Raised By Wolves 3 - Treasure (4 page)

Our silence this morning was not as companionable as either of us would have liked, though; and at last I felt compelled to speak.

“I will miss this, this life we have here,” I said carefully, “but I feel we will be all the fonder of it when we are able to return.”

He sighed and smiled wistfully before turning to look at me. “I pray that someday I will not be the cause of us having to leave it yet again.”

“Who are you praying to?” I asked with amusement and curiosity.

He grinned briefly, but his words were somber. “To the Gods of old, as you do. I have told any divinity that cares to listen that I will not always have to rove to release the anger within me, that I will not always be possessed of such anger.”

I smiled. “I am sure They have heard you, and I have great faith that such a thing will come to pass, either by our hand or Theirs.”

He chuckled at that, and started walking again. “It is a wonder They tolerate you at all.”

“Well, the Gods surely help those who help themselves,” I said with mock defensiveness.

He took a long deep breath. “I also have prayed that I will face my father with dignity, no matter how he behaves.”

“I am sure you will.” And I was. I had great faith that the mask which he had so often worn while about others would slip easily into place when he was confronted by such a foe. It saddened me in part, in that we had worked so hard this last year toward his being in harmony with all parts of his being, but I thought it far more important he face his father from a position of perceived strength; and that mask, that tight control he could maintain on his madness for short periods of time, granted him a knight’s armor in facing what he must.

“How does your Horse feel on the matter… this morning?” I asked.

“Does it wish to fight him or flee him?”

Gaston shook his head. “It wishes for his respect and… love. I know you cannot understand…”

I stopped and pulled him to face me. “Non, non, it is not that I cannot; it is just that I have not reached that turn of the road as of yet. I will understand, just give me time.”

His eyes were as grey-green as the sea in the hazy morning light, and seemingly as old. “I hate your father, too,” he said softly, so that I had to strain to hear him above the surf.

“I will try to meet yours with a lack of prejudice,” I said solemnly.

He smiled and nodded. “You honor me.”

“Non, I love you, and we will endure and conquer, and come home again.”

“Amen,” he breathed.

With the grins of foxes, we ran up the winding path to our house.

Though the sun was fully in the sky and no longer hovering about the horizon, we still found ourselves alone. Gaston seemed relieved by this; and when I asked him of it, thinking he merely did not wish to confront their lingering gazes of concern, he fingered one of the marks he had made upon my chest. Feeling the fool that I had forgotten a thing so obvious, I went and found a tunic to don. Between that and my breeches, I hoped all he had done was now safely hidden. When I returned to him, I turned about and asked him to inspect me.

“The one upon your neck is quite visible,” he sighed. This was followed by a feral and lusty grin such that it drew my mouth to quirk in mirror of it.

“What?” I asked huskily, and closed the distance between us.

“You are mine and you are beautiful,” he whispered. He drew my hand to his turgid member.

“That much?” I teased as I stroked him. “Then let us…”

He pushed my hand and then me away playfully. “Non, I wish to ache with it.”

I understood: there were times when the aching anticipation, billowed upon sound faith that it could always be sated, was better than the release. I let him be with only a swat of feigned annoyance.

As we prepared our morning repast of eggs mixed with minced boucan, I mused on how much I loved to see him as he was this morning: unmasked and mercurial of mood. Some would say it was his madness, but I no longer could define madness as I once would have. I saw the rigid mask he had worn when first we met as a larger symptom of his madness than the openness of soul he was imbued with now.

Aye, his Horse’s honesty of emotion was a danger when he became riled, and he had difficulty controlling it still, but I felt he fared far better at the matter of control when he was not constantly reining the animal in.

Then, it felt compelled to bolt beneath him when it became troubled. It was far more tractable now that he let it have its head most days.

And thus, his wish to be masked and under such control about his father concerned me: that was precisely the time when his Horse should have been allowed to choose its own path through the thorny thicket of emotion the whole scenario presented. I hoped the matter of their supposed reconciliation could be quickly done with, and the Marquis would return to France and I could then spend several months assisting Gaston with healing his newly opened wounds: in becoming the man I knew and loved again.

