The Red King (11 page)

“Get cracking!” the men cried in unison.

Andrew moved to the gunnel and looked down at
the water. The ship was far past where Fleming had dropped in, not
that he expected to see him there floating just below the surface,
but he was struck by the swiftness and suddenness of his departure.
He wanted to mourn, to be sad and angry for Fleming, Rory…himself.
He wondered what it meant, that he was not.

“Fleming was not one for carrying on, putting
dirt in his hair or tearing at his clothes.” Rory was beside him,
back against the rail and arms crossing his chest.

“I gathered that about him, early on. He
seemed….much in love with life,” Andrew answered.

“Much in love with life.” Rory smiled. “He
would have liked that.”

Andrew looked at him, troubled. “I’m not so
sad that he’s gone. I feel lucky that I knew him, even for so short
a time, but still, I don’t wish to cry and lament his loss, or
yours, or even mine. How can that be? What kind of person does that
make me?”

“It makes you strong, resilient; able to furl
and fold when necessary. It means you are open to catch the
carrying wind and find the right course,” Rory said, fingers
finding his cheek.

“It makes me a sail?” Andrew asked, drolly.
He raised his eyebrows irreverently but pressed into the man’s
palm.

Rory laughed and pulled him close. “It seems
it makes you a saucy Jack with a clever tongue.”

“I feel like I’ve been here…forever, that
this is where I am supposed to be,” Andrew said, not laughing with
him. “It’s as if my life before just doesn’t exist, doesn’t
matter.”

“Your life made you. It helped you grow
clever, slow to anger, quick to care and brought you to a place
where those gifts promise to be appreciated. Your life matters,
Andrew,” Rory told him. He set Andrew before him, facing the bow.
“Try not to regret what brought you here. Look to tomorrow, and the
new world you are about to discover.”

Andrew was going to argue, but then the salt
spray caught his face, a current of air stirred his short, dark
locks and he raised his face to the sky.

Rory forbade Andrew leaving the ship until he
returned with clothes of proper fit and a pair of stout boots.
There had been some argument about that, but he had expected it
from the spirited young man. Andrew had insisted he was not a child
and could very well attend the initial excursion. Rory silenced him
by saying he would not be the one carrying him over piles of
rotting food and dung, and he certainly did not relish sharing his
bed with someone who had stepped in the offal, unshod. Andrew had
backed down, but his rebellious frown did not smooth away until
Rory kissed him.

“I promise to return as soon as I have them.
I won’t be long.”

The streets of Algiers were familiar to Rory;
even the twisting narrow alleys of the market place offered no
mysteries to him. He called the region his home, the city in
particular, and treasured both its beauty and its squalor. The
libraries, scholars, and healers in the High City knew his face as
well as the tavern and shop owners below the citadel. He had even
been escorted to the walled center of the city after rescuing one
of the Turk’s favored sons from an over amorous Dutch merchant.

He greeted his favorite clothes maker with a
smile. Amira was a beautiful woman of mixed blood, with skin the
color of cinnamon bark and wide dark eyes. Her warm heart had ample
room for all and she loved Rory as a son. She was the closest to a
mother he could remember.

She accepted his kiss on her cheek. “You look
terrible. Your man is not caring for you as he should.”

“Fleming is gone, Amira.”

In her wisdom she did not ask how or why, but
she took his hand and led him to her table. She called for tea and
the Persian pipe and sat with him until he had spilled the tale of
his own accord.

“God will take him, Rory,” she said, still
holding his hand. “No matter what evil he committed in this life,
he did not do it joyfully. There was no true evil in his
heart.”

“I have enough evil in my heart for both of
us, Amira.”

She frowned. “What you have is hate and
anger, and more than a little self-pity. That is not evil.”

“It is enough,” Rory drew on the pipe and
blew the sweet smoke out of his nose, changing the subject by
saying, “Amira, I need clothes.”

“You have already gone through the last
order?” she asked, incredulous.

“No, not for me,” Rory said with a smile. “I
have a new crewman and he’s of a smaller stature. Do you have
something ready? He can hardly walk without the breeches falling
from his hips.”

“I am sure I can find something. Most Arabs
are not so big as you northern men. They may be good enough for
Algiers, if you take my meaning. Nothing a foreigner would think is
fine,” Amira said. She rose and pulled him to his feet. “Come, tell
me what you think will be fitting.”

