The Red King (43 page)

The caftan was dropped beside Rory, within
arm’s reach. “I would say you were lucky it was not torn,” Rory
quipped, his humor much improved this day.

“Really, Rory, neither one of you is in any
shape to be indulging in carnalities,” Etienne scolded, his
amusement fading as he eyed Andrew’s back. “You could have done
more damage, to both your persons.”

Rory couldn’t stop his smile. “He
insisted.”

Etienne raised an eyebrow.

“We were not so rough, I promise you. His
bandages need to be changed, anyway,” Rory said, still grinning. He
carefully slid Andrew off of him, giving him a cushion to hold in
his place. As he pulled the caftan over his head, he asked, “What
does Ortega want?”

“I would not chance a guess. Perhaps he just
wishes to see to your well-being.”

Their eyes met, and together they burst into
laughter. Etienne lowered himself to the bed, pushing Rory’s leg
out of his way.

“Rory, please concede that you
both
need rest. You are still healing, too.”

Looking down at Andrew’s sleeping face, Rory
rested gentle fingers on his cheek. “I know, but it seemed more
necessary to prove to him that I was not a dream.”

“Surely there are less strenuous ways to do
that,” Etienne stated, pointedly.

“He’s been through Hell, Etienne. He faced
the horrors that Maarten would deal him, all the while believing me
dead and that he had left all hope of friend and love behind,” Rory
whispered, still watching Andrew. “A moment’s pleasure after so
much pain cannot be regretted.”

“I will not argue with you there,” Etienne
agreed. He bent, reaching for something else at his feet. “Here,
cover him. I would not have his, ah, attributes exposed for any and
all to see.”

Tucking the heavy blankets around Andrew’s
form, Rory leaned in to press a kiss to his temple.

Andrew opened his eyes.

Rory pulled away, smiling softly at him. “You
did not sleep so long this time.”

Andrew looked at him, eyes queerly blank.

“Andrew?” Rory called, a chill misting his
warm spirits.

Etienne leaned closer. “Andrew, would you
smile for us and ease our souls?” he asked, the lilt of a tease in
his voice.

Pushing himself up, still bearing a vacant,
unsettling expression, Andrew sat back on his heels. He looked at
Rory first, then Etienne, his eyes wide.

“Andrew?” Rory could name this emptiness, had
seen it before, but his heart shrank from the knowledge.

Slowly shaking his head, Andrew opened his
mouth. No sound came, but Rory could read the words as Andrew’s
lips formed them.

Who are you?

Andrew grimaced, reaching up to touch his
throat. His brow furrowed, grazing his fingers across a raised welt
on his shoulder, still greasy from Laurent’s ointment. His breath
hitched, his head lowered, and he looked upon his nakedness. The
messy remains of his and Rory’s seed still clung to his skin. His
neck flushed pink as he pulled the blanket up to his chest. When he
looked back to Rory his eyes were filled with tears, his face the
same hectic color as his neck and fraught with fear.

All of Rory’s strength fled. He sagged back
onto the bed, unable to speak without screaming.

“Don’t be afraid, Andrew,” Etienne said,
softly. His manner changed from incorrigible to fatherly for an
instant. “We won’t harm you.”

When he reached out it was a slow, careful
movement that carried no threat, but Andrew retreated all the same.
He flung himself back, falling against the bulwark and opening his
mouth to cry out even though no sound would come. His face twisted
with pain and the standing tears fell down his cheeks. Curling over
his knees, he hugged himself, tightly, keeping the blankets
close.

“You’ve been injured, Andrew. We only want to
help,” Etienne soothed. He gripped Rory’s knee, jerking his head
towards the far corner when Rory turned to face him.

“I can’t leave him,” Rory whispered. He felt
sick; his heart hurt so much he thought it would spill from his
lips as a pulpy mass.

Etienne leaned closer to him to speak as
softly as could be heard. “It will frighten him less if only one of
us is near. Go, I’ll try to calm him.”

Rory rose slowly, unbalanced and trembling.
He lurched towards the table, leaning on the back of Ortega’s
elaborately carved chair. He did not watch but he heard Etienne
murmuring softly, the catches of Andrew’s breath. Placing both
hands flat on the table before him, Rory took a deep breath, sat,
and waited.

