by Beth White
“Mah-Kah-Twah.” She said it aloud again, savoring his name on her tongue as she had once felt his lips upon hers.
Suddenly she stopped running to cast her arms around an oak tree in her path, pressing her forehead hard into its wooden skin so that the harsh reality might banish the foolish dreams that caught her off-guard more and more often in these unhappy days under Mitannu’s domination. For now, the boys were safe with Azalea, and no one would think to look for them there. Mitannu didn’t want them anyway, for she suspected he knew they weren’t his. She was going to deliver this one last letter into the British stronghold in Carolina, accept payment for it, and then return for her children. She would take them to live with her mother’s people in Kaskaskia, far away from Mitannu. Her father might beat her, but he wouldn’t turn her and the children away.
And most importantly, she would be far from Bright Tongue, who didn’t want her or the boys either. If he had, he would have stayed. He would have demanded the right to take her from her father’s hogan. But he had not. She had awakened one morning to find him gone, vanished with his older brother, leaving her to mourn like a widow. How could a man who loved her walk away? Even a very young man who spoke another language?
She relaxed her arms, turned to brace her back against the tree, and felt in her pocket for the paper Ginette had given her. It had been folded many times and sealed with a blob of greenish wax. She fingered it, wondering what message was worth risking so many lives for. Ginette said the Huguenot priest would pay well for it. She hoped so, for it would take money to safely transport those two little boys such a long distance. And her father would more readily accept her if she could offer to pay for their food and shelter. Perhaps there would be enough to buy a hog, a milk cow, or even a horse, livestock valuable to the northern Alabama culture.
Her fingernail slipped under the edge of the wax, loosening it just a bit. What if it came off? Bright Tongue had been teaching her to read French just before he left the Tuskegee village. She might be able to decipher the note, and perhaps she might sell the intelligence elsewhere. On the other hand, removal of the seal might decrease the letter’s value to its recipient.
She smoothed it back down and lifted her skirt to tuck the paper back into the pocket tied around her waist inside her dress. After all, she doubted that a nice Frenchwoman like Ginette would have anything to say that would be of any real interest.
Unmoving, Tristan watched the eyes of the closest Indian flicker toward the turkey at his feet. The boy’s nostrils flared.
Tristan waited until his heartbeat receded from his ears and settled back in his chest. He must not display weakness. He stood with the bowstring taut at his cheek and ready to fire.
The brave with the Roman nose lowered his arrow to aim at the ground. “You shoot turkey?” he asked in the Koasati dialect.
Tristan nodded. “Yes. You hungry?” It dawned on him that the young men were painfully thin, their ribs prominent above the pale leather breechclouts. What had happened to the game near their village?
“Hungry,” the brave repeated, dropping his bow with a sweeping gesture that commanded his companions to follow suit.
Tristan lowered his own weapon, full of wonder at this turn of events. “Koasati?” When the brave gave him a wary nod, he bent down to pick up the stiff turkey and offered it to the Indians. “I come with French warriors and black robe, to make peace with your people.”
“Peace,” the young man grunted, stumbling over the word as if it were foreign to his tongue. He brought one fist to his chest in a theatrical and oddly young gesture. “Our chief sends us to greet the French brothers from the south river. We welcome them to our village to smoke the calumet of peace.”
Tristan wondered what the Indians would do if he fainted from relief. He gestured once more with the turkey. “First we eat. Then I will go with you.”
The Koasati spokesman took it, shaking the bird’s tail into a gigantic, brilliant fan, which he somberly admired. “Our brothers have found food where there has been none for many days. It is a sign of the French God’s favor. We are honored to eat with you.”
Peace, Tristan thought. Perhaps God was listening after all.
When she came upon Mitannu and his men, Nika was about to slide down a steep bluff covered in vines, briars, ferns, and pine striplings. At the bottom of the bluff burbled a spring that became a rushing little icy-fingered creek she and her cousins had swum in when she was a girl. She had been running without stopping for two hours, and she was mortally thirsty. Besides, it was time to stop for the night. The outermost Alabama village should be nearby, if she remembered correctly. It had been years since she had traveled this route herself, though she had sent her runners this way every so often.
She had knelt to choose a safe footing, when movement among the trees on the other side of the creek caught her eye. Instantly she flattened herself, melting into the brush. Heart pounding, she lifted her head just enough to peer down into the bowl of the creek.
It hadn’t been her imagination. Even with his face painted in the alien clay-reds and ocher-yellows of the Koasati tribe, his hair twisted into the topknot favored by northern hunters, she would know her husband’s guttural voice among ten thousand others.
She pressed her cheek against the ground, almost glad of the briars driving into her skin, because the pain kept her from blacking out. He had followed her after all. Hunting had been a pretext to make her relax her guard. And if he had followed her, then he also knew where the boys were. What if he had taken them? What if he had hidden them somewhere, where she wouldn’t be able to find them? He was just spiteful enough to have done so.
