Raised By Wolves Volume four- Wolves (30 page)

We have enoughthere. Allothers canrunalongside.”

We have enoughthere. Allothers canrunalongside.” “Is this sandyroad level?”mymanasked. “It seems level
to me—now that we have crested yesterday’s passes.” I considered the question as we continued through the
market stalls with their hungry proprietors preying on aging
buccaneers. At this base financial fundament, it reminded me
much of Port Royal—though the men and women were not
dressed inwool.
“I suppose it is level,” I sighed as we stopped before a
goldsmith. “Ifwe need not lie about who and what we are, thenI
do not feelwe pulluphill. Yet, it is not downhill, either; as there is
much before us and I do not see that leading down to pleasant
valleys until other passes are traversed. And, even if level, I feel
the way is crowded by thick trees and bluffs concealing
ambuscades at everyturn.”
“I do not fear that either of us will stumble,” Gaston said
thoughtfullyas he eyed the displayofgold hoops inthe window. Neither did I. We were done withcripplingmadness that
left one or the other of us holding the cart. Even if one of us
stumbled, the other could hold him up: and even if we fell, we
need never fear for the cart again.
I thought on the road we must walk these next months
and I laughed quietly. We were asking ourselves to pull a great
deal up what once would have been a quite steep hill, yet we
perceived it as level. “We are so strong now we do not see the
grade,”I told mysurprised matelot.
He smiled, but his nod was resolute. “We will feel it,
though, willwe not?”
“One becomes stronger by pushing a little harder every “One becomes stronger by pushing a little harder every
day,” I said with bemusement. “We have surely crossed the
world twice over—alluphill—and look at us now.”
“We must rest as needed,” he said seriously. “Whenever
we are tired, we must signal one another. And we must tell one
another ifwe see that the other is tired.”
I felt buoyant compared to his sudden sobriety. “Bite
me,” I teased. “Just a little nip when I appear strained and blind
or stubbornto it; or youfeelI amprancingabout and youcannot
go on.”
Gaston’s somberness fled and he pushed me into the
doorway to briefly clamp his teeth on my neck for a painful nip
that managed to engender promise in my tangled soul. My cock
stirred with glee until I saw the servant boy staring at us with
confusion tinged with horror. Though his expression pulled on
other strings and damped my member, it did not weigh upon my
mood. I did not see the spies as an obstacle now, but as things
that might easilybe trampled ifwe wished.
I endeavored to ignore the boy: he was not underfoot or
in our path in a figurative sense at the moment. I looked to my
matelot again. “Do youfeelyouwillstumble?”
“Nay, your prancing about is enticing,” he said with a
grin.
I laughed and led my man inside the shop. When the boy
did not follow, I opened the door and snatched him—
dumbfounded expressionand all—into the building.
The shopkeep was pleased to see us. Gaston surprised
me bywishingto buyanostentatious pair ofhoops to replace my
stolen earrings. I refused, choosing instead a pair that matched in stolen earrings. I refused, choosing instead a pair that matched in
size those that were lost.
“But I wish the world to know you are owned,” Gaston
teased quietlyinEnglish.
My gaze was caught by the small selection of rings. I
wondered if it now mattered if Agnes wore a proper betrothal
gimmelor not.
“Then give me a proper ring if you want me to appear
married,” I said. “So that I appear a good wife. But I will not
wear one unless you do,” I teased. “Should we get Agnes a
ring?”
“Buccaneers do not wear rings while roving,” Gaston
said seriously. “Unless they are engraved so that none can
mistake them for captured treasure.” He moved to the ring
displayto studyit earnestly.
“Youare a physician, not a buccaneer,”I said withglee. He awarded the rings a wry smile. “Then I will wear a
ringifyouwill. And Agnes and Yvette canget their own.” “Truly?” I had been jesting, but I found the idea sat well
with me. It was not a thing men did, though; and I looked over
the limited selection of gimmels, mourning rings, and ungraved
signets withdismay. “What kind?”
“A plain band, or perhaps we can wear the parts of a
gimmel,”he said.
“But they are to be joined on the bride’s finger once the
couple is married. We are beyond that. And onwhat finger?” He tapped the third finger of his left hand. “Above the
vena amoris. And they shall be engraved with
endure
and
conquer
.”

I laughed. “Bothwords oneach, or onlyone onone?”

