Fic: "Contradictions 4: Win" (POTC)
Jun. 1st, 2011 07:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
veronica_richCONTRADICTIONS 4: WIN
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Eventual J/W slash
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Jack and Will, nor the details associated with “Pirates of the Caribbean.” I am simply borrowing them for a while for creative expression and writing practice (and because the boys are in my head and won’t leave me alone).
Special Thanks: To the Crow and the Spoon for beta-reading and God knows what all else ... Also, to Eliza, Marquesate, and Threepio for the French help – if you find something incorrect, don’t blame them. I took a few liberties, they tried to corral me, and I didn’t abide by every suggestion, for the purpose of dramatic license and ease of explanation.
Summary: This is continuation of an AU fic that began with FLIGHT, FIGHT, and LOSE, breaking off from the movie’s events immediately after Barbossa’s defeat and death in the caves of Isla de Muerta. The previous parts consist of, in order, FLIGHT and FIGHT.
A/N: This series was on a hosted website for several years, which recently went defunct, so I'm posting it here just for bookkeeping purposes. This series was written long ago, in 2003-06.
Will Turner cast his eyes heavenward, gauging the pregnant, gray clouds billowing in the horizon, rolling inexorably in their direction.
A brush against his arm, a low voice caught his attention in the periphery. “Lookin’ for God, brother?”
Almost on reflex, Will rolled his eyes but kept them turned up as he walked, shaking his head imperceptibly. “Storm’s coming,” he explained. “Can’t you tell?”
“Aye … but nothin’ can be done about it. We jus’ find a spot to hide for awhile.”
The blacksmith turned to look at Jack Sparrow, who’d moved off and was walking a foot or so away once again, eyes forward. “I’m not afraid of rain,” Will pointed out dryly. “It’s the lightning that worries me.”
Jack chuckled softly at that and grinned, and Will realized the expression actually looked less benign on clean-shaven features than it had appeared on his formerly-hairy face. Where it relaxed the perpetual scowl a thick, menacing moustache seemed to give a man, on Jack’s newly-bare face it seemed a corruption of innocent features. When in the world did I ever start thinking of “innocent” in connection with Jack? Will pondered in some horror. “Laugh all you like,” the smith countered. “You’re just as guilty as me.”
“Lad,” Jack sighed, “once and for all, get it out o’ your head that God’s gon’ strike us down just because we’re wearin’ monks’ robes.”
“And posing as monks – don’t forget that part,” Will reminded him.
“Well, now, in your case, that mayn’t be posin’,” the pirate captain pointed out. He glanced back over at the younger man. “How long ‘as it been, mate? If ever.”
Will nervously glanced to his other side at David, who was having his own problems coaxing the donkey along. It was not nearly as well-trained an animal as Mr. Brown’s had been, but the boy seemed to have found the method for prodding him along – constant petting of the animal’s neck and occasional words in a certain tone of voice. Certainly neither Will nor Jack had been able to inspire the animal to move, and David would occasionally run into stubbornness, but on the whole, the boy had the best luck of the three of them.
Will turned an annoyed expression on his captain, not slowing his pace. “Can we kindly not discuss this right now?” That was asking a lot of Jack. “Or at all?” That, Will knew, was almost asking the impossible.
“What? I only asked if ye’d qualify for th’ brotherhood based on certain behavior – or lack thereof,” Jack batted back in false primness. “If he understands that, then there be no reason t’ drop our voices in th’ first place.”
“Shouldn’t we be slowing down, looking for shelter?” Will tried to change the subject as they continued walking. “I don’t really see anything right off …”
“That stand of trees o’er there might serve,” Jack answered, nodding up ahead to the right. “Leafy branches keep th’ rain off, mostly, at least. And if you wan’ avoid that topic in th’ future, you’d do well not to blush so red when it comes up,” he added in the same genial tone, keeping his eyes forward, not missing a beat.
Shaking his head to himself, Will tamped down a response, not rising to the bait. The man was incorrigible, but it couldn’t be said that Turner didn’t already know this when he’d agreed to accompany the captain out of Port Royale. Certainly he could have refused, stayed behind in Mrs. Brown’s shop, used the gold Jack had brought for him and the absent Elizabeth Swann to purchase it for his own storefront. Instead, he’d risen to the bait when Jack had accused him of letting life pass him by, of wanting to have adventures but being too timid to do so, while everyone else went out and lived interesting lives. He’d wanted to prove Sparrow wrong, to show he was just as capable of acting on impulse as anyone else.
And – oh, boy – had he been living on impulse ever since. Working for Jack was, if possible, more of a challenge than having to work with Jack to rescue Elizabeth. Since by his profession Will knew more about what needed to be done to restore the Black Pearl to her former glory than did her own captain, he was often in the unenviable position of contradicting the captain’s plans for ship’s repairs and refittings. More than once they’d locked horns over some damned thing or other, which usually ended with Will throwing his hands up quite literally and wheeling about to stomp off, muttering not too quietly about incredibly shortsighted captains who didn’t know squat about carpentry or metalworking trying to tell those who were nearly expert in the subjects how to do their jobs.
A distinctive clomping sound interrupted Will’s musings, which were threatening to anger him on principle at a time when he had no real quarrel with his captain. He quickly tossed off this uncharitable line of thought and stopped walking, looking back over his shoulder at the noise. They’d just topped a ridge, so he couldn’t see very far, but the noise was increasing in volume. “Am I hearing things, or does that sound like horses?” he finally asked aloud.
Jack, too, had stopped and was cocking his head like a terrier puzzling the approach of its master’s footsteps. “Aye,” he agreed. “Few of ‘em. Should prob’ly get out o’ th’ road ‘til they’ve gone by,” he suggested, nodding toward the dirt path’s shoulder. “Like young master Davey, there.”
David had drifted a good twelve feet off the road with the donkey, though Will supposed it would be more accurate to say the donkey was off in the grass with the boy trailing along. As if on cue, the animal decided at that point to stop altogether and drop its head, lazily snatching up tufts of clover. David’s shoulders slumped as if exhausted from having to keep up with the donkey’s whims, and he pulled his own stubbornness by turning and plopping onto the grass in a cross-legged pose, propping his elbows on his knees and cradling his petulant face in his hands as the animal continued to chew at the ground directly behind him.
