The Red King (46 page)

“I am hearing strange stories,
Ruaidhri
.”

Turning, he found Ortega leaning over the
quarterdeck, looking down at him. “What is that to me?” he asked,
meeting the man’s stare

“Regardless of what you believe of me, I am
capable of admiration and affection. I feel both for Andrew,”
Ortega answered. He jumped the stairs to land on the deck before
Rory, who watched him suspiciously. “Why do you disbelieve me? It
is what led me to agree to your terms.”

“That was the gold,” Rory said, woodenly.

The look on his face was the closest to
remorse Rory had ever seen on the man. “
Ruaidhri
,
please.”

Rory shook his head, sighed, and relented.
“Andrew remembers nothing; not you, me, his friends….his reason for
being here. He cannot retain even the freshest of memories; they
are wiped clean as he sleeps and gone when he wakes.”

Ortega frowned down at his feet, silent for a
moment before saying, “I knew his injuries were severe, but I had
no idea.”

“It is not his injuries, at least, not
directly,” Rory said. At Ortega’s confused glance, he elaborated,
“He was party to a death while in Maarten’s grasp. Laurent thinks
it may be his mind wishing to be free of the experience, causing
the whole of it to be forgotten to that end.”

“Mm, he’s a clever one, Laurent. I would say
he has it right,” Ortega agreed, nodding. “Can I be of any
assistance?”

“He wishes to be left alone. We have
committed to honoring that, so, please, leave him be. For now. It
is your cabin, of course, so moving him to another will be
necessary. If you could let us know so that we can assist, we would
be grateful. Clothes, perhaps, in case he would like to see the sun
again,” Rory said, reviewing the list in his mind. There was one
more thing. He inhaled deeply and clenched his fists at his side.
“And, his passage, should he chose not to remain with me.”

“What?” Ortega was clearly shocked.

“I will not force him,” Rory added, his voice
low and gruff with suppressed emotion. “If he doesn’t want to come
with me, I ask that you take him some place safe.”

Ortega watched his face, expectantly. “You
would trust me with this?”

Absurdly, Rory felt his throat tighten on his
answer and his eyes stinging. “Please, he has no one outside of the
life he made with me. I need to know that he’ll be…” he pause to
swallow, thickly, “taken care of.”

“I will, of course. Do not fear on that
account,” Ortega promised, gravely.

Rory felt a bit of the tension in his body
ease and tears caught in his lashes to blur his vision. “Thank
you.”

“He is a remarkable young man. He will do
well in the world, no matter where he is,” Ortega added, stepping
closer. “But only a fool cannot see that he belongs with you. I
will do my utmost to see that he stays there.”

Too relieved to be embarrassed by his sudden
weakness, Rory scrubbed his hands across his eyes. He did not
speak, instead turning his gaze up to the mast. To break the
silence between them, he commented with more serenity than he felt,
“You have a fine ship, Capitan.”

Ortega smiled and when he put his hand on
Rory’s shoulder, Rory did not push it away. “Let us break our fast,
and then I’ll show it to you.”

The day’s distraction was nominally more
successful than the last. While never doubting that the man was of
keen mind and quick action, Rory gained a fuller appreciation as he
was introduced to the crew. Never once did Ortega falter in his
familiarity with each man’s name, station, and origin; a triumph
for Rory and his own crew of forty yet this was easily twice that
count. Unabashed in acknowledging his own shortcomings, Rory was
humbled, and said as much.

“I was trained in service to the Crown of
Spain,
Ruaidhri
, and have helmed this ship since dismissed
from that station. It is all I know. Rather you should feel more
accomplished for learning alone and under duress. It is no mean
feat to take on a vessel with no inkling of how to run it,” Ortega
answered, easily.

Raising his brows, Rory looked at him,
askance. “Is that praise, Captain?”

Ortega snorted, indelicately. “Never. Simply
an observation.”

At midday a crewman found them sitting on the
gun deck, discussing firepower, range, and the need for mobility.
Rory recognized him as the pale, awestruck Nils, introduced to him
by Etienne the previous evening. In his hands was a bundle of
cloth, topped by a pair of highly shined and buckled black boots.
Ortega thanked him and sent him back to work.

“These are from the same chest, presumably
the same man. Sized about right, though a bit flamboyant,” Ortega
said, passing them to Rory.

