That afternoon a refreshed Norrington was drinking coffee with Beckett when Mercer entered to tell them that a deputation of several merchants and plantation owners had called to pay their respects. Beckett immediately put down his cup and demanded that Proudfoot be sent to help him dress.
"You can't," said Norrington, as soon as the door had closed again. "You're not well enough."
"I'm not receiving Pratchett and his like in my nightshirt!"
"You don't have to receive them at all. Get Mercer to say you're still too unwell for visitors. You were exhausted after the Governor's call yesterday."
"James, what have I been telling you about appearances? It doesn't matter if I'm at death's door, I have to see them and convince them I'm well, or they'll all try to renegotiate their contracts. This is not the same as the governor's visit, believe me."
Trust Beckett to think of commerce first. Norrington could see the point, but he was still concerned. The wound was only a day and a half old, after all, and Beckett would be feverish for some time to come. "You can't get dressed. The wound will open up."
"I'm getting dressed and I'm going downstairs. Ah, Proudfoot - I need the blue coat, the cream waistcoat and my day wig set out."
"Very good, milord."
"No, it's not good," interrupted Norrington. "He can't get his arms into that coat without opening up his wound."
Proudfoot appeared to be struck by the truth of that statement and hovered, rather uncertainly, in the middle of the room. Norrington pressed home his advantage. "If it's good enough for the king to receive visitors in his bedchamber, I don't see why it's not good enough for an Agent of the East India Trading Company."
Beckett snorted. "The king may well appear to advantage in his nightgown - heaven knows he doesn't in his court dress - but I do not."
Proudfoot coughed discreetly. "If I may venture a suggestion, milord?"
"Yes, what is it?"
"Perhaps a compromise may be possible? Your Lordship can easily be dressed in breeches and stockings with no risk to your wounds. Would you agree, Mr Norrington?"
"Yes," said Norrington, slowly, wondering what was coming next.
"Over that, you could wear a dressing-gown - the green silk one, perhaps - which, being more loosely-constructed, will not exert any pressure or tension on the wound."
Norrington nodded. "Yes, that will be an admirable solution."
Beckett looked from one to the other, then capitulated. "Oh, very well. But it will be the crimson one with the gold embroidery. The green makes me look sickly."
"Very well, milord."
"And ring for Susan. I want all this cleared away, and tea brought up."
"I'll do that," said Norrington, rising and going over to the bell-pull. Proudfoot bowed and hurried off into the dressing room.
The next few minutes were witness to a fury of activity as Susan cleared away the dirty china and tidied up, while between them, Norrington and Proudfoot managed to get Lord Beckett dressed in an astonishingly short space of time. The dressing gown - lavishly embroidered with a design incorporating fantastical birds and animals nestled among the leaves of an immense tree - made Beckett look like some oriental potentate, and Proudfoot spent some time arranging the folds of cloth around Beckett's knees until he was satisfied, then scurried out with the dirty linen.
Norrington turned to follow him.
"Where do you think you're going?" came from behind him.
"I thought ... in the circumstances ... I mean ... Governor Swann was one thing, but I can hardly sit here with you in front of a deputation of planters. You know how Pratchett is - he won't rest until he has the whole story."
"So damn his impertinence and say nothing."
"It's not that easy."
Beckett snorted. "If I have to put up with them, you can. And I refuse to see them alone." He attempted a pathetic look. "I'm a wounded man, James. Would you abandon me to the wolves?"
Norrington laughed, in spite of his irritation. "You'd make mincemeat of them, and you know it."
"I might hurt myself."
"Not if you stay still."
There was the sound of people in the corridor, and Beckett grinned. "Too late, you have to stay now."
Norrington moved past, with the intention of taking refuge in the dressing room, but Beckett put out an arm to stop him, gasping in pain as he did so. Norrington whirled around, horrified at the thought that his own actions had caused the very harm he had hoped to avert. "Are you all right?" he asked, placing an arm on Beckett's shoulder and attempting to lift the dressing gown to see if the wound had started bleeding.
"I'm fine. Don't fuss," scolded Beckett, and pulled the dressing gown closed again.
The door opened, and Norrington could do nothing else but straighten up and move behind Beckett's chair - like any retainer, he thought, disgustedly - as Mercer showed the visitors into the room. He looked down at his coat. All his clothing had been washed and mended by Susan while he was bedridden, but they had seen some hard wear, and were looking rather shabby. Since rising from his sickbed he'd been wearing a coat of plain brown serge, which he suspected had belonged to Mercer at some stage. He cast an envious glance at the fine linen and silk of Beckett's attire, casual though it might be, and told himself that clothes might make the man, but not the officer.