As four rather corpulent horsemen came over the ridge, Jack adjusted the cowl of his hood and leaned over toward Will. “Which one do ye s’pose is Famine?” he murmured, and the smith nearly choked on a laugh.
He schooled his features into something resembling piety and gave Jack a shove in the side with his elbow, silently reminding the man to behave. Quietly they stood, hooded heads bowed, hands clasped before them inside the voluminous sleeves of their robes, as the horses moved closer, closer, and past.
Except … they didn’t move past. Will lifted his gaze warily at the soft swirl of dust kicked up by halting hooves. One of the men spoke. “Fathers,” he acknowledged in French.
“That’s ‘Brothers,’ actually.”
The voice surprised Will as much as it had nearly three weeks ago when he’d heard it for the first time. Instead of his usual Jamaican slur, Jack was employing proper English with a countryside accent.
“My apologies – Brothers,” the voice once again spoke, softly, this time in measured English. “What order might you gentlemen hail from?”
When Will heard no answer forthcoming, he stole a peek up through his bowed lashes, noticing a couple of the men shifted in impatience. Never good at letting anything fester, he offered up, “Francis-”
“Bene-” Jack answered at almost the exact instant. The two “monks” quickly glanced at one another, and Jack’s eyes were wide with a harsh, silent warning to shut up. “Celtic,” Jack finally demurred without specificity to the horseman, bowing his head slightly in humility. “Traveling order, actually. Quite small. May I be so humble as to inquire whom we’ve the pleasure of addressing?”
A third man began to answer, but the second quieted him with a withering expression, Will noted. “Names aren’t so important,” he answered firmly. “But we do have need of a man of the cloth, Brother …?” His tone indicated while he didn’t feel their own names were necessary, other people didn’t enjoy the same anonymity in his presence. Will’s jaw clenched; he detested double standards of this sort.
“I am Brother Jackson, this-” he indicated Will with a small gesture, “is Brother Jessy, and our young charge is young Master David, in apprenticeship.”
“An apprentice monk? Never heard of such a thing,” the third man openly puzzled, as Will pondered the implications of being named after a jenny.
“All that’s not so important,” the first man hastily interrupted, shaking his head. “What I want to know is, could you spare an extra few hours in your travels?”
“Why?” Will was shocked to hear his own voice.
“We’ve a service that needs performed,” was their only answer.
“A service?” Jack queried. “A funeral … requiem?”
“Nothing so morbid – a wedding, actually,” the first horseman replied, a hint of resignation to his voice. “For my son and his … intended.”
“Now don’t go saying my Clothilde’s name like it’s poison!” the second man nearly bellowed. “After all, she’s the one who must bear the burden of his inability to control his most basic passions.”
“I see,” Jack murmured, and Will watched him ponder this. He was calculating something, ever the pirate. “So let me understand your request: You wish to enlist our services performing a marriage ceremony, rather than hire proper clergy and, I am guessing, waiting a proper engagement period. And your daughter-” he gestured sparsely toward the second horseman, “is with child. Is that it?”
The third man spoke up again. “That’ll about cover it.”
“Rube!” The first man glared harshly at him, the first time Will noticed a crack in his calm. To Jack, he turned with a nervous, little smile. “I suppose you’ve essentially named the problem, Brother. What say you?”
Jack looked to Will, and Will shrugged. “Oh,” the pious pirate turned his attention slyly back on the two main riders, “I’m sure we can negotiate some sort of mutually beneficial agreement in exchange for our pretty words of religious comfort and our silence on the identity and circumstances of the two young people we are about to meet. “Correct, Brother?” he turned to Will.
Drawing on the only training he could immediately remember during his week at the monastery where he, Jack, and David had recovered from their ocean escape, the blacksmith pressed his palms together, lowered his eyes in deference, and uttered, “Amen.”
*****
Silence and solitude.
Will had come to treasure both greatly since his rescue from the Atlantic waters at the tender age of ten, when the ship he was on had been destroyed and the entire crew complement – save for him – was killed. Until seven months ago, when he’d ended up on the Pearl, though once desiring to train for the Royal Navy, he’d not set foot on a seafaring vessel since. This was partly out of no necessity to do so and partly out of fear, and he’d certainly had plenty of time to forget how crowded and noisy a ship could be, though he had to admit the position of blacksmith and temporary carpenter afforded him a slightly more private hammock than his years-previous job of cabin boy.
“You’re awfully quiet.”
He blinked, shaken from his thoughts. “Was thinking,” he murmured; not having talked for more than an hour had lent his voice a croaky quality, and he cleared his throat. “Was thinking about things,” he tried again, louder.
“I see.” Jack was silent a moment. “Well, if it’s anythin’ entertaining and not too private, we’re game t’ hear it,” he indicated himself and David, flanking “Brother Jessy.” “Pass th’ time better than just walking.”
Before he could speak again, Will actually chuckled. “You must be hard pressed for entertainment, is all I can say.” Off his captain’s puzzled look, he continued, “Jack, you have to be the noisiest, most verbose person I’ve ever heard in my life. You have a story for everything, about everything. If you can’t speak to pass the time, you’re either tired or … well, I don’t know what.”
Will expected Jack to pull his lips into a little moue at that – it was a strange little expression, neither fully a pout nor a frown, which oddly complemented the bushy moustache above it. Except now there was no moustache, and there was no pout; Jack was grinning. “I already told me best stories on th’ ride ‘ere,” he reminded the smith. “I seriously doubt ye’d wan’ hear them again.”
Remembering his complaint about the seemingly endless retellings of the same tales, Will nearly colored in embarrassment; it had been a bad voyage, the three of them stuck in a small rowboat for so many days. Too much togetherness. “Well, it has been a while,” he shrugged, the closest he intended to get to an apology for crabbing at Jack earlier.
