Raised By Wolves Volume four- Wolves (79 page)

break it.“Stop!” I hissed quietly, and pushed my fingers under

 

and around his to prevent him harming himself. “Even if you succeed, what will you do about your ankles, break your heel

 

away?”He growled and jerked at the chains with a show of

 

frustration. Then his face was pressed into my neck and shoulder and he was breathingheavilyagain.

I reached back and rubbed his head. “My love, say you did get free by maiming yourself, what then? You would not be able to walk or grip a weapon.”

“I could stillkillthem,”he growled.

 

“I could stillkillthem,”he growled.

“Oui, oui, but then what? Where do we swim that they willnot find us?”
“It is not hopeless,”he snarled.
“Non, non, my love, non: it is not. It is just that we must think carefully.”
“If I think, I will be lost to despair,” he whispered with a voice far too tremulous for his Horse.
His words struck a resonating chord in my heart, and I could no longer hold the fear and despair at bay, either. I clapped my hands to my mouth to hold in the wracking sob that threatened to wake every man in the hold and show them how very much they had ruined us. Gaston’s hands closed over mine, and we held inthe horrible sounds I wished to produce. I twisted in his grasp with the exertion, until finally the wailing died unborn and there were onlythe tears.
We held one another and cried insilence.
I woke to Gaston wrapping torn strips of our clothing about my wrists beneath the bracelets. He appeared calm and very much himself, and smiled at me. I caressed his face, and he kissed mypalm, but he motioned withhis eyes as well.
I looked over and saw one of Norman’s men sitting by the hatch watching us. He was worrying a piece of wood in his hands with a knife, but he was definitely there to watch and not

whittle.I sighed and gingerly knelt, becoming aware of how

 

much I had been abused in the moments of our capture. My head still ached, and my left knee was quite sore along with my

 

right shoulder and a number of my ribs. I raised my tunic and

right shoulder and a number of my ribs. I raised my tunic and saw uglybruises.
“Youwilllive,”Gastonsaid pleasantlyinFrench.
“That is a mixed blessing,” I sighed and crawled over to use our waste bucket.
Gastonhad placed it as far awayas he could reachwhile I slept. He had also used it, and our mingled urine was pungent in the humid enclosed space. I supposed we would quickly become accustomed to it.
He had placed the water as far away in the other direction as he could manage—which was to say, within my arm’s reach. My stomach grumbled and clenched when the water hit. Sunlight streamed through the hatch, and I guessed it to be midday. I wondered when last we had eaten, and stupidly glanced about for our bags.
“Have you asked for food?” I asked. Gaston shook his head and shrugged. I looked to our gaoler. “Food, please?”
The man snorted and shrugged and poked his head up throughthe hatchto say, “Theybe hungry.”
There was laughter on deck, and a man said, “Tell those bastards they’lleat whenwe do.”
Our gaoler dropped back to the hold and regarded us.
“We heard,”I said.
He shrugged and returned to his seat and wood.
I returned to French. “Well, with any luck, they will load their share ofthe provisions and treasure soon.”
“Oui,” Gaston sighed and started carefully tearing a thin strip of canvas fromthe edge of his tunic. I assisted himuntil we had two strips of cloth with which to bandage his wrists beneath had two strips of cloth with which to bandage his wrists beneath the iron.
“I do not think they will give us much chance at the wharf,”I whispered as we worked.
He shook his head with resignation. “They will be very careful, and no one willcome.”
“I thought ofthat last night, and I feelit would be best for those we care for if they did not. And that is supposing they do not think we have escaped.”
He smiled. “Oui. It is…” His smile fled and he met my gaze. “Perhaps we are not meant to escape. It is like it was on Île de la Vache; only, the Gods have now done even more to insure we willmeet whatever fate Theyhave instore for us.”
“What are you saying? We should not try when we can?”
He grimaced at my expression. “Remember when we spoke onthe beach, and vowed to seek to killno more, and you spoke of the Gods steering you away frombiscuits They did not wishyouto eat?”
I did recallthat conversation. I sighed at the implications. We had chosennot to killexcept indefense; but bythe Gods, he could not think killing men in our attempt to escape was wrong. “But… So… Do you feel this,” I raised my wrist and thus its chain and our captivity, “is an arse slap fromthe Gods for killing those men? I feel this would have happened whether we surrendered peacefully or not. I cannot believe the Gods would condemn our actions in trying to escape…
where this leads
. And my talk of biscuits was in seeking to harm my father and not…”I gave up withfrustration.
not…”I gave up withfrustration.
He sighed patiently and nodded. “My Horse does not like it, either.”
I was perplexed, and a frightened anger kindled in my heart. “So we are to go like lambs to the slaughter, or martyrs to the lions? That is madness, my love, even for us. We are not deserving of punishment, or whatever you might think this is

about.”He was obdurate, and his small smile spoke much of

letting me rant until I finished. My Horse wished to kick him: to make him run with us, to do something other than wait for the wolves to close in: the damn snarling wolves I had once pulled from the cave and we had trampled: the shadows of fear, torment, and pain.

