The warrior looked at Sooleawa. ‘Different?’
Sooleawa shrugged, although it was evident she had understood, as had the chief, who pondered a moment, then turned to Mercia.
‘Very well.’ He sat on a bear hide, indicating that she join him. ‘Your servant says you are his chief. And powwow Winthrop must be yours, for I saw you riding with him when first and last we met.’
Mercia edged across. ‘I recall our encounter.’
‘Then you recall what happened. We are not afraid of the English. We seek vengeance for those who have been killed, as is our custom. And we will get it.’
A slight tremble of anxiety struck as she realised what she had done in wandering alone into the Indian encampment with just Nicholas for protection. But she had been in difficult situations before, and she knew how the Indians were renowned for their courtesy: at least, Roger Williams’s Key professed as much.
‘I understand.’ She did not know whether to call the man sir, sachem, chief, or something else. But if she had erred in choosing no title he did not frown. ‘If not vengeance, I too seek answers to the death of a friend. A friend to your people, if she did not lie, and I know Clemency would not.’
The chief brought his face close to her own. She could smell the unfamiliar food on his breath, but she did not move away. She recognised the roving eyes: it was the same look she had received many times on this journey, from many men, all querying her intent and her worth.
‘What is your name?’ he finally asked.
‘Mercia. Mercia Blakewood.’
‘I do not know this name. Mercia. What does it mean?’
‘It is a recognition of our heritage, sachem. An understanding that the present must stem from the past.’
He held his gaze on her, the corners of his thin mouth creasing into a narrow smile. Then he jerked up his head and stood, signalling to the younger man to approach.
‘I have heard enough. Take her away.’
Nicholas and Sooleawa both made to come forward, but the sachem kept them silent with a glance.
‘To Hopewell. We will take her away to Hopewell.’ He laughed at Mercia’s surprised face. ‘You thought we would not help? That I would question you for hours, demand some tribute?’
‘I … did not know what to think.’ She rose in her turn. ‘Thank you.’
‘So, Mercia Blakewood. I will help you with your search.’ He nodded at his warrior. ‘My pniese here will lead you. Hopewell is not far. Then once you are back with your people, you will ask them to help me in my search.’ He stared at her, his expression impassive. ‘For we both want vengeance, do we not?’
‘I seek justice. It is different.’
The eagle wings quivered as the sachem turned to leave. ‘So says your head.’ He walked towards the opening, peering back from over the deep brown feathers. ‘But your spirit. What says that?’
His aquiline presence swept from the tent as she found she could give no response.
Chapter Thirteen
‘I thought that chief, sachem, whatever – I thought his tribe was miles away?’ said Nicholas, as they followed the dour young Indian on horseback. ‘Didn’t he ambush us south of Hartford?’
‘Not much south.’ Mercia was not really listening, thinking of the sachem’s words about vengeance. It was justice she wanted, wasn’t it? ‘But Winthrop showed me a chart of the tribal boundaries. This tribe, the Wappingers I think he said, have territory all around this area, some of it now in the land the Duke of York claims. And they move around with the seasons, they do not stay put as we do.’
Up ahead their guide grunted. Mercia looked at Nicholas, who shrugged.
‘Hey,’ he shouted. ‘Anything the matter?’
The Indian turned in his saddle, not slowing his horse. ‘You know where you are, English?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘In America.’
He laughed. ‘So you call it. You name it for one of your great sachems, yes? But to us, this is not America.’
‘What do you call it then, nétop?’
The Indian’s black eyes stared into Nicholas’s green. ‘I call it home.’
‘Hmm.’ Nicholas jutted out his chin. ‘Good answer.’ Despite his approval, he continued to hold the guide’s stare, but the Indian merely smirked and turned back to face front.
‘Nicholas,’ whispered Mercia. ‘Do not provoke him.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve seen enough of his type before. Indian or Londoner they’re all the same, puffing themselves up like a prize cock at the fights.’