Eyes squeezed shut, she crammed her fist against her mouth to keep from groaning aloud. Think. Nika, think. She could not. Thought burned in a flaming burst of fear. Then something Ginette had once said came to her. When my father was murdered, all I could do was pray. And God came to visit me in my anguish. Just like he did for men and women of the Bible. He came.
God?
It was a weak, tentative plea. She didn’t even know how to ask for help. But he could see her. Yes, and he saw Mitannu. Her little boys too. Had she been a bad wife in trying to keep them safe? But she had to ask.
Please show me what to do.
Bit by bit her shivers stopped. The fear was still there, a knife at her throat, but as she gained control of her body, she opened her eyes, slowly turned her head, and looked over the rim of the bluff.
What she saw almost made her smile. Mitannu and five braves, all adorned in Koasati war regalia, knelt in the creek shallows, noisily slurping the water like dogs.
I am but a woman, fearful and weak, she told herself, one against six proven warriors. But with God I am all my children need. After all, he gave them to me, and he has kept me hidden thus far.
Her heart lightened. What she must do now was stay out of sight, follow Mitannu, and see if he led her to where he had hidden the boys. Surely she would think of what to do next.
She relaxed. But just as she did so, Mitannu abruptly raised his head, water dripping from his yellow-and-red-striped chin. His narrowed gaze pointed right at her.
“Who’s there?” he demanded.
16
Dark had fallen by the time Tristan cleaned the turkey, roasted it, and shared the meat with his French companions as well as the three young Koasati braves. It was a big bird, but it didn’t go as far as he’d hoped.
Still, the young natives seemed almost friendly as they licked the grease from their fingers, and patted their lean stomachs with satisfaction. The leader with the Roman nose, who called himself something unpronounceable that translated to “Fights With Bears,” got to his feet with fluid grace and addressed Tristan. “You will come with us. My father wishes to meet the leader of the French brothers.”
Tristan exchanged alarmed glances with Marc-Antoine. What the Indians wanted was a hostage.
“We will all come,” Marc-Antoine said, “first thing in the morn
ing.”
“My father will not be pleased if I disobey.” The boy’s chin was set on stubborn lines. “One of you must come now.”
“Marc-Antoine, I will go with them.” Father Mathieu rose. “I will be honored to meet the headman.” The priest had eaten his share of the meal quietly, watching the gestures and body language of the young Indian men and listening to Marc-Antoine’s and Tristan’s part in the conversation. Clearly he had picked up on the gist of the present dilemma.
“No!” Tristan stepped between Mathieu and the Indians, though he doubted Fights With Bears understood the priest’s words. He spoke in rapid French. “Father, you mustn’t go alone. They speak peace now, but the northern tribes have been known to murder our priests on a whim. Besides, they want our leader—and that would be me.” He eyed his brother, warning him silently to back down.
But Marc-Antoine of course would have none of that. He too was on his feet. “This is my responsibility, Tristan. The chief will respect my uniform.”
“He might, but more likely he would take it as a sign of aggression. There’s been no indication of hostility so far,” he added, discounting his less than friendly initial encounter with the natives, “but if something should go wrong tonight, you must stay alive to carry word back to Mobile. Do you think Bienville will be pleased if his best officer and translator is murdered?”
Marc-Antoine flushed. “I don’t care what Bienville thinks—”
“Yes you do.” Tristan mutely sought the priest’s support. “For whatever reason, maybe simply because they met me first, they think I’m in charge here. Marc, there was a reason you insisted I come along.” He softened his tone, praying his brother would give in. “Diplomacy is my gift. Now let me use it.”
Marc-Antoine’s jaw worked for a moment, then he gave a rough chuckle. “Oh, all right. You could talk the squirrels out of the trees, I swear. But please, come back to me with your scalp intact, or your bride will be relieving me of mine!”
Weak-kneed with relief, Tristan grinned. “You don’t know how true that is.” As he bent to pick up his musket, bow, and quiver, which lay near Mathieu’s feet, he murmured, “Father, please don’t mention our earlier conversation to anyone until I return. I haven’t decided what I want to do about it.”
The priest gave a reluctant nod. “Be careful. Much rides upon your safe return.”
“I will.” As he turned to leave with the three Koasati boys, he looked over his shoulder. His brother stood feet planted wide apart, arms crossed in clear mutiny. But he was safe, thank God.
Tristan had yet to break his promise to their father.
Julien had quite made up his mind.
In fact, he had planned on the morrow to apply to the commander for permission to declare himself to Mademoiselle Aimée Gaillain and ask for her hand in marriage. Circumstances being what they were, however, he feared it might be several days before he became free to do so.
In short, he had been assigned to guard duty, a task for which he was eminently overqualified. But Bienville was adamant. Only a senior officer could be trusted to make sure mad Ysabeau Bonnet remained inside the guardhouse, and that all male visitors be kept out.
