The Red King (18 page)

“Please stop! Stop! Stop it! Stop it!”

“Rory!”

He was shaken, hard, and held down. Rory
opened his eyes.

Andrew was above him. His face was drawn,
pale, eyes full of fear and concern. Both hands were gripping his
shoulders, pressing him into the bedroll. “Rory, are you
awake?”

Still unable to speak, Rory felt the world
tilt on its side. He was breathing quickly with short shallow pants
and could not make his body respond. He could tell his eyes were
wide, could feel the tension in his body, but could not release it.
The terror was too sharp. Too real.

Andrew began to stroke his face and hair. He
lay down beside Rory and pulled him close, holding him as the fear
began to fade. It took a long time, but Rory’s breathing slowed and
he was able to put his arms around Andrew soon after. As his
trembling eased he lifted his head to look at Andrew and saw red
eyes, damp cheeks. His throat finally free, Rory asked “Why do you
cry?”

“You screamed, but it wasn’t you. Not as you
are. I heard a child’s voice, a child in pain.” Andrew paused, his
face crumpling.

“It was a just a dream.”

“No,” Andrew asserted, shaking his head. “No,
that was more than a dream.”

Rory returned his head to Andrew’s shoulder,
treasuring the feeling of Andrew’s hand in his hair and stroking
down his back. They were proof that living did not have to hurt. “I
cannot answer you now, Andrew. Not about the dream. I can tell you
how it started, if you would hear it.”

“Of course,” Andrew said, pressing a kiss to
the top of his head.

“My mother, sister and I lived in Baltimore,
a village on the southern coast of Ireland. It was raided for
slaves to bolster the Ottoman rule. The man who led the attack
brought his bastard with him. While the father might have been
driven by greed and the quest for riches, the son was fascinated by
the flesh. He saw me in chains and claimed me for his own.”

Andrew had gone still. “How old were
you?”

“Ten years, but I was already tall. He
thought I was older until he took me the first time.”

Andrew’s arms tightened. “Rory, oh, Rory,” he
whispered, pressing his cheek to Rory’s hair.

“Thinking on it now, I remember him being
rather gentle, much gentler than I was with you,” Rory continued,
smiling with the irony of it. “There were times that it
was…strangely pleasant. I didn’t know the words at the time, those
that I flung at you in anger. After mourning my mother and sister,
I adapted. I became the catamite and it was all I knew.” He
stopped, the dread of facing the next part of the story was too
great. “I’m sorry Andrew, I…I cannot go on.”

“Shhh, it’s enough for now.”

Rory was happy to stay where he was,
listening to Andrew’s heart beating in his chest. He did not know
when he had been comforted, held, in this manner. When he’d told
Fleming, it had been over cups of rum or after a particularly
rousing session in bed. Not after a nightmare. Not while being held
so sweetly. He was debating the wisdom of each, weighing how
sensible it was to confess in Andrew’s arms, and he started to
drift into sleep again. This time, peaceful and dreamless.

When Rory woke again it was after midday. He
did not hurry to rise, choosing to stay close to Andrew, to watch
him sleep and dwell upon his confession. Only the smallest trace of
the dream remained, for which he was thankful. As he thought back
to what he’d told Andrew, however, he realized his memories were
sharper. He could recall details more vividly, it seemed. The
clarity of it was alarming. Rory knew the story, had lived it, but
shunning the emotions it wrought had turned the devastation into
merely a wordy tale of woe.

Today Rory could remember not just the order
and events but how he felt; all of the fear, pain, and emptiness of
a broken child. When he’d been given attention, affection, he had
followed willingly. Happily. Even when the descent into torture
began, he submitted because of that promise of love. He had felt
such shame, even as it happened, even as he gave more and more of
himself. Hate and anger had come later, after the end. Before that
there had been love; of a perverted sort, but love it was. To be
exiled from that, as twisted as it was, had been Rory’s breaking
point.

Now he had his chance at revenge before him,
in the form of tender, innocent, beautiful Andrew. He gave Rory
hope even through the loss of Fleming. Rory could feel it inside of
him, blooming at every smile, at every kiss. It was delicate, but
it was the first true optimism he’d felt, possibly in his life.
That hope could sustain him through the pressing weeks of training
Andrew, preparing him.