“Would you prefer to wear one word over the other?” he asked withhumorless curiosity.
I did not feelI would. “Theybelongtogether.”
He nodded and smiled.
It was obvious none of the bands we saw were suitable, and as another set of customers had entered the shop, we bought my new earrings and slipped away, vowing to address the whimsyofrings some other day.
As we prepared to leave, Gaston wrapped the earrings we purchased in a cloth and tucked them carefully in his belt pouch. I had thought to wear them now, but I supposed he wished to make some ceremony of attaching them. That set my cock to stirring again despite the spy boy still ogling us with confusion.
“I was thinking of our list of tasks from yesterday,” Gaston said in English as we wandered through the market. He glanced at the boy. “We must ask Father Pierre who they report to. Ifit is him, thentheywillnot be a concern.”
“If not, we will trample them.” I shook my head and smiled when he regarded me sharply. “We will endeavor to… convert them perhaps. And no matter what occurs with them, Doucette is stilla concern.”
He nodded. “Aye, and I know not what to do on that matter. As for the rest, today I must write my father, and go to confessionas I promised.”
Still curious and concerned about his seeming return to his birth religion, I asked, “Do you? Do you feel the Gods require it, or is it a thingyoudo to further befriend the priest?”
Gaston frowned as he eyed a pile of canvas breeches. “It is an offering of good faith to Father Pierre, and… I feel perhaps I should make an accounting of things I would atone for to the Gods.”
“Will you atone as the priest suggests: with prayers or fasting?”
He met my gaze and shook his head in a subtle manner to warn me off going further down that path. Then he quickly purchased two sets of ecru canvas breeches and tunics and ordered three more to be dyed dark as we preferred.
Only when we had left the stall did he ask, “My observingChristianpractices troubles you, does it not?”
“Aye,”I sighed.
“But youknew we would need to pretend to…”
“Aye, aye, and I have pretended to be a Catholic for manyyears. I feelyouare not pretending, perhaps…”
He sighed. “Perhaps I amnot. I know not, Will. I know I find peace in prayer. Last night in the church, it reminded me much of how I had felt in the monk’s chapel in my youth. I feel God’s presence, and I feel…
loved
. It has nothingto do withthe priests, or monks, or the Church, or anything. It is between God and me.”
I sighed. I had harbored a suspicionhe felt so. It was not a thingI wished to denyhim, or evendoubt. Yet…
“I fear that God,” I said quietly. “I do not doubt the peace you can find with Him, but He seems to be a jealous divinity who asks much of His followers—primarily that they place Himbefore allelse.”
Gaston shook his head. “You talk of the myths and stories ofthe Greek and RomanGods as beingmerelythe works ofmen trying to make the Gods in their image so that They might be understood: why should we view the Bible and all the Church’s dogma as beinganydifferent?”
He was correct. “I will hush my concerns, then. I am happy you find peace in it,” I said sincerely, but then I teased, “I only ask that you do not give me up for Lent or some such

thing.”He snorted. “It would never be
_{you
; but our lovemaking}

 

would be the greatest pleasure I could denymyself,”he jested.

The concept bothered me yet again. “I feel we have already offered up much—or will—in the name of… Duty, Honor, Responsibility, what have you. And though it is as it should be for adult men, I still feel…” I was not sure what word I should use:
trapped
seemed appropriate, or perhaps
fenced in
, but I did not wishto name it so to him.

“Chafed?”he supplied.

“Aye,” I sighed and searched his gaze for any hint of condemnation.
He smiled. “Me, too.”
Relief flooded me and washed away the tension in my shoulders.
“Perhaps you should find a way to… reach out to the Gods and feelTheir presence,”he said thoughtfully.
“I do not feelclose to Theminchurches,”I said.
“Where do youfeelclose to Them?”
“On the Haiti, and at sea, and… Negril,” I said sadly. “I see Them in sunsets, and sunrises, and endless oceans, and I hear Them in the calls of birds, and…” I sighed as I saw melancholy and regret pulling at his face. “Nay, nay, stop,”I said gently. “I amnot sayingthis to…”
“Nay, you are not. And I see Themthere, too, Will.” He frowned withthought. “Perhaps we need more thana roomhere. Perhaps we willneed a…
retreat
?”
“Aye,” I said as the idea caught hold of my soul and tugged it alongquite happily. “We willneed a retreat. Someplace away from the house, and Cayonne…” I looked at the purposefulsqualor ofcommerce around us.
Gaston was smiling. “Then we should see if there is any land available,” he said happily. “I would like to have horses and be able to ride again.” We had stopped near the blacksmith’s and he was eying an animal waiting to be shod with yearning. “This island is not very large, but there are roads and paths to

ride.” I thought this new plana glorious one.

