Devour the Moon

Lochlann was wrong. There were good and bad men. To do bad was a wickedness that was understandable on its own. People erred, and it was for those men that apologies existed. Apologies were not for men like him--men who erred knowingly and did so time and time again.

He thought of that night they'd danced, when she'd descended the stairs in her deep blue dress, like the sky come to touch the face of the earth. And like the sky, she was not, on every day, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, but in that moment, nothing could have compared. No doubt there were a thousand things she could have pointed out that were wrong, but atop the stairs she had seemed as beautiful as the first sunrise he had seen at sea. The way the sun comes out of the water, almost dripping in its wetness, the waves rippling beneath it like twisting strands of molten glass. It is a perfect sight, and that night, so was she.

He had intended to be honourable in his treatment of her. How could things have now fallen so far part that he was standing outside their cottage, steeling his heart for what he would do if she could not accept his apology?

She was right, too. He could see that now. He had pretended that he was uncompanionable because it stymied the hurt in his heart that had come at the loss of Raquel. But he had a heart, and like most men, it was not as unaffected as he liked to imagine.

Inside, the silhouette of Rochelle's figure moved towards the kitchen.

Holy God, how could he have been so foolish? So selfish? Anything she wanted, he would do, he told himself, if only she could forgive him and undo what had been done.

And yet there he stood, the trees around him, as craven as any man had ever been. What was more selfish than a man who denied a woman the right to refuse him? To not seek her forgiveness was to reduce her to a thing--a thing that could be discarded without thought. And that was almost as unforgivable as the hurt he had done to her.

But still he stood, listening and afraid--afraid that if she did not forgive him, if she did not feel as he did, that he could not go on.

He wished he could stand before her like the sunrise on the ocean and say the only three things he knew she wanted to hear: I'm sorry. I need you. I love you.

He stepped out under the waxing moon and, with a hard swallow, he took his tender steps towards the cottage.

In all the days he'd known her, everything he had done had been selfish, and now she deserved more than to be discarded because he lacked the courage to humble himself. And so, if that was to be his fate, that she could not forgive him, then still he would meet her--because if his heart could not be glad, then he would give what little peace he could to her.

He opened the door, his heavy boots stomping on the wood. There came no reply. There was no tearfulness or even shrieks of rage--only coldness--and he shut the door behind him without a whisper.

"I thought to leave," she said, back to him still.

"I'm glad you hesitated."

"I did not hesitate. I would be already gone were it not for the hour."

"But I am glad you have not. I... Rochelle, I regret leaving the way I did."

She said nothing.

"It was... I was wrong to treat you so, to be cruel to you when you are in need of comfort."

The fire wavered in the hearth, but she stayed still in the chair.

"I am here now, though, and I will not be going anywhere for however long you need." He closed the distance with small steps. "Rochelle, I am most truly sorry."

Her head turned fractionally towards him, her pointed nose silhouetting in the light.

"It was wrong of me not to stay." He spied the front of her dress, where her hands were folded in her lap as she glared ahead at nothing. Coming upon her, he dropped to a knee at her side. "And I wish I had told you then, as you told me, that I love--"

"No!" she shouted and jumped to her feet, where she loomed monumental over him. "You don't get to tell me that. You did not want my love, and it's for the better. You are not worthy of it. Not by oath. Not by deed. You are not worthy."

"Rochelle..."

She laughed darkly, eyes raking him with pain. "You don't even know, do you? How much I loathe you? How much I despise you? You are a cruel, wretched man, Alexandre. You've threatened me--threatened my father. You are a low robber. A liar. A murderer. A man so thoroughly wicked in every way that there is no one living who will ever--who could ever--love you. That is the shape of your heart, and now that I know it, I find it as contemptible as you."

He reached for her.

"Don't paw at me." She slapped away his hand. "We are wedded strangers, not true loves. Your true love is dead, and this marriage is no more than a consolatory grave that we are together buried in."

"Please," he said. "I know I was wrong. I beg your forgiveness."