“And it’d be most appreciated, if I knew you weren’t jus’ stalling. You’ve plenty of stories of your own, mate.”
You know, I really don’t, Will responded inside his own head. He sighed. “Jack, I’m nineteen years old. I spent eight years living with Mum in England, and that was pretty uneventful. I spent nine years living in Port Royale, and I can honestly say that was pretty uneventful. Of the two years in between where I was a cabin boy, all I can say is I didn’t get to see too much eventfulness for being shoved inside the captain’s cabin every time something remotely interesting started to happen on deck.”
“Not much fun, is it?” This from David, whose attitude seemed to have relaxed from that of a polite, proper little man into the occasional petulance of an eleven-year-old child.
“My ship, my rules,” Jack fired back. “Besides, ye see what happens when ye get involved in fights you’ve no business bein’ anywhere near.” Will noticed David kept working at making the donkey move as they all walked rather than acknowledge his role in getting them captured aboard the Spanish pirate vessel. “Now,” Jack turned his attention back to Will, “what were ye thinkin’ about?”
“Not a lot, really. Mainly just pondering the irony of refitting the ship that nearly killed me nine years ago.” Until it was out of his mouth, Will hadn’t been at all sure what was really on his mind with such memories of youth. “I mean, I know it wasn’t the ship itself – it’s just an odd turn of events.”
“Most of life is.” Jack’s voice turned serious. “Listen, Will, don’t dwell on that so much. Pearl’s real sorry ‘bout it; she wasn’t in control of herself the way she is now.”
Will resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I’ll venture a guess – she told you this?”
“You know perfectly well she talks t’ me.”
“I know you say she ‘talks’ to you. It’s a ship, Jack.” As soon as he said it, Will felt a small prick of guilt. What? It’s an inanimate object. It can’t talk – it’s wood and iron and sails and ropes. You’ve worked with all those enough to know they can’t communicate.
But far from being offended, Jack simply smiled a far-away smile and shook his head. “Nobody understands … but that’s all right. Pearl don’ mind, long as I listen to her.”
The blacksmith felt a slight twinge of irrational jealousy at that – after all, with all the work he was putting into restoring the ship, if it were going to ‘talk’ to anyone, it ought to be him. Then again, he hadn’t spent the better part of a decade chasing her down single-mindedly and braving her cursed crew to restore her to any sort of dignity, so maybe it was right and proper she respond only to Jack.
Several plumes of smoke on the horizon as they topped a ridge indicated a settlement of some sort ahead, and Will sighed. “Wonder if there’s an inn,” he mused aloud with a sigh. His feet were sore from hours of walking, and he wanted nothing more than to get out of this itchy robe, kick off the damnable shoes, and fall into an honest-to-God bed for the next day or six. They could well afford it from the gold showered upon them by the two families desperate for silence on the wedding of their ill-matched and expectant offspring.
“Was thinking more of a change o’ clothes, rather,” Jack piped up. “And a meal.”
“What, no rum?”
The pirate glanced over as Will tried on his own mock-innocent expression. “I ne’er forget the rum.”
They bantered a bit more, David occasionally joining in with laughter, as they approached the village, which was only a mile or so ahead. Jack noticed a printer’s shop and waved them along as he veered toward it. “Got t’ send some messages,” he explained. “Stay out here an’ keep an eye on our arse.”
As David looped the lead rope around an iron ring on a post, Will took a seat on a rough-hewn bench nearby. He nearly groaned in pleasure, relieved as he was to remove his weight from his feet; he knew he’d have to get back up in a few minutes, but all he cared for at the moment was resting a spell. He was sure to leave enough space for the boy, who patted the donkey a few times, fed him a small cube of sugar, and finally came over to sit down. “What kind of messages is Jack sending?” he wanted to know, kicking his feet a bit under the seat.
“Not sure,” Will shrugged. “Might be to the Pearl’s crew, letting them know we’re safe or where we are. Could be to a relative, or someone.” Will was surprised to think of Jack in connection to relatives – the man had to come from somewhere, sure. He hadn’t simply sprung fully formed from seafoam, after all. But Will found it odd to contemplate this odd force of nature having a mother and father, siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles …
His thoughts were interrupted by a loud yell, scrambling, rapid footsteps on wood, and scuffling behind them. He was on his feet in an instant, turning, eyebrows going up in alarm – surely Jack hadn’t tried to rob a merchant on a stationary piece of land without a fast getaway?
Will’s answer barreled out the door of the printer’s shop, cursing in rapid, fluent French – he was able to catch a word here and there – and pounded down the steps, a bag clutched in his hand. Jack was immediately behind, hiking the swirl of his robe, and he caught Will’s attention with a quick nod. Without questioning the wisdom of what he was being silently ordered to do, Will took a couple of steps and threw himself in a flying tackle against the fellow; they went down in a cloud of orange dust, a tangle of limbs, and wheezing.
The Frenchman was small and vicious, and quick, but Will was faster, and had the man pinned face-down soon enough, his arms pinioned to the ground, Will’s knees on either side of the man’s hips, holding him tight. “What the hell?” he demanded, glancing up at his captain. As he did so, the man tried to buck him off, and Will responded by removing one hand just long enough to deliver a light, cuffing punch that nevertheless knocked the man unconscious.
“Nice show, mate.” Jack was grinning.
“You’re not off the hook.” Will sat back and dusted off his hands, making an effort to slow his breathing. “Why’d I just knock down a perfect stranger, Jack?”
“Because he was robbin’ th’ printer, that’s why. Interrupted me transaction, too – bloody impatient French,” he growled, scowling at the unconscious man.
A middle-aged man in a dark apron hurried out the front of the shop, looked around, then apparently noticed the tableau in the road. “Merci a Dieu!” he cried, clasping his hands together, then embracing Jack emotionally. “Merci! Merci!”
For his part, Jack accepted the adulation in grace, but pushed the fellow away as quickly as etiquette would allow. He mumbled something back in French, and Will caught “Anglais” in there before the printer nodded enthusiastically and answered in English, “But of course, sir! Um, Father … Brother?” He seemed confused, no doubt befuddled by peace-loving clerics who apparently roamed the countryside looking to rescue shopkeepers in distress by methods of force with extreme prejudice.