"Sir George Standfast, Mr Pratchett, Mr Melsom and Mr Whitney, milord."
Beckett was suddenly all smiles and affability. "Ah, gentlemen, please come in. Mercer - some tea for our guests."
Mercer bowed and left, pulling the door to.
"Gentlemen, I believe that you have all met Mr Norrington." He gave them no explanation for the former commodore's presence in Port Royal, and Norrington hid a sardonic smile as he exchanged bows with them. He knew that they would miss no detail of his dress or bearing, and he was compelled, therefore, to ignore the discomfort he felt in his present habiliments and present an air of languid indifference.
Pratchett, whose eyes had nearly started out of his head at the sight of the former officer, visibly composed himself and made an elegant leg to his lordship. "Milord," he began, "I trust that you will accept our humble commiserations on your recent injury. The tales of your bravery under hideous duress are the talk of the town."
Beckett raised an eyebrow. "Are they, indeed?" he drawled. "Please ignore anything you may have heard. I do so hate being the object of common gossip."
Pratchett was taken aback and immediately attempted to provide reassurance. "Oh no, milord, not common gossip at all - merely the natural admiration that any gentleman must feel on learning of such stoicism and courage."
"Of course, I quite understand. Still, I hope that I may count on you all to discourage such idle speculation. These exaggerated tales are of no value whatsoever. Why, I am sure that each and every one of you would have displayed exactly the same sterling English character had you been in the same situation."
Norrington kept his eyes firmly fixed on the carpet. It really was too bad of Beckett to be teasing them in this way, when he knew full well that most of them had been cowering in their beds when they heard the alarms, and that Melsom (according to Mercer) had shown no hesitation in offering the pirates all his worldly goods and his daughters besides if they would only spare him his life.
There was a general coughing and mumbling and shifting of feet, until Mr Whitney plucked up the courage to speak. "Has your lordship been informed of the death of Mr Sunderland, the chandler?"
"Yes, Governor Swann was kind enough to call on me yesterday afternoon, and told me of that sad event. I do hope that the city will do something to aid his widow and children."
"Indeed, we thought of taking up a collection, for his family and the others affected by the monstrous attack. We hoped that perhaps you - or, rather, the East India Trading Company - would lead the way by making a donation to the worthy cause."
"Of course. I am happy to match whatever sums you have given." He paused. "What amount should I draw?"
There was another pause as the merchants exchanged looks amongst themselves, and Norrington was once more hard-pressed to keep a straight face. If only they could see how transparent they were, how Beckett played them all like a very Walton! (1)
"Well, as to that, we had not yet decided on an exact sum. All our circumstances are very different, you understand."
"I understand completely, gentlemen. After all, a sum that would be trivial to the East India Trading Company might be more than any of you could easily contribute, and the element of competition in such a matter would be venial. Please, take your time, and let me know tomorrow or the next day. I am sure that Mercer will have the sum to hand."
Mercer and a footman brought in the tea, and the conversation continued for some minutes, but all the important matters had been said: Beckett (and hence the East India Trading Company) was alive and well and not inclined to let the planters take any advantage of his current weakness. Anything else was simply makeweight.
They didn't stay long, rising promptly when Beckett offered them another cup of tea, and left with promises of renewed contracts for their goods and relief for the newly-widowed.
Beckett slumped in his chair as soon as they had left the room. He was pale and exhausted, and made no demur when Norrington rang for Proudfoot. Between the two of them, they managed to get his lordship undressed and back into bed, where he lay back against the pillows, his skin ashen. Proudfoot delved into the medicine chest to retrieve a revivifying cordial, and Norrington was surprisingly relieved to see it bring a hint of colour back into his patient's cheeks.
Beckett swore softly as he moved, trying to get comfortable.
"Keep still," chided Norrington in a soft voice. "You'll only make things worse if you keep wriggling about."
"Easy for you to say. You're not the one with a six-inch knife wound in your side."
"No, but I am speaking from experience."
"I suppose you've had dozens of wounds."
"Not that many."
"But you've been wounded in battle."
"Yes." He didn't feel the need to elaborate, and was relieved when Beckett didn't enquire further.
His patient fidgeted some more, then settled down. "I don't think I'll see any more visitors today."