"Forgiveness?" she hissed. "For you? A man so incapable? And what is it I am to forgive? Is it your kidnapping of me? The cruel things you've said to me?" Her nose twitched as she looked down it at him. "Is it for those men you burned alive? For telling me that you did so, knowing it would hurt me? For refusing me as I stood before you, telling you I loved you?"

He bowed his head. "I have done many things for which I have no pride, and if you ask me which among them I am the most ashamed, it is now impossible to say. But I do love you, Rochelle."

"You are not capable of love," she said. "Nor forgiveness, and so you shall have neither from me."

"I do love and I do forgive," he said.

"Oh do you?"

"Rochelle--" he started, but she cut him off.

"You have forgiven the cardinal for the part he played in your brother's death? You have forgiven Sayyida Zahra?"

"Those are not--"

"No, that's right. Because you cannot, Alexandre. Oh yes, perhaps you may forgive when it is easy, when it suits you, but that is not forgiveness. That is self-interest."

"Perhaps you forgive too easily," he said roughly. "Forgiving people who do not deserve it, for no better reason than so that you might appear benevolent."

"And what does that mean?"

"You never forgave your brother, though you have spent so much time trying to convince yourself that you have, and so maybe you are not so forgiving as you think, but as petty and vengeful as I--even if you are without the character to admit it."

She slapped him so hard across the face that he groaned. He made an ugly grimace, but then brought his eyes to hers.

"I do not know if your brother deserved your forgiveness." He lowered his other knee to the floor. "Or if he ever even asked for it. But I am on my knees, Rochelle, asking you--begging you--that you might forgive me. I know I was wrong, and I am here telling you I will do whatever you ask to prove myself worthy of you."

Her eyes were wet in the fire's light, and she rubbed at them.

"Sayyida Zahra sent me to your bed that first night, did you know that?" She sniffled. "She begged me, 'Bed him, Rochelle. Bed him that he might listen to me, that I might pay his debts and be free of this place.' Because she knew then what I know now: you hold on too tightly to your grudges, and you blame everyone but yourself. And I will tell you this also, Alexandre de Beaumont: the cardinal did not kill your brother. You did. Your violence. Your cruelty. Your wickedness. You killed him."

His mouth opened in shock, but still he reached for her.

"You burned people alive!" she cried, and in anger, she stomped her foot. "How could you tell me that?"

He hung his head.

"Do you hear their screams, Alexandre?" Her voice became low. "Do you smell the burning of their skin? At night, do you feel the heat that sizzles like hell on your face?" She wiped her tears. "Because I hear my mother, and I smell them, and even now do I feel the heat. And you say to me, 'Forgive me?' How do you think I could forgive such evil, if you think I could not even forgive it of my own brother?"

"Because I will do anything." He crawled forward on his knees. "You need only ask it of me, and I will do it. For all that I've put you through, I will do any penance."

He reached for her again, but this time she did not pull her hands away, and he brought them to his mouth. He tried to kiss them, but feeling his lips, she then swiped them away.

"Abandon your plot," she said.

"What?"

"You will do anything? Then do not go after the cardinal's gold. Forsake it. Forsake your plot against him."

He looked up at her, mouth agape.

She sniffled and gave a sneering smile. "Yes. That is what I thought. You would do anything for me, so long as it was easy. So long as it cost you nothing. So long as you need not change. And that is how I know your apology is only words. That you are not a man, but a boy who howls."

She stepped away from him.

"In the morning, I am to go back to the manor. I wish to be alone here with you no more. Good evening."

She disappeared into the bedroom, leaving him on his knees by the quiet fire.

********

CHAPTER 22

********

Aimlessly, Alexandre walked the halls of the Manoir de Maule. For three days, that had been the measure of all that he had done. Since de Tremblay had salvaged the wreck of that vile ship two years earlier, scarcely out of his mind had been the thought of how he might get what he was owed--and when he had realized he was owed a debt that could not be paid, he had decided that he would settle for a mountain of gold and silver instead.

He had intended to have the matter settled long before, but the plague in Marseilles had shuttered the city, and there had been no way to draw out the necessary wagons without attracting unwanted attention. What should have been a quick fit of vengeance had instead forced him to rob and steal for the better part of two years to manage the marquis's pressing debts, all while waiting for the day that de Tremblay would move the gold to Reims--a day that was now at hand.