“Actually-” Jack began, holding up a finger as he assumed the proper-gentleman voice.
“Oh, good! The authorities!” The little man’s excitement made both Jack and Will glance up at the sound of running footsteps, and they exchanged a look before the printer added, “Philipe must’ve ran faster than I thought! They’ve arrived!”
“You sent for the law?” Jack asked incredulously. It occurred to Will the printer would regard him oddly – what law-abiding citizen wouldn’t send for the local constable if they’d just been robbed?
“But of course! Don’t worry, I will tell them you and your friend here saved the day. They will not mistake that you did this terrible thing.”
Will suddenly had the presence of mind to lever himself up and off the miscreant, getting to his feet and dusting the clay-like dust off his robe. Two of the three men pulled pistols as they approached; the third, a bit older, approached the printer. “Taupin, your boy said something was happening?” the man asked in French (Will understood this a few hours later, when Jack told him the gist of the conversation now taking place, since they really had nothing better to do to pass the time).
“Yes, these men stopped a dangerous criminal.” This part was in English, though Taupin paused and repeated it in French for the gendarmes’ benefit. He pointed at the prone fellow on the ground, and the two junior officers descended, yanking him to his feet and cuffing him in irons behind his back to lead away.
The ranking officer, or whomever he was, put up a hand before his men could depart, then approached Will. Looking over his disheveled state, he guessed correctly. “You attacked this man?”
Will glanced helplessly at Jack, not knowing much French, but Taupin caught the look and interrupted. “He wants to know if you knocked the robber down.”
“Yes.” Will turned his gaze back to the constable, feeling a bit unsettled. He nodded for effect. “Oui,” he added, knowing at least that much.
“What is your name?” Again, Taupin translated, and kept doing so as the constable asked more questions. Will’s stomach lurched, and he was glad he hadn’t eaten more than a couple of biscuits for lunch.
“Now see!” Taupin spoke up in French. “These men did nothing wrong – they were saving my money!”
“Taupin, you know the news of the day as well as I do,” the man rebutted. Though he couldn’t understand what was being said at the time, the look of consternation on Taupin’s face and the expression of mild alarm on Jack’s was enough to alert Will to problems.
“They are holy men! Why would they draw attention to themselves if they were not legitimate?” Taupin tried to reason. The little man was getting visibly angry.
“I don’t always enjoy my job, Mr. Bernard, but I do have to carry it out responsibly.” (“Good God, he sounds like Norrington,” Will commented later to Jack, when the captain told him of this line in the conversation.)
“But … but … but you cannot put a boy in jail!” the shopkeeper protested, indicating David. “This is not right, but at least you should leave him alone!”
That point, at least, the gendarme seemed disinclined to argue. “Would you and Marjorie care to look after the boy while I’m questioning these men, then?”
Taupin stiffened his posture. “It would be our honor, sir.”
Which is how, as they shared a supper of watery stew and weak wine later that evening, Jack came to be translating the entire conversation for Will in their cell. He explained to the smith that as he understood, two villages in central France were recently sacked by thieves posing as traveling clergy, and that their descriptions matched his and Jack’s enough to warrant suspicion. The outlaws had also struck just outside Paris a month ago, apparently, and had killed three people during that robbery.
“But I don’t get it!” Will shook his head for the eighth time, knowing he sounded like Cotton's parrot, but unable to stop at the unfairness of it all. “We were helping him. Why’re we in jail for doing a good deed? Why would murderers draw attention to themselves in any way? And we had David with us – he‘s too small to do anything!”
“Bane o’ my existence,” Jack sighed, pursing his lips in irony. “I somehow always end up behind bars havin’ to do with you. Why is that?”
“Don’t blame me for last time,” Will defended. “I didn’t know what was going on. Besides, Brown’s the one who conked you over the head.”
“Oh, right, I forgot – you were this close to letting me escape.” Jack held his hands apart the width of his wingspan, his voice dry enough to soak up sand.
“Yes, well – you were going to shoot me.”
“Only if I’d really had to.”
Will frowned, trying to determine if his captain was putting him on or not. He didn’t have any time to determine, as they were interrupted by none other than the head gendarme himself, whose name the two men had learned once they were taken into custody – Roger Milliand. He nodded at Jack before he began speaking, and paused after each little bit to give the captain time to translate for Will. “I’m sending for the authorities in Paris,” he explained. “They’ll make the proper determinations once they’ve taken you into custody.” He rubbed his eyes. “I’m a fair man; is there anyone you know in Paris who can vouch for you? Anyone at all? Because I get the distinct feeling you’re not monks.”
For once, Jack looked blank; Will figured for sure he knew someone in every major port and city. It always seemed that way, at least – or as Elizabeth had once put it, “a girl in every port.”
Elizabeth! Will leapt up, nearly knocking over the small table holding their cold victuals. “I’ve a friend in Paris!” he told Milliand, who was puzzled by the unfamiliar language. Will turned to Jack. “Elizabeth! Tell him about Elizabeth.”
“What about her, mate? You know who she’s studyin’ with?”
Will was silent a moment as he contemplated. “Well, no … but I mean, it’s a diplomat from England, to France. How many diplomats can there be from England? With a female secretary? Governor Swann said Paris, I’m sure of it!”
“All right, lad, calm down,” Jack waved his arms, motioning Will to take his seat. He turned to Milliand, conveying the information – the only part of which Will understood was a slightly accented version of Elizabeth’s name – and the Frenchman nodded, arms crossed. The smith wondered if he believed a word of it, then he said something else, nodded to both, and was gone.
Jack turned back to Will. “I hope you’re right, mate.”
“What’d he say? Is he going to check?”
“He said he’d send the message an’ see if there’s such a lady. He seemed pretty doubtful, you ask me.”
“I know. I was wondering if he’d believe about a woman diplomat.”
“Don’t know why not,” Jack reasoned. “There’s one thing I’ve learned about women, mate, it’s that they can talk their way out of anythin’ – an usually a man into anything else.”
