The King's Mercy

by Lori Benton

  He shook off the nagging questions. Whatever had existed between them, there’d been no place to take it, no way for it to flourish. Not at Severn.

  The reverend didna ask ye to marry her, only protect her.

  “Wheest,” he said aloud, drawing a curious look from Runs-Far’s father, Fishing Hawk.

  * * *

  They’d struck a well-worn trail and followed it for two days before, halted for the night, Jemma informed Alex they’d be arriving in the Cherokees’ town the following day. “There’s other towns, bigger, but I’ve a notion Blackbird’s someone important in theirs.”

  The next morning the warriors’ spirits were markedly lifted.

  “You seen them scalps hanging on their sashes?” Jemma had asked him their first night on the trail. “Blackbird led this band against some other Indians that killed her brother. I think it was her brother.” Not until that final morning did Jemma tell him different. “I found out more about him that was killed. He weren’t Blackbird’s brother. He was her husband.”

  Alex turned to look at the woman, sitting some distance away plaiting her hair. She wore a scalp at her belt. Who had killed her husband? And why?

  Jemma didn’t have those answers.

  That morning Runs-Far walked beside her, the two chatting in a hodgepodge of Cherokee and English. Alex payed them little heed. Around every bend in the trail, he expected to see whatever passed for a town for these people.

  When at last they reached it, spread out below the descending trail they traversed, he wasn’t prepared for its size—a riverside sprawl of log-built structures, dozens of them, some covered in reddish clay, with smoking fires outside hide-covered doors shaded by pole awnings. In the town’s center rose a large, round-sided, thatched building surrounded by cleared ground, while out toward the town’s edges cultivated acres of corn spread, interspersed with groves of fruit trees. Men, women, children, and dogs moved about town and fields.

  The place looked busy as a beehive. One about to be overturned.

  His heart gave a thump, but he masked his apprehension. If his experience of them told him anything, these people prized stoicism. Though fear coiled within, he determined to show none.

  Beside him, Jemma bounced on her toes, scanning the scene as if someone might spot her and come running with arms spread. None did, but many stopped their activity to stare.

  Steeling himself, Alex raised his gaze to the sweeping bend of the river that cradled the town, cutting through a narrow valley. At its widest the river rivaled the Yadkin, which they’d followed to its mountain headwaters days ago and left behind. Beyond the river’s curving banks, more mountains rose, lower than those they’d crossed.

  “Tanasi.” Blackbird had come up beside him, looking with pride at her home, though a shadow of grief crossed her eyes.

  Tanasi. Did she mean river or town? The land itself?

  He’d no time to ask. Blackbird took him by the arm and marched him to the front of her warriors, Jemma trotting to keep near. They wound down the trail and entered the town’s outskirts, Alex front and center, conspicuous as an egret among corbies.

  A flock of corbies was called a murder.

  The untimely thought struck as the first yelps and ululations rose from Blackbird and her band, answered by those gathering to welcome their return. The warriors had tied their hair trophies to poles, lofting them high as he and Jemma were paraded around the open center of the town once, twice, before halting outside the big thatched structure.

  Cowed at last by the press of so many strange Indians, Jemma clung to him. He gripped her shoulder. Beneath his hand she trembled.

  While some of Blackbird’s warriors were pulled away by those in the crowd, Runs-Far shrugged off the hands reaching for him, remaining in the space broadening between them and the circle of brown faces moving back a pace, and another, until they stood alone. At a word from Blackbird, he retreated to the crowd’s inner edge. She hadn’t released Alex. Was this her staking some sort of claim on him? Jemma and the bairn as well? Or protecting them?

  Throughout their progression through the town, Alex had been keenly aware of the Indians’ reactions to him—wariness, suspicion, fear—yet no hand but Blackbird’s had touched him. Having expected to be met with taunts, even blows, it left him bewildered, every nerve on edge.

  As the hum of voices settled, a disturbance arose behind Alex. Turning, he saw Hatchet-Face—whose actual name, he’d learned, was Cane-Splitter—shouldering into the inner ring. Those nearby made way, gazing on the tall warrior with admiration and respect.