"I'll tell Mercer you are not at home."
Beckett nodded and shut his eyes. He really did look exhausted, and Norrington left him to sleep.
* * *
Although Beckett demonstrated admirable composure in coping with the pain and discomfort of his wound, he still required laudanum in order to sleep through the night. Unfortunately, as Norrington had already discovered to his cost, under the influence of laudanum his lordship was decidedly more amorous and affectionate than would be considered seemly in a man of substance. Luckily for his reputation, his affections seemed to be focussed on Norrington, and since Norrington and Susan bore the brunt of the nursing, there was little that anyone else saw. Norrington became used to having his bottom fondled whenever it was within an arm's reach of the bed, and he tried, more or less unsuccessfully, to evade Beckett's clumsy attempts at kisses. He was tempted to leave off the laudanum entirely in order to restore his patient to his senses, but capitulated each night when he saw Beckett become feverish and restless.
He managed, after the first night, to devise a compromise of sorts: if Beckett behaved himself while Norrington was dressing his wound or helping Susan to wash him, he would get a kiss at the end of it; if not then he would be left on his own to sulk. Beckett's objections were countered by Norrington pointing out (quite reasonably, he thought) that Beckett was incapable of anything more energetic at present. Beckett, though objecting in the strongest possible terms to what he perceived as an insult to his strength, was forced to accept that he couldn't sit himself up yet, and so was not fit for more active pursuits. He capitulated, for the moment, but promised to re-open negotiations once he was able to leave his bed. Norrington was happy with that outcome, for the moment.
It didn't take long for Beckett to respond to Norrington's training, and so it was that his exemplary conduct during the last dressing of the third day was followed by a kiss that lasted some minutes and left Norrington with an erection that he had to will into submission.
He looked down at Beckett's sleeping form, a small and vulnerable craft adrift in a vast sea of linen, and couldn't help but bring his hand to cup the man's cheek. Beckett nuzzled into the touch and Norrington smiled. If only life could be restricted to touch and response, he thought, how simple everything would be. Instead, every action, every thought, had to be considered and evaluated if it weren't to reveal too much of how he felt.
The irony was that he didn't know what he felt - or, rather, that what he felt was not the same from one moment to the next. At times like this, when Beckett was asleep and helpless, he felt protective and tender. At other times he remembered Beckett's treatment of him in the attic, and his guts filled with a burning resentment. He couldn't forget - he mustn't forget - but that had to be balanced against all the other things, such as Beckett's care of him while he had been prostrate with fever.
His thoughts wandered, as they often did, towards his own situation, and what the future might hold for him. He wondered how much longer he would be Beckett's captive, and what the Admiralty might decide should be his punishment - assuming, that is, that they didn't confirm the sentence of death that had been passed down in his absence. If he were to gain his freedom, what would he do? What could he do? He had no skills beyond those of a seaman, and no qualifications but those the Navy had granted him. He was bred for the sea and it had been his whole life since the age of fourteen. He had never given the slightest consideration to what might be outside the bounds of sea and port - no wonder he had fallen into a life of misery following his flight from Port Royal.
He grimaced as he recalled those months in Tortuga, when he had done his best to drink himself to death. He would not return to that living hell, no matter how desperate his circumstances. Perhaps he'd change his name and work his passage to Virginia and thence back to England, or Beckett might allow him passage on an East Indiaman. Perhaps he might be able to take up the letters of marque he'd taken from Sparrow and make his way as a privateer - a far cry from the Royal Navy, to be sure, but better than life in chains, or before the mast.
Well, there was no sense in planning too far ahead. He looked down, once more, at the sleeping man before him, and hoped that the Lords of the Admiralty would take their time in making their decision. Life here - at least since his recovery from fever - was far from unpleasant, even with Beckett at his most demanding. It was almost cosily domestic, in fact, and Norrington found himself suddenly longing for the comfort of a settled home and family. Absurd, indeed, but there it was. He wondered if it was just a passing phase - a reaction to the unsettled life he'd led for the past few months - or if he was growing old. Or maybe he was just growing too fond of Beckett. He smiled to himself, and gently stroked Beckett's cheek once more before stealing quietly from the room.
* * *
Over the next few days Beckett's condition improved. The wound did not, so far, look to be infected, and his appetite was returning. The cook excelled himself in providing light fare suitable for invalids, and Mercer found a few bottles of a claret that, after some deliberation with Norrington, was deemed suitable for a convalescent. Beckett was thence pleasantly employed in regaining his strength and conducting as much of his business as he could manage from his bed-chamber.