‘I wonder.’ She stared over the guide’s head into the distance. ‘If London were destroyed, and England sent into ruin, would we survive as these people can? We talk of morals in Europe, of manners, but who is to say where true nobility lies?’ Nicholas threw her a glance and she sighed. ‘I know. But we came close to ruin not long ago, did we not? The war reduced many a proud man to stealing and begging. Where went our nobility then?’
He bobbed up and down in his saddle. ‘There was never much nobility where I grew up, not before the war, not after it.’ He grinned. ‘But plenty of stealing and begging.’
‘No doubt.’
‘You saw for yourself not long back.’
‘I suppose I did. But there are many things I have seen of late I never thought to witness.’
They fell silent as they followed their taciturn guide through the unfamiliar landscape – unfamiliar, and yet more recognisable each day. Until Clemency’s death, Mercia had found she was enjoying America more and more, but ever since that day it had seemed forever tainted, despite the broad spaces, the pine-infused wisps of cool breeze. And yet there was something in the surroundings now, a comforting lack of definition, an ethereal quality that spoke to heaven as much as to the Earth, that rekindled her affection; and she found, surprisingly, that it was not incompatible with the pain of Clemency’s death, for Clemency had loved this country and had wanted Mercia to love it too.
Two hours passed before the horse took a sharp twist to the left, rousing Mercia from her distracted thoughts, but she was too strong a rider to let the unexpected movement make her fall. She looked up to see a thin line of grey smoke rising in the near distance, a faint indicator of humanity in the midst of the virgin wilderness.
Up ahead their guide had stopped, waiting for them on a flat outcrop of silver-grey rock. As she drew up beside him he pointed towards the smoke.
‘Hopewell,’ he said, and then resumed his course once more.
‘Do you think he doesn’t like us?’ said Nicholas, urging his horse to follow.
‘He does not seem to. But how do we know how he has been treated by the English?’ She steadied herself as her horse leapt a fallen trunk. ‘Clemency told me that some of our compatriots, like that constable back in Meltwater, would sooner hold dominion over these people than live peacefully side by side with them.’
‘Just as the King and his brother would hold dominion over the colonists.’
‘A wry observation, Nicholas.’
‘And here’s another. How do we know how the English have been treated by him? While we’re still in the woods, we had best stay mindful of that.’
She looked at him askance. ‘When did you become so cautious?’
He laughed. ‘I don’t rate my chances if I return to Nathan without you.’
‘No.’ She allowed herself a smile. ‘Neither do I.’
‘Oh.’ He peered at her. ‘Thanks!’
The twirling smoke disappeared behind a thicket of pine trees, their sweet scent tantalising Mercia’s nose as their guide led them on, coming out in a hidden clearing at the bottom of a rise. A tent was pitched to one side of a gentle brook, its deerskin door flapping lightly against the sheets of bark covering the wooden frame. The smoke they had seen was drifting up from a fire on the other side of the clearing, where a man was sitting atop a roped-up pile of logs. He stood at their approach, setting aside the artefact he had been whittling with his knife. He was stocky in
build, although whether from his physique or through the furs he was wearing, it was impossible at a distance to tell.
He held up his free hand in greeting. ‘What cheer, nétop?’ he called to the guide.
‘What cheer,’ returned the Indian, ignoring his charges as he trotted across the space. Mercia and Nicholas followed, keeping a short distance behind.
The man took a swig from a flask propped up against the pile. ‘Want some of this, nétop?’
The Indian smiled. He reached down for the flask, the sunlight glinting off the animal grease caking his muscled arms. ‘Thanks.’
‘Good, no?’ He watched the guide shake the last brown drops into his mouth. ‘Who are your friends? I never saw them before.’
The Indian shrugged, throwing back the drained flask. A faint smell of rum permeated the air. ‘Don’t know. Sooleawa said to bring them to you.’
Mercia dismounted. Brushing down her dress, she turned to the Englishman. He was unshaven, his unruly beard in keeping with the messiness of his hair. ‘You are Hopewell Quayle?’
The man twirled his knife in his fingertips. ‘Delighted. And you are?’
