Raised By Wolves 3 - Treasure (18 page)

But that reminded me of yet another thing. “Did you see your invitation?” I asked Pete with glee, because misery so loves company.

“NotGoin’.” He crossed his arms and awarded me a disappointed sigh that I should tease him.

“Would Sarah not be pleased to have you go and look after Striker?”

I asked.

He snorted. “Sarah An’ Me Like Ta Have The Lout Outta The House At Times.”

I stopped adjusting my baldric and regarded him with a raised brow.

“She is with child.”

“Ya Daft Bugger,” he said with another derisive snort. “We Play Chess.

Canna’ ’Ave ’Im Aroun’. ’E Doesna’ Understand The Game, An’ ’E’s Always Sayin’ How ’E Would Do It An Askin’ What We Be Doin’ Next.”

“I would like to play chess with you again,” Gaston said with interest.

Pete grinned with feral glee. “Aye. We Na’ Played Much Since Ya Taught Me. I Be Better Now.”

Gaston sighed as we followed Pete down the balcony. “I could barely beat him before,” he muttered in French.

“Have your father play him,” I said with amusement.

Gaston smiled. “That would serve him.”

Everyone else was already gathered in the dining room. Gaston touched my arm as we crossed the atrium. He kissed me lightly when I turned to him. He appeared earnest and concerned.

“I do not know how I will face him,” he said. “I do not wish to meet his gaze.”

“You found your mask this afternoon.”

He shook his head. “That is only because I was so angry. I cannot now.”

“Well, not that I wish to advocate for the Devil, but if you feel uncomfortable, imagine how he must feel. He is not loved here, and you are.”“I am loved,” he said softly and nodded. “And you are loved.”

I smiled. I wished to say that that love was all I wanted in the world, but I thought that might sound as if I were prodding him to guilt over his desires. And thinking that, and realizing I could not voice either thought, made me very much want to drink, because I could see no path to the future that did not involve brambles. But if I drank, it would only be worse, because instead of following even the roughest path, I would simply brazen my way through the thick of them.

I affixed a presentable smile upon my face as we entered the room.

Gaston simply chose to study the floor and the food. Striker sat at one end of the long table, with Sarah at the other and Pete at her right hand. Their chosen seats had little to do with decorum. The positioning allowed Striker to watch one door to the room, and Pete the other. With that in mind, Gaston and I walked around to the back side of the table where we could watch both doors. The Marquis had apparently never had to be mindful of who might enter a room behind him, so he sat on the outside of the table, with his back to the doors and Dupree on one side of him and Agnes and Rucker on the other. I chose to sit across from the Marquis, and Gaston settled in next to Pete and across from Agnes. All were uncomfortably silent.

Our supper was to consist of the spiced stew I had once had the pleasure of eating at the Theodores’, and a thick cake or bread made of some type of yellow meal that proved to be surprisingly tasty with butter when I sampled it. There was wine, but even though the cake was rich, I did not gulp my glass dry, and when Sam asked what else we might need, I requested water and Gaston did likewise.

I finally glanced at the Marquis and found him regarding Gaston.

My matelot was, of course, sitting at the table with excellent posture, and he had straightened his spoon and bowl several times while waiting for Sam to bring the tureen around.

“Pete and Gaston are considering a game of chess this night,” I said pleasantly.

Striker sighed, but his wife chuckled.

“Well,” Sarah said, “I am sure it will be entertaining, but I would rather not have Pete get any practice. I cannot win as it is.”

“Yar Too Cautious,” Pete said.

Dupree – who like all good translators would eat very little of his meal – had been translating all that was said, but at Pete’s statement, he stopped, his head slightly cocked and his face contorted in concentration in a quite comical manner.

I tried very hard not to laugh at the poor fellow. “Pete’s… accent requires time to master,” I said lightly in French. “He said that my sister’s game is too cautious.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Dupree said quickly.

“He plays chess?” the Marquis asked quietly of Pete in French, with a gesture at Dupree to indicate his words should not be translated.

“Aye, Pete is one of the best chess players we have ever seen,” I said loudly enough for all to hear in English. “Perhaps you would like a game with him. I see you as a man who likes to play games of strategy.”

