Ya Be Mad. Ya Get No Say.”

That was not the wisest thing for him to say. I could feel Gaston tense beside me.

I patted his thigh, and spoke in French. “All will be well. Let them leave us for a time.”

They finally left. I stared at the ceiling. Death seemed a promising option.

“You will not marry that bitch,” Gaston growled. “She is jealous of me. She wants you to herself.”

I did not know if that were fact of fancy, but I did not care to argue about it.

“What of children?” I asked.

“I do not know,” he said tightly. “We will find a wife who despises you.”

“Thank you. What else troubled you?” I asked.

“I will not receive you again.”

“Ah,” I sighed. “I surely will not bestow upon you again, if this be the outcome.”

Though I knew it was not the sole reason for this morning’s bout.

His inability to perform as he wished last night, coupled with his need to possess me because of Christine, had led to it as well.

“Why did you instigate the fight in the tavern?” I asked.

His anger was gone. “I sought chastisement. I sought pain. And now I have caused you further pain.”

I snorted. “And there is your punishment for running off and inducing people to hurt you; you must lie there and know I am in pain.”

I meant it to be a jest, somewhat, but my delivery was quite flat.

He took a long ragged breath and began to sob. I cursed quietly and turned my head toward him. I was facing his armpit. With a pained sigh, I tried to roll toward him.

“Non,” he hissed. “Stay still.”

I returned to staring at the ceiling. I reached up and found his arm, and ran my hand along it until I found his bound wrist.

“Will,” he said raggedly. “Don’t.”

“I am not going to set you free,” I said tiredly. I slipped my fingers between his. “In any fashion. You will not succeed, no matter how you might try to drive me away.”

He squeezed my hand. I heard him sniff and wipe his nose on the shoulder of his tunic.

“I feel trapped,” he whispered.

I silently cursed my prior choice of words. “If you wish for me to leave, I will.”

“Non. I cannot live without you.”

“So you were seeking death this morning?” I asked.

He snorted. “Oui. You should not love me. If you love me, then I am worthy of love, and all the evils done to me have been unwarranted.”

“I understand,” I said. “I have had similar thoughts. You are correct.

Either we do not love one another, or evil has consistently been visited upon our undeserving persons.”

“I love you,” he said.

“Then the world has been very cruel, or perhaps the Gods.”

“My father did not love my mother,” he said.

“What?”

“If he loved her,” he said fiercely, “he would have done much for her, as you do for me. He would not have locked her away.”

I was surprised. “Did you think they loved one another? I have never assumed my parents shared anything other than respect.”

“He said he loved her. He said he loved me.”

I puzzled over that. “Do you wish he had loved you when he nearly flogged you to death in a fit of anger, or when he sent you away to those schools where you were so poorly used? That is not love. I have always wanted love. I have never had it until now. All before have hurt me.”

“I hurt you,” he said.

I sighed with exasperation. My aching body made me regret such a show of drama.

“Oui,” I said quietly. “But you seek to castigate yourself for it. I am sure they congratulated themselves for harming me, if they noticed what they had wrought at all.”

He sighed. “I think my father feels he loves me.”

It brought to mind a number of things. “You might be correct, and mine might believe he loves me. For all the damn good it has done us.

And that may be all the love they are capable of, but damn it, it is not good enough by half. It is merely tragic they think that love; it is not forgivable.”

He was silent for a while, and then he said softly, “Please bind me so that I can hold you, or at least touch you.”

“Gladly,” I sighed. “But if I am to move, I want to accomplish all things I might need to move for this day, at one time. Would it be permissible for me to have some laudanum now?”

“Oui. You seem quite lucid. I wish to see your eyes when you turn over, though.”

I slowly rolled off the bed to my knees. The room did not reel.

“What do my eyes have to do with laudanum?” I asked when I could finally turn to him.

I found him teary-eyed.

“Oh, stop,” I chided.

He smiled weakly. “You fool. You are bruised all over.”

“Aye, well, as we have discussed, I am very much your fool. And if you looked as I do now, I would be suffering as much pain as you feel at the sight of me. I could not let them hurt you. Now what is this damn fascination with my eyes?”

He nodded. “If the pupils, the black parts, are not the same size, it indicates damage to the brain. There is an ancient medical remedy involving drilling a hole in the skull to relieve the pressure, but even Doucette had not seen it practiced.” He snorted. “From Striker’s description of speaking to Doucette after Pierrot beat him, I think it likely Doucette suffered from that type of damage. I wonder if he has recovered, or if he is permanently impaired?”

“I hope he is miserable either way,” I sighed. “I suppose I am able to have laudanum only if my eyes do not appear to be strange sizes.”

“Oui. It can be dangerous for a man to sleep if he has suffered a wound of that type. You do not appear to.”

I peered at the black part of his eyes. They were the same size.

“Neither have you.”

He nodded. “Then we may both sleep the day away.”

I untied him. I was strangely afraid Pete would burst into the room to scold me.

Thankfully, once I had his wrists free, Gaston could tend to his own ankles. I lay down again while he retrieved the laudanum and water. He quickly dosed both of us. I felt I was drifting in a dream, even before the substance had time to work its magic. We had done all of this before, after Tortuga. How many more times would we do this in our lives? How many more wounds could I take?