Gastongrew still; like a cat tensingas it sees a mouse. “What?”I breathed.
He shook his head slightly and made his way to the

forge. Once there he stood and watched the bellows operate with rapt attention. The coals were hot and glowing hotter stillas an apprentice worked the handle that closed them with strong, smoothpulls.

“What?”I asked again.

He pointed at the wooden nozzle of the bellows. “It is like a penis. Except the thrusts,” he motioned at the work of the bellows, “drive air through it and not it into something. It is like a

^syringe
.”“I do not understand.” I did not know what a
_siringeh
was. “Agnes,”Gastonsaid, and confused me further still.

 

“What?”I asked again.

He grinned and took my hand and began towing me back to the house. “Another thing on our list: making Agnes pregnant.”

I was still confused when we reached the house. He led me into the surgery and closed the door—shutting the spy boy firmly outside. Then he searched through the drawers of instruments until he found a copper tube with a handle on one end and a nozzle on the other. He pulled the handle all the way out and showed me the tightly fitting cork on the end of the handle’s shaft.

“This is a syringe,” he said. “I do not have one. They must be specially made. It is an invention ofPascal’s. It operates onhis principles ofhydrostatic pressure.”

He brought the bowl and ewer fromthe side table to the exam table. Then he replaced the cork in the tube and pressed the handle so that the cork was all the way in. Next he inserted the nozzle in the water and pulled up on the handle. “Now watch,” he said. He pointed the syringe at the wall and depressed the handle quickly. Water shot fromthe nozzle.

I was amazed. “It is somewhat like a musket: except your pressure on the handle pushes the water out instead of a

 

ballbeingforced out bythe explosionofthe powder.”

ballbeingforced out bythe explosionofthe powder.” “Exactly, and of equal import, it can suck liquids into
itself. I would like one in my medicine chest to use in sucking
blood fromdeep wounds.”
I could see where the device would be quite useful.
“Well, now you have that one,” I said with amusement.
“Doucette does not need it, and youare physiciannow.” He was grinning and waving the device at me
menacingly. I was afraid he would squirt water in my face until I
realized he had not reloaded it.
“What does this have to do with Agnes?” I asked, and
thenI understood. “Oh, youcansquirt jismwithit.”
My matelot grinned. “Oui! No penis will be required.
Now let us tryit. We willneed a sample ofyour jism.” I could understand his excitement and thus urgency, but I
was not sure why it had to be my jism. “I amnot inclined at the
moment.”I chuckled.
He regarded me with annoyance that I should prove to
be an impediment to his experimentation. “Get on the table,” he
said as he removed the bowland ewer.
“And what will you do, suck it out of me?” I teased
without movingto the table.
He rummaged around in a cabinet and produced a small
glass jar. He snorted. “I willcoaxit fromyou.”
That offer—delivered with so little sensuality—and our
current location and the bad memories it invoked, as well as the
presence of syringes and glass jars and the like, did nothing to
engender mymember’s interest or mydesire to rallyit.

“Let us wait untiltonight,”I suggested.

 

“Let us wait untiltonight,”I suggested.

He frowned at my reluctance—briefly—and then his eyes lit with a cruel glimmer that stirred my organ even as it chilled me.

“Get onthe table,”he ordered huskily.

I complied. He quickly strapped my right wrist down with the restraints used to hold surgery patients still. My manhood sprang to life, quickly tenting my breeches as he shoved a leather-wrapped stick in my mouth to stifle my laughing, half-hearted protests. By the time he had me fully restrained, I did not wish to complain, only to groan loud enough for the house to hear me. He knew me well.

To my relief he blocked the door with a stool before coming to stand at my head. His eyes held mirth and sympathy as he regarded me upside down. He removed the gag.

“I amso verypredictable,”I sighed.

He smiled. “Non, you are wonderful in that I can always rely on you.” He plundered my mouth and I groaned and struggled feeblybecause it felt good to do so.

“I amyours,”I assured him.

He grinned as he caressed my neck and ears. Then his smile widened. He fumbled with his belt pouch and dangled the earrings before myeyes.