Turning his horse, Joaquín rode down a smooth slope on the bluff. The others followed. Up close, the scene was even grimmer. Five men and two women had been slaughtered, their belongings scattered like tumbleweeds over the prairie. Joaquín saw a pair of lace-edged pantaloons caught on a yucca, flapping in the hard wind like a flag. He kept alert for the sound of returning Arapaho, but heard only the silence of death.
“Pack the horses with the clothes,” he said. “We’ll sell them to the Kiowa at Hunter’s Break on our way back.”
“What about the food?”
Joaquín narrowed his eyes, gauging the weight of the foodstuffs, all packed in hundred-pound bags. “Leave all but the coffee. We’ll sell it at Bent’s Fort. The rest will slow us down.”
Raúl dismounted, nodding, and began to collect the scattered goods.
“It’s bloody heartless,” St. John protested.
“Heartless?” Raúl snorted. “What good is any of it to these folks?”
“But—”
Joaquín looked at the dying light over the mountains. “Leave it if it turns your stomach, amigo.”
St. John shrugged and dismounted. He picked up a blue dress and shook it out, then tossed it over his shoulder.
Raúl shot Joaquín an amused glance, and Joaquín met it with a half-grin. St. John was learning quickly. What seemed heartless in civilization was often simply a matter of survival here.
The three men were comancheros, tradesmen of the plains, carrying everything from fabric to food to various tribes on a circuitous route that covered hundreds of miles. They’d left Taos a month before on a permit that would expire in a few short days. Raúl, an escaped slave from Mississippi, had been riding with Joaquín for more than five years, and took pleasure in needling a former British officer with more spirit of adventure than good sense. They all needled one another—it was the way of men. But today there was no time. They had to make camp by dark.
As the others gathered usable goods. Joaquín rode in a circle around the site of the ambush, uneasiness crawling on the back of his neck. He did not fear the Arapaho, for their mission was vengeance and had been accomplished, but he had a sense he’d missed something.
He listened intently for any slight sound, moving slowly toward a grove of cottonwoods that shaded a long stretch of the Río Napestle. The Anglos had christened it the Arkansas, for reasons Joaquín had never bothered to decipher. They had a lust for naming things their way, these Americanos. They blushed to call the blessed mountains by their true name, too. They were invisible at this distance, but Joaquín thought of the way they rose in perfect voluptuous points, and smiled. Las Tetas de la Madre–The Breasts of the Mother. What else?
To his left, a trio of magpies suddenly screeched and flapped their wings. Joaquín halted. He peered closely at the trees and scrub oak. It might only be a war with a squirrel, but he’d learned to investigate such cries.
The smallest gasp reached his ears. At the same moment, he spied a scrap of blue fabric through the branches. Hand on his rifle, he dismounted cautiously and strode forward, calling out, “Who’s there?” in English, then in Spanish.
No answer. The magpies screeched again. Joaquín shoved aside the brush, seeing now the broken twigs and scuffed dirt he should have noticed on his first pass.
At the foot of a cottonwood, huddled in blankets, were two women, one white, one black. The white one stared at him in speechless terror, her eyes wide in her scratched, dirty face. The black woman, obviously the lady’s slave, was cradled against the other’s breast, a gash over her head, as if a knife—
Joaquín cursed. He knelt, instinctively reaching out to touch the slave’s face, to see if she were feverish from the wound. The white woman shrunk back, keeping her arms around her slave. She made a quick, savage noise of warning.
“I won’t hurt you,” Joaquín said. “I want to see if she’s alive.”
“No!” She clutched her slave closer. “Stay away.”
He realized how he must look to her with his serape and long black hair and moccasins. She stared at him as if he were Satan himself.
“I won’t hurt you,” he repeated. To illustrate his good intentions, he put his rifle down and even lifted his serape to take the knife from his belt, which he put beside the gun on the ground.
He held open his hands, palms up. Still she stared. He’d never seen such eyes—strange-colored, almost too big for her small face. Wild hair, the color of piñon nuts, tumbled in loose curls over her shoulders. Her jaw was hard, fierce. And she was protective about her slave. Perhaps she feared they would steal her.
