Gilbert, still asleep, moaned and moved closer to her side, placing his arm across her chest and lips against her temple, hips pressed ardently to her. He needed her and she needed to feel life. Seconds later, the honeymoon began.
………
Had Nicholas been told in his former life, that his world would change dramatically in so short a time, he would have laughed in their face, but here, under the canopy of a society both strange and alluring, he had found his fate?
In the ensuing days of recuperation, nothing took charge of his mind but the when and where of his ability to escape. Carefully administered to by a small succession of young Iroquois maidens failed to subdue his continual fear of what lay in store, for he knew these were not a people to be trifled with and would not expend the energy without a calculated and torturous methodology. Perhaps they will spare me, he thought, but for what? The woman with the clawed hand had shown him that; attacking as, as she had, at his blue uniform with the frenzy of a lunatic, nothing was remotely sane in these surroundings.
As he recovered, bedridden but with little or no pain, most of his waking hours were spent in the analysis that comes of idleness; the confusing study of a people so at odds with his own. Though he understood something of their tongue, fluent, as he was, in the Huron language, they were careful to converse in anything but the most prosaic terms in his presence, thus he was completely unaware of the particulars of his present society or geography. They were a paradox, for in their seeming hatred of the white man, they had saved him from his inevitable demise.
And though his initial fear was that of the lamb being fatted for slaughter, days and weeks passed with no further sign of impending doom. But for the children, who regarded him as an obvious source of curiousity; tickling his face with feathers or tugging on his, now heavy beard as he feigned sleep, he was tolerated rather than accepted, and for this alone was he grateful. He waited for the change to come and instead found himself, while not entirely at peace, no longer imminently fearful.
Still, the clawed woman both fascinated and frightened him. Her actions, though never to be repeated, left a psychological scar almost as deep as the ragged line along the surface of his skin, and since that night, she had been nothing more than a flickering flame; skittering about the longhouse in singular task, giving no more thought to him, than the myriad pelts that hung along the pallet above his head. Even during his worst times, he mentally sought her out; hoping she would be called upon to tend him, though it was not to be. She was still relatively young; roughly his age, he guessed, though nothing in her countenance would suggest an immaturity of spirit. She had undergone more than her share of misery and sorrow and despite himself, he could not help but be affected. Though slightly scarred facially, she was beautiful in a way not noticeable in the others: her long black hair framing features both soft and sensual, in the curving fullness of lip, delicate nose and elliptical eye. Though petite, her arms and legs were long and slender and as she moved about her tasks, the deerskin tunic shifted about her shapely frame, giving an intermittent glimpse of a rounded breast through the widened armhole, he felt an unwanted passion stir his loins. At these moments, he would close his eyes, angered by his carnal desires and anxious lest an expression from his body betray his hidden thoughts. Even in that, he knew a measure of disappointment at no longer knowing her smell and touch in her healing administrations. He was amazed at the adeptness of the clawed hand when he had initially felt it; emptying, cutting, tending; an item which now inspired admiration rather than revulsion, and he only sought the origin of its condition.
Once able to walk within the longhouse, albeit ungainly, the women outfitted him with leggings, moccasins and a fur cape, whereupon two older women set about cutting the offending beard with less delicacy than he had hoped, and with a titter of satisfaction, sent him into the crisp, clear air for the first in many weeks.
Eyes, which stung at first contact with smoke within the longhouse, felt the bite of a different sort; a pierce of blinding light that sent his head spinning and already tenuous balance, further askew.
A small dusting of snow covered the courtyard adding to his misery. Not wishing to appear foolish he braced himself against a drying hut, and after a period of adjustment, trained his newfound sights on his peculiar surroundings.
A small group of elderly men, talking quietly in a corner of the enclosure, looked up, chuckling in a manner that both disconcerted and confused him. Having spent all of his time indoors, he had seen men only fleetingly and wondered now at their response. Could it be they were innocently amused by his obvious struggle or did it relate to what was in store?
One old fellow cracked a toothless grin, gesturing with his gnarled finger. Nicholas was at odds with what to do, but ignoring would seem the worse of two reactions. Drawing closer in faltering steps, as much in trepidation as in dubious ability, he stooped before him.
The man reached out his hand, grabbing Nicholas’ leg with a tightened grip that caused his limb to ache.
“Willow leg,” he said with a salty laugh, referring to the shakiness in his gait, “You sit with us.”
Relieved by the command, he complied with an effort he attempted to conceal, fanning the cape around himself in answer to the chilly nip. He was not certain whether to admit knowing the language but now thought he might have a better chance if he did.
“I will speak to you.” He uttered simply, his voice as raspy and as foreign to him as the words that he spoke. He watched as their eyes widened in surprise and was pleased that it had the desired effect. Perhaps they would respect him more knowing he was not to be fooled.
The older man recovered quickly and began more seriously without preamble, “It is good you understand, Willow Leg. We have had much talk about you at our council meeting, and the decision has been made to give you to our Headwoman. She is in need of a brother. A slave to help her. She will choose.”
