The Red King Read Free Page A

had
returned to the stool and sat staring at him.
    “You’re as pale as this apple,” he said,
slicing his own piece. He then pointedly placed the apple onto his
tongue and let Andrew watch it disappear into his mouth. “No doubt
you were locked away in a cold, dreary cell, saving yourself for
God.”
    Andrew, despite his prayers for humility, was
still proud on occasion. “We tilled the earth for our food, masoned
our own buildings. I was not always this thin. The color of my skin
is of no importance in God’s work.” After a pause, he asked again,
“Where am I?”
    “You are in my cabin, on my ship.”
    Another ship. More dangerous men.
    “Why your cabin?”
    “You were in need of care, more than the
ship’s hold could offer,” the man said, cutting another piece of
fruit and passing it to Andrew. He took another for himself,
smirking as he chewed. “Unless you’d rather we laid you out on the
galley table. Like a sweetmeat.”
    Andrew swallowed against a surge of emotion,
something hot and uncomfortable that left him strangely unsteady.
“What did you mean when you said, ‘Do not thank him?’ What do you
intend to do with me?”
    He was eyed, critically, and became
increasingly aware of a certain heat in the captain’s gaze. “My
intentions are not…firm…as of yet, but we have time.”
    Andrew felt flushed, down to his toes. “Who are you?”
    “It’s my turn now. Your name?”
    “Andrew.”
    “Just Andrew?” There was a hint of amusement
in the question.
    “I have no family. The brothers only ever
called me Andrew.” Retelling it now was so strange, so distant; it
did not feel like his life.
    “And your age?”
    “I just passed my eighteenth summer.”
    There was a pause, during which the man’s
gaze tracked a lazy route down Andrew’s chest and then back up to
his face. Andrew’s flush became a blaze.
    “You are Scottish?” Andrew gave a slight nod.
“From where?”
    “The nearest town was Abernathy.”
    “And how had you come to be in Spanish
waters?” The man’s voice was still soft, but carried great
authority. He stared hard into Andrew’s eyes while he waited for an
answer.
    Andrew looked away, down at his hands, his
bruised wrists. “We were en route to Galicia…on pilgrimage to
Camino de Santiago.”
    “You’re a priest?”
    Tears stung his eyes. “No, I’m not.”
    “But you traveled in the company of priests,
monks. Holy men.”
    “Yes,” Andrew whispered. “But I am not of the
order.”
    The man sighed, deeply. “I confess that I’m
puzzled. Why would you be in the company of holy men if you were
not one of them? Were you their… pullus ?”
    Frowning, Andrew mulled over the word. “Their
chicken?”
    He was met with laughter. Indeed, the man
laughed hard so that his cheeks flushed and his eyes watered.
“Never mind, boy-chick.” He sobered. “They took your ship. Did they
keep anyone but you?”
    “The captain’s wife and her brother; they
were put on another ship.” Andrew’s voice was small, his eyes on
his hands where they rested in his lap.
    “Where did this ship go?”
    “I don’t know.”
    There was a moment’s silence, only ended when
Andrew raised his eyes. The captain was staring at him with a dark,
menacing look. “Do you know anything?”
    Andrew was taken aback. “I know…” he began,
but his throat closed. Swallowing, he fisted his hands in the
blanket over his legs and said, “I know they were put on
another ship and that everyone else was…murdered. Is that not
enough?”
    “No, for they will go to their deaths if you
do not remember.”
    “Oh...oh, God in heaven,” Andrew choked. He
squeezed his eyes shut, thinking, trying to pry the memories open
like a tightly nailed crate. “Harrier, a harrier was taking me
north. And a man named Acklie took the others.”
    The man grunted. “I know Acklie. Where was he
going?”
    “South was all that was said,” Andrew
answered. He waited a beat, and then asked, softly,