The Marquis waited patiently for Dupree’s translation, and then he awarded me a small and cunning smile. “Whereas I do not see you as a man who favors games of strategy. Do you perhaps favor games of chance?” He did not wave off Dupree’s translation this time.

I smiled. “I do, but it is because I consider games of chance, and dueling, to be matters of strategy. But, as I have aged, though my age is not as venerable as some, I have come to realize I would quite prefer to shoot a man rather than engage him in games of the mind, whether they are over a chess board, a hand of cards, or even stew.”

Gaston spit a mouthful of stew back into his bowl. “I cannot take you anywhere,” he said quietly in French with a grin.

Everyone else, except Agnes, Dupree and the Marquis, had smiled or chuckled at my words.

“At least I am consistent,” I told my matelot gleefully.

“How many men do you think you have killed?” the Marquis asked.

He was not quite as challenging as Sarah had been when she asked me that question at my father’s table. It amused me that she answered.

“I believe you said the count was at nineteen – that you were sure of their death and who were not merely wounded – before you came here,” Sarah said. “I would not hazard a guess as to how many men my brother has killed in the West Indies,” she told the Marquis.

“Well,” I said with a shrug, “there has only been the one in the past two months, and that was yesterday.”

“Is this a thing you are proud of?” the Marquis asked. It was a coy question.

I snorted, and met his gaze levelly. “Aye, I am proud it has only been the one of late. But, nay, I am not proud of them, not the Spanish, not the men I feel I have downed rightfully, and most especially, not the ones who I should not have had to kill due to a misunderstanding, such as the man I shot yesterday. I am proud that during my travels I have killed far fewer men than my father ever has by taxing the men who work his land to starvation or urging his associates in the House of Lords to do the same for all the country. With the exception of the military engagements I have been involved in here against the Spanish, I have had to look every man I have killed in the eye; and while I have not known all their names, I do remember their faces. I feel there is some honor in that.”

His eyes had fallen from mine as I talked, and now he studied the table thoughtfully. “There is honor in that.” He shook his head. “I have never killed a man.”

I bit back many words. I was sure Vittese had killed men for him: that was why a lord had a man like Vittese in his employ.

“And the families that work my land live well,” he continued. “I pay the salary of the physician, support an orphanage, and provide other relief for the poor as is needed. I feel it is the sacred duty of a nobleman to care for the land and the people upon it who are entrusted to him.”

This last was said with a note of rebuke.

“That is what I was taught was the duty of the nobility – by men other than my father,” I said with amusement. “I believe my father views the sacred duty of the nobility to be guaranteeing the continuation of the nobility. The first Williams was named Earl of Dorshire for supporting Henry the Sixth in his battle for the throne.”

The Marquis frowned, but there was little anger in it, only disappointment. “Kings come and go, but there has been a Sable guarding the land of Tervent for five hundred years. Our titles have changed on occasion with the politics of the nation, but we are Gentilhomme and take our duty seriously.”

“That is a fine thing,” I said carefully, “and I would like not to doubt you, but there is no one here who can corroborate the welfare of your peasants, and in ten years of wandering among the nobles of Christendom, you would be a rare lord indeed compared to all those I have met. And perhaps that is because they frequented the courts and politics, and did not stay on their land to husband it as they should.

But to a man or woman, they have proven to my eyes to be wolves ever ready to feed off the sheep in their pastures.”

The slyness and challenge left him in a prolonged sigh. “It is a sad testament to the state of the world that you, a nobleman’s son, should have only been taught by experience so dim a view of the nobility.”

Our companions at the table were quiet. Sarah stirred her stew with a thoughtful frown, and Pete and Striker were watching the Marquis and me with interest, as if they were curious what nobles spoke about while dining. Rucker, who had instilled in me as a child the ideals of which the Marquis spoke, was nodding. Agnes was frowning at Gaston, and Gaston had become very withdrawn.

“And what is your opinion, Gab… Gaston?” the Marquis asked.

Gaston gave a small smile and sat his spoon down. He did not look at his father, but he spoke in French. “I feel that I will be useless to you as an heir. Though I want very much to maintain the family tradition, and I do feel it is our sacred duty to care for the people, I am only recently able to care for myself enough that it need not be my sole concern, and so that I am able to use my training as a physician to care for others. Those gains are all due to Will.”