Nicholas involuntarily gasped, though quickly recomposed. So they hadn’t meant to kill him after all … but what was worse… a slave! Could he escape in his present state, barely able to walk a distance with cold still upon them? And what of a return to his former life and duties as an officer, and dare he say, husband? He had tried not to think about Sophie, the betrayal…the slaying of her lover. She was likely enjoying the spoils of his wealth, in the arms of another. Better him then me, he thought wryly. How he loathed her. Now, he was merely exchanging one form of enslavement for another...
But the thought of becoming someone’s chattel rankled him to the core. He was not, nor could ever be, owned. Who might this woman be? What kind of work would he be forced to perform? Would it be of a sexual nature? Was there a choice?
“I willingly accept this honour from the council”, Nicholas calmly stated, nothing in his countenance to betray his outrage and disquiet, “and I am grateful for the chance to repay the family for my life …”
Faces flit across the landscape of his mind: wizened beings. Was it the old woman with the star-shaped scar on her forehead and abrasive tone, whom often stayed indoors directing others in the household. Or maybe the fire-stoker; toothless, half-blind, wheezy with the smoke that filled her endless occupation? The others were far too young to assume the role of Headwoman.
As he spoke, a silent figure wrapped in a bear fur padded up behind him. He stirred at the sound and when he turned, was astonished to see the clawed woman: head half-covered, snow clinging to her long dark lashes, peering at the group in seeming innocence of the discussion at hand. She was as beautiful as ever, and he felt embarrassed at seeing her; wondering what she would think of his new role within the family. She was certain to gloat. Or maybe it wouldn’t reach her. After all, since that first night, their eyes had not met. He had watched her; fascinated by her languid movements and calm efficiency, but she performed her tasks without seeing him. It appeared that she chose to ignore, forget that he was as much human as she, with the same feelings, wants and needs...
“A
h, she has come.” The old man continued, turning to include her in their discourse. “I have told the Willow Leg of our decision and he is in agreement.”
The subtle raise of her lips signalled her response.
“Take him, Ehta.”
His mind opposed his senses. He was not hearing correctly. Was she the Headwoman? He had given himself to the one who could do the most harm? But she was too young to be Headwoman! What did she want with him? There was no telling how she would treat him now...
With the help of an elder, she affixed a hemp and deerskin lace and leather skin collar to his neck, bound his wrist and attached it with a lead to the collar, and thence to her hand. Yanking him with a gesture toward the longhouse, he fumbled to his feet and dragged his aching limbs back into the choking confines, to begin a new kind of imprisonment. No need for questions. The matter was settled. He was about to enter his new life as a slave.
Chapter 17
The tavern was near to closing when Gilbert and Louise were reluctantly roused from their aerie chamber by the need to satisfy a hunger of another sort.
They knew it had been a night of robust conviviality for they had awoken several times with the garrulous tumult, but they had not expected the disparate groups of individuals they now saw. Traders, missionaries, sea captains, fishermen and a few women of dubious moral character, converged about the tables; some playing dominoes or cards while others engaged in Jeux de Quilles or Trique-Trac the more popular games and oblivious to the sudden emergence of foreigners in their midst.
Content to keep a low profile, Gilbert spied a small table by the sidewall, and quickly ushered his bride to an alcove there. The barmaid, florid faced, herself, heavy with spirits, took their order, returning with a tray of fish, bread, cheese and two tankards of ale, deposited with as much aplomb as a farmer dispensing swill.
“I’m sure my lady bride will forgive me the marriage meal, if not, I can scarce be certain she’ll not fling the wedding band away altogether.” Gilbert chuckled, with a wink.
“I must say, it is a tempting thought, when seated to such fine dining,” she rejoined, with a laugh.
Over the next while, numerous groups dispersed and went home, allowing the room to resume a quieter atmosphere. In a little anteroom by her back, which she had formerly thought empty, the low tones of men seemed to make their way to her conscious. At first, she made a concerted effort not to listen but as time went on, the voices, and what they were saying, could not be avoided.
“Did they find their cache?” came the question in a strong German accent.
“No, the bastards got away. As for Benoit…said they were attacked by Iroquois, but I know better…found his body, but no trace of the Captain. Bloody fool! I knew what he was up to, but I never thought the bastard would do it…he said, ‘If I can’t have her, I’ll be damned if I’ll let that cuckold of a husband raise my child. Never liked the man, though we shared the same quarters at the garrison, for neigh on a year. Crazy bastard. Heard she died anyway …”
Something, like a shard of glass to the heart, pierced Louise with those words “Captain… no trace…cuckold…my child…’
Could it be possible? And here, of all places, hundreds of miles from the garrison in Montreal, someone who had intimate knowledge of the event…someone who could state an unequivocal…murder?
No, it was more likely an overactive imagination. Still, try as she might, the possibility could not be discounted. She could eat no more, and Gilbert noticed the sudden change in countenance.
“What is it my dear?” “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Ssh” was all she could muster in response.
No sooner did she utter this, then she heard the movement of chairs, and the few men idled out the door into the brisk early morning air.
