Raised By Wolves 3 - Treasure (90 page)

“Do you trust him?” he asked. “You saw his eyes; I did not.”

“Enough,” I said, “for now.”

“I thought you might kill him,” he said casually.

“With you hostage outside the door in a room of armed men?” I chided.

“I thought you might have expected me to do something… inspiring.

I could have taken the two closest and joined you in the room. I saw a window past your shoulder when you entered.”

I laughed. “I do not doubt you could have inspired the room of them, much less me. And then what would we have done?”

“Seen a great deal of this damn swamp as we headed for those mountains,” he said thoughtfully.

“I love you too much to ask so much in the name of my temper.”

He was still very serious, and I stopped to gaze at him.

“I remembered what you must feel when you see my Horse take the bit in its teeth,” he said.

“Was I so very mad as all that?” I asked.

He shook his head, frowning in thought. “Non, it is as if I am expecting you to be. It is…” he sighed and smiled ruefully. “As if I am expecting one of us to be, and I feel quite well.”

“Can we not both be sane at the same time?” I asked.

We gazed at one another, and the humor found our eyes and then our mouths, and we laughed. We embraced until it passed.

He whispered. “We are so very far from… where we once were.”

“Oui,” I said. “I am so very proud of us.”

“Oui,” he sighed, and kissed me gently.

Cudro, Ash, Alonso, Farley, Pete, and even Striker were at the dining table arguing when we entered.

“All is well!” I proclaimed. “It was Hastings. I have Morgan’s leave to duel him if I can. And if we should kill anyone attempting to murder one of us, he has said he will support it.”

“How in God’s name did you manage that?” Cudro asked sincerely.

I did not know what I should say; and looking at them, there was much I realized I should not relay of that conversation. “He is afraid of Pete.”

The others laughed uproariously; even Alonso. But Pete regarded me as if I were full of shite.

“Nay, truly,” I told Pete. “And me.”

This brought a smile to the Golden One’s lips.

“ThatMakes More Sense.”

“But truly, he does not wish to cross you, either,” I added. “Now, since you are all down here, Gaston and I are going to use the bed.

Alone.”

“For what?” Striker teased.

Gaston regarded him seriously. “It is my birthday, and I prefer to lie on a soft mattress when Will impales me with his cock.”

Cudro spit his wine across the table. I did not bother to see the rest of their reactions, or even wish to know Farley’s and Alonso’s.

I had, once again, been unaware of the date – and additionally, forgotten the day of Gaston’s birth: an oversight for which I was immediately rueful. But the second part of his utterance drove even that from my heart. I wanted to think of nothing but doing the thing of which my matelot had spoken. And so I thought of nothing except how best to show my man how very pleased I was the Gods had seen fit to have him born on this day twenty-nine years ago.

It was a very fine night. We stormed Heaven with entwined and straining limbs, and him urging me ever upward with happy grunts and moans while I remembered how joyously good it was to be inside him.

In the morning, I was still in a fine mood, even when I learned that Hastings had gone on the day’s sortie. We found it interesting that he had attempted to arrange to go somewhere with Pete and me; and wondered if he thought to kill one of us first, or if he had another who was to strike while we were away. I did not think Hastings was the type to have an accomplice, or to be one, for that matter. We stayed in the house, anyway.

The next day, we learned Hastings had returned; and leaving a dozen of the Queen’s most loyal and seasoned buccaneers with Cudro and Striker – who whined pitifully that he could not join us – Pete, Gaston, and I went in search of the eye-patch wearing quartermaster of the Mayflower. We found him in the town square assisting with the torture of the prisoners. He feigned disinterest in our arrival, and then surprise when I caught his eye and asked to speak to him.

“What can I do for you, good sir?” he called loudly enough for most of the square to hear. And he needed to call out, as he did not seem inclined to approach us.

He was wearing his patch on the left, and I wondered if he truly had a bad eye, or whether it was as Gaston and Striker once suggested, and Hastings moved the patch from side to side to provide for seeing in darkness or bright light.