“So I see,” Rory murmured, eyeing the stiff
blue velvet breeches. “Still, he’ll need them, eventually. Thank
you, again, Captain. I am ever more indebted to you.”

“Give me your hand,
Ruaidhri
, and let
us be as comrades-in-arms; brethren with a single goal,” Ortega
said, standing. He clicked his heels and extended his arm. When
Rory hesitated, he winked and grinned. “Until we part, at
least.”

With a smirk pulling up the side of his
mouth, Rory rose and took the offered hand. “Until we part,
then.”

Ortega smiled widely. “Excellent!” The bell
sounded from the deck, announcing the end of the aforenoon watch.
“Ah! Timely, that, I’m ravenous. Nils, what has Gregors prepared
for our table?”

Midday, and Rory had not checked on Andrew,
nor spoken to his men. He opened his mouth to cry off, but Ortega
took his arm and pulled him along.

“Pheasant, stewed in the French fashion,
sir,” Nils replied in heavily accented English. He fell in step
behind them and added, “With fresh apples, I believe. He wishes to
use them all before they fall into putrefaction.”

“I would take one of your apples,” Rory
requested, pulling his arm from Ortega’s grasp with a shrug. “But I
must decline the meal, as I have put off seeing to my crew.”

“Take all the apples you want, but dine with
me first. I daresay you could use the sustenance,” Ortega answered,
eyeing Rory’s loose shirt and doublet, long enough in limb but
wider than Rory by a third. When he noticed Rory’s reticence, he
said, “I believe Andrew would rather you eat and spend idle moments
in conversation, than fret over him.”

Rory felt a flash of anger at the impudence,
but it faded quickly. It was replaced by a small dash of humor.
“Andrew would rather eat the pheasant and let others talk around
him.”

Ortega laughed. “Yes, I gathered that. Where
does he use it all, I wonder?”

“Fuel for the fire of his spirit,” Rory
answered, and let Ortega lead him.

The food was good and Rory’s belly was full.
Ortega plied him with brandy and was most engaging, and they
dallied at length. The time was marked by six bells and all for the
promise of apples, he told himself. In the end, it was only two
apples. The rest had already been cooked and smashed, ready to feed
the men as they shifted for the evening watch. These two were at
least firm and relatively free of bruises, so as he left the dining
quarters shared by the officers, he tucked them into his shirt.

As the seventh bell rang, he left Ortega to
seek his men. Under his arm he held the bundle of clothes, in his
hand he carried the boots, and he moved out onto the deck. The
fresh air was good, clearing away the sleepy remnants of the
luncheon. He paused in his steps to breathe deeply and was hailed
from portside.

“
Ruaidhri
!”

Yousef sat with the carpenter’s mate, hand
turning a damaged belaying pin. A dozen more lay at his feet,
awaiting his attention. “It does not surprise me to find you with
the lathe and chisel,” Rory said by way of greeting. “Is this where
you’ve spent your time?”

“Aye,” Yousef smiled, cheekily. “Some of us
are used to working for a living.”

The mate covered his snickers with one hand
and turned away.

Rory scowled, only slightly threatening.
“You’ll give these men a poor opinion of me, speaking so.”

“Hah! I cannot damage your character,
Ruaidhri
, for nothing you do surprises anyone.” Yousef
nodded to the mate and they laughed together.

Narrowing his eyes at his crewman, Rory
warned, “Laugh now to your leisure, we’ll be back to the
Taibhse
soon enough.”

Neither man stopped chuckling. “Never fear,
Captain, your legend will remain untarnished.”

Rory relented, laughed, and tipped up an
empty crate to sit upon. “Have you seen Etienne today?”

“Mid-morning or thereabouts, but not since.
He’s spending his time with Laurent, helping him relearn his native
tongue,” Yousef said, then cocked a saucy brow and said, “Or
whatever they choose to call it?”

“A little discretion, Yousef,” Rory scolded,
yet he still smiled.

Waving a hand at the mate, Yousef told him,
“Oh, he doesn’t care. Most of ‘em don’t care past a rat’s ass,
think any of ‘em would say boo to him if they did? What’s more?
Etienne
doesn’t care past a rat’s ass.”

“Laurent may care.”