We were still alone after we had eaten, and it was becoming a matter of amusement for us. I guessed the blame could be laid upon the demon of rum for their absence. And so, we donned our sword belts and kerchiefs, took up several bottles of water, and with the dogs excited that we were off for a romp, went in search of our guests. Taro took the vanguard and ranged all about us in the brush, while we kept our pace slow in honor of Bella’ s waddling. She quickly licked our hands when we patted her wide head.

“Do you truly feel we should take her to Port Royal?” I asked. “I suppose they will be lonely here if we do not, though.”

Gaston gave me an admonishing look. “Will, we can leave the goats and chickens: they will be well enough as there is much for them to forage on. But if we leave the dogs, they will eat our goats and chickens, and our neighbors’, and the nearest plantations’…”

I was chuckling as I looked over our canine behemoths. Neither of them weighed less than six stone, and we went hunting for cattle to feed them every fortnight. “Aye, we best take them and let Agnes feed them in town.”

This set me thinking though. “Do you feel she still works for us?”

Gaston shrugged. “She loves the dogs.”

I decided that truly did answer the question of where her loyalties lay.

We found our guests at Liam’s. Our good Scots musketeer had deemed his abode upon the Point to no longer be a home in which he could remain without his beloved and deceased matelot, Otter; and thus he had gone on the smuggling venture with the rest of our cabal.

Gaston and I did not often visit what had been their house. I felt its haunted-seeming emptiness to be a dire warning of what befell all pairs of matelots who roved too long. This morn it was pleasant to hear snores as we approached it. The reverberations rolling across the hillside were affirmations of life and things being as they should.

Liam’s house was a small two-room structure much like ours, with one wall constructed of the side of a hill and the rest of stacked and mortared stones. We found Theodore sleeping on the large table in the front room, and Striker and Pete entangled with one another and a hastily strung hammock in the back. They should well thank the Gods we were not Spanish marauders, as we had to kick them before they noticed us. I found great amusement in watching Pete scrambling about and managing to get a pistol aimed at me with his left hand, when all other limbs were trapped in some manner, either by netting or his matelot. I supposed I should be thankful he did not shoot me, especially while I was laughing.

Striker swore at us a great deal while they got themselves untangled.

Pete stumbled across the room to embrace Gaston. Theodore appeared quite green as he lurched awake and hurried outside to relieve himself of all manner of fluids his body thought it should no longer contain.

“How many bottles did you daft buggers bring?” I asked once they were fairly coherent.

“One,” Striker sighed as he stretched so that his back popped several times. “But we found more here.”

“A tavern’s worth,” I teased.

“Go fuck yourself,” he said with a grin.

I chuckled. “No need, I have a matelot.”

“Aye, you do,” he said seriously.

Our gazes met, and underneath the after effects of rum and the bleariness of waking, I saw grudging respect in his. It gladdened my heart. I smiled. And that seemed to gladden his, as he came to embrace me. “I’ll try very hard to stop… being an arse,” he whispered.

“Thank you,” I said solemnly. “But understand, I would not have you stop caring, I would just have you show more faith.”

He nodded as he released me. “I’ll try. Truly Will, it’s not so…” He sighed.

I glanced about, and found that Theodore had returned and was eyeing us sheepishly. He was not the only one watching our exchange.

Gaston stood tensely in the doorway, and Pete was sprawled in a chair gazing upon Striker with pride.

“Was this the topic of much discussion last night?” I asked.

Pete smirked.

Theodore sighed. “Aye, much drunken discussion.”

I supposed there was little help for it. We discussed ourselves endlessly, why should others not? But, of course, we were centaurs, and philosophy was our way. I did not see where it was the way of wolves, or in Pete’s case, lions, or in Theodore’s case – and there I thought I should discuss with Gaston how to categorize Theodore in a world of wolves and sheep: as our good friend and barrister was surely neither, yet he did not strike me as a mythical creature, either. I smiled a smile only my matelot would understand once I explained it to him.

