James McGee - Rapscallion

Juvert got to his knees and winced. From the pallor in his cheeks, his ears had obviously picked up the nuance in his master's voice. He looked like a man trying to decide between advance or retreat, knowing in his heart and from the mutterings and the looks he was attracting that, whichever path he took, he was unlikely to recruit much sympathy.

The shaven-headed man gave a jerk of his head. "Take him away."

Juvert was afforded no opportunity to protest. Hauled unceremoniously to his feet, he barely had time to throw Hawkwood and Lasseur a backward glance before he was bundled through the curtain. No one looked sorry to see him go. A muffled grunt came from outside and then there was the sound of an object being dragged away. Then silence.

Matisse sat back. He looked composed, at ease with his surroundings. His spidery fingers played idly with the hair on the back of the boy's neck. "You'll forgive us for not rising. We're not used to company. I apologize for the inadequacy of the illumination, by the way. My eyes have an aversion to light; daylight in particular. Even candle flames cause me some discomfort. An inconvenient ailment, but I've grown used to it."

The words confirmed Hawkwood's suspicions. They also explained the rags draped over the scuttles.

"We don't give a shit for your health," Lasseur snapped. "We're here for the boy."

The backs of the men seated around the table stiffened at this. The shaven head tilted. Lucien Ballard sat unmoving; he looked terrified. The hand on his neck stilled but did not relinquish possession.

Hawkwood tensed.

"He doesn't belong down here," Lasseur said.

"Is that right? Who says?"

The fingers resumed their fondling. It reminded Hawkwood of a cat being stroked. Lucien Ballard was not purring, however. He looked mesmerized.

"I warned Juvert what would happen if he showed his face again," Lasseur said. "He disobeyed me — on your orders."

The Corsican's hand froze once more. His chin came up sharply.

"Diso — beyed you? Juvert is not yours to command, Captain Lasseur. He's my emissary. In case you've forgotten, you're not on your quarterdeck now. This is my dominion. You're the trespasser here."

"Commander Hellard might have something to say about that," Hawkwood said softly. It wasn't only the man's gaze that was disconcerting, he realized. Matisse hardly ever seemed to blink.

"Hellard?" the bald man sneered. "Hellard's a weakling. He's commander in name only. I hold sway here, not him."

"King Matisse?" Hawkwood said, and wondered if that was the reason Hellard hadn't given the order to fire on the well deck.

The pink eyes shifted so that they were trained directly at Hawkwood. It was an unsettling feeling. But from the exchanges so far, Hawkwood sensed that, behind the grotesque facade, there was a dark, manipulative intelligence at play.

"Some call me that. Though, to tell the truth, I can't even remember how it started. Some would think it an indulgence, but why should I discourage it? It serves its purpose, helping keep the lower orders in check."

The words were spoken dismissively. Hawkwood wondered whether Matisse included the men around him as part of the "lower orders", and what they thought of it. There was no suggestion that any of them had taken umbrage. Maybe they weren't sure what it meant, or else they assumed it meant the rest of the Rafales.

A thin smile played along the bald man's lips. "Personally, I like to think of myself more as a pastor, a shepherd administering to the welfare of his flock." His fingers resumed toying with the boy's collar.

Not again, Hawkwood thought. A cold shiver passed along his spine. I had my fill of pastors and parsons the last time.

Maybe that was why Matisse was dressed in black; to perpetuate the illusion, or perhaps in some strange way to accentuate the ghostly complexion and make him appear more striking. Matisse's attire was remarkably similar to a priest's. There were no superfluous frills or finery or affectation, save for one: a tiny tear-shaped object that occasionally caught the lantern light. Hawkwood hadn't noticed it before. It was pearl pendant earring that dangled delicately from Matisse's left ear.

Lasseur growled, "For the last time. Hand the boy over."

The earring danced as Matisse turned. "You know, when Juvert told me you'd taken an interest in him, I confess I was rather intrigued. What were we supposed to make of that? Perhaps you've designs on him yourself, Captain Lasseur — is that why you're here?"

"I'm here to keep him from harm."

"Harm?" Matisse slid his hand from the boy's neck and placed it, palm flat, over his heart. His nails were long and discoloured; their tips sharp, like talons. "You think I'd harm a child? How could you suggest such a thing? You wound me, Captain."

"Don't play games," Lasseur said.

"Games?"

"Fouchet warned us."

"Ah, yes, the teacher. And what exactly did he warn you about?"

"He warned us about you," Lasseur said. The disgust in his voice sounded like gravel at the back of his throat. "He told us about the others."

"Others?"

"The other boys you've brought down here."

"Did he now?" The Corsican pursed his lips. "That old man's become rather belligerent of late. I shall have to have words with him." The maggot-white face lifted. "He needs to be reminded of his place."

"You don't deny it?"

"Why should I?" Matisse stroked the boy's cheek and turned Lucien Ballard's face towards him. The boy's lower lip began to tremble. "Have you ever seen anything so precious?"

"He's a child."

"Yes, he is. He's a sweet child, but you make it all sound so sordid, Captain. You think we're all apprentices of Sodom? You couldn't be further from the truth, I assure you. If we weren't shut away in this foul place, do you really think we'd be having this conversation? We're a long way from home; from our wives and sweethearts. What's a man to do? All we crave is a small measure of comfort. There's nothing wrong with that, surely? A man's not meant to be on his own. A man has needs. What's so bad in trying to find companionship and affection to see us through these dark days? Would you deny us that? What right have you to judge?"

"Affection?"

"Yes, affection. Tell them, boy. Tell the captain. Has Matisse hurt you? No. There, you see? Not a hair spoiled. He's perfectly safe."

"Safe?" Lasseur stared at Matisse. "You'd take him into your bed; you'd turn him into one of your catamites? You'd share him among these scum — and you call that safe?"

Chairs scraped back as the men at the table rose around their leader.

A nerve flickered along Matisse's jawline. "D'you hear that? He called you scum; and queer scum at that. I'd take care, if I were you, Captain. The navy may hold you in high esteem, but you'd do well to remember where you are. As for this particular boy, who elected you his guardian? You've no legitimate claim on him, have you?" There was a pause. "After all, it's not as though he's your son, now, is it?"

"God damn you!" Lasseur swore. He took a pace forward. His face was rigid.

A warning growl sounded from deep inside Dupin's throat. He raised the hoop blade.

Quickly, Hawkwood put a restraining hand on Lasseur's sleeve. The muscles along the privateer's arm were as taught as knotted rope. Hawkwood's hold was enough to restrain Lasseur, but only for as long as it took for the Frenchman to shrug his hand away angrily. "I demand you hand the boy over, now!"

The deck went deathly quiet.

The black-clad figure placed both palms on the table and pushed himself to his feet. The movement was effortlessly sinuous. The Corsican didn't so much rise from his seat as uncoil.

"Demand? You dare to come here and demand of me? Look around you, Captain. This is my kingdom. I reign here; no one else. You're newly arrived, so you're not yet acquainted with the order of things. Go back to your gun deck and take Captain Hooper with you. And if you're thinking of summoning assistance, think again. Do you really believe the British control the lives on this hulk? Oh, they may have the uniforms and their fine muskets. They may even have the authority, but do you think for one moment that they hold the power? There are more than eight hundred of us imprisoned on this stinking barge. What do you think would happen if there was a full-scale rebellion? The British don't keep the inmates in check here; I do. Matisse! Commander Hellard may despise me. He may even fear me. But you can be certain that he and the rest of his crew thanked God the day I came on board!"