Norrington spent much of the day with him, chatting or reading to him, or writing letters at his dictation. It freed Mercer to carry out much of the Company's business in the factory and along the wharves, and allowed Beckett to take advantage of their privacy by demanding services of a very different nature as soon as he was capable.
One afternoon, a week after the attack, Beckett was sitting in an easy chair by the window, looking out at the harbour. It was a busy day, and there were hundreds of people bustling around, in all walks of life. In contrast, the far shore of the harbour appeared quiet and serene.
"One of these days, I'm going to take you outside and fuck you on the beach," said Beckett, inconsequentially.
"It's over-rated," replied Norrington, looking up from the letter he was copying. "Sand everywhere - very uncomfortable." He grinned at Beckett's astonished look. "I do speak from experience, I assure you."
"I imagine you do." Beckett looked at him speculatively. "And what other pearls of wisdom might I glean from your vast experience? Do tell me."
"Hmm..." Norrington thought about that for a moment, then grinned. "I'd rather show you."
Beckett's eyes gleamed. "That could be interesting."
"It could indeed."
"Perhaps you might show me something right now."
"I could, but Mercer's sensibilities might be offended."
Beckett raised an eyebrow. Norrington gestured to the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, which indicated a little before four o'clock. "He said he expected to return by four."
"So he did." He glanced out of the window and sighed. "And here he comes now, efficient as always."
"You sound almost disappointed. Do you not value punctuality in a servant?"
"Not when it interferes with my plans for debauchery."
"Ah well, you're hardly recovered enough for that, so perhaps it's for the best."
"Not even a little bit?"
Norrington smiled. "How does one define a little bit of debauchery?"
"Well, you could come over here and kiss me, to start with, and then maybe you could put your hand down my breeches."
"And what would I find in your breeches?"
"A veritable cannon, Mr Norrington, primed and ready to fire at your touch."
Norrington couldn't suppress a shiver of delighted anticipation. After more than a week of enforced abstinence, he felt primed and ready himself. He was about to get up and put Beckett's statement to the test, but at that moment he heard Mercer at the door, and dropped back into his seat. The amused glances the two men exchanged, however, promised that the subject would be revisited later.
* * *
That evening, Beckett sat up to a quiet dinner laid out on the table in his chamber. While the servants remained, they continued their earlier discussion on a new book that they had been reading together - "Gulliver's Travels" by the Reverend Swift. Norrington disliked it, having taken exception to some of the descriptions of ships and sailing, while Beckett acclaimed it as a witty allegory, and was eager to point out the allusions to English society that were described in the foibles of those peoples encountered by Mr Gulliver. They both agreed, however, that the book was very different from the "Four Years Voyages of Captain George Roberts" that had appeared earlier in the year. (2)
Once the covers had been removed and the room was quiet, conversation gradually petered out, and they were left with a silence that grew rather more awkward as it lengthened, until Beckett grinned at Norrington and said, "Come here. I think it's time you explored my breeches."
Norrington smiled and rose from his seat. "Is that cannon still primed?"
"More than ever. The slightest touch could set it off."
"That could be dangerous. It would be prudent to render it safe before retiring, or it might go off in the night." So saying, he leaned over Beckett's chair and slid his hand down over the bulge that was clearly visible under the cloth.
"Oh, that's good," muttered Beckett, straightening himself out a little to provide Norrington with better access. He fumbled at the buttons of his breeches. "I can't wait until I'm fit enough to fuck you again."
"Maybe I'll fuck you, instead," Norrington said, teasingly, as his hand rubbed over firm flesh.
The change in Beckett's expression was immediate. His faced closed up completely and his voice became flat and neutral. "I doubt it."
Norrington smiled - a predatory, powerful smile that he rarely used, but always to effect. "Do you? I don't. One of these days I'm going to fuck you, anywhere you please, and you're going to want it."
"Do you really think so?" Beckett drawled. "I can't imagine why."
Norrington pressed his advantage. "Curiosity. You won't be able to help yourself - you'll want to know what it feels like." (3)
"You forget - I already know that."