On to Part 2 ...
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Eventual J/W slash
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Jack and Will, nor the details associated with “Pirates of the Caribbean.” I am simply borrowing them for a while for creative expression and writing practice (and because the boys are in my head and won’t leave me alone).
Special Thanks: To the Crow and the Spoon for beta-reading and God knows what all else ... Also, to Eliza, Marquesate, and Threepio for the French help – if you find something incorrect, don’t blame them. I took a few liberties, they tried to corral me, and I didn’t abide by every suggestion, for the purpose of dramatic license and ease of explanation.
Summary: This is continuation of an AU fic that began with FLIGHT, FIGHT, and LOSE, breaking off from the movie’s events immediately after Barbossa’s defeat and death in the caves of Isla de Muerta. The previous parts consist of, in order, FLIGHT and FIGHT.
A/N: This series was on a hosted website for several years, which recently went defunct, so I'm posting it here just for bookkeeping purposes. This series was written long ago, in 2003-06.
Will Turner cast his eyes heavenward, gauging the pregnant, gray clouds billowing in the horizon, rolling inexorably in their direction.
A brush against his arm, a low voice caught his attention in the periphery. “Lookin’ for God, brother?”
Almost on reflex, Will rolled his eyes but kept them turned up as he walked, shaking his head imperceptibly. “Storm’s coming,” he explained. “Can’t you tell?”
“Aye … but nothin’ can be done about it. We jus’ find a spot to hide for awhile.”
The blacksmith turned to look at Jack Sparrow, who’d moved off and was walking a foot or so away once again, eyes forward. “I’m not afraid of rain,” Will pointed out dryly. “It’s the lightning that worries me.”
Jack chuckled softly at that and grinned, and Will realized the expression actually looked less benign on clean-shaven features than it had appeared on his formerly-hairy face. Where it relaxed the perpetual scowl a thick, menacing moustache seemed to give a man, on Jack’s newly-bare face it seemed a corruption of innocent features. When in the world did I ever start thinking of “innocent” in connection with Jack? Will pondered in some horror. “Laugh all you like,” the smith countered. “You’re just as guilty as me.”
“Lad,” Jack sighed, “once and for all, get it out o’ your head that God’s gon’ strike us down just because we’re wearin’ monks’ robes.”
“And posing as monks – don’t forget that part,” Will reminded him.
“Well, now, in your case, that mayn’t be posin’,” the pirate captain pointed out. He glanced back over at the younger man. “How long ‘as it been, mate? If ever.”
Will nervously glanced to his other side at David, who was having his own problems coaxing the donkey along. It was not nearly as well-trained an animal as Mr. Brown’s had been, but the boy seemed to have found the method for prodding him along – constant petting of the animal’s neck and occasional words in a certain tone of voice. Certainly neither Will nor Jack had been able to inspire the animal to move, and David would occasionally run into stubbornness, but on the whole, the boy had the best luck of the three of them.
Will turned an annoyed expression on his captain, not slowing his pace. “Can we kindly not discuss this right now?” That was asking a lot of Jack. “Or at all?” That, Will knew, was almost asking the impossible.
“What? I only asked if ye’d qualify for th’ brotherhood based on certain behavior – or lack thereof,” Jack batted back in false primness. “If he understands that, then there be no reason t’ drop our voices in th’ first place.”
“Shouldn’t we be slowing down, looking for shelter?” Will tried to change the subject as they continued walking. “I don’t really see anything right off …”
“That stand of trees o’er there might serve,” Jack answered, nodding up ahead to the right. “Leafy branches keep th’ rain off, mostly, at least. And if you wan’ avoid that topic in th’ future, you’d do well not to blush so red when it comes up,” he added in the same genial tone, keeping his eyes forward, not missing a beat.
Shaking his head to himself, Will tamped down a response, not rising to the bait. The man was incorrigible, but it couldn’t be said that Turner didn’t already know this when he’d agreed to accompany the captain out of Port Royale. Certainly he could have refused, stayed behind in Mrs. Brown’s shop, used the gold Jack had brought for him and the absent Elizabeth Swann to purchase it for his own storefront. Instead, he’d risen to the bait when Jack had accused him of letting life pass him by, of wanting to have adventures but being too timid to do so, while everyone else went out and lived interesting lives. He’d wanted to prove Sparrow wrong, to show he was just as capable of acting on impulse as anyone else.
And – oh, boy – had he been living on impulse ever since. Working for Jack was, if possible, more of a challenge than having to work with Jack to rescue Elizabeth. Since by his profession Will knew more about what needed to be done to restore the Black Pearl to her former glory than did her own captain, he was often in the unenviable position of contradicting the captain’s plans for ship’s repairs and refittings. More than once they’d locked horns over some damned thing or other, which usually ended with Will throwing his hands up quite literally and wheeling about to stomp off, muttering not too quietly about incredibly shortsighted captains who didn’t know squat about carpentry or metalworking trying to tell those who were nearly expert in the subjects how to do their jobs.
A distinctive clomping sound interrupted Will’s musings, which were threatening to anger him on principle at a time when he had no real quarrel with his captain. He quickly tossed off this uncharitable line of thought and stopped walking, looking back over his shoulder at the noise. They’d just topped a ridge, so he couldn’t see very far, but the noise was increasing in volume. “Am I hearing things, or does that sound like horses?” he finally asked aloud.
Jack, too, had stopped and was cocking his head like a terrier puzzling the approach of its master’s footsteps. “Aye,” he agreed. “Few of ‘em. Should prob’ly get out o’ th’ road ‘til they’ve gone by,” he suggested, nodding toward the dirt path’s shoulder. “Like young master Davey, there.”
David had drifted a good twelve feet off the road with the donkey, though Will supposed it would be more accurate to say the donkey was off in the grass with the boy trailing along. As if on cue, the animal decided at that point to stop altogether and drop its head, lazily snatching up tufts of clover. David’s shoulders slumped as if exhausted from having to keep up with the donkey’s whims, and he pulled his own stubbornness by turning and plopping onto the grass in a cross-legged pose, propping his elbows on his knees and cradling his petulant face in his hands as the animal continued to chew at the ground directly behind him.