That thought disturbed Rory’s peace. It
rippled through that warm feeling, the one he thought of as hope,
like a stone skimming across still water. This could not change the
end. It must conclude as desired or all will have failed. He
wondered how he could find such peace even as he lied to Andrew.
And himself.

Andrew stirred, distracting Rory from his
thoughts. He opened his eyes, found Rory watching him and smiled.
For a moment, all was well, and then Andrew remembered. “Are you
all right?” he asked, concerned.

Rory was not, but he lied, “I am. Don’t worry
for my sake. I am hungry, though.”

“Me, too,” Andrew answered, eyes
brightening.

They ate and talked at length about small
things, at first. Rory described the race that won him Brighid and
the ensuing brawl involving the Turk he took her from. He then
followed with the story of the taking of a ship bound for the New
World, laden with newly captured at Senegal to be sold slaves. “It
is not just Moors and Turks taking captives for their labor, though
Europeans sneer and name them savages. So much for civilized
men.”

“It goes against all of the teachings of
Christ himself,” Andrew commented, chewing on a piece of dried
lamb. “The instruction given from the prophet we chose is not
followed. Instead, words and rules listed a thousand years before
his birth are kept to the letter. I cannot fathom how it is
justified.”

“Did your abbot teach you that?” Rory asked,
smiling.

“No, that is my own thought,” Andrew
answered, eyes blazing.

They were silent for a moment. Andrew eyed
Rory, curiously, to which Rory raised a brow. “Ask.”

“I don’t need to ask. It was Maarten, the one
who took you.”

Rory nodded.

“And he kept you for many years.”

“Thirteen.”

Andrew swallowed and closed his eyes. When he
opened them he asked, “How much farther to Tipaza?”

“If we travel all night we can be there by
sunrise,” Rory said.

“We should make ready, then.” He reached for
his trousers.

Rory was surprised there were no more
questions. “Is that all you need to know?”

“I have many questions, but I told you I
would wait until we reached Tipaza,” Andrew answered, rising to his
knees to tie the drawstring. He then lowered to his hands, leaned
closer to Rory and kissed him on the cheek. “And I would not color
my memory of this place with such horrors.”

“Agreed,” Rory said, smiling softly at
him.

They broke camp with no difficulty, working
companionably together to lower and stow the tent. Andrew had
teased about the assistance. “I raised it alone, why help now?
Shouldn’t you be loading the food and tending to your princess?” he
asked, throwing a glance in Brighid’s direction.

“It is my pleasure to help you lower
your...staff,” Rory responded, slyly.

Andrew blushed but laughed. They finished the
work in easy silence and started the journey the same.

Andrew was no doubt used to occasional ritual
silences during his time with the holy brothers and seemed
comfortable. Rory was unsettled, though he could not decide why.
Aboard the
Taibhse
he often went silent, sometimes sunk in
thoughts of his revenge, other times in simple appreciation of the
wind and sea. Yet now he wanted to prod Andrew to talk, to chatter
as young men often did, while Rory himself could think of nothing
to say. He regretted promising Andrew the story and at the same
time wanted to tell it all, right away.

The road to Tipaza was much as Rory
remembered -- a little drier this season, a little poorer for
provisions with most of the fruit trees already picked bare. Andrew
made no requests, for necessary pause or rest. He seemed determined
to keep up with Rory and, hiding a smile, Rory reduced his own pace
by half as the stars began to appear. As the moon crested Brighid
showed signs of distress and Rory soothed her, promising a clean
stable and pears and rutting stallions if she would just proceed
until dawn.

When Andrew began to doze in the terik Rory
caught the camel's bridle to lead it. Esme gave him a baleful look
while working her jaw as if ready to spit, but Rory held her gaze
until she broke, looking in the opposite direction. Andrew might be
a changeling who gentled animals with a touch, but Rory had never
cared for camels. Control himself as he might, most beasts
recognized the bitter fury inside him. Even Brighid’s heart had
taken patience and time to win.

