“The god of mammon.”
“Exactly.”
Cooper was grinning when he came back. “We have the house, and we have it to ourselves. I paid the man to ride back to Springfield and stay with his brother for the night.”
“Will he be passing this way?” James asked.
“Aye, as soon as he can saddle up a horse. Best keep your heads down, the both of you.”
James pulled his cap low and his hood up as the horses continued up the road. Prudence did the same. It seemed a bigger risk for her, given how well she was known in these parts, but he wasn’t sure it mattered anyway. It all came down to how trustworthy Cooper’s man was. Almost by definition, not very.
A chestnut horse came trotting down the snowy road minutes later. Neither side offered a greeting as they approached, but James couldn’t help but glance over as the man passed. The man met his gaze. He looked like the sort of weasel James had expected, with too-narrow eyes, a large forehead, and hair pulled back and greasy. Dirty hands, an underfed horse. Breeches threadbare at the knees and worn boots in the stirrups. He disappeared to their rear.
“I hope the bedding is free of vermin,” James said, imagining what sort of house a man like that would live in. Filled with fleas and lice, no doubt.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Cooper said. “And I’d check the meat for maggots too.”
“I knew that man in Winton,” Prudence said with a glance over her shoulder. “Goodman Burrows, though there’s nothing good about him.”
“You were supposed to be keeping your head down,” James said.
“As were you.”
He grinned at this.
“Burrows was accused of witchcraft,” Prudence continued. “A child saw him dancing naked in the forest with three imps, holding a black mass. His defense was that he’d been in Boston at the time. Three men signed an affidavit testifying they’d had supper with him on the night in question.”
“You’ll have to admit that sounds like compelling evidence,” James said.
“Except that the morning following the night in question, two other people had spotted cloven hoofprints in the snow,” she said.
“A stray goat.”
“Walking across the roofs of town?” She shook her head. “That could have only been the devil or one of his imps.”
What nonsense. James grunted his disbelief.
“The only thing in New England more dangerous than practicing witchcraft,” Cooper offered drily, “is disbelieving in witchcraft.”
“I don’t disbelieve in witchcraft,” James said. “Of course the devil is abroad in the land, and he’s looking for recruits. No right thinking man would claim otherwise.”
The others seemed satisfied with this answer.
Nevertheless, it did seem curious that witchcraft accusations would sweep through an area, leading to mass denunciations, a trail of beatings, censure, and sometimes even hanging of the accused, only to have people retract some weeks or years later. Anyway, James had learned through hard lessons in His Majesty’s service that most explanations were natural, not spiritual. But there would be no convincing these two.
They rounded the corner. A rude log cabin sat against the highway, surrounded by a small clearing of several acres on flat, rocky ground. The barn wasn’t much bigger than the outdoor privy. A sluggish, desultory trickle of smoke leaked from the chimney of the house itself.
“There it is,” Cooper said. “Word has it that Burrows lived here through the war. Yet look at the house. Right on the road, but never burned, never looted. And not one greasy hair harmed on the man’s head. It’s hard to imagine how that would happen unless Burrows was in league with those devils.”
“The Indians may be heathens,” Prudence said. “But I never did see them consorting with Satan.”
Cooper offered a shrug. “The good news for us is that no other Godly company will have anything to do with the man. That makes him easily bribed.”
Perhaps too easily, James thought, as they dismounted to check out the house. Even now this Burrows was hurrying to Springfield, where there were men who would pay handsomely for word of three strangers on the road.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Is she asleep?” Cooper asked in a low voice. The two men were smoking pipes by the fire, while Prudence lay in one of the two beds, her eyes closed, but not asleep.
It wasn’t hard to stay awake, the way her toes were itching from chilblains, and the other itching all over her body—perhaps imagined—of the no-doubt lice-infested blankets in which she slept. It smelled strongly of a man, and not the good kind of masculine smell, but stale sweat.
There was a second bed, and the men would be sharing that one. Why there was a second bed, she couldn’t tell, since Burrows apparently lived alone.
As shameful as it was to admit it, she’d rather be in the clean, comfortable inn, sharing a bed with James, than in Burrows’s disgusting bed alone.
Or maybe you’d like to be sharing a bed with James, regardless of the circumstances.
She quickly put this unholy thought out of her mind.
“Prudie?” James said.
She didn’t answer. It may have been deceptive, but she desperately wanted to overhear their conversation. They were hiding things from her, and she wanted to know what.
“She’s asleep,” James said after several seconds.
“Did you call her Prudie?” Cooper asked with a chuckle. “Bless me, but that’s familiar.”
“A friendship, nothing more. We’ve already suffered a good deal together. Anyway, I believe her trustworthy.”
“Does she know the real reason you came to New England?”
“She’s a clever woman. I’m sure she has guessed.”
It was flattering that he thought so, but in truth, she hadn’t. James had arrived in Boston ostensibly to investigate Sir Benjamin’s death at the hands of the Indians, and she supposed the Crown had legitimate reasons to question the death of its agent. And yet his actions seemed entirely too disrupting, too determined to cause an uproar, to be explained with such a direct motive. But she couldn’t puzzle out what his real intent might be.