As four rather corpulent horsemen came over the ridge, Jack adjusted the cowl of his hood and leaned over toward Will. “Which one do ye s’pose is Famine?” he murmured, and the smith nearly choked on a laugh.
He schooled his features into something resembling piety and gave Jack a shove in the side with his elbow, silently reminding the man to behave. Quietly they stood, hooded heads bowed, hands clasped before them inside the voluminous sleeves of their robes, as the horses moved closer, closer, and past.
Except … they didn’t move past. Will lifted his gaze warily at the soft swirl of dust kicked up by halting hooves. One of the men spoke. “Fathers,” he acknowledged in French.
“That’s ‘Brothers,’ actually.”
The voice surprised Will as much as it had nearly three weeks ago when he’d heard it for the first time. Instead of his usual Jamaican slur, Jack was employing proper English with a countryside accent.
“My apologies – Brothers,” the voice once again spoke, softly, this time in measured English. “What order might you gentlemen hail from?”
When Will heard no answer forthcoming, he stole a peek up through his bowed lashes, noticing a couple of the men shifted in impatience. Never good at letting anything fester, he offered up, “Francis-”
“Bene-” Jack answered at almost the exact instant. The two “monks” quickly glanced at one another, and Jack’s eyes were wide with a harsh, silent warning to shut up. “Celtic,” Jack finally demurred without specificity to the horseman, bowing his head slightly in humility. “Traveling order, actually. Quite small. May I be so humble as to inquire whom we’ve the pleasure of addressing?”
A third man began to answer, but the second quieted him with a withering expression, Will noted. “Names aren’t so important,” he answered firmly. “But we do have need of a man of the cloth, Brother …?” His tone indicated while he didn’t feel their own names were necessary, other people didn’t enjoy the same anonymity in his presence. Will’s jaw clenched; he detested double standards of this sort.
“I am Brother Jackson, this-” he indicated Will with a small gesture, “is Brother Jessy, and our young charge is young Master David, in apprenticeship.”
“An apprentice monk? Never heard of such a thing,” the third man openly puzzled, as Will pondered the implications of being named after a jenny.
“All that’s not so important,” the first man hastily interrupted, shaking his head. “What I want to know is, could you spare an extra few hours in your travels?”
“Why?” Will was shocked to hear his own voice.
“We’ve a service that needs performed,” was their only answer.
“A service?” Jack queried. “A funeral … requiem?”
“Nothing so morbid – a wedding, actually,” the first horseman replied, a hint of resignation to his voice. “For my son and his … intended.”
“Now don’t go saying my Clothilde’s name like it’s poison!” the second man nearly bellowed. “After all, she’s the one who must bear the burden of his inability to control his most basic passions.”
“I see,” Jack murmured, and Will watched him ponder this. He was calculating something, ever the pirate. “So let me understand your request: You wish to enlist our services performing a marriage ceremony, rather than hire proper clergy and, I am guessing, waiting a proper engagement period. And your daughter-” he gestured sparsely toward the second horseman, “is with child. Is that it?”
The third man spoke up again. “That’ll about cover it.”
“Rube!” The first man glared harshly at him, the first time Will noticed a crack in his calm. To Jack, he turned with a nervous, little smile. “I suppose you’ve essentially named the problem, Brother. What say you?”
Jack looked to Will, and Will shrugged. “Oh,” the pious pirate turned his attention slyly back on the two main riders, “I’m sure we can negotiate some sort of mutually beneficial agreement in exchange for our pretty words of religious comfort and our silence on the identity and circumstances of the two young people we are about to meet. “Correct, Brother?” he turned to Will.
Drawing on the only training he could immediately remember during his week at the monastery where he, Jack, and David had recovered from their ocean escape, the blacksmith pressed his palms together, lowered his eyes in deference, and uttered, “Amen.”
*****
Silence and solitude.
Will had come to treasure both greatly since his rescue from the Atlantic waters at the tender age of ten, when the ship he was on had been destroyed and the entire crew complement – save for him – was killed. Until seven months ago, when he’d ended up on the Pearl, though once desiring to train for the Royal Navy, he’d not set foot on a seafaring vessel since. This was partly out of no necessity to do so and partly out of fear, and he’d certainly had plenty of time to forget how crowded and noisy a ship could be, though he had to admit the position of blacksmith and temporary carpenter afforded him a slightly more private hammock than his years-previous job of cabin boy.
“You’re awfully quiet.”
He blinked, shaken from his thoughts. “Was thinking,” he murmured; not having talked for more than an hour had lent his voice a croaky quality, and he cleared his throat. “Was thinking about things,” he tried again, louder.
“I see.” Jack was silent a moment. “Well, if it’s anythin’ entertaining and not too private, we’re game t’ hear it,” he indicated himself and David, flanking “Brother Jessy.” “Pass th’ time better than just walking.”
Before he could speak again, Will actually chuckled. “You must be hard pressed for entertainment, is all I can say.” Off his captain’s puzzled look, he continued, “Jack, you have to be the noisiest, most verbose person I’ve ever heard in my life. You have a story for everything, about everything. If you can’t speak to pass the time, you’re either tired or … well, I don’t know what.”
Will expected Jack to pull his lips into a little moue at that – it was a strange little expression, neither fully a pout nor a frown, which oddly complemented the bushy moustache above it. Except now there was no moustache, and there was no pout; Jack was grinning. “I already told me best stories on th’ ride ‘ere,” he reminded the smith. “I seriously doubt ye’d wan’ hear them again.”
Remembering his complaint about the seemingly endless retellings of the same tales, Will nearly colored in embarrassment; it had been a bad voyage, the three of them stuck in a small rowboat for so many days. Too much togetherness. “Well, it has been a while,” he shrugged, the closest he intended to get to an apology for crabbing at Jack earlier.
“And it’d be most appreciated, if I knew you weren’t jus’ stalling. You’ve plenty of stories of your own, mate.”