  Ignoring them, Cane-Splitter halted and glared at Blackbird’s back, a gaze so intense Alex couldn’t imagine the woman wasn’t scorched.

  If she felt it, she gave no sign.

  Following her lead, Alex faced the direction Blackbird gazed—toward the thatched building, as from its entrance a man emerged, appearing almost magically from its shadow. His long hair showed more white than black, though his back was straight and his gait fluid. Dressed in plain moccasins, deerskin leggings, and breechclout, his only mark of distinction was the fine blanket trimmed in red draping his shoulders.

  The man came out of the structure’s shade and halted to speak with Blackbird. Then his gaze shifted, appraising first Alex, then Jemma. The bairn jerked in his sling, emitting a hungry mewl. Noting the child, the blanketed man asked a question. Whatever Blackbird replied made a smile twitch his lips. She motioned to Runs-Far, who stepped forward and joined the conversation.

  Still pressed against Alex’s side, Jemma gave a start. “I caught my grandma’s name.”

  The blanketed man spoke a final word, then turned back to the thatched structure.

  Blackbird tugged at Alex’s arm to follow. He’d taken but a step when behind them Cane-Splitter called out. Blackbird kept moving but turned an impatient glance over her shoulder and replied. Alex looked back in time to see Cane-Splitter’s narrow face blaze with anger before he mastered his features, turned his back, and pushed through the crowd beginning to disperse.

  “Duck, Mister Alex!”

  He obeyed Jemma’s warning in time to miss cracking his skull on the lintel as they entered.

  Once his eyes adjusted to the dimness within, he recognized the place for a meeting house, built to hold a great number of people.

  Few had gathered now. The warriors of Blackbird’s band—minus Cane-Splitter—plus four old men and three women, arranged themselves behind Alex and Jemma, who stood where Blackbird placed them near the structure’s center. Openings in the high roof let sunlight through dusty rafters and a double ring of sturdy posts sunk into the earthen floor. Fishing Hawk and Runs-Far, and a woman who was probably Runs-Far’s mother, stood nearest. The man in the red-trimmed blanket faced them.

  Blackbird released Alex and addressed the assemblage, speaking with ease and dignity. She smiled briefly at Jemma, then looked at Alex. Whatever she said next caused a murmur to ripple through the gathering, whether favorable he couldn’t gauge. He dropped his gaze to Jemma, but she was preoccupied with the bairn, fussing now and resisting her attempts to suckle him.

  The discussion seemed to have broadened, permitting all present to engage. Fishing Hawk spoke, then one of the older men, two of the women…

  Through it all Jemma’s bairn whimpered. “Why won’t he eat?” she muttered, shifting him to her shoulder, patting his back. “Come on, now.”

  The bairn let out a wail. Discussion paused. Alex felt the stares. Whatever was being decided, he didn’t want the bairn’s untimely cries affecting it. Jemma must have felt the same. Tears gathered in her eyes.

  “Give him here. Maybe it’ll help.” He’d never held the bairn while he was awake, but Jemma was desperate enough to try. When he got the wee laddie cradled along a forearm, tiny head spanned by a palm, he grinned down at him.

  Jemma’s son eyed him
, clenched his face, and loosed an ear-piercing scream of outrage. With his own cheeks shot through with heat, Alex looked up from the furious little face to see every eye watching. A woman in the back of the gathering spoke loud enough to make herself heard. Cackles of laughter erupted, breaking the tension.

  “Give him back,” Jemma hissed. Alex complied.

  Wincing at the racket, Red-Blanket-Man spoke briefly, then dismissed them. Looking satisfied, Blackbird shooed them back into sunlight, the bairn’s crying drawing stares though no one followed as they trailed Blackbird—save for Runs-Far, who reached Jemma’s side and commenced whispering.

  “What’s he telling ye?” Alex asked.

  Jemma jostled her son, starting to quiet at last. “I don’t know. I think Blackbird’s taking us home.”

  Relief was sullied by a dozen unanswered questions. “Who was the man with the red-edged blanket?”

  “Their chief. You didn’t catch that?”