“I cannot,” I breathed. “I would rather die than face my father’s crueltyagain.”
He took myhand and pulled me to him. I buried my face inhis shoulder.
“I do not see this as punishment,” he said softly. “I do not think the Gods are angry with us. I do think this is a hated test. The Greeks and Romans did not believe in Hell as the Christians do, oui? But they did believe in bad men being tormented for all eternity. Being chained away from you in this hold would break me. Being chained away from you for all eternityis not somethingI canface. I would rather suffer anything in this world for a short time—be it days or even months—than lose you in the hereafter. Ifthis is what the Gods wish ofus, then we must stand and be judged.”
“Bymyfather?”
“Bymyfather?”
“Non,”he said patiently. “Bythe Gods.”
“Oui, oui, but bymyfather as Their instrument?”
“Will, I cannot speak for the Divine, I only know They have brought us here and where this leads. I feelwe must accept it and resolve to… be true to ourselves and Themin the face of whatever we might face.”
I wished to rail that he had spent far too long in a monastery and that he still clung to Christianity, but I said nothing: I was overwhelmed by the light in my heart. I could not look away. We stood in the light. The wolves came from the cave. Did I truly believe in the light—and the Gods? That was Faith, was it not? Would I not do anything to be with Gaston? Did I believe there was a hereafter, or did I not? Was I a holy man with strength and conviction, or was I as much of a charlatanas anypriest I had ever hated?
“Love and Faith,” Gaston whispered. “They are our weapons, against…”
“Darkness,” I said. “And the shadows on the wall.”
The wolves
.
He pushed me away enough to cradle my face between his hands and peer into my eyes. I saw green reflections of myself. I appeared quite large.
“I amHercules, and youare Chiron,”I whispered.
He smiled. “If that is so, then perhaps something has angered the Gods, or a God.”
“Oui, as it seems my entire life has been a series of

tasks.”“And what have you always striven to do?” he asked.

“What have youbeentasked with?”
“Love.”
He was nodding thoughtfully and he released my face.

“Hera was hateful of Hercules because He was born of one of Her husband’s affairs.”

 

“Oui, and though my father could be considered to have cast himself as Hera in my life, he is not a God: nor was my

 

mother.”“Oui, but perhaps he angered a God or a Goddess,

and…” He sighed. “I feel he did. My father realized…” His brow furrowed anew and he met my gaze earnestly. “My father did not hate me, he hated that I came from my mother: that I reminded himofmymother, whomhe loved.”

I nodded. “If my father were anything like yours—which I do not feel he is—then perhaps he hates me because I remind him of someone he loved—surely not my mother.” I sighed. “This is a thing we have considered before, perhaps he did love Shanes’s father, perhaps another; but we cannot know.”

“Oui, we can,” Gaston said, “because the Gods are arranging things so that we might ask him. So, once we are in his presence, we must ask himhow he angered the Gods.”

I laughed. I could not envision that; or rather, I could not imagine he would tell the truth: even if we held red-hot tongs to his privates and it was not the other way around, which I was afraid it would be.

My matelot was still serious. “Perhaps he angered Venus, the Goddess ofLove. Perhaps She gave hima great love to cherish, and he spurned it, and thus spurned Her.”