“She’s alive,” she said, and Joaquín caught the singing lilt of her words—not American English, but not quite like Roger’s British, either. “She’s hurt.”
“Show me,” he said. “Maybe I can help her.”
The woman stared at him a moment, then abruptly turned and murmured something in the slave’s ear. Gently, she shifted and tossed back the blanket that cloaked them.
Joaquín sucked his teeth as the blood below was revealed. It stained both dresses in blotches. The Anglo apparently knew something of healing, for the wound on the dark woman’s thigh was packed with mud and herbs.
“An arrow?” he asked.
She nodded, pulling the blanket around them again. Rocking back on his heels, Joaquín looked at her without speaking. The pair puzzled him. The white woman looked like a lady—the dress was well made and of a style he knew rich women wore.
But he had not known many ladies to care so much about their slaves. “You must come with us,” he said.
She made a wordless motion of protest, as if she wished to blend into the bark of the tree.
“Night will soon fall, and the wind will freeze you to death.” He lifted his chin toward the black woman. “She’ll die.”
The white woman stared at him. Again he noticed her eyes. Not quite gray. Not green. Somewhere between the two colors, like the shallowest edge of a hot-spring pool.
She clasped her arms around her slave more tightly.
In sudden decision, Joaquín stood and strode out of the hidden place. “St. John!” he shouted.
Roger came over. “What is it?”
“Women.” Joaquín pulled aside the branches to show him. “She’s afraid of me. Coax her out and let’s get someplace we can make camp before full dark.”
“Will do.”
Joaquín glanced over his shoulder. The woman still stared at him with distrust. It was a look he’d seen many times. Letting the branches go behind St. John, he went to join Raúl in the business of collecting usable trade goods.
* * *
Tess watched the dark man depart, her hands trembling. She had never seen anyone like him, seemingly civilized in his speech, with the same lilt to his words as the Spanish traders who’d been killed. But not civilized, in his wild clothes, with the impossibly long, black hair, bound by red cloth at the nape of his neck. Not civilized, for he wore a blanket and leggings.
Now a white man in the same strange clothes knelt next to her. At least he did not have the fierce dark features of an Indian, but blue eyes, red hair and a reassuringly crooked smile. Even his British voice was undaunting. Whatever evil the Brits brought upon Irish heads—and heaven knew it was a load—Tess had never seen them scalp anyone.
“Your friend is quite ill,” he said and held out a hand to put on Sonia’s cheek. “How long has it been since the attack?”
“A few hours.” Tess closed her eyes at the remembered horror. “They came so fast,” she said.
The Brit nodded.
“So fast,” she repeated. “It was terrible.”
“Why didn’t they kill you?”
“Some other men fired guns at them.” She had been breathless with exhaustion by then, but the old Indian had called, and with swift grace, the warrior dropped his knife and rode off. “I hid from them. Sonia played dead.” Tess was still furious at herself for allowing these men to find her.
; “It’ll be a true enough death if you don’t come with us. You’ll both die out here alone,” he said. “We’ll help you get where you’re going.”
“I’m afraid of that other man.”
The Brit shook his head. “He won’t hurt you.” He stood up. “Come on.”
Against Tess’s neck, Sonia stirred, and a broken moan sounded low in her throat. Bleakly, Tess realized there was really no choice. “We’re going to Taos to meet my husband,” she said finally. “Can you take us there?”
“Taos is where we’re going. Who is your husband?”
Tess felt the pressure of lying all through her as she stared at the kindly face, but she would not deviate from her plan now. “Seamus McKenzie,” she said without blinking.
The Brit shrugged. “Never heard of him, but that don’t mean much.” He stood and whistled, a bright, loud sound, like some exotic bird. “I’m going to get Raúl to carry your woman there. Guess you can ride with me.”
Tess said nothing. She held Sonia close, taking comfort in her warmth. Below the blanket, she moved her hand on Sonia’s arm.