  “D’ye ken his name?”

  Jemma turned to Runs-Far as they passed between lodges where wide-eyed children stared. She relayed the question, pantomiming one-handed the swirl of a cloak. After Runs-Far spoke she turned back to say, “Best I make it, he called Crooked Branch.”

  Outside a lodge that looked identical to every other scattered about, Blackbird halted and faced them. “You here. Good maybe. Or no.”

  Alex wasn’t certain he liked the sound of that, but Runs-Far looked pleased. He spoke to Jemma, and the lass’s mouth dropped open. She shut it, but her chin trembled.

  “What?” he asked, guts tying themselves in knots.

  “They letting us stay, Mister Alex,” Jemma said, and burst into tears.

  So did the bairn.

  Blackbird motioned to the shaggy hide across the lodge’s door, the biggest hide Alex had ever seen. “Go. See other.”

  Alex didn’t budge. “Other?”

  Blackbird spoke again, but with the bairn’s crying Alex didn’t catch a word. “What’s she saying, Jemma?”

  Jemma sniffled. “Got someone else living with her, I think.”

  “Children?”

  Blackbird pointed at him. “Slave.”

  The word was unmistakable. Alex went cold, until he realized Blackbird was pointing past him, at two figures approaching along the path between her lodge and its neighbor. One was a lad, about seven years old, the other a man, back stooped under a load of deadwood bound by twisted cords.

  Blackbird barked a word the lad ignored, but it brought the man to a halt. He raised his head. A white man.

  Alex looked closer at the wood-bearer. A weary face, thinner than he’d last seen, but he recognized those shadowed blue eyes, and when it came, that smile, ablaze with amazement and delight.

  “Reverend Pauling!” Startled by Jemma’s outcry, the bairn’s fussing ceased.

  Runs-Far was babbling in evident excitement. When words failed him, he led Jemma to the reverend, who lowered his burden to the ground.

  “Timothy. You’ve brought friends.”

  “Timothy?” Jemma echoed.

  Runs-Far nodded, pointing at himself. “Tee-muh-tee.”

  “My first convert among his people,” the reverend explained.

  Jemma laughed. “Reverend Pauling, how you come to be here?”

  Blackbird had watched this reunion, her surprise unconcealed. When she again motioned to the door-hide and the lad—her son?—held it open, Alex turned to Pauling, the last person he’d expected to encounter in this place. “No doubt ye’ve a story to tell, Reverend. But I think Blackbird wishes us to go inside now.”

  Joy wreathed Pauling’s features as he reached for the bundled wood. “Then we best do as she bids, and do it heartily as unto the Lord. After all, I am her obedient servant.”

  31

  AUGUST 1748

  Reverend Pauling had yet to respond to a single letter since departing Severn nearly a year ago. It was unlike him, and concerning. That worry was a constant backdrop to the strain of Joanna’s days.

  Mister Reeves had taken her refusal little better than had Papa, though there’d been no attempt at dissuasion, save a single question put to her soon after: “Is it Moon? Has he now captured your capricious heart?”

  Maintaining her composure, she’d told him he couldn’t be farther off the mark. “I’ve plans to marry no one, Mister Reeves. Severn shall have my heart—a thing you can understand, surely?”

  “To remake into your shortsighted image,” he’d retorted. “Captain Carey told me of your scheme to bring down Severn around his ears. It won’t happen, Joanna. It’s foolish to think otherwise.”

  Since that exchange, the strain between them had grown so pronounced they could hardly abide one another’s presence, a forbearance put to infrequent test. It was the height of summer, the crops demanding attention as well as the forest, still being tapped and lightwood gathered, though the need for lumber had ceased with the mill’s destruction. She’d overheard Papa and Mister Reeves discussing its rebuilding, but nothing had come of it, for Papa was again taken ill.

  “That same ailment back for another go round,” Azuba had said.

  They were treating it with the careful diet and steeped herbs they’d used before, which had apparently affected a cure. Joanna prayed it would again; Mister Reeves, on a rare occasion he’d addressed more than two words to her, had all but accused her of being the cause. “You’ve thrown a wrench in his plans. In more ways than one.”