Tipaza stretched across three hills, butting
up against the sea. The Roman town was a ruin, abandoned for a
thousand years. Berber tribesmen recognized the site as valuable
for the remarkably preserved aqueduct and still bubbling artesian
wells that once fed the baths and fountains with fresh water. A few
settlers of mixed decent had laid claim to the land just east, an
elbow of rock and sandy beach that extended into the water. It was
a small village, simple and plain in comparison to the grand ruins
beside it, but it was a warm and welcoming sight after their long
ride.

“Andrew,” Rory called, laying a gentle hand
on the man’s shoulder. “We’re here.” Rory pointed. “There are the
ruins and beyond it, the village.”

Rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand,
Andrew was at first unfocused, still groggy from his half-sleep in
the saddle. As they descended he began to observe the remains of
the city with greater enthusiasm. He spurred his camel past Rory,
only to slow as he approached the long broken road and roofless
portico. The sun broke the horizon and flooded the city with light.
The stone turned reddish-gold and shimmered with the reflection
from the sea beyond the columns.

“It’s magnificent,” he said breathlessly when
Rory drew alongside him.

“There will be time for exploration,” Rory
answered. He was facing Andrew, delighting in the golden light
shimmering in his tousled hair.

Andrew turned his eyes towards him and asked,
“Will there?”

The expected excitement was not there,
however. Rory met his gaze and they were caught again, staring at
each other as if they could open their heads and hearts to see
inside and spare the worry of speech. That was, at least, what Rory
wished. “We shall make time,” Rory offered. “If that is what you
desire.”

After a moment, Andrew nodded and smiled.
“Right now, I would most enjoy being rid of this saddle.”

“Follow me,” Rory said, and led him towards
the village.

The houses were small stone structures, some
made of quarried rock from the ruins. Their simple construction did
not preclude certain luxuries; lush colorful rugs, decorative
shutters, awnings of brightly colored wool, painted tiles around
windows and doors, even potted plants. The street was clean, free
of the human and animal waste prevalent in the city. It was a
lovely place, already busy with the daily activities of a
flourishing village. Rory felt the welcome immediately, his ease
transferring to a smile aimed at Andrew.

An older woman with nut-brown skin and pure
white hair, sat outside of an outlying home grinding meal for the
day. She saw him and let out a cry. “AIIIEEE!
Ruaidhri
!
Ruaidhri
has returned!!” She lay her work aside and rose to
greet them.

Rory leapt from Brighid’s back and took her
in his arms. He hugged her tightly, smiling as she rambled at him
in an endless stream of Berber. Others came, crowding around him to
welcome him with genuine warmth. It lifted his spirits, brought his
hope back to life. Speaking to them in rapid Berber, Rory assured
all that their questions would be answered soon, but that he and
his apprentice would eat and rest first. At his mention of an
apprentice, they all turned as one to look at Andrew.

Andrew did not notice their stares. He was
kneeling, watching with great interest as a small boy made hand
gestures. After a moment, he leaned closer and opened his eyes
wide. The child held Andrew’s face; his little fingers were dark
against Andrew’s skin. Then they both smiled widely at each other
and the boy gave him the traditional welcome of kisses on both
cheeks. He looked to Rory, still smiling, and was surprised to find
everyone’s eyes on him.

“Oh! Hello,” he said, standing.

“My friends, this is Andrew,” Rory announced,
unable to keep the affection from his voice. He watched the little
boy bring Andrew into the circle and was gratified to see them
welcome him with warm attention. Andrew grinned and blushed as he
was passed from person to person to receive embraces from all. He
finally stood before Rory, a little breathless, face still
pink.

“Do they welcome all strangers so
enthusiastically?” he asked.

“They believe in a child’s truth, that they
can see men’s souls more clearly. You were accepted by the boy, so
they accepted you,” Rory told him. He was not surprised that Andrew
passed the boy’s muster, but he was pleased it happened so readily.
“I must ask him if he found any fault in you, at all. Your soul is
disturbingly unblemished.”

He regretted saying it when Andrew’s smile
faded. “No, it’s not. I’ve killed a man and intend to kill again.
The mark on my soul is black. Blacker still, for I have not
repented.”