A third man appeared, and Tess started, gripping Sonia closer. He was tall and black and had made no sound whatsoever as he came through the brush. Tess looked at his feet as if he might have floated. They were enormous, as were his hands. His sparse beard was grizzled with white, and in his narrowed eyes, Tess saw his hatred.
Once, he too had been a slave. She would have gambled all the money in her hems on the assumption.
“This is Raúl Libre, ladies,” the Brit said, as if they were all at a tea party in a drawing room. “They’re coming with us, Raúl. If you’ll carry Rose Red, I’ll take Snow White.”
For a long moment, Raúl stared at them with a flat expression. It would be amusing, him thinking her a great lady, Tess thought, but it was important that she maintain the ruse or she and Sonia would be in grave danger. If he were an escaped slave, he’d know as soon as he heard her speak that she was no plantation belle. She’d have to think of a lie to convince him if it came to that.
Jaw hard, he squatted and tossed off the blanket covering Sonia. Immediately, his face thawed. “Let’s do this nice and easy,” he said in a rough, low voice. She heard the long vowels and soft consonants of the South. “Move up and I’ll see if can lift her.”
Tess eased forward. The man’s big hands seemed surprisingly gentle as they slipped beneath Sonia’s legs and back. With a grunt—Sonia herself was no slight maid, but a strappingly tall woman with long muscles and a babe in her belly—he gathered her limp body and stood. Tess jumped to her feet to give him the blanket, but she’d been sitting so long in the same position, her legs nearly buckled. She hobbled toward Raúl and tossed the blanket over Sonia. Raúl gave her the same odd look as the first man had given, then abruptly turned and took his burden out of the hidden place.
The Brit steadied Tess with a hand to her arm. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” She rubbed her knees and took an experimental step. The tingling eased. Picking up her once-fine blue cloak, she threw it around her shoulders and followed after Raúl, anxious not to lose sight of Sonia.
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A
WINTER
BALLAD
(Excerpt)
by
Barbara Samuel
Prologue
Thick rain, cold and bitter, poured from a dark winter sky. Four men rode through the dankness, heads down in miserable silence.
A fifth man was flung over the body of a mule. Blood stained his hair. Rain wet the battered face. As this new woe penetrated, he groaned softly, but the others did not pause.
Steadily, though it was Sext, the day darkened. Jean-Luc de Ventoux, till late a farmer's fourth son and not yet seventeen summers, cast a wary look at the sky. An evil portent, that blackening sky—a dire warning to halt their evil.
But he growled the words to himself, fearful of raising the ire of the others again. They had laughed at his misgivings when they found the knight alone in the still of a cold evening, feeding carrots to a mule. Jean-Luc had quelled his nerves and joined in the ambush with vigor. It was Jean-Luc, he thought proudly, who'd delivered the silent powerful blow to the head that laid the knight low.
But even as the knight had fallen, a beast roared out of the woods, yellow eyes unholy as it leapt upon them with fierce, low growls, madly tearing at their clothes, so violent it took several long moments for anyone to react. One of the kidnappers suffered a long rent to his leg, and they lost another to a torn throat before Claude, their leader, kicked the beast squarely in the chest. It made a high-pitched yelp of pain as it flew, and landed in the grass of the meadow. There it lay, unmoving, tongue lolling.
By then, the marauders feared discovery by the soldiers camped not far distant, and bundled the body of the knight to the mule to make their escape. Claude wore the knight's sword hanging from his belt.
Now the sky darkened, more and more, ominously. Jean-Luc heard a snapping in the woods and peered nervously into the trees, unable to quell a finger of dread. He saw nothing.
The rain ceased, but still the sky did not lighten. Jean-Luc glanced uneasily toward the knight. There had been two men willing to pay richly for this man—one to have him dead, another to be borne back to France in secret. He was at the heart of some plot. Jean-Luc wondered what it might be.
All at once, the world was plunged into a darkness as dense as full evening. Jean-Luc cried out in fear, and could no longer hold his tongue. "'Tis an evil portent!" he cried. "Please… let's leave the knight before we are damned."