She ignored his deft display. ‘I am Mercia Blakewood, recently arrived from England, visiting at the governor’s invitation.’ Her proud speech faltered. ‘I have come to … have you seen anyone from Meltwater in the last day or two?’
Hopewell laughed. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve come to live there.’
‘Please – have you spoken with anyone?’
‘Not for days. Look, Mrs Blakewood, I don’t wish to seem unwelcoming, but why have you come?’
The smell of the smoke seemed very intense. ‘I have some bad news, Mr Quayle. About your cousin, Clemency.’
He frowned. ‘Bad news?’
She tried to continue, but of a sudden she was choked with emotion. An unexpected lump blocked her throat, making it hard for her to breathe.
‘Mrs Blakewood?’ Hopewell leant forward. ‘What is the matter?’
She coughed from her stomach, forcing herself to regain her composure. Nicholas hastily dismounted his horse. ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘But the news is the worst.’ She found she could not look him in the eye. ‘Your cousin is dead.’
The knife he had been twirling stopped still. ‘Dead?’ He looked at the Indian. ‘But I was with her not three weeks since. She was in perfect health. Has there been an accident?’
‘No.’ Mercia drew in a long breath. How did you tell anyone a relative had been killed? Her thoughts flashed to Nathan bringing her the news of her husband’s death. Perhaps in the way he had spoken then: quickly, and to the point.
She focused again on Hopewell. ‘She has been murdered.’
‘Murdered?’ Again, he repeated her word, but this time his face contorted into a deeply furrowed field, his knuckles whitening on the sheath of his knife. ‘What are you saying?’
She made herself look. ‘I do not know. But it was I who found her.’ Now she had begun, the words poured forth. ‘The townsfolk are saying it was suicide, but I know it was not, she was too alive, I know she was murdered.’ Nicholas put a hand on her shoulder; a light, respectful touch, removed straight away, but it helped to calm her. Behind, the tent door was flapping in the breeze. ‘She was hanged.’
For a moment Hopewell held her gaze. Then he turned away and flung his knife at the nearest tree. A piece of bark fell off, but the knifepoint held fast.
‘I do not believe it.’ He stood unmoving, clenching his fists, as if deciding how to react. Then he punched the one hand into the other. ‘Who are you to bring me such devilish news?’
‘Her friend. I was her friend.’
‘And you?’ he rasped at Nicholas.
‘What she says is the truth. Clemency asked us to Meltwater. Now she is dead.’
Hopewell turned to the Indian. ‘What do you know of this? Of Clemency?’
‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘What Sooleawa said. Clemency died, maybe killed.’
‘Sooleawa knew?’ His face flushed red. ‘And she did not think to ride to me?’
The Indian frowned. ‘She is not your—’
‘No.’ Eyes darting, he gestured for Mercia to follow him across the clearing. ‘Sit with me, Mrs Blakewood. I think you had best tell me what you know.’
When she had finished, Hopewell remained silent, running his tongue across his teeth. Finally he spoke.
‘You are right. She would not have killed herself.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I cannot believe that pompous … princock—’
‘Lavington?’ said Nicholas.
‘As I said, that princock – I cannot believe he thinks it is suicide.’
‘I am not sure he does.’ Mercia shifted her position on the uncomfortable log. ‘I think he worries most for the standing of his town.’
‘Oh yes, the noble magistrate lording it over us all.’ The trader was seething. ‘As if he cares for anything but his own glory! What he cares about, Mrs Blakewood, is finding that absurd philosopher’s stone, so that the intellects of Europe will think he is one of them!’ He shook his head. ‘Was that boy of his in town when you were there?’
‘Percy?’ She inclined her head. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’ Hopewell pulled at a loose chunk of bark. ‘Because he has a mind where his father sometimes does not. Maybe he would see sense. But Godsgift – he brooks no incompetence. Why does he shun the truth?’
‘I was hoping you could tell me.’