“And She has thrown trial after trial at me because I remind Her ofhim?”I laughed again.
He smiled. “Perhaps She wishes for you to show himthe error of his ways. Perhaps She wishes to insure
you
appreciate Her.”
That I could believe. It rangverytrue inmyheart.
MyHorse stilldid not like it.
“How is your Horse onthis course ofaction?”I asked.
“Angry and scared,” he said sadly. “I feel I ambetraying all He has ever done for me. But in truth, He has only rarely managed to prevent my suffering. He may be the truth of my soul, but He is an animal, and He only sees what is before Him. He does not see beyond the next rise.”
“Oui,” I sighed. “If we let them decide everything, our Horses would lead us ever to the easier road. We achieve so much more when we climb. It just… It hurts. It can hurt. It will hurt.”
He toyed with the chain between his wrists and spoke with a furrowed brow. “I understand your worry that I amnot… consideringthis matter correctly.”
“How so?”
“I do feel I must atone… For Gabriella. I allowed her to lead me astray. I knew what she asked was wrong. I know I meant well, but even with the best of intentions, some things are still wrong. And Chris as well.” He met my gaze. “But it is not punishment I seek. It is…not redemption… I have forgiven myself. I do not feel I need absolution granted from anyone…” He sighed and struggled with the words, finally choosing them with conviction. “It is a chance to prove myself—to myself, and to the Gods. It is a chance to prove I can be at my best in the face of adversity, instead of my worst. I feel that has always beenthe cruxofthe tasks I must performor fail.
“But perhaps it is madness, because I felt much like this when I knew my father would come that morning. And… I passed that test, Will. It is the little things since thenthat I tripped oneverydayas I always had. Always allowingmyHorse to fight me because… I needed His protection, because I did not know how to stand and face myenemies as a man.”
I was profoundly moved. I felt the painful eruption of

epiphany.“It is not madness,” I said. “It is becoming a man. Not

the relinquishing of adolescence and the acceptance of responsibility; but truly becoming a man in the greatest sense of the word. It is claiming our birthright from the Gods to not be a beast. We must love and trust the beast in our soul, but in the end, oui, the Gods expect us to become men, to behave like men:to prove we can walk a path and not shy at every breeze in the bushes or become distracted and drag our carts across fields trying to trample snakes. And the Horse part of our souls might stumble and fall, but it is the man that finds the will to stand and tryagain.”

“Just so,”he whispered withtears inhis eyes.

I nodded tightly. “I still… MyHorse is terrified. MyMan is terrified. My Wolf is even afraid; yet, we must band together and stand to face this. So… We will let them take us to my father. I do not know if I can bring myself to thank them for it, though.”

He chuckled weakly. “When we become old wise men, we willbe able to do that.”
I wished to say
if
, but I told myself that was just the whiningofa child. We could become wise old meninaninstant.
I took his hand and moved to sit beside him. “So shall we frolic to England?”
“As muchas we are able,”he said witha warmsmile.
I did not frolic immediately. I turned within and stirred throughmemories and traced the threads that knotted throughout mysoul. Theyformed patterns:inmyearlylife, the same patterns again and again with different strings; and then I came here and there was the brilliant eruption of new thread that was Gaston, and the patterns changed – and kept changing. Nothingremained the same except for the threads from my childhood and youth, and though they did not change, I now used their dour colors to bring relief and contrast to the new design; and in doing so, I made it easier for me to examine and appreciate them.
I had once styled myself Ulysses, but until now, there had truly been no home for which I must fight my way back. Nay, I had been more like Penelope:weaving a burialshroud for a love that she prayed was not dead; and then tearing it apart every night to reweave it again to buy herself time. Then my love —my king—returned with Gaston, and I could weave whatever I wished.
Even if my father killed us, I would leave a fine tapestry behind.
Theydid bringus food later inthe day. Theyemptied our

waste bucket with little complaint, and they did not spit in our

waste bucket with little complaint, and they did not spit in our water. We were always under watch, but the men were not intrusive—thoughwe did not feellike amusingthemwithanysort of carnal antics. Several days later, the
Lilly
was moved to the wharf and they loaded their share of the treasure. They stacked crates high about us and left us a little cellbeside the hatch steps, but the rest ofthe hold was filled.

The deck was canted as the
Lilly
ran north with a strong wind across her beam when Norman at last graced us with his presence. To our delight, he had our bags and he tossed themto us.

“You can keep those if you cause no trouble,” he said withlittle humor as he studied us.
We did not immediately rummage through them to see what was missing.
“Thank you,” I said. “Though we are pleased to have those, there is another thingI would ask ofyou. First, what is the date?”
“The SixthofMarch, bymyreckoning.”
I looked to Gastonand smiled. He frowned.
“Might we trouble you for a bottle of brandy or rum?” I asked Norman. “Yesterdaywas mymatelot’s birthday.”
Norman snorted, but his grin was appreciative and he walked forward and poked around in a crate. He returned with two bottles ofSpanishbrandy. He handed me one and uncorked the other. He took a sip and then offered it to us. I accepted it gratefully, as did Gastonafter I took a longdrink.
“So where are we bound, Jamaica?”I asked.