An uneasy murmur of half-agreement met his words, but Claude turned fiercely, holding to the stallion they'd stolen from the knight as it reared and whinnied nervously. "Fools! 'Twill be your heads—and your purses—that will suffer if you succumb to this foolish superstition."
Jean-Luc swallowed. "But—"
"Enough!"
The knot of horses lifted their heads restively as the stallion snorted and danced almost out of control. As if in reaction, from the woods came a high, mournful howl.
The sound traveled around the knot of men and horses. At first there was only the one howl, joined by another, then another and another, until they were surrounded with the eerie noise, echoing and bouncing, circling them. The stallion snorted, eyes wild.
In terror, Jean-Luc looked back to the knight, and it seemed the golden hair glowed with some inner light. Ropes about his wrists had made a chafed mark. And with a certain horror, Jean-Luc saw that only the mule was calm as the other animals danced and skittered in response to the stallion's fear.
A great bolt of lightning cracked through the darkness and struck a tree nearby with a booming explosion. The stallion reared and screamed in wild terror, then bolted through the forest in a frenzy. The other horses followed.
Jean-Luc clung to his mount as the creature crashed without grace through thick trees. He kept his head low to the horse's neck, his fingers woven through the mane. Around them was the wild pounding of the horses through dense forest and the wolves baying—surely the sound of hell, Jean-Luc thought in terror. It began to rain again, hard. Lightning flashed in the evil daytime darkness, and thunder boomed with a rocking violence.
Jean-Luc's horse suddenly reared. He clung mightily, hearing a shout and a sudden, quick cry of pain amid the cacophony. Through the rain, Jean-Luc saw Claude had been thrown from the stallion, who bolted away through the trees. Furious, Claude jumped to his feet, brushing his clothes and cursing as he pointed after the beast, sending one of his men after it.
In the confusion, Jean-Luc saw his chance. Nickering gently at his mount to calm the beast, he steered the gelding from the pack and retraced their steps as well as he was able. The mule had not followed the wild bolt through the forest, but Jean-Luc found him calmly standing under the sheltering arms of an ancient rowan tree, as if to protec
t its rider.
Glancing over his shoulder, Jean-Luc dismounted, and with a grunt, pulled the dead weight of the knight from the beast. The man slumped on the ground, rolling to one side with a stuporous moan. He did not wake.
Jean-Luc took his knife from his belt and crouched to cut the ropes binding the knight's wrists and ankles. As the ropes fell free, a shout from the others reached him. "Jean-Luc!"
He jumped to his feet—and at that moment, the sky lightened abruptly. Stunned, he looked toward the brightness, letting the rain wet his face before he fell to one knee and genuflected.
"Jean-Luc!"
Taking the rope around the mule's neck, Jean-Luc mounted his horse and led the mule away. As he rode toward the others, an extraordinary calm filled him. Purses and heads were nothing in comparison to an immortal soul.
It was that thought that lent him courage to lead the men in circles, far from the sheltering branches of the rowan tree, when they went back in search of the knight.
Defeated, weary, and not a little frightened by the afternoon's events, the men at last headed home toward Provence, leaving the body of the knight where it lay.
Chapter One
The body sprawled beneath the bare branches of a rowan tree. In the thick fog that laced through the trees and clung to the cold winter earth, it was invisible until Anya's black gelding shied and whinnied softly.
Geoffrey, Anya's page, made a frightened noise. "Is he dead, my lady?"
"I cannot tell." Anya dismounted and tossed back her hood. Warily, she crept forward, listening cautiously to the deep silence of the forest. There seemed to be no one else about. The horses stood quietly.
Anya eased closer, noting the quality of the knight's mail and the good condition of his hauberk. Any helm he might have worn was gone, and his head had suffered the loss. Blood, thickened by cold or time, clotted his hair.
Kneeling beside him, she examined him for signs of life, her hands clutched close in her lap. Tangled long hair the color of ripe wheat covered his face, and below the heavy leather on his chest, she could see no movement.
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