As he was leaving, Amira pressed upon him a
palm frond filled with honeyed dates and tied into a neat package,
saying “You must eat. How am I to rest knowing you are so thin?” He
smiled and kissed her cheek once more.

Rory made his way back to the ship with a
parcel of clothing under one arm, sugared dates in his hand, and a
pair of soft brown boots tied together and slung over his shoulder.
The honey had begun to leak through its wrapping, dripping between
his fingers down the back of his hand. By the time he crossed the
plant onto the
Taibhse
he was sticky all the way to his
wrist. He greeted Malik, who had volunteered to stay behind and
mind the vessel as well as Andrew.

Malik smiled and nodded. “Aye, Captain! Did
you get the little wolf something to clothe himself in? He looks
most pitiful in what he has, like a babe in a baptismal gown.”

“I did, Malik. You needn’t worry.” Rory
looked around the deck, empty except for the two of them. “When
does your watch end? I know a clothes maker who would love to see
your ample proportions in her shop.”

“Amira! Her shop would be a most welcome
sight and I would go there straight away, but my watch will not end
until the sun sets. The midday prayers are approaching and I see no
reason to go into the city until it awakens for the afternoon.”

Rory chose the moment to address a matter of
some importance. “Malik, in the future I’ll be in need of a First
Mate. Fleming and I discussed it at length long ago and we both
agreed you would be the best man for the job. Would you consider
taking the responsibility?”

Malik was moved, almost to tears. “It would
be my honor, Captain. Thank you.”

“I feel I must remind you that I ride into
dark waters. I can’t promise you’ll return,” Rory said, wanting
Malik to be fully aware of where he was heading.

“
Ruaidhri
, I would not be standing in
this glorious sun awaiting the touch of a loving woman if not for
you. I owe you my life and would repay it in kind if ever asked,”
Malik vowed.

It gladdened Rory’s heart to have that
assurance. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“It will, eventually, come to that, Captain.
It’s betwixt then and now that matters.” The men shared a moment of
quiet understanding before the soft sound of bare feet on wood was
heard.

“Are those for me?”

Rory turned. He found it curious how simply
looking upon the boy made him smile. Andrew stood clad only in the
too large breeches, pale and bruised and delicious. “Aye, it is all
for you.”

Andrew’s bright eyes were drawn to the
shining, sticky mess in Rory’s hand. “What’s that?”

“Let’s get inside and I will show you.” Rory
nodded to Malik, who touched his forehead in salute.

Rory watched Andrew as he carefully laid out
the items the parcel contained. The boy had a bright eyed look to
him, somewhere between overly excited and verging on tears. Rory
understood the vows of poverty taken by the aesthetic brothers, but
they’d had a child in their care. He imagined a younger Andrew, all
eyes, ears, and freckles, sitting on a cold stone floor with nary a
wooden horse or boat to stretch the imagination. Rory’s heart
clenched a little; could they really have been so austere in the
face of such innocence?

“You seem overwhelmed, and by such simple
things. Did your holy order did not believe in gifts?” Rory asked,
at last, when Andrew smiled at the bright red sash tucked within
the robe.

“We gifted each other every day, from our
robes to our meals, to the baskets in our garden. Each was
treasured as much as the brightest gold. And I had gifts; my own
rosary and a crucifix Father Armand requested be blessed by the
Bishop. I even had a small book of prayers. It was plain, but my
name was scribed on the inside,” Andrew answered, smiling soft, but
sad. He looked at Rory, eyes narrowing. “I know what you’re
thinking.”

Rory, who had been watching the shadows play
across the ivory skin of Andrew’s back, met that shrewd stare with
a languid gaze. “Do you?”

“You think that it was no way to raise a boy,
without wooden swords and stick horses to play at battle,” Andrew
said, closing the distance between them. “I promise you that my
imagination was well engaged, despite my lack of implements.”

He stood beside Rory, still smiling. The
light that came in through the cabin’s small window caught in his
hair and shimmered on his cheek. There was warmth in Andrew’s eyes
as they searched his, warmth and desire. Rory swept his arm behind
Andrew, holding him at the curve of his buttocks. “You were a happy
child, even without a mother and father?”