“Gilbert, Gilbert! We must follow them…”
The latter, clearly befuddled by the turn of events, left money with the innkeeper and in minutes, caught up with Louise who had joined the late-night carousers and early risers of Louisbourg, out and about on this frosty morning.
“The…the man…ahead…”, she spoke with a shudder, pulling the cloak about her and quickening her step as the three men turned the corner on Rue de l’Estang, “He knows...I mean, I believe…I heard him speak of my son, Nicholas…”
Her heart beat wildly in anticipation of this chance contact, but as they made their way to the top of the street, the men were nowhere in sight. Panting, on the verge of tears, frustration at this sudden turn of events, she braced herself by the sidewall of a building to catch her breath and regain her thoughts.
Gilbert was as much at odds for her sake. “Did you notice anything unusual about the men? Their clothing, perhaps?”
Words came floating back. “One man… he had an accent…German… and I…I think he addressed the other by name… Jacques was it? Oh my mind is a blur…Oh Gilbert, we must do something!”
He tried to console her as best he could, but she could not be placated.
“Could he have been a soldier?” he offered. “The captain told me there is a foreign military unit of mercenaries here … representatives from four infantry regiments, since the siege. Did the other fellow have an accent?”
“No, colonial French, that is all.”
“Well it may too difficult to search him out at the garrison. Perhaps we could ask back at the tavern. They may be regular customers.”
Seeing the futility in doing otherwise, she acquiesced, and returned with him to their lodgings, hoping that the evening would bring an answer.
.....................................................
Before the clock struck eight, the sound of merriment commenced, shaking the furniture in their room with even more gaiety than the previous night. As they made their way into the spirited surroundings, Louise was less optimistic than she had been, and noting that there appeared no obvious sign of military presence about, was even less resigned. As time passed, she encouraged Gilbert to play a game of cards, and chose to seat herself at a nearby table.
Having spent much of that day mulling over the exchange of conversation, she wondered at the words. Did they truly relate to Nicholas? Perhaps, the story pertained to someone here. A love triangle of similar situation and result must have happened before. And after all, if this man were from Montreal, what might he be doing in Louisbourg, when the latter detachments, were chosen from abroad?
But he did mention a garrison and....something in the letter...Did Madame Girald not say that Sophie was with child, and died soon after the tragedy? Madame had spoken of her daughters in other letters and Sophie was the one about which she expressed the greatest anxiety…with her churlish ways, troubled lest she find a spouse. But was she capable of the ultimate deception; marrying a man while carrying another man’s child? Were it possible that Nicholas made the discovery and decided to kill him... Or the reverse? If the Sergeant’s story matched, were it not possible that a man of lower rank…possibly a Private, could have been Sophie’s lover, but not provide on the scale to which she aspired?
“Nine of hearts …”
The voice across the table drew her from the solemn reverie. German. The voice!
The fan of cards in his dirty hand covered most of his face from her vantage point, but she carefully poked Gilbert with her foot, and bent toward his ear.
“Him,” she said simply, as he steadied his gaze, not wishing to raise the suspicion of cheating from the participants.
It seemed an eternity to Louise before the game was over, but she slipped into the shelter of the backroom and, upon finish, having noticed her departure, Gilbert immediately asked the fellow if he would share a drink in the alcove, to which the unkempt but friendly fellow complied.
“…And so, Sergeant, you are with the Regiment de Karrer, newly in from France, I take it…may I introduce my wife …”
He had hoped to ease into conversation regarding the other man, but Louise intercepted his attempts.
“Who wants to know?” He uttered, more curious than forthcoming.
Sensing his suspicion, Gilbert offered. “This is not about the law. Our son was in the Regulars. We are returning to Montreal and thought we recognized the fellow as someone with whom our late son was acquainted. Could I be so bold as to ask you arrange a meeting for us here, tomorrow evening?” He produced a small bag of coins, “I shall make it worth your while.”
“Jules…ah, Private Volens.” He uttered, flatly, “He arrived a fortnight ago, with a small contingent of Regulars from Montreal.” He took a swig of ale and looked downward. “Keep your money. Private Volens returned with his detachment earlier today.”
Louise’s disappointment was palpable. The first solid evidence that her son’s death was premeditated and no one to attest to what she had overheard. This man was their only hope.
Gilbert asked for another round, in hopes of loosening his tongue. “Perhaps you can provide the information. I chanced to hear your discussion regarding two men who were drowned. Can you tell me something of the particulars?”
Stritt tossed back a whisky and snorted abashedly. “Truth to tell, I’d had some drink”. He thought hard. “Something about a Captain and a Private from Montreal. There was a killing.” He related the story, much as they had heard it the previous night, “A scouting expedition…yes, somehow or other, the Private killed the…”
Gilbert pushed on. “Did he possibly name the men involved?” he enquired, putting more money on the table.
He slid his meaty fingers through greasy hair. The remunerative proposition was helping him think. He pondered again. “After we left the Inn? No, no names. Wait, I think the Private was a Benoit. He didn’t name the Captain. But he was the son of a rich man. He said the Private killed the Captain because his woman married him for his money, though she carried Benoit’s child.”
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