You know, I really don’t, Will responded inside his own head. He sighed. “Jack, I’m nineteen years old. I spent eight years living with Mum in England, and that was pretty uneventful. I spent nine years living in Port Royale, and I can honestly say that was pretty uneventful. Of the two years in between where I was a cabin boy, all I can say is I didn’t get to see too much eventfulness for being shoved inside the captain’s cabin every time something remotely interesting started to happen on deck.”
“Not much fun, is it?” This from David, whose attitude seemed to have relaxed from that of a polite, proper little man into the occasional petulance of an eleven-year-old child.
“My ship, my rules,” Jack fired back. “Besides, ye see what happens when ye get involved in fights you’ve no business bein’ anywhere near.” Will noticed David kept working at making the donkey move as they all walked rather than acknowledge his role in getting them captured aboard the Spanish pirate vessel. “Now,” Jack turned his attention back to Will, “what were ye thinkin’ about?”
“Not a lot, really. Mainly just pondering the irony of refitting the ship that nearly killed me nine years ago.” Until it was out of his mouth, Will hadn’t been at all sure what was really on his mind with such memories of youth. “I mean, I know it wasn’t the ship itself – it’s just an odd turn of events.”
“Most of life is.” Jack’s voice turned serious. “Listen, Will, don’t dwell on that so much. Pearl’s real sorry ‘bout it; she wasn’t in control of herself the way she is now.”
Will resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I’ll venture a guess – she told you this?”
“You know perfectly well she talks t’ me.”
“I know you say she ‘talks’ to you. It’s a ship, Jack.” As soon as he said it, Will felt a small prick of guilt. What? It’s an inanimate object. It can’t talk – it’s wood and iron and sails and ropes. You’ve worked with all those enough to know they can’t communicate.
But far from being offended, Jack simply smiled a far-away smile and shook his head. “Nobody understands … but that’s all right. Pearl don’ mind, long as I listen to her.”
The blacksmith felt a slight twinge of irrational jealousy at that – after all, with all the work he was putting into restoring the ship, if it were going to ‘talk’ to anyone, it ought to be him. Then again, he hadn’t spent the better part of a decade chasing her down single-mindedly and braving her cursed crew to restore her to any sort of dignity, so maybe it was right and proper she respond only to Jack.
Several plumes of smoke on the horizon as they topped a ridge indicated a settlement of some sort ahead, and Will sighed. “Wonder if there’s an inn,” he mused aloud with a sigh. His feet were sore from hours of walking, and he wanted nothing more than to get out of this itchy robe, kick off the damnable shoes, and fall into an honest-to-God bed for the next day or six. They could well afford it from the gold showered upon them by the two families desperate for silence on the wedding of their ill-matched and expectant offspring.
“Was thinking more of a change o’ clothes, rather,” Jack piped up. “And a meal.”
“What, no rum?”
The pirate glanced over as Will tried on his own mock-innocent expression. “I ne’er forget the rum.”
They bantered a bit more, David occasionally joining in with laughter, as they approached the village, which was only a mile or so ahead. Jack noticed a printer’s shop and waved them along as he veered toward it. “Got t’ send some messages,” he explained. “Stay out here an’ keep an eye on our arse.”
As David looped the lead rope around an iron ring on a post, Will took a seat on a rough-hewn bench nearby. He nearly groaned in pleasure, relieved as he was to remove his weight from his feet; he knew he’d have to get back up in a few minutes, but all he cared for at the moment was resting a spell. He was sure to leave enough space for the boy, who patted the donkey a few times, fed him a small cube of sugar, and finally came over to sit down. “What kind of messages is Jack sending?” he wanted to know, kicking his feet a bit under the seat.
“Not sure,” Will shrugged. “Might be to the Pearl’s crew, letting them know we’re safe or where we are. Could be to a relative, or someone.” Will was surprised to think of Jack in connection to relatives – the man had to come from somewhere, sure. He hadn’t simply sprung fully formed from seafoam, after all. But Will found it odd to contemplate this odd force of nature having a mother and father, siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles …
His thoughts were interrupted by a loud yell, scrambling, rapid footsteps on wood, and scuffling behind them. He was on his feet in an instant, turning, eyebrows going up in alarm – surely Jack hadn’t tried to rob a merchant on a stationary piece of land without a fast getaway?
Will’s answer barreled out the door of the printer’s shop, cursing in rapid, fluent French – he was able to catch a word here and there – and pounded down the steps, a bag clutched in his hand. Jack was immediately behind, hiking the swirl of his robe, and he caught Will’s attention with a quick nod. Without questioning the wisdom of what he was being silently ordered to do, Will took a couple of steps and threw himself in a flying tackle against the fellow; they went down in a cloud of orange dust, a tangle of limbs, and wheezing.
The Frenchman was small and vicious, and quick, but Will was faster, and had the man pinned face-down soon enough, his arms pinioned to the ground, Will’s knees on either side of the man’s hips, holding him tight. “What the hell?” he demanded, glancing up at his captain. As he did so, the man tried to buck him off, and Will responded by removing one hand just long enough to deliver a light, cuffing punch that nevertheless knocked the man unconscious.
“Nice show, mate.” Jack was grinning.
“You’re not off the hook.” Will sat back and dusted off his hands, making an effort to slow his breathing. “Why’d I just knock down a perfect stranger, Jack?”
“Because he was robbin’ th’ printer, that’s why. Interrupted me transaction, too – bloody impatient French,” he growled, scowling at the unconscious man.
A middle-aged man in a dark apron hurried out the front of the shop, looked around, then apparently noticed the tableau in the road. “Merci a Dieu!” he cried, clasping his hands together, then embracing Jack emotionally. “Merci! Merci!”
For his part, Jack accepted the adulation in grace, but pushed the fellow away as quickly as etiquette would allow. He mumbled something back in French, and Will caught “Anglais” in there before the printer nodded enthusiastically and answered in English, “But of course, sir! Um, Father … Brother?” He seemed confused, no doubt befuddled by peace-loving clerics who apparently roamed the countryside looking to rescue shopkeepers in distress by methods of force with extreme prejudice.