“Thank you for coming,” Gaston said hesitantly. “For bearing the news.”

“Will you be returning with us?” Theodore asked.

Gaston nodded.

“May I ask…?” Theodore began slowly. He sighed and rubbed his temples before gazing at Gaston again, this time with a more barrister-like mien. “May I ask what the letter contained?”

“He wishes to lay matters to rest between us,” Gaston said.

Theodore nodded. “His men said he received a letter from you a year ago. It listed me as a person who might know your whereabouts or how to contact you. It apparently made mention of Will by his given name and title as well.”

Gaston nodded tightly. “I wrote him. After the incident with Doucette.”

“But not after you were granted English citizenship?” Theodore asked.

Gaston and I shook our heads.

Theodore nodded sagely and frowned. “I did not discuss that with them. As you can imagine, I was quite surprised when this man Vittese appeared in my office.”

“Vittese?” Gaston snapped, his eyes hard.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“My father’s trusted man,” Gaston growled. “He was the one always sent to fetch me from the schools, and he was the one charged with bringing me to exile. He gave me over to Doucette.”

“I got the distinct impression he is not fond of you, either,” Theodore said. “In fact, I would hazard a guess he feels his Lord’s business here is folly.”

“You got the impression…?” I asked.

“There was little he said concerning your matelot that you would not take offense at,” Theodore said with a sheepish shrug.

“I look forward to making his acquaintance,” I said.

“Oh Lord,” Theodore groaned. “I thought as much.” Then he gave a frown and his gaze flicked from one of us to the other. “I feel it would be wise if Gaston remained on English soil, in the company of the Brethren at all times, until this matter is resolved.”

“You feel they might abduct him?” I asked with alarm.

“I feel…” Theodore said carefully, “That they perceive him as being of limited mental capacity, and definitely not sane. They spoke of him as if he were a child.”

Gaston shook his head, and I could see the tears he fought. “Did you speak with my father?” he asked Theodore.

“Nay,” Theodore said kindly.

“I was a child when last they saw me,” Gaston said sadly, and left us.

I asked Theodore, “If I must slaughter a large number of Frenchmen, will there be trouble with the governor or any other?”

Theodore fought a smile. “I put great thought into that matter as we sailed here; as I think, judging by their demeanor toward your matelot, and your demeanor toward any who disparage your matelot, the deaths of several of these Frenchmen will likely result from this matter. Our beloved Governor Modyford hates the French. I feel there would be no lasting repercussions as long as it occurs on English soil and it can be construed that they prompted the matter. And… as long as the Marquis is not harmed.” His gaze met mine and he sobered considerably. “I must ask: does Gaston bear his father any ill-will?”

I took a deep breath and answered as truthfully as I could. “He does not feel so at this time. However, if the man does something foolish…”

“Like show him a whip,” Striker said, and threw his hands wide in apology when I turned to him.

“Just so,” I said. “Aye, if his father does something that magnificently stupid, then… well, then only the Gods can know. I will meet with the man first to determine his motives. I do not feel that Gaston should meet with him alone, if possibly at all, depending on the circumstances.”

Theodore seemed relieved by this, but he quickly frowned and studied Striker speculatively before shifting his attention to me. “I feel there are pieces to this matter that…”

“The Marquis is responsible for Gaston’s scars,” I said. “Personally responsible. Gaston forgives him, as he feels he gave his father just cause.”

“Good Lord,” Theodore sighed.

I did not spare Pete and Striker a glance: they already knew that aspect of the matter. None knew why, of course, but that was not a thing I felt they ever need know.

“He must not kill the Marquis,” Theodore said seriously. “And neither must you. Such a thing would cause a diplomatic incident beyond Modyford’s ability to mitigate.”

“I understand,” I said solemnly, and I did. Killing a nobleman of any nation was not a thing to be done lightly.

“If such a thing is to occur, it would be best if you left Jamaica,”

Theodore added sadly.

“I do understand that,” I assured him, and then I slipped outside.