And he was to give that up? Give it up for a woman whose love was conditional upon his surrender? Whose love was so mercurial that it might, in one lonely evening, evaporate to nothing? Who he had known for but weeks? It was ludicrous that she would even think to ask such a thing of him, let alone to ask it. And if she had loved him--if she had truly loved him--she would not put his feet to fire to have him prove his own in return.

Eventually, he came upon the library, where he found Sayyida Zahra standing at a shelf, picking through its books.

She looked at him with a nod, then went back to her perusal. As he had throughout the last two years, he could think of nothing to say, and he turned, thinking to leave.

Nervously, she cleared her throat. "I had a library like this in Agadir." She picked up a book from the shelf and brought it with her to a small stack by a chair.

"Did you?" He looked back at her.

"It was a dream I had had since I was little, to have a library. Then, when I was about Adele's age, my father gave me his funding to see it made real. I had so many books, Alexandre. In every subject, too. Greek tragedies. Arabic sciences. Jewish histories. Portuguese poetry. For those three years, it was the most beautiful thing I could have imagined."

He smiled politely. "What happened to it?"

"My brother." She sat in the chair next to her books. "My father had died, and my brother decided then that I shouldn't have a library, but a husband." She picked up a book and opened it, examining the pages. "He could have given the books away if he would not let me keep them--and indeed, I had a Jewish tutor who I gladly would have given every book to--but no. My brother would not have it."

She set the book back on her pile.

"The Jews of Maghrib have never been favoured by the Arabs, not unlike how they have been treated here by the Christians, and my brother would rather tax them beyond poverty than give even one of them anything with the plumage of decency." She picked up another book. "So he had my books gathered up, and he burned them. Every last one. It did not matter that our father had always encouraged my love of books. It did not matter that they held more knowledge than a man could hope to learn. It did not even matter that they were worth a fortune. It only mattered that they stood between me and his designs for me."

She extended a hand, offering him to sit, and begrudgingly he took the chair.

"I could not forgive him for that," she said. "But I did still love him." She looked up at Alexandre with a haunting power in her eyes. "We have hardly spoken these last two years."

"No." He shook his head. "And yet you've stayed."

"I did."

"Was it for Adele?"

"I am fond of your sister, but no, that is not why."

"Then why?"

"Because I am weak," she admitted. "You are now the only family I still have, my only connection to my love, and I am not proud to admit that I have let my fear of losing that guide me instead of sense." She took in a deep breath. "You have not been kind to me, Alexandre. You have blamed me and left me trapped between this place and a memory." She tilted up her chin. "But I can forgive you that."

His eyebrows raised.

"Yes, I can forgive it," she said. "Because of the brother you are to me, and the brother you are to Ana, and, well, because I do still love you. But I have kept quiet too long, and so I will tell you the truth: I blame you for her death."

He cocked his head.

"Yes. The same way you blame de Tremblay, Alexandre, that is how I blame you." She pressed her lips together, searching for the words. "You sent Ana to that ship the same way he sent that ship to you. You were negligent. You were arrogant. But"--she wagged a finger--"but as much as I may blame you, and as much as I cannot forgive it, I know you did not kill her anymore than de Tremblay did Aldrich."

"He did."

"He did not."

"He did," Alexandre groaned. "And if he had wanted to flee, he should have jumped ship and left us as it suited him. He should never have gone to the Spanish. And for what? That he might live the meager life of some wine-washed rural abbé and count himself absolved?"

"As I told him after," she said patiently, "even though I could not forgive him, I understood it."

"And for that"--he put his palm to his forehead--" I cannot forgive you." He groaned, then threw his other hand out towards the sayyida. "You should not have protected him, nor let him flee."

"For all he did, Alexandre, he was still my friend."

He scowled. "They would have hanged us, Zahra. Even Ana."

"And how many people did we kill? How much did we steal?" She shook her head. "De Tremblay sought forgiveness for the rest of us, but even had he not, we deserved our punishment--even Ana."

"That..." he trailed off with a shake of his head.