He looked at the chittering brook. ‘He is a taciturn creature, Mrs Blakewood, living inside a mercenary mind. Leave it to him and he would wipe out the Indians with one sweep of his vicious hand. As for Clemency, I’m sure you know that half the town thought she was a witch? And yet when any of them were sick, they came to her soon enough to seek her help.’ He scoffed. ‘The damn hypocrites. Why do you think I spend so much time on my own, or with our friends, the Indians?’ He jerked his head at their guide. ‘Lavington and his ilk talk of our civilising them, making them like us, as if it were a marvellous gift. But I say we could learn more from how these people live their lives, how they work with nature instead of seeking to master it. But of course, we English know better.’
‘Mr Quayle.’ Impatient to return to the matter at hand, Mercia gripped his arm. It had the desired effect: he broke from his rant and listened. ‘I only knew Clemency a short time, but she lit something in me, something good. I want to bring her justice. Will you help me return to the town?’
Hopewell’s angry face dissolved into a lopsided smile. ‘By the Lord, Mrs Blakewood, there is more of courage in you than in any of them downriver. You wish to go to Meltwater, then I will take you. Lavington may be magistrate, but he cannot do exactly as he likes. I have my own house and you are welcome to it.’
A great relief broke out inside her – relief, and uncertainty. ‘Mr Quayle, thank you.’
He looked at the dimming sky. ‘But we cannot ride now. You will have to stay in my tent here for the night.’
She coughed. ‘Mr Quayle, I do not—’
He laughed, a guttural roar of out-of-place mirth. ‘I shall sleep under the stars, as can my friend and your man. But tomorrow we ride to Meltwater.’ He reached behind the log pile to retrieve another flask. ‘I cannot wait to see the look on John Lavington’s face.’
They rode back to Meltwater late the following morning. She had hoped to leave sooner, but when at dawn she emerged from the tent, Hopewell had already vanished into the woods with his Indian friend, hunting for beavers so he said, although he returned with little. Still, it meant she could spend a peaceful few hours in the open air, walking along the brook to its source.
After devouring a quick dish of something Hopewell called samp – corn swirling in milk, as far as she could tell – they set off, making good time as they journeyed to the encampment, leaving their guide to return to his people. No sign of Sooleawa, Hopewell conversed briefly with the sachem before leading them on, choosing a different, less obvious path t
hen the route they had taken before. As Meltwater came into sight, he grinned profusely.
‘My, my.’ He drew up his horse, its front hooves skidding into the air. ‘This should be amusing.’
With a raised eyebrow at Nicholas, Mercia followed through the northern gate. Just inside the palisade, a townsman was standing on watch where none had been posted before. Hopewell called out a greeting, making plain the others were with him. The man glanced across, his mouth falling half open on seeing who had returned, the comical action making Nicholas stifle a laugh.
Hopewell continued to the central crossroads, taking a turn around the intersection to shout loud salutations to everyone in earshot. His brashness was irritating, jarring with Mercia’s nerves, but there was little she could do to save herself the embarrassment. Near the steps of the meeting house, Fearing Davison stared at them before walking briskly away.
His performance over, Hopewell signalled for Mercia to follow him along the eastern street. Passing the tavern, he halted outside a small cottage three quarters of the way down.
‘This,’ he said, ‘is mine. You can stay for as long as you like. I shall not need it.’
‘You are leaving town already?’ An unwanted tension clawed at her chest. ‘Even with your permission, I fear we may be hounded out.’ She looked at him. ‘Did our entrance have to be so obvious?’
He smiled. ‘I told you, I want to make clear to Lavington he cannot do just as he pleases. And no, I will wait in Meltwater a while, then I shall go to Hartford on some usual business.’
‘But where will you stay?’ She cast an eye over the house, constructed in the same style as the cottage belonging to Humility Thomas’s son; other than subtle differences in craftsmanship, the dwellings could have been the same.
‘At Clemency’s cottage.’ He sighed as her face fell. ‘Look. The only way you can be in Meltwater is to use my house, and so I must sleep elsewhere.’ He shrugged. ‘She was my cousin. As I see it, there is nobody else to take ownership of her house, save her brother, and he is not even in America. I will look after it until Renton ever comes back, which he will not, and so I will keep it. I shall certainly stay there for the next few days.’
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