“If she’s as clever as you think, she’s dangerous.”
“How so?” James asked.
“A woman like that offers her first loyalty to God, as she should. Next comes her country. These Puritans are fanatical about that.”
“Her country is England.”
“Her country is New England. Never forget that. Some day they will press the issue, you’ll see.”
“It’s my duty to make sure that doesn’t happen,” James said. “Besides, even the most devout woman has higher loyalties than God and country.”
“You mean her husband and child? They’re both dead.”
“Then justice for their murders.”
So he hadn’t told Cooper about her daughter. Was that because James didn’t believe Mary was still alive? Or because he didn’t trust the man?
And what was this about her loyalties to New England? It had never occurred to her that New England might declare open treason. Perish the thought. They were English through and through, and without the protection of the mother country, they would quickly fall prey to ravenous wolves like France or Spain, or even the Dutch. To say nothing of the powerful tribes of the wilderness like the Iroquois.
“What more justice do you want?” Cooper said. “Knapp and his sort put an end to the Indian trouble. Those beasts are utterly destroyed or sold into bondage. They are nothing but ghosts in this land. Someday they will be only a memory.”
“You assume the Indians are responsible.”
“You’ve read Widow Cotton’s story, haven’t you? She saw them cutting off Benjamin’s fingers. She heard his screams as he begged for death.”
“Yes, I know.”
“They pulled out his intestines like he was a wretched pig at the slaughter,” Cooper continued.
Prudence squeezed her eyes shut. A tremble worked down her back. Pleas
e, let them stop.
“Aye, and told her later that they’d eaten his liver, the brutes,” Cooper said.
Prudence shoved a corner of the filthy blanket into her mouth and bit down to keep from screaming.
“Shh,” James urged. “Keep your voice down. Even asleep she can hear you. You’ll surely give her nightmares. Prudie,” he said softly after a few seconds. “Are you awake?”
Again, she didn’t answer, but his soothing tone eased her pounding heart. She pulled the blanket corner from her mouth and wiped her mouth quietly on the back of her hand.
“You fancy her, don’t you?” Cooper said.
“Whether I do or not is beside the point.”
“I’m telling you, there’s something seductive about these women, about this place.”
“And I tell you, I’m leaving. The moment my business is done, the Vigilant will carry me back to England where I will claim my prize.”
“And the widow wouldn’t dream of leaving New England, so there you have it. Ah, well.”
“She’s only a woman,” James said. “Anywhere you go, you’ll find them just as beautiful.”
His words cut. How could he be so kind and gentle one moment, so cruel the next? When they’d come into the house, the first thing he’d done had been to heat water on the hearth to soak her poor, chilled feet. He’d then washed her socks and set them out to dry and made sure she had warm ones to put on. He’d given her bed the cleanest blankets he could find (such as that was possible), and used the bed warmer, as if he were the woman and she the man. All because he was worried about her feet.
He only needs you able to walk and ride, that’s what matters to him.
“If all of that is true, why did you bring the widow?” Cooper asked.
“She got me out of Boston. After that, I fully intended to leave her in Springfield and continue on alone. Prudence is safe enough on her own—she enjoys a certain repute, after all.”
“To be easily recognized is not always a good thing in New England. Most people love her, but there is some jealousy, some of the usual gossip. Still,” Cooper added, “you’re right. All she has to do is announce her presence and she’s untouchable. So why didn’t you leave her?”
“She’s useful. She killed a man on the road, might have saved my life. And she’s clever too. Has helped me figure out several things that I otherwise might not have seen.”
Listening, Prudence felt a swelling of pride that James would consider her an asset, almost an equal. Not only was he a man, but a worldly sort too, out on grand adventures. And she was only a simple girl from New England, born of a simple people.
Even her husband, who had seemed to love her, couldn’t help but laugh at some of the silly, naïve things that would come out of her mouth. Once, after she had pontificated at some length how playacting was the devil’s work (the memory made her cringe in embarrassment now), Benjamin had gone to the bookshelf without a word, then pressed a folio of Shakespeare’s plays into her hands. “Start with Macbeth. It has witchcraft, murder—every diabolical thing you can imagine. But read it and tell me that Shakespeare’s work is of the devil.”
Of course she had read it, and everything else in the book, and many times too. Next to some of the more beautiful psalms, it was the most wonderful thing she had ever read.
“Prudence Cotton is a handsome woman,” Cooper said. “Are you sure there’s not another motive?”
“How many ways must I say it? Leave it alone—I am not enamored of the widow.”
Just as quickly, Prudence’s pride deflated. Here came a whisper of disappointment in its wake. In spite of his earlier protests, she’d noticed the way James looked at her when they rode, so she hadn’t fully believed them. What’s more, she now realized that she’d been hoping, somewhere inside, that he was beginning to have feelings. And if she were honest with herself, her own feelings for him were growing.
This, however, was a definitive statement.
Don’t be a fool. That would be impossible anyway. He’s not Benjamin—he won’t stay in Massachusetts. He’s on his way back to London.
“There’s one other thing,” James continued. “She speaks Nipmuk.”
That’s right. You’re a tool in his hands.