“You can meet me on the field,” I called back jovially.

Hastings feigned astonishment for our audience; but even at twenty paces, I saw his eye narrow for a moment with sincere surprise.

“Whatever for?”

“I will see you dead before I will allow you to collect any bounty on Gaston or Striker,” I said pleasantly. I would have been astounded if he had accepted my challenge.

The square began to buzz with mutterings, and men moved from the shade to stand closer and listen.

“Are you mad?” Hastings asked. “What are you speaking of? I don’t know of any bounty.”

I grinned. “Then the men of the Mayflower have had the unfortunate judgment to elect a deaf and daft quartermaster.” I looked around at the crowd. “How many of you have heard there is a bounty on Striker’s and my matelot’s heads?”

Amidst laughter, nearly every hand in the square raised.

“How many think you can do it?” I called out.

There was more laughter, much head shaking, and no hands raised– though several fellows pushed their friends’ arms up, for which they received hearty curses and punches from those so used.

“Why would you think I would?” Hastings asked with sincere curiosity and speculation as he walked closer.

“Because you enjoy killing,” I said.

“There are more than enough Spaniards for that,” he said slyly.

“Aye, but I think you are the kind of man who enjoys killing those who do not expect it. You take pleasure in murder.”

For a moment he regarded me with sincere astonishment and wonder, and then the mask of feigned innocence and indignation returned. “You’re a damn fool!”

“Then prove me wrong,” I said.

He shook his head adamantly. “I’m no fool. I know of your prowess.

I’ll not waste my life over some damned allegation. Say what you will.

Think what you will. Slander my name. I don’t care. I have no quarrel with you.”

I grinned at him. “Ah, but you do. You can own it or not as you choose. Just remember what I said. I will see you dead.”

He shook his head and walked away to return to what he was doing, ignoring the men making catcalls and daring him to take my challenge.

I led Gaston and Pete back to the house we had appropriated.

“Well?” Striker asked.

I snorted. “He knows we know. And now all the Brethren here know he knows, and we know, and…” I shrugged. “That is all I sought to achieve this day. Now we will see what he does next.”

We continued our daily routine as if nothing had occurred. Two days after my confrontation with Hastings, we found the town physician’s house. We were overjoyed, as it contained a treasure trove of medicines: more than the apothecary had held. We took the valuable quinine and the flower pods necessary for laudanum back to our house, choosing to inventory the rest of the materials later in case we had need of them.

Thus, when our bedmates decided Striker was well enough to engage in carnal activities and they wished to have the room, Gaston and I were pleased we had a place to which we could retreat and a task to occupy us and keep us awake – as we dared not sleep alone in some other house with no one to watch over us. So we left our wolves to their pleasures, slipped away from the party over which Cudro was presiding downstairs, and carefully returned to the physician’s house by the light of the moon.

We justified our risk as necessary to flush out Hastings or any other would-be assassin; sitting in the light with our friends was surely not going to accomplish it.

Once at the physician’s house, we shuttered the windows, lit a lamp, found paper and ink, and began to arrange and list the herbs and concoctions Gaston felt we might need. I was actually not surprised to hear the noise of the back latch a little later. My matelot had heard it as well, and we turned the lamp very low and left it in the office as we padded through the doorway to the back room: the surgery. We crouched in darkness and saw the door open, but we did not see anyone enter before it closed again. As we were behind the surgery table, which had drawers beneath it, I thought it likely someone had entered, but they were keeping themselves as close to the floor as we were. A moment later my suspicion was confirmed: we heard the strike of a flint, and the weak light of a candle glowed beyond the table.

We each had a pistol and knife, and Gaston motioned left and I went right, and we came around the table at the same time, and found a young Spanish boy who squawked in honest fright at the sight of us.

Gaston dropped his weapons and dove atop the lad before he could escape. Much struggling and cursing ensued, until the boy finally realized he would not escape us and another form of defiance was in order.

“I will tell you English dogs nothing!” he spat.