"Yes, it seems contradictory to me too, but it is no less how I feel. No, I did not want her to die, but it is unbearable only because she died while I yet live. And that is why I cannot forgive you for the part you played."

He gripped the armrests, thinking to leave.

"But," she said, "I do understand it."

"If you cannot forgive me, then why ever did you follow me here?"

"Because she would want me to try, Alexandre." She folded her hands in her lap. "Because it may be for God to forgive our sins, but amongst the rest of us, it is good to be decent and to forgive what we may. And when we cannot forgive, it is good that we should try to understand. And so that is why I have stayed, because I thought, one day, you might also understand. I thought, one day you might come to me, and see me again as the friend I once was."

He shook his head.

"But that is also why I will stay no longer. When my brother burned my library, I left Agadir, and when you have treated me so coldly, I realize now that I must again do the same. I've listened for too long to my pitiable fears--as if, without you, I would have nothing--but now I must listen to my heart and do what is right."

In the days since he had returned with Rochelle, his thoughts had been listless. He had not slept well a single night, and now he did find himself feeling more tired than ever before listening to Zahra.

"You killed Remy," she said after a moment. "He was not a reasonable man, Alexandre, nor a good one, but he was your man. And to kill him? A man who has shown you naught but admiration? 'How could he have done that?' I asked myself. That is when I began to realize how derelict I have been in my duties as your friend, for a friend would have been honest with you. A friend would have told you that you have gone too far with this madness. You want revenge against a man who is no more to blame than you, and it will kill every one close to you to have it."

He put his hand up to stop her.

"And, to speak even more frankly," she persisted, "I do not believe you care. I believe you blame yourself as much as I do--even more, perhaps--and I believe that you desire to destroy yourself even more than de Tremblay."

She clutched her hand to her heart. "And... I feel it too. I know the heat of that pain. The one that you reserve for yourself. For those dark hours when you feel worthless and unloved, as if you deserve nothing but the pain itself." She took a breath, steadying herself. "Yes, I know it, and I should have told you long ago that what you are doing is foolish and wrong. But then, I was weak and afraid of losing your kinship."

And when he still said nothing, her voice became very small. "You should have come to me, Alexandre. You should have come to me and asked for what I had to say."

He looked bitterly at her. "I knew what you had to say."

"Yet I will say it anyway!" She took a breath, calming herself, and then she reached out for him with a hand that he reluctantly took. "De Tremblay is not worthy of your rage or your hate. All that you are doing now it is not for Aldrich or my Ana. It is for yourself. That you might quench your pain. But it will not help. And that... that is why I sent Rochelle to you that first night of your marriage."

He let go of her hand and pulled back. "Then you know she told me."

"Yes, and she has cried to me about it much since. Even now she thinks she should feel guilty for betraying me, because she told you what I had done. I admit to you, it is to my deep shame that I did it. I thought, if you would only keep my counsel again, then perhaps I might convince you to leave this place and forget de Tremblay. I did not intend to hurt either of you, though I fear I have. I thought... I thought we were only playing a game. That, if I moved the pieces just so, I could have things as I liked."

"It is shameful what you did." He looked at her in disgust. "It was wrong to do that to me."

"To you?" She laughed. "My shame is not for having done it to you, but to her. Yet, look what you had reduced me to? What cares have you shown for my heartbreak? Trapped here in a place that--but for your dear sister and your poor wife--loathes me? And did you speak to me? Did you confide in me? Did you counsel my pains?" She huffed. "No. You limped, and you moped, and you made a spectacle of yourself like some wounded animal sick with self-pity."

He looked down at the floor.

"I hurt too," she said, "and sometimes I would like nothing more than to fight and fume against all that I've lost. But it does us no good to breed the hate in our hearts."

He thought of Remy then, his face staring up at him as the last of the man's life faded. He had been a friend, and Alexandre had thrown him away as if he were nothing.

"I have authored many terrible happenings," he said. "So many that they would now seem boundless laid out before you. Always, though, the ends have justified my means, and... and isn't that why I must see it through, Zahra? So that from the lion, I might still draw honey? That from all this violence, I might find something sweet?"