Norrington shook his head. "No you don't. I buggered you for sport when I met you in India, and it was very pleasant - and don't deny it, I remember exactly what you said to me when you came - but I didn't take the time to do it properly, to touch every inch of your skin, learn you, to feel you, to bring you to the edge of madness, to drive out every other thought in your head." He leaned forward, watching as Beckett swallowed and adjusted his stance, and allowed himself a small, very private smile. "I could do that," he went on, his voice low and husky. "I could do that to you - for you - and this time there would be no one to see us, no one to interrupt, no one to laugh. Just you and me, and a little sweet oil to ease the way."
Beckett swallowed and attempted to regain his composure. "You make a very persuasive argument, Mr Norrington. I shall give the matter my due consideration. For the moment, however, I desire you to kneel before me and apply your persuasive arguments to my cock." So saying, he leaned back in his chair, unbuttoned the flap of his breeches and let his cock spring free of the confining cloth.
Norrington considered refusing, but he knew it would do no good - Beckett still had the power of life and death over him, after all, and he would do well not to forget that. He knelt before Beckett, took the firm cock in his hand and gave it a few strokes to bring it to full hardness, before bending his head and taking it into his mouth. It was certainly eager, twitching and jerking in his mouth as Beckett squirmed in his seat. He used his hand to augment his ministrations, and was rewarded by the rapid increase in Beckett's breathing. In just a few seconds more his mouth was flooded, and he was swallowing and pulling back to avoid choking.
Beckett sat with his head tilted right back, looking at the ceiling and panting. It was a few seconds before he had recovered enough to sit upright again, and then he looked at Norrington. "That was good. Fast, but good."
"I aim to please."
"Stand up and I'll aim to please you."
Norrington rose, wondering what he meant. Apart from the one time in the attic cell, Beckett had never brought him off except by fucking him, and he certainly wasn't up for that now - he didn't even think that he could suck him off without disturbing his wound. Still, at a nod from Beckett he undid his own breeches and pulled out his prick, which was only just starting to harden. Beckett reached for it, spreading his own legs and drawing him in closer.
The elegant fingers closed around him, and he sighed, pushing his hips forward a little. It was good to feel someone else's hands around his prick, especially someone who knew how to use them to maximum advantage. He could feel Beckett's thumb hooking over the head, smearing the fluid that was already there, using it to increase the smoothness of his stroke. The scent of musk was getting stronger, and he looked down, gasping, as the strokes grew faster and tighter, until he jerked forward, grabbing onto Beckett's shoulders so as not to fall over. His semen spurted forward onto Beckett's chest, covering the linen shirt with a milky dribble.
He stood there for a few seconds, catching his breath, before pulling out of Beckett's grip and staggering back into his own chair. He did up his breeches and drew his chair back to the table. He realised that he was avoiding Beckett's gaze, and looked up, not wanting to appear bashful. Beckett looked down at his ruined shirt, then directly at him, his face impish and conspiratorial. His mouth twitch into a smile, and before he knew it they were giggling like schoolboys, both of them, and all awkwardness had disappeared like dew in the sun.
Beckett recovered first and got up. "Come on, then. Ring for Susan and let's get this dressing done so I can go to sleep. It's a big day, tomorrow, after all."
* * *
The next day, the eighth after the attack, dawned bright and clear, as usual, and Norrington regarded the blue sky morosely. He was not at all looking forward to the service of thanksgiving - not least because it would mark his first public appearance since leaving the island so many months ago. At least he would be wearing a new coat, Lord Beckett having commissioned the local tailor to do his best in the time available. It wouldn't be the same as his beloved blue dress uniform, but it would be infinitely better than the ragged old coat he'd arrived in, or the plain brown serge he'd been wearing since he rose from his sickbed.
Beckett was his main concern - he was still throwing a mild fever in the evenings, and Norrington was of the opinion that a church service followed by a long and pompous ceremony was not conducive to rapid convalescence. Beckett, of course, flatly refused to remain at home, saying that it was important that the East India Trading Company be properly represented. He did, however, consent to be carried from church to fort in the carriage, which appeased both Mercer and Norrington to some extent.
Norrington washed and dressed himself quickly, paying little heed to his new clothing beyond ensuring his cravat was neat and his stockings unwrinkled. He would only be in the background, after all, one of the Company entourage. All eyes would be on Beckett and the Governor, who would undoubtedly outshine all the others.
He wandered into Beckett's chamber and saw his lordship resplendent in a kingfisher-blue coat with gold accents, a silver and gold waistcoat, and breeches that matched his coat. He was just putting the finishing touches to his ensemble, looking severely at his hands.