  Had she contributed to Papa’s relapse? It had come close on the heels of her answer to Mister Reeves’s proposal, and telling Papa her reasons for it.

  Would that she had kept them to herself.

  Halfway down the stairs, descending to face the day’s demands, she felt the loss of Alex afresh. He would have listened to all she had to say on the matter, then with a few choice words blown away the fog. Mercilessly, if need be.

  Thinking of him only made matters worse. He might have helped her find conviction to do as her conscience demanded, but freedom had proved his first love. Why did she pine for a man who stole from them, ran, and never looked back?

  A man unjustly accused…

  Her mind had yet to cease chasing itself in circles.

  She’d passed Mister Reeves’s door softly but suspected he was long up and gone to the fields. Azuba wasn’t in the house, Charlotte still abed. She checked on her stepfather and found him sleeping too. He’d been awake earlier, judging by the breakfast tray beside the bed, its meager contents picked over.

  She stood at his bedside, worry tightening its bands.

  A profusion of long white hairs shed on his pillow snagged her gaze. More than was normal to lose in a night’s sleep.

  She prayed for him, then left his room with the tray, but had barely shut the door when Mister Reeves’s voice caught her ear—a sound out of place in the house these days. His voice paused, and a childish giggle erupted.

  Joanna halted in the study doorway. On the bed that had last been the reverend’s, Mister Reeves sat with a book open on his lap. Pressed close, still in her nightshift, was Charlotte.

  “What is this?”

  Her sister looked up. “Phineas is reading Aesop’s Fables but he’s doing it silly!” She giggled again, looking adoringly at Mister Reeves.

  Unease coiled in Joanna’s belly. “Charlotte, you should be dressing. In our room.”

  “Of course.” Mister Reeves rose, leaving Charlotte pouting on the bed. He returned the book to its shelf and crossed the study, gaze fixed on Joanna, unsettling in its intensity. Not a cold look. Or censuring. He looked hungry.

  Mister Reeves stopped before her. “How is Captain Carey this morning?” he asked, as if nothing unpleasant had lately passed between them.

  “You haven’t spoken to him?”

  He nodded at the tray gripped b
etween them. “You have?”

  “He’s sleeping.” Since the man deigned to speak to her with some semblance of civility, she added, “I think we should send for a physician.”

  She told him of the hair shed on Papa’s pillow.

  “You’d have me leave the fields and ride for a physician over a few shed hairs? Surely he’ll recover, Miss Carey, as he has in the past.”

  “I hope so, but—”

  “He’s an old man whose hair is thinning; that is all. And I’ve lingered long enough this morning. We’re still topping the tobacco and it’s nigh harvesting time.” With a last glance at Charlotte, who’d slipped off the bed and hurried to Joanna, he stepped around her and went out the back door.

  Charlotte tugged her sleeve. “Will you finish the story?”

  Before Joanna could reply, Sybil entered the house, stopping when she saw the tray. “I come to see did Master Carey eat anything.”

  “Not much.” Joanna drew in a breath. “Sybil, take Charlotte upstairs and see her dressed for the day. I’ll take the tray to the kitchen. We’ll finish the story this evening, Charlotte.”

  Sybil reached for Charlotte’s hand. “You’ll tell Phoebe what I’m doing?”

  “Yes. Is Azuba in the kitchen?”

  “Yes ma’am. Talking with Mari and Phoebe, last I seen.”

  Joanna watched the pair retreat down the hallway. “Sybil? Would you remain in the house until I or Azuba return?”

  Sybil stopped to face her. “All right, Miss Joanna. I do that.”

  She wasn’t sure why she’d added the request. Finding Charlotte alone with Mister Reeves troubled her, but everything felt oddly shaded these days, like light falling in the wrong direction through a once familiar room, casting shadows where none should be.

  Case in point—on the way to the kitchen, a hammer’s clanging pierced the air and her mind filled with vivid memories of Alex, shirtsleeves rolled, tanned skin glistening, blue eyes seeing her…and she dropped the tray on the path and put a hand to her mouth.