“Now, see, he’s a broken bird, that one, but
he’s not once taken a bit of trouble. One of the bilge men set
hands to him the first night and Laurent broke two of his fingers!
No one’s given him worry since,” Yousef said, happily scraping at
the pin between his knees. He grinned at Rory once more. “He’s
going back with Etienne;
with
him, if you take my
meaning.”

Surprised, Rory took a moment to digest that
information. “Clearly, I haven’t been paying attention.”

“You’ve had your own troubles to bear, I’d
say.”

Rory nodded. “Perhaps, but it is not an
excuse. Malik?”

“You know Malik; he never met a stranger.
He’s got half the able seamen aboard wishing they could jump ship
and sail with you!”

“I doubt we’d have room for them all,” Rory
muttered, then chuckled at the thought of it.

“Have you seen Andrew?” Yousef went from
jovial, if a bit lewd, to serious in an instant.

“No,” Rory answered, softly. “Not since
morning last.”

“Those for him?”

“Yes.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Rory stared at Yousef as he went back to
trimming the wooden pin. After a moment, Yousef looked up, rolled
his eyes and said, “Oh, pardon me. What are you waiting for,
Captain?
”

“You keep that up and I’ll see you at the
mast,” Rory threatened, able to restrain his smile. Mostly.

“Aye, Captain. My apologies, Captain,” Yousef
said, grinning wickedly.

After clapping Yousef on the back and sending
the giggling carpenter’s mate a sour look, Rory rose and took up
his burdens. His friend was right, it was due. Andrew would need
time, for consideration, deliberation. Even if Rory dreaded the
outcome, he owed it to Andrew to give him the choice.

Rory knocked and called. “Andrew? I will
count to twenty and knock again, then come in.”

There was no sound on the other side of the
door while he numbered the seconds in his mind. He knocked the
second time, announced himself, and entered. The room looked the
same, but Andrew…ah, Andrew was clear eyed and upright. He leaned
against the bulkhead with a book in his lap, wrapped in blankets,
supported by cushions. Just the sight of him made Rory feel more
alive.

“You look better today,” Rory told him,
smiling. He stepped forward, moving slow with his arms held away
from his body.

Andrew watched him, warily, from his place in
the far corner of the bed.

“Clothes, provided by the captain of this
vessel. He sends his regards and wishes you good health,” Rory
said, setting the garments on the table. The boots he set on the
floor. He reached into his shirt and pulled out the apples,
polishing them each on his sleeve as he continued. “You are…were,
fond of apples…I do not know if you remain so, but I thought,
perhaps, now that you are able to….”

He looked back to Andrew’s face to see him
tilt his head as he stared.

“Do you want one now?”

Andrew nodded.

Smiling a little, happy to have communion
even in this small way, Rory asked, “Would you like me to cut
it?”

A frown passed over Andrew’s features,
briefly, but then his eyes brightened and he nodded again.

Rory unsheathed his dagger, kept it held
before him point down as he palmed the fruit. He cut it into halves
and meaningfully returned his dagger to its place before picking up
the pieces. Slowly, he stepped towards the bed, stopping an arm’s
length from its edge. He bent at the waist and reached out to set
the halves atop the blankets, as far from Andrew as he could. Then
he retreated back to the table, placing it between them. Andrew
leaned over and plucked one from where it rested.

Watching him take a bite and chew with closed
eyes, Rory lowered to the captain’s chair and waited. A moment
passed in silence, only broken by a small sigh from Andrew as he
savored the sweetness and crisp texture of the fruit. He looked
back to Rory and sent his thanks with a smile. Rory returned it, so
happy to see it again his own may have looked a bit drunk.

After Andrew had taken another bite, he
asked, softly, “May I have a moment? I have things I need to tell
you, matters that must be addressed.”

Andrew pursed his lips, then licked them and
nodded.

Rory clenched his fists under the table where
Andrew could not see.
I will never speak of torture again, for
now I know what the worst of it is
, he thought, taking one more
deep, cleansing breath before continuing. “Do you know
anything…about before? Has anyone told you?”

Andrew held up his empty hand, thumb and
forefinger held apart by an inch.

“A little?” Rory asked. Andrew nodded and he
chuckled. “You know that you have friends; Etienne and Laurent, who
bring your meals, Malik and Yousef, crewmen from my ship who think
of you as a brother. There are many more at home who are fond of
you and who miss you, even now.”