“And you no longer have the Indian,” Cooper said. “Ah, yes, I remember. You wish to speak to the Indians. Do you think the widow unreliable in her account?”
“Nay, she is not unreliable. She has a fine memory and is a keen witness. But I have questions. Why did Winton’s neighbors attack, when they had pledged eternal friendship? The treachery must have come as a surprise, or Sir Benjamin would not have been in Winton with his family when it came. Perchance another survivor in Winton will have more substance on the matter. If not, I will look for the Indians to hear their account.”
“A shame your Praying Indian died. The better to preserve your scalp when you meet the savages. Yet, ’twould seem the old fool came all the way from England for naught.”
“Bite your tongue,” James said in a sharp voice. “Peter Church is dead. He gave his life in service of the Crown.”
“Forgive me, I misspoke.” Cooper sounded genuinely contrite. “It occurs to me, however,” he added after a moment, “that if you truly hoped to disrupt these Puritans, to rile them, there’s no better way to kick at the wasp nest than bringing in a Quaker to blather on like an idiot, as they do. Except, maybe, a Quaker who was also a Nipmuk. Seems that it worked a little too well.”
“Admittedly, yes. I didn’t think his life would be in danger or I wouldn’t have done it. And Indian or no, I swear I will find his murderers and see them hanged.”
“At the end of the day, the Indian’s death only provides more powder for your musket. A better excuse to do what you came to do.”
“Right. I have plenty of reason, now. No matter what happened at Winton and Crow Hollow, Peter’s murder is more than sufficient cause. Even those stubborn oafs in Parliament will concede.”
Cause for what? Concede what?
Suddenly, Prudence knew. The charters. Her mouth went dry.
He’d come for the charters of the New England colonies: Massachusetts, Connecticut, New Hampshire, Plymouth. Even feisty little Rhode Island.
There was no need to sever their connection to England, because they were already, de facto, independent of both king and Parliament. They could appoint their own governors, make their own laws, keep their own courts. They were, and always had been, free of the tyrants in England, both Oliver Cromwell and the kings alike.
But if King Charles—or rather, his agent—seized the charters, what would New England become? Why, no better than Virginia or New York. A Crown colony, under the complete domination of the whims of English politics.
She couldn’t let that happen. Somehow, she had to get warning back to Boston. Reverend Stone would know what to do. But how to do it?
And then the answer came to her.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Prudence was acting strange the next morning. First, she spent so long in the privy that James went out and knocked, jokingly asked if she’d frozen to the seat. In reality, he was afraid that she’d taken ill. She’d eaten little of the hot oatmeal they’d boiled for breakfast, and spoken less.
She insisted she was fine, and she came out a few minutes later with her cloak drawn tight against the cold. But twenty minutes later, when they were back in the saddle and traveling north, they hadn’t ridden more than ten minutes up the road when she cried out that she’d left something at the house. What, she wouldn’t say, but she had to go back and get it.
James said he’d go back with her, but she insisted on going alone.
“Well then, what is it?” he demanded, a little irritated by the delay.
She looked hurt, which made him feel guilty. “You’re a man. You wouldn’t understand.”
And with that, she turned the horse and trotted back.
“The devil take us,” Cooper said. “Not now.”
&nbs
p; “Not now, what?” James asked, confused. “What the devil is she doing?”
“You’ve never been married,” Cooper said, “or you wouldn’t need to ask that.”
“What do you mean? Oh!” James added, his face flushing. “She’s having her monthly courses.”
“Every day I thank the good Lord that I’m not a woman,” Cooper said. “Imagine being on the road and facing that?”
“Yes. Well. We don’t know for sure, so keep your mouth shut when she gets back.”
“What else could it be? Either that, or she’s a spy, and she’s gone back to meet Samuel Knapp on the road, to tell him our plans.”
They both laughed at that, but later, James found himself looking over at Prudence to see if she were giving any guilty signs. For that matter, could he even trust Cooper? Six years with the natives, after all.
Just in case, it wouldn’t hurt to be more guarded with his information.
The weather warmed throughout the day, and by late afternoon the three companions were able to shuck off their cloaks whenever the road came into open meadows next to the river. They overtook a man with a cart, and then two boys crossed their path riding a pony, dragging an empty sledge toward Springfield.
An hour later the highway forked, with the main road continuing along the river, while the other was almost completely covered in snow as it returned to the forest. Both roads led to Winton, Cooper claimed, but the second, forested road would be safer. Slower, but empty of traffic. So they entered the woods.
It was soon clear why the second road was little used. After about a mile they emerged from the woods and into fields that surrounded a desolate village. Nearly every house had burned to the ground, and there wasn’t a soul to be seen. They dismounted to clear broken carts that had barricaded a small stone bridge over the creek, then passed the skeletal remains of the flour mill before passing out of town.
A few miles farther, they approached another desolate village, only this one was Indian. Wigwams lay in charred ruins, partially overgrown by leafless vines, and here and there were overturned reed baskets or corncobs sticking out of the snow, their kernels long-since gnawed away by mice or voles. A human skull, buried in frozen mud almost up to the eye sockets, stared at them dolefully as they rode by.
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