The Marquis looked away with teary eyes.

My own eyes were thick, and I leaned over and kissed my matelot on the cheek.

Gaston looked down the table at Striker and spoke in English. “I wish to sail as a surgeon this time. Whether or not I can win the vote is of no concern. I wish to tender my services and have that as my primary duty.”

Striker smiled and nodded with enthusiasm. “God knows you’re the best we have. And many of the Brethren know it too,” he added with a grin.Gaston looked at his father as Dupree finished translating Striker’s words. He spoke French again. “Will and I view the Brethren as our people, and we feel it is our duty to serve them as we can. It is a thing Doucette instilled in me as well, the need for a physician to serve mankind, regardless of war or politics, social station, or even religion.”

The Marquis met his gaze earnestly. “My son, the more I learn of you, the more I learn how very foolish my fears were.” He nodded, almost to himself, and stood. “Now, if you will excuse me. I am sorry I am ill-disposed to enjoy this lovely food. Ladies.” He bowed and left, waving Dupree back to his seat.

Dupree sat again, timidly.

“Well, you will be able to eat now,” I told the man kindly. “I always feel sorry for translators, but you perform a very necessary function.

And what I hear of your translation is excellent.”

“Thank you, Lord Marsdale.” He dove into his food.

“Pete,” Gaston said quietly. “I have no head for chess tonight.”

The Golden One smiled and moved his chair so that he could throw an arm around Gaston’s shoulders and give him a quick kiss on the head. “Maybe Tomorra Nothin’ll ’Appen Ta Rile Things Up.”

“If the Gods would only be so kind,” I said and raised my water glass in toast.

The others smiled or chuckled.

I looked to Gaston and raised an eyebrow.

He nodded as if even that caused him great effort.

“We must retire,” I said, and grabbed my remaining hunk of the meal cake as I stood.

“You can take your bowls with you,” Sarah said.

I poured Gaston’s into mine and cradled it in my hand. “Thank you, thank you all for being such fine friends.”

“You make things exciting,” Agnes said, as if it were an abstract thought.

I thought of Mistress Theodore’s words about her husband finding his duties to us more interesting than dealing with planters. I grinned.

“Well, at least we perform some useful service.”

Striker was grinning. “We’ll sail by year end, and then things’ll calm down.”

“They always do,” I said over my shoulder as Gaston and I slipped out the door, but I was quite concerned that the maelstrom we now lived in would only worsen over the weeks before we could at last escape it.

We made our way quietly past the Marquis’ door. Lantern light flickered from within between the louvers. I heard nothing, though I paused to listen. I wondered if he had indeed returned to his room or if he had left the house.

Once we were in our room, I closed the thin doors against the world and set our half-finished repast on a chair. Gaston embraced me fervently. I held him until our hearts, which were racing fast in our quiet bodies, slowed and formed a quiet rhythm that I found quite mesmerizing.

At last he stirred and kissed me chastely upon the lips.

“Do you wish to discuss it?” I asked. “Him?”

He pulled away from me gently and went to light a lamp. The flame showed him frowning, but the expression passed with a sigh when he turned to me.

“I wish to hear your thoughts,” he said quietly, and doffed his weapons and tunic.

“He is not a saint you must emulate,” I said as I shed my gear. “He may be a very fine lord indeed, but he still allowed those men to go to their deaths yesterday, and expressed no regret over it in any of the times the matter has been mentioned. Perhaps he did not like them.”

I sighed and removed my tunic. “And… I still feel I am a poor ally, because the Gods know I am not a saint.”

He smirked, but his words were said sadly. “I feel you are a better man than my father.”

“Thank you, but I am glad to hear that for reasons other than my pride.”

Gaston nodded. “I do not know how my father truly treats his peasants. I am trying to remember all I can of how I have seen him interact with the servants. He was ever polite to them, but he seemed to treat them as servants. But… I was in the house and saw such things so seldom, and when I was, all was tinged with my being in awe of him, or mad with anger. And, if I was home, it meant something had gone wrong again, and so everything was not as calm as it should have been in the household. So except for when I was so young I cannot remember it clearly, I cannot bear witness to how he rules his house when all is as it should be.