When he handed me the rope, I asked, “Is this truly necessary, or are you trying to punish yourself further? How riled is your Horse? And how much laudanum did you take?”

He tossed the rope on the floor, and curled beside me with his leg over mine and our fingers entwined. He kissed my cheek.

The laudanum took hold and I began to drift toward the Heavens. I thought this convenient, as I wished to say a thing or two to the Gods.

I heard breathing other than my own, and laughter, and assorted small sounds. I smelled tobacco smoke and wine. Gaston’s head was heavy on my shoulder. Lamplight flickered on the ceiling. I could not see out of my right eye. I turned my head, and found Striker’s back. Beyond him, I saw Pete, Theodore, and Cudro around a table that had been fitted into the room. They were playing cards.

“What the Devil is going on?” I asked.

My voice had been unsteady and quiet, and I was not sure if they heard me, but then Striker turned to peer down at me.

“How much damn laudanum did you two fools take?” he asked. “It is near midnight and we have been here since sunset, and you have not moved. Theodore had Sam here all day watching you, and he swears you didn’t move then, either.”

I listened: Gaston was definitely breathing; but had he taken so much he would not wake? I shook him, and patted his cheek. He murmured at me sleepily, and batted my hand away. I sighed with relief.

“Well, I will move now,” I told Striker. “I need to piss.”

“Don’t trouble yourself overmuch.” He handed me the chamber pot.

I thought that absurd, and then I tensed my muscles to move and found I would truly rather not. I carefully relieved myself in the chamber pot. Striker took it and emptied it out the window. Then he sat on the edge of the bed.

“What the Devil happened?” he asked.

I was trying to remember that, myself. I slowly recalled events I knew I could not tell them, and parsed them into ones I could.

“He woke in the grips of madness,” I said. “We argued somewhat, as I was not fully awake. He became distraught, and wished to… fight. So he went to the first tavern he found.”

“He didn’t want to fight you?” Striker asked.

“Nay. He was distraught because he had angered me.”

Striker did not seem fully satisfied with this explanation, but he nodded.

“He used to not recover for days,” he said.

“Aye, that was before me,” I said.

He sighed.

“Thank you,” I said, “all of you, for all of your assistance and concern. I am sorry we are such a bother.”

“It is all over town, Will,” Striker said. “Pierrot came and asked me of it. There has been talk among the French of his madness, even before this.”

I frowned. “All who have sailed with him have known him mad.”

Striker shrugged. “Aye, and that was before Doucette was shot and beaten in his house.”

I swore. “Oh bloody Hell. They are not speaking of witchcraft, are they?”

“Nay, but the gossip is that he stabbed his matelot,” Striker said.

“Well, he did.”

“Aye, but who knew of it, Will?” he asked.

“Madame Doucette, the priests…”

“Young Tom,” he spat.

“Oh Christ….” I sighed. “Dickey said he arrived with the French.”

Striker nodded grimly. “And there is more. Many of the French believe Gaston shot Doucette. Some of the French wish to hang him; others think he’s too mad to be trusted in battle.”

“Should we sail?” I asked.

“I want you to sail,” Striker sighed. “We need to speak to Pierrot and the Belle Mer’s captain, Savant.”

“May I understand what this is about?” Theodore asked.

I could not remember all I had told him in October, only what I had not. So I now told him of what had occurred on the galleon, and of the charges of witchcraft the next time we sailed, and how someone had murdered Michaels.

I was not precisely sure when, but I became aware that Gaston was awake. He did not move. I squeezed his fingers and he returned it.

“You say Gaston showed them…?” Theodore was asking.

I motioned him over, and raised Gaston’s tunic enough to show the scars upon his lower back. Gaston did not stop me. Theodore’s eyes widened considerably. He returned to his seat, shaking his head with sympathy.

“May I ask how that occurred?” he asked.

I sighed. Gaston had told Striker that his father had flogged him, but no other. I imagined Pete knew. I thought it best Cudro and Theodore did as well. Gaston rubbed my finger. I took the gesture for reassurance.

“His father did this, and then sent him away,” I said.

“Can you divulge why?” Theodore asked like a true barrister.

That I did not need guidance on, but I expected Gaston to signal me again. He did nothing.

“Nay,” I said. “Other than that it occurred in a fit of rage his father apparently rues enough to send his son a great deal of money.”

“You know why,” Theodore said. It was not a question.

“Aye.”

“Is it related to his madness?” he asked.

“Aye.”

“May I ask who his father is?” Cudro rumbled quietly.

“Le Marquis de Tervent.”

Cudro whistled appreciatively. “I always guessed he was of noble birth.”

“Tell Theodore What Doucette Did,” Pete said.

I nodded. “Gaston’s bouts can be triggered by the sight of a whip.

Doucette thought Gaston should become inured to them, so that they would no longer affect him. He strapped Gaston to a chair in a room full of whips, and used little hooks upon his eyelids to hold his eyes open.”

“Oh bloody… No wonder all Hell broke loose,” Theodore sighed.

“Did you think I lacked good reason?” I chided.

He smiled. “Nay, nay… And he has been mad since?”