"Ah, there you are. Should I wear the emerald or the sapphire with this? It's such an odd colour, this coat, doesn't seem to go with anything."
"Perhaps you have an aquamarine?"
"Alas, no, though you're right, it would be the ideal accompaniment. It is an omission that I shall have to rectify. Hmm ... although it might be easier just to have another coat made up." He spoke quite seriously, but it still brought a smile to Norrington's face to hear him talk so lightly of such a great expense.
"Perhaps just the signet ring then."
"But I have to have something for each hand!"
Norrington sighed and walked over to peer into Beckett's jewellery box. It was full of rings and chains and pins, in every style and every colour imaginable. "Heavens! Where did you get all these?"
"India, of course. Well, I bought them there, at any rate. Some of the stones come from further afield."
"Well," said Norrington, rummaging around with a finger, "perhaps this one might do." He held up a ring set with a dark blue stone - so dark it was almost black, with an odd streakiness to it. "I'm not sure if it's a sapphire or not, but it'd dark enough that it won't clash with the coat."
Beckett took it from him and tried it on. "Hmm, yes, well it will have to do. It's a star sapphire, from Bengcoke. (4) Very rare, so I'm told." He admired his hand for a few seconds, then returned to the spot in front of the mirror. "Very well, Proudfoot, the sword belt, if you please."
Proudfoot buckled the sword-belt around shoulder and waist, and then helped his lordship into the coat. Finally the sword was attached to the belt, his lordship's hat was picked up and everything was ready.
Norrington looked enviously at Beckett's sword. He'd lost his service sword somewhere along the way at Isla Cruces, and had not yet had the chance to replace it. As to the sword that Will Turner had given him - well, he'd never had the heart to wear it anyway. He wondered where it might be now - he'd left it behind when he'd stolen away in disgrace, and hadn't bothered to make any enquiries about it. Stupid of him, really - he could have got a good price for it in Tortuga.
He looked up from his musings to find Proudfoot standing in front of him, holding out another sword belt. "I don't have a sword," he said, shortly, turning away.
"Oh, but I think you do," came Beckett's soft voice and he turned back around to see Beckett holding a long, thin box in his hands. Could it possibly be ... ? He took a couple of steps towards it, and Beckett lifted the lid. There, nestled in the satin lining, was the sword he hadn't seen for over a year. It was shining and beautiful, and when he unsheathed it, it was still perfectly balanced.
"Where did you get this?" he asked, his eyes still fixed on the metal.
"You'd be surprised what I can find when I have a mind to it."
Norrington allowed Proudfoot to assist him into the sword belt, then into his coat, but he attached the sword himself. He stood up and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was older, certainly, but with his new clothes and his hair drawn back and powdered he looked much as he had two years ago, before any of the nightmare had begun. He looked like a gentleman, anyway, even if he was no longer an officer.
"Thank you," he managed to say.
Beckett smiled. "I thought it was yours from the initials."
"It is. I thought it was lost."
"It may have been, but it is now restored. Do try to look after it this time." With that he led the way out into the corridor and down the stairs to the carriage that was to take them to the church.
Norrington followed behind, his eyes, still straying to the sword every few seconds. There was something peculiarly poignant, he thought, in finding that which one had thought lost forever.
* * *
The service was a trial of endurance for all of them. The Revd Thompson preached about duty and doing what was right rather than what was convenient, only of course he took two hours to say it, and most of the congregation were snoring, either openly or discreetly, by the time he came to his conclusion. Beckett was struggling with the effort of sitting up straight for so long, and had tipped his head back against the pew. Norrington felt an absurd desire to hold him, to make him more comfortable - or at least to tell the blasted parson to hurry up. They still had several hours of speeches to go and it wouldn't do for Beckett to keel over in the middle of it all.
As they started to moved from the church to their carriage, which was to carry them up to the fort where the ceremony was to be held, Norrington had a discreet word with Mercer, who nodded and edged his way through the crowd. When the carriage (which had inched its way slowly through the crowded streets) finally arrived at the entrance to the fort, Mercer was there to meet them.
Beckett looked at the small flask that Mercer held out to him. "What's this?" he hissed.
"Laudanum in wine, milord. At Mr Norrington's direction."
Beckett was suddenly furious. "I don't need this!"
Norrington was unperturbed. "You will," he said, "and it's better to take a small dose now and survive the rest of the day than to fall over in a dead faint in front of the entire population of Port Royal."
"I never faint."