A torrent of questions, of curses and oaths
against fate and luck and the abominable unfairness of it all,
raged in his mind.
How is it
, he thought,
that he can
know me twice and then forget me? How can he see me with the
fullness of love one minute and not the next? Would Fate truly be
so cruel as to return him to me and then remove the part of him I
value most, right before my eyes? Leave him as a ghost to remind me
of what I once had?

He had stared at his hands for what seemed an
eternity, when he felt a gentle grip on his shoulder.

“He is composed, for now,” Etienne said,
leaning over him. “I’ll bring Laurent to change his dressing and
ask that Ortega not come, at least not now. Would you help him? He
needs water, to drink and to clean himself, and I do not think he
wants to be left alone.”

Rory nodded, not trusting his own voice. He
watched Etienne don his cloak and make his way to the door.

Before leaving, the man spoke over his
shoulder. “It will be all right. Just…move slowly, Rory.”

Heeding his warning, Rory pushed away from
the table, careful to keep his movements easy. He stood without
looking towards the bed and fetched the silver pitcher of water
left for them in the night. There was a cloth, as well, and he used
it to wipe at his sticky eyes before draping it over his arm.
Holding the pitcher before him, as if it were an offering, Rory
made his way to where Andrew waited. He was pale and small, his
knees drawn to his chest and the indigo bedclothes pulled to his
chin as he huddled beneath them. The bright eyes that had glittered
with love and passion now watched Rory with uncertainty. Lips that
had been hungry and eager were now curved into a frown.

Struggling to maintain a steady face and
hand, Rory perched on the side of the bed and presented the
pitcher. Andrew looked at it, then back up at him. “I don’t have a
cup, just now. I’m sorry,” Rory told him, softly.

Andrew tucked the blankets in around his
knees; keeping covered from his shoulders down, and extended his
hands. Their fingers brushed as the pitcher was passed and Andrew
flinched, but did not tremble or withdraw. He mouthed
Thank
you
, gave a small nod, and tipped the ewer to his lips.

“Take small sips, your throat is still…” Rory
stopped, the words awakening the memory of a boy, wounded and shy,
nibbling on a slice of apple. He closed his eyes, squeezed them
tight and took a deep breath.

There was a gentle touch to his wrist. His
eyes opened to see fingers lying upon his flesh, then rose to find
Andrew watching him with great sadness. Andrew tilted his head and
smiled, just a little, before passing the pitcher back.

Rory swallowed, clenching his teeth against
the tears that threatened. He took the vessel and poured a little
of the water onto the cloth he held. “Here…to wipe away the…ah…I’ll
turn away,” he offered as the blush returned to Andrew’s
cheeks.

He returned the pitcher to its place, resting
his hands on the washstand and bowing his head. There was a rustle
of cloth, a small gasp, and then a timid knock. Inhaling deeply,
Rory turned to face Andrew again. He was sitting at the edge of the
bed, blankets bundled at his waist. The bandages were gone, unwound
and circling his hands. His face was a jumble of emotions; pain,
fear, uncertainty…but also
trust
. Rory blinked, clearing the
moisture that clung to his lashes, fogging the edges of his
vision.

What happened to me?
Andrew mouthed,
eyes imploring, begging for truth.

Not knowing what to say, how to explain the
matter without unduly upsetting the man, Rory hesitated. He stared,
frozen with indecision, turning over in his mind the why’s and
how’s of Andrew’s injuries and finding no gentle way to disclose
their source. He returned to the chair and dragged it closer, but
not within reach. When he was seated, he opened his hands on his
thighs, straightened his back, and spoke.

“You were at the mercy of an evil man, a
violent man. He hurt you for his pleasure.”

Andrew shuddered, but he did not look away.
How did I get there?

“Is it important to you? That you know this?”
Rory asked him, wishing only to spare them both the retelling of
the story.

Andrew nodded, slow and stiff.

Huffing out a breath, Rory scrubbed his face
with his hands. He replaced them, leaving them loose in his lap.
“You surrendered yourself to him. You did this…for me. Because you
believed I was dead and you wished to uphold a vow that you made to
me. You did it to rid the world of the sickness that this man
spread, and you succeeded.”