“Actually-” Jack began, holding up a finger as he assumed the proper-gentleman voice.
“Oh, good! The authorities!” The little man’s excitement made both Jack and Will glance up at the sound of running footsteps, and they exchanged a look before the printer added, “Philipe must’ve ran faster than I thought! They’ve arrived!”
“You sent for the law?” Jack asked incredulously. It occurred to Will the printer would regard him oddly – what law-abiding citizen wouldn’t send for the local constable if they’d just been robbed?
“But of course! Don’t worry, I will tell them you and your friend here saved the day. They will not mistake that you did this terrible thing.”
Will suddenly had the presence of mind to lever himself up and off the miscreant, getting to his feet and dusting the clay-like dust off his robe. Two of the three men pulled pistols as they approached; the third, a bit older, approached the printer. “Taupin, your boy said something was happening?” the man asked in French (Will understood this a few hours later, when Jack told him the gist of the conversation now taking place, since they really had nothing better to do to pass the time).
“Yes, these men stopped a dangerous criminal.” This part was in English, though Taupin paused and repeated it in French for the gendarmes’ benefit. He pointed at the prone fellow on the ground, and the two junior officers descended, yanking him to his feet and cuffing him in irons behind his back to lead away.
The ranking officer, or whomever he was, put up a hand before his men could depart, then approached Will. Looking over his disheveled state, he guessed correctly. “You attacked this man?”
Will glanced helplessly at Jack, not knowing much French, but Taupin caught the look and interrupted. “He wants to know if you knocked the robber down.”
“Yes.” Will turned his gaze back to the constable, feeling a bit unsettled. He nodded for effect. “Oui,” he added, knowing at least that much.
“What is your name?” Again, Taupin translated, and kept doing so as the constable asked more questions. Will’s stomach lurched, and he was glad he hadn’t eaten more than a couple of biscuits for lunch.
“Now see!” Taupin spoke up in French. “These men did nothing wrong – they were saving my money!”
“Taupin, you know the news of the day as well as I do,” the man rebutted. Though he couldn’t understand what was being said at the time, the look of consternation on Taupin’s face and the expression of mild alarm on Jack’s was enough to alert Will to problems.
“They are holy men! Why would they draw attention to themselves if they were not legitimate?” Taupin tried to reason. The little man was getting visibly angry.
“I don’t always enjoy my job, Mr. Bernard, but I do have to carry it out responsibly.” (“Good God, he sounds like Norrington,” Will commented later to Jack, when the captain told him of this line in the conversation.)
“But … but … but you cannot put a boy in jail!” the shopkeeper protested, indicating David. “This is not right, but at least you should leave him alone!”
That point, at least, the gendarme seemed disinclined to argue. “Would you and Marjorie care to look after the boy while I’m questioning these men, then?”
Taupin stiffened his posture. “It would be our honor, sir.”
Which is how, as they shared a supper of watery stew and weak wine later that evening, Jack came to be translating the entire conversation for Will in their cell. He explained to the smith that as he understood, two villages in central France were recently sacked by thieves posing as traveling clergy, and that their descriptions matched his and Jack’s enough to warrant suspicion. The outlaws had also struck just outside Paris a month ago, apparently, and had killed three people during that robbery.
“But I don’t get it!” Will shook his head for the eighth time, knowing he sounded like Cotton's parrot, but unable to stop at the unfairness of it all. “We were helping him. Why’re we in jail for doing a good deed? Why would murderers draw attention to themselves in any way? And we had David with us – he‘s too small to do anything!”
“Bane o’ my existence,” Jack sighed, pursing his lips in irony. “I somehow always end up behind bars havin’ to do with you. Why is that?”
“Don’t blame me for last time,” Will defended. “I didn’t know what was going on. Besides, Brown’s the one who conked you over the head.”
“Oh, right, I forgot – you were this close to letting me escape.” Jack held his hands apart the width of his wingspan, his voice dry enough to soak up sand.
“Yes, well – you were going to shoot me.”
“Only if I’d really had to.”
Will frowned, trying to determine if his captain was putting him on or not. He didn’t have any time to determine, as they were interrupted by none other than the head gendarme himself, whose name the two men had learned once they were taken into custody – Roger Milliand. He nodded at Jack before he began speaking, and paused after each little bit to give the captain time to translate for Will. “I’m sending for the authorities in Paris,” he explained. “They’ll make the proper determinations once they’ve taken you into custody.” He rubbed his eyes. “I’m a fair man; is there anyone you know in Paris who can vouch for you? Anyone at all? Because I get the distinct feeling you’re not monks.”
For once, Jack looked blank; Will figured for sure he knew someone in every major port and city. It always seemed that way, at least – or as Elizabeth had once put it, “a girl in every port.”
Elizabeth! Will leapt up, nearly knocking over the small table holding their cold victuals. “I’ve a friend in Paris!” he told Milliand, who was puzzled by the unfamiliar language. Will turned to Jack. “Elizabeth! Tell him about Elizabeth.”
“What about her, mate? You know who she’s studyin’ with?”
Will was silent a moment as he contemplated. “Well, no … but I mean, it’s a diplomat from England, to France. How many diplomats can there be from England? With a female secretary? Governor Swann said Paris, I’m sure of it!”
“All right, lad, calm down,” Jack waved his arms, motioning Will to take his seat. He turned to Milliand, conveying the information – the only part of which Will understood was a slightly accented version of Elizabeth’s name – and the Frenchman nodded, arms crossed. The smith wondered if he believed a word of it, then he said something else, nodded to both, and was gone.
Jack turned back to Will. “I hope you’re right, mate.”
“What’d he say? Is he going to check?”
“He said he’d send the message an’ see if there’s such a lady. He seemed pretty doubtful, you ask me.”
“I know. I was wondering if he’d believe about a woman diplomat.”
“Don’t know why not,” Jack reasoned. “There’s one thing I’ve learned about women, mate, it’s that they can talk their way out of anythin’ – an usually a man into anything else.”
On to Part 2 ...