"You will if you keep this up," Norrington parried. "But don't worry, I'm sure that everyone will forget about it ... in ten years or so."
"I don't want to fall over in an opium haze, either."
"It's only a small dose - I asked Mercer to make it up to half strength. Just enough to take the edge off, not enough to make you drunk."
Beckett stuck out his bottom lip. "I hate this stuff."
"Think of it as another unpleasant task that has to be done to maintain the reputation of the East India Trading Company. You can impress the planters with your fortitude, even while wounded."
Beckett gave him a jaundiced look. "Were you a nursemaid in a former life?"
"I don’t subscribe to heathen beliefs."
"It was a rhetorical question."
"This one isn't: are you going to take the laudanum now or are Mercer and I going to have to carry you out of the fort later this afternoon?"
Beckett swore and unstoppered the flask. He took a swig, grimaced, and replaced the stopper with a forceful motion. He dropped the flask into the pocket of his coat and glared up at Norrington. "Happy now?"
"Ecstatic. Now get a move on, we're here."
The secular part of the thanksgiving ceremony was even more painful than the service, since they were now all standing and the day was further advanced. They stood in silent endurance, listening to speech after speech, until finally it was Lord Beckett's turn. He leaned over the temporary lectern that had been erected, and if anyone suspected that he used it as much to support himself as his papers, they kept their thoughts to themselves.
"Governor Swann, Sir George, Revd Thompson, ladies and gentlemen of Port Royal. I am delighted to stand here today to add my small thanks to those who saved Port Royal from a most vicious and dastardly attack by pirates. We have heard many speeches, most of them of an eloquence and erudition far surpassing my own, and there remains little that I can add to the facts that we already know. Suffice it to say that the militia of the honourable East India Trading Company and the gallant marines of Port Royal showed their courage and commitment in raising the alarm and defending property and people from the vile pirates. They were not the only ones who showed true courage, however. Many of the townspeople were equally staunch in their efforts, and it is to their credit, as well as to the garrison, that the pirates were eventually forced to concede and to surrender. You may be assured that all of them will be brought to trial and will feel the full weight of the king's justice upon them."
He paused to allow for the cheering that erupted (a less enthusiastic cheering than had greeted the earlier speeches, but then it was after midday and the sun was becoming fierce), and continued in a slightly less heroic vein. "I realise that many people of the town paid a high price for their efforts, either in material loss or in injuries to their person. Some few paid with their lives - but not their honour."
Norrington stifled a smirk - that was an indirect reference to Melsom, and many of the audience would pick it up - and concentrated on smoothing his features into a look of bland concentration.
"The East India Trading Company has already made a donation to the funds set up for the widows and families of those who lost their lives in the attack. Many of the town's most prominent people have done likewise. I hope that those of you who can spare a little will make a contribution to help those who are left indigent and needy."
There was a murmuring of agreement and rustling from the crowd as people checked their purses. Norrington wondered, cynically, how many of them would give to the cause - and how long it would take the recipients to drink their way through any money that was given to them.
"There remains only one task for me this afternoon, and that is to mention the efforts of Mr James Norrington, whom many of you will know from his time here with the Naval squadron. Since his departure from Port Royal he has been engaged on many activities, to the benefit of the East India Trading Company and hence to Port Royal. It was he who first spotted the pirate ship approaching, and he who raised the alarm. He also played a large part in overcoming the pirates who invaded my house, saving my life and that of many of the inhabitants. To him we are all indebted."
He paused for breath while the crowd responded politely with another smattering of applause, and Norrington could see, out of the corner of his eye, that Beckett's knuckles were white where he was clinging on to the podium for support. He was wondering how soon he could effect his lordship's removal from the dais when he was distracted by a sudden movement to his side.
Governor Swann stepped forward, holding a large scroll. "I believe at this point that it behoves me to call Mr Norrington forward. The mayor, the aldermen and I have agreed unanimously that such valour deserves to be recognised with one of the highest honours that it is in our power to bestow." He paused, and smiled as Norrington stepped up to meet him. "I am delighted to present you with the Freedom of the City of Port Royal."
Norrington was dumbfounded. He'd had no notion at all that this was planned, and wondered how and when Beckett had managed to arrange it. Then he looked at Beckett's face, and realised that it was just as much a surprise to his lordship as it was to himself. He accepted the scroll that the governor handed to him, and the handshakes from both the governor and the mayor, followed by one from Lord Beckett.