Rory watched Andrew’s face as he absorbed
this. There was surprise, concern, then a blank confusion that
wiped the lines of expression away. He blinked, his mouth moved but
not clearly, and his head tilted. His eyes focused once more on
Rory after a moment.

I killed him
. There was no question in
Andrew’s eyes at this.

“Yes, Andrew. You saved me. You tore him from
me when he would have throttled me to death.”

There was so much more, so many things that
Rory wanted to say, but he held the words close to his heart. He
could wait.

You came for me
. Again there was no
inquiry, only conviction, in Andrew’s eyes.

“Aye, I will come for you, always.”

It was strange to watch Andrew’s gaze grow
distant, as if turned inward, to see his face empty of the light
and life that shone from it. Rory found that he hated it, even more
than he hated seeing that face twisted in pain, or burdened with
grief. The nothingness was worse than death; it was a mockery of
everything he loved. He held his tongue, though, until awareness
returned and Andrew saw him again.

I know this
, Andrew worded, carefully.
He tilted his head again, studying Rory, his eyes now sad and a bit
astonished.
I do not know…you…or …of what you speak…but my
heart
…At this Andrew touched his chest and leaned closer,
using his voice in the softest whisper, merely a breath, said with
conviction, “
I. Know. This
.”

A tiny spring, small and murmuring with hope
and longing, welled up in Rory’s heart. He smiled, even as his
composure broke. Through his tears he said, “It is truth. It
matters not if you remember me now or tomorrow or if I must win you
all over again. I will always come for you.”

Andrew watched with brows drawn; nodding his
understanding though his eyes did not show it. He waited until Rory
had calmed, wiped away the wetness, and met his gaze once more.
Gingerly, he reached up to touch his shoulder.
I hurt. It is
worse
.

The door opened, admitting Etienne followed
by Laurent. The older man stepped aside to allow Laurent to pass
quickly. He ignored the man as he tended to Andrew and went to
Rory’s side. “Put on your boots and your cloak. Come for a walk.
The fresh air will do you good.”

Not taking his eyes off of Andrew, who was
drinking a potion with a grimace, Rory said, “I can’t leave
him.”

“Rory,” Etienne said, gently wiping at the
tears still damp on his cheeks, “You’ll help him best with a clear
head and a stout heart. If you cling too closely he’ll only feel
pressed to tell you what he thinks you wish to hear. Give it time,
Rory. This will pass.”

The words made sense but Rory still
hesitated. He caught Andrew’s eye as Laurent began to anoint his
wounds. “Will you be all right? If I take a walk?” he asked.

Andrew nodded and gave him a small smile.

Laurent glanced up. “I’ll bring him some
broth and make sure he swallows every drop before he rests. Etienne
is right, go outside.”

Rory took a deep breath before bending to his
boots. After he had cast his cloak across his shoulders he looked
at Andrew again. “I will not be long.”

He received another timid smile and the
silent words,
I know
.

The clean, cold air did feel good. Rory felt
more alert, more innervated than he had since he fell beneath the
stones. Etienne was easy company beside him, silent but still
comforting with his presence. It did not ease the ache within Rory,
but it afforded him a clearer mind with which to face it. Together
they stood at the gunnel, eyes on the horizon and the setting sun.
There was land there; distant and dark. “Where are we? How far have
we travelled?”

“We’re nearing The Hague.” The answer came
from behind him but he did not turn. Ortega joined him at the rail
and continued. “I don’t wish to stray too close to the English
shore for fear of incurring the wrath of Cromwell’s fleet.”

The Hague. Calculating in his head, Rory
concluded they had been under way for five days. There would be
five more, at least, before they reached Ostend and the waiting
Taibhse
. He grunted. “So, war approaches?”

“It seems inevitable. The English are never
satisfied; they end one squabble only to seek another,” Ortega
answered with an impatient wave of his hand.

“Will you and your men be able to
return?”

Turning to face him, Ortega cocked an
astonished brow. “What’s this? Have you concern for our
safety?”

Rory turned, as well, and spoke frankly. “You
have done me a great service. I don’t wish for you to find trouble
in kind.”