“I had a family of unrivaled love. The
brothers provided all of my needs; food, letters, warmth and love.
Brother Marcus even carved me a small boat to float down the
stream. A boat with a triangle sail,” Andrew said, his hand
smoothing the sweat dampened hair from Rory’s forehead. “I was very
happy.”

In Rory’s mind he saw his old room; full of
luxurious furnishings and scattered toys and still his nightmare,
his prison. He did not realize he’d frowned until Andrew touched
his face.

“What is it?” he whispered, cool fingertips
running along Rory’s cheek.

“Nothing,” Rory said. He saw the mutiny in
Andrew’s eyes but it quickly passed.

Instead, Andrew grinned and caught his lip
between his teeth. He pointedly glanced at the sticky mess in
Rory’s other hand. “What is that?”

“Honeyed dates, a staple here that I think
you will enjoy,” Rory answered, holding the gathered frond up
between them.

“A date?” Andrew asked, carefully taking the
bundle and setting it on the table. His hand was now sticky, too,
so he carelessly cleaned his fingers with his tongue.

“Like a raisin or fig. They’re quite
delicious,” Rory said. Watching Andrew’s lips make a perfect ‘O’
around each finger while he childishly relished the honey was both
endearing and arousing. Rory cut the string binding the package and
removed one of the fruits. He lifted it to Andrew, who raised his
own hand to take it from him. Rory held the date up and away.

Andrew understood. He opened his mouth to
receive it. He closed his eyes, humming a little under his breath
as he chewed. “It’s very good. May I have another?”

“As many as you like,” Rory lowered his eyes
to his lap. “Sit here.”

Andrew lowered himself onto Rory’s legs and
draped one arm over his shoulders. His tender rear settled, thighs
pressed against Rory’s cock, and he parted his lips to accept
another date. The honey dripped early, catching on Andrew’s chin
and Rory chased it with his own tongue. He followed it up to
Andrew’s mouth, licking the remnants of nectar away.

Rory reached for a third but this time when
he offered it, Andrew clasped his wrist and held it. Slowly,
deliberately, he took the fruit and the top half of Rory’s fingers
into his mouth. Rory’s gasp of surprise became a moan.

“I saw the way you watched me lick my
fingers,” Andrew said around the date. He chewed, his mouth
puckered and glistening with honey.

Rory was frozen with the need to have the boy
again, now, as rough and fast as it had been before.
Certainly a
man
, he reminded himself. He thought back to Andrew’s whispered
affirmation: yes he wanted it, no matter what the cost. Having
Andrew sprawled and shaking beneath him had nearly been too much to
bear. Hearing his cries and feeling the clench of his body had
brought Rory to consuming completion. He’d collapsed on top of
Andrew as he’d come, smearing the mess between them as they’d
settled onto the floor. It was a powerful memory, sweet and
exciting in a way Rory had never experienced.

Andrew shifted, becoming aware of Rory’s
arousal. He tried to stand but Rory’s arm was around his waist and
he could not. He looked contrite and a little anxious when he said,
“I don’t think I can do that again so soon. I’m sorry.”

With his still sticky hand, Rory cupped
Andrew’s chin and kissed him for a long time. When he stopped
Andrew was breathless and flushed. “Then let’s try something
else.”

Rory felt Andrew trembling and kissed him
again. He trailed his mouth down Andrew’s throat and then to his
neck, carefully nipping at the tender skin. Rory loved the
smoothness, the sweetness that had nothing to do with the honey
left by his own hand. He opened his mouth wider and bit in earnest,
causing Andrew to jump and moan. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in
Andrew’s ear.

“No, it didn’t hurt,” Andrew said in a
breathy rush.

Rory smiled as he continued down, mouth
painting a line of red from Andrew’s shoulder to his arm. Andrew
watched teeth scrape across the sensitive skin at his wrist and
shuddered. “Oh,
Ruaidhri
…” he murmured, his voice thick.

Before Andrew could finish the thought there
was a sound outside the cabin, a wailing cry that rang throughout
the area. It was followed by a reply, distant but of the same
cadence. Andrew jumped, alarmed by the suddenness with which it
pierced the quiet cabin. “What’s that?”