He stepped back, in a daze. Freedom of the city! It was a rare honour, he knew, and one that meant a great deal to him. What's more, it gave him certain specific privileges that even Beckett would be hard pressed to overturn. It was a masterstroke, in effect: a stratagem worthy of Beckett's beloved Machiavelli. Beckett had been outgunned and outmanoeuvred, and there was nothing he could do about it.
He turned the scroll over in his hands. The citation made it sound as if he had been employed by the East India Trading Company all along, engaged in some cloak-and-dagger role against England's enemies, and that his presence on the wharves that night had been design, not chance. It was a good alibi for his months-long absence, and he found himself caught in reluctant admiration of the Governor's powers of invention and persuasion.
That was the last speech; the crowd dispersed soon after that, to buy food and drink from the stalls and watch the entertainers who had amassed in the streets. Beckett and Norrington had been invited to dine at the governor's residence, but Norrington had put his foot down, insisting that Beckett would need to return to the house to rest. Beckett had agreed reluctantly, but Norrington had expected a further attempt to change his mind once they were in the town. He was wrong though - the afternoon's service and speeches had drained Beckett's strength so much that he was white with exhaustion, and he made no resistance as Norrington and Mercer cleared a way for him back to the carriage. Once hidden from the crowd's view, he accepted another dose of laudanum without complaint, and leaned back against Norrington's chest.
"Freedom of the city," he murmured, taking the scroll from Norrington's hand and looking at it carefully. "I didn't think the Governor had so much guile in him. I almost begin to like him."
Norrington smiled. "He's a good man."
"He trusts too much."
"As I said, he's a good man."
Beckett gave a small snort of compounded amusement and exasperation as he rolled up the scroll and re-tied the ribbon. He leaned back and shifted a little, trying to get more comfortable.
The carriage started to move with a jolt, and Norrington's arms caught Beckett before he fell off the seat. He settled Beckett back against his chest and linked his hands in front to secure him as the carriage moved slowly and ponderously back through the town.
"I'm exhausted," muttered Beckett, wanly.
"I'm not surprised. Four hours we were out there."
"I think I might take a rest when we get back."
"Good idea. I'll have a tray brought to your room."
Beckett nodded wearily, his eyes already drifting shut. Norrington held him close during the journey back to the house, and if his lips strayed perilously close to the tender patch of skin beneath his charge's ear from time to time, well, that was solely due to the motion of the carriage.
* * *
When Norrington saw redness appearing around the stitches that evening, he conferred with Mercer, and between them they eased out half the sutures and doused the rest in brandy before applying a firm bandage to hold the flesh together.
Beckett never complained during this procedure, though it was obvious from his rigid posture that it hurt him. Norrington insisted that he have another dose of laudanum as soon as they had finished, and watched as the familiar effects took hold. Beckett smiled sleepily up at him and reached out with a hand to pull him closer.
Bearing in mind the tender state of the wound, Norrington did not sit on the bed, but dragged up a chair so that he could sit close to Beckett and hold his hand. He'd done this for the past couple of nights, waiting for Beckett to fall asleep, and it seemed to help.
"I haven't had my kiss yet."
"So you haven't," admitted Norrington, and leaned forward to perform the office. He was gentle with it - for one thing, Beckett was still in pain, and for another, he had provided him with release of a more intimate nature earlier in the day, when Beckett had woken from his post-ceremony nap. This was not for arousal but for comfort, and Norrington made sure to keep it that way.
"Mmm ... I like the way you kiss," breathed Beckett.
"I am truly flattered by your lordship's approbation."
Beckett squeezed his hand. "Flattered enough to slide your hand under my nightshirt?"
"Not tonight. Tomorrow, maybe. Sleep now."
"One more kiss, then."
"Are you always so demanding?"
"Invariably."
Norrington gave a mock-sigh, but reached forward for another soft, slow, sensuous kiss. He could tell that the laudanum was already taking hold, and drew back, slowly, as Beckett's lips grew slack and he fell asleep.
"Sweet dreams," he whispered, as he replaced Beckett's hand on the counterpane.
Footnotes:
(1) Izaak Walton: The Compleat Angler (1653). Back
(2) By Daniel Defoe (though not published under his name at the time). Back
(3) In the unlikely event that someone is reading this who didn't see POTC2, I should point out that this is a line used in two variants in the film - once by Sparrow to Elizabeth and then by Elizabeth to Sparrow, both overheard by Norrington. Back
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