“I would find concern in that if I had asked you a question,” I said in Castilian, which surprised him greatly.

He closed his mouth tightly and regarded me with eyes full of bravado. Now that he was still, I judged him to be young, but not a babe: perhaps seven or eight years of age. While Gaston held him pinned, I searched his pockets and found no real weapons, only a small knife like boys will carry and the flint and tinder. He was clutching something in his hand, though; and after prying it open, I found a note. It contained one word, apparently a Latin name; and I showed it to Gaston, and he frowned.

“It is a concoction sometimes used to treat the flux by balancing the humors,” Gaston said. “It is useless.”

I sighed and looked back at the boy. “You have the flux?”

His eyes widened, but he clamped his jaws even harder.

“Tell him I can give him something better to treat the flux,” Gaston said.

“This man is a physician,” I explained, to which I received a look of vibrant incredulity. I sighed. “He can give you medicine for the flux. You can use it yourself if you ail, or take it to whomever needs it and sent you here.”

“You lie,” the boy hissed.

I crossed myself like a good Christian and said, “As God is my witness.” Thankfully Gaston did not roll his eyes.

The boy now appeared quite confused. “Why? Why would you do this?”

Gaston sighed. “Tell him I have taken an oath to God to harm none with my medical knowledge.”

As he had expressed such sentiments to me before, I did not ask him about the oath to God part of the statement. I translated it for the boy.

The child now glared suspiciously at me.

“I serve him,” I added, and indicated Gaston.

Our prisoner reverted to confusion, but at least this bout of it loosened his tongue. “If you lie, it will not matter.”

“Why?” I asked kindly.

“She will die without the medicine if I cannot bring it. And if you give me a poison, she will die. And if you find her, she will die.”

“Your mother?” I guessed, not liking his fatalistic reasoning, but not having a lever to dislodge it as of yet.

“No, my sister.”

“All right, well, we will not follow you, so we will not find her. We will not give you a poison, but you will have to trust in God concerning that; and she might well die if you do not bring her something. So we will give you medicine, and you will sneak out of town the way you entered, and may God grant you speed in saving your sister.”

With that, I motioned for Gaston to release him.

The boy sat where he was as Gaston went and fished around in drawers and cupboards, and mixed various substances in two separate bowls, which he then poured into two bags: one small, the other large.

Then he had me instruct the boy that the small bag must be steeped in boiling water and drunk first; and that it would serve to clean away all the bad and evil humors in her bowels. And then the second, larger bag was to be steeped in truly large quantities of boiled water and taken every hour until the bag was empty. The boy seemed to understand my instructions, and I had him repeat them several times. Then we shooed him out the door.

“What did you give him?” I asked when we were sure the boy was gone. “The first concoction sounds much like Michaels’ gypsy remedy.”

“It was,” he sighed. “The second was some of those tea leaves from the orient mixed with sugar. I thought she would not consume enough water without it being made medicinal in some fashion.”

I chuckled. “You are a truly fine physician.”

“And liar,” he said with a troubled frown.

“My love, you lie for the good of them. I will never fault you for that.”

We returned to our task of arranging vials and pots and listing and re-labeling them. Unlike the physician in Puerto Principe, this man’s handwriting was quite neat: Gaston simply did not like the names given to many of the substances, preferring to use others with which he was more familiar.

We heard the latch of the back door again several hours later, as we were beginning to tire. We did as we had before, and found the boy again. He did not panic at the sight of us this time.

“My mother wishes for me to thank you,” he said solemnly. “My father died of the flux, and she is very scared she will lose us, too.”

“When did your father die?” I asked kindly.

“Many years ago, when I was a baby,” he said. “We have all been well since, but then we went to hide, and my sisters are becoming ill.”

“You are the youngest, then?” I asked.

“Si, but I am the only boy,” he said proudly.

“Ah, how many sisters?”

“Four.”

Knowing what Gaston would wish to know when I relayed the boy’s words, I asked, “What are you drinking at the hiding place?”

“Water from the well.” He wrinkled his nose. “But it is an old well.