He shifted his chair, propped on two legs against the gallery wall, into a more comfortable angle, wishing the Bonnet girl to perdition—where she was bound to go anyway, her crimes being of such a diabolical nature that even lazy Father Henri wasn’t likely to accept a bribe in return for absolution. He could hear her through the high barred window now, singing like a drunken siren. Go to sleep, Colas, my little brother, go to sleep, you will have your milk.
That she had dropped the Lemay infant into the well was beyond doubt. No one was sure if she had killed him first.
Julien shook his head and sighed. A nastier web of machinations he had yet to see. The grieving parents—perhaps instigated by Father Henri or La Salle—blamed Bienville for the child’s death, claiming that he had starved from lack of milk. Though Bienville sympathized and agreed to restrain poor Ysabeau, lest in her madness she commit further atrocities, he refused to accept responsibility for the tragedy.
Personally, Julien thought the girl should be hanged or shot at dawn, and thus released from her misery. Even if she were cleared of infanticide, no man in full retention of his senses was likely to take her on in marriage—or any other relationship, for that matter.
In any case, he had more pressing concerns. He would give much to know how his plans were proceeding in the northern Alabama woods. Mitannu had been most receptive to the suggestion of annihilating the man who had cuckolded him and foisted two bastards upon him. That the savage was also likely to murder his wife and the two boys was an unfortunate side consequence. Nika was a beautiful woman, as well as a useful agent, and Julien had once considered taking her for his mistress. Had she been willing, events might now be proceeding in an entirely different manner. One must, however, cede small pleasures for the greater good.
The greater good, specifically of Julien Dufresne, meant that in colonial matters, the French Crown must yield to the English one. Since it was only a matter of time before England overcame Louis’s feeble attempts to claim this shifting bog known as Louisiane, Julien had no qualms about benefiting from Queen Anne’s inevitable conquest over the southern Indian tribes—as evidenced by the Alabaman resistance to Julien’s covert trade lures. By that time, if all went according to plan, he should be safely ensconced in his ancestral home in the Cévennes.
But first he would need to make sure Tristan Lanier did not survive to supersede him.
So deep in his thoughts was he that he did not hear Aimée’s approach until she was all but upon him. The front legs of his chair hit the porch with a thump as he leaped to his feet. “Aimée! Mademoiselle!” Caught off-guard, he struggled to make out her features in the gloaming. Her pale face gleamed like alabaster in the moonlight, the blue of her dress a ghostly shade. She really was a little objet d’art. “Is something amiss?”
“No, why should you think so?” She stepped closer to the edge of the gallery, but her voice was so soft that he had to strain to hear her. “I only came to make sure Ysette is comfortable . . . and to see if you had dined as well. I brought you some blackberry tartlets.” She showed him the basket over her arm. “I made them.”
“Did you? How kind.” He looked for a chaperone behind her and found none. The slight tremor of her voice told him she knew how improper this meeting was. He relaxed. Mademoiselle Aimée was a minx. He took his time descending the shallow steps from the gallery to the ground.
“Here.” She shoved the basket toward him. “I must go back to—”
“I wish you would stay and keep me company,” he murmured, taking the basket with one hand and her warm fingers with the other. “It is so lonely out here with only crazy Ysabeau singing to me.”
That was a mistake. Aimée stopped looking at him to focus on the open window behind him. “Do you think she really did it?”
“At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised at anything. That fool René Connard has gone over to the Spanish, and they refuse to deport him. He knows enough about artillery development to be somewhat useful to them, and now those of us to whom he owes money are out of luck.” Stifling his irritation, Julien made the effort to focus on his little sweetheart. “But look how my luck has turned just now! The most beautiful woman in New France has come to bring me a treat. What must I do to convince you to stay and share it with me?”
“You mustn’t tease me.” She pulled her fingers coyly from his. “I’m not the most beautiful woman in New France.”
“No, you are the most beautiful lady in all of Europe and the Americas.” He slid his arm around her waist and drew her close. She smelled of lavender and sandalwood, and she was so petite that her curls brushed his chin. “I hope you came to share more than a pastry.”
“I don’t know what you—”
He kissed her, sure that she would belong to him soon.
But he wasn’t partic
ularly surprised when she puckered her lips and pulled away. “You must not!”
He supposed the real fear in her voice was to be expected. “I know I mustn’t, but I can hardly help myself, you are so very lovely.” He dropped the wretched basket on the ground and seized her hard in both arms. “I was going to ask the Commander for you on the morrow, but I’m not sure I can wait that long.”
“You were? I mean, you are? Oh Julien!” She beamed at him. “Then Ginette will have nothing more to say, and you will build us a house, and we shall have half a dozen beautiful children!”
He ignored the blithe reference to imaginary children. “Why do you think your sister is so adamantly opposed to our marriage?”
A tiny frown drew together her perfect brows. “It isn’t like her to be spiteful, but she thinks you have been spying on her. I told her you don’t care one bit about her silly religion. The King is nowhere near to sending dragoons here to arrest dissenters as they did my papa. One church is as good as another, as long as the proprieties are observed. Don’t you agree?”
“Of course I do, cherie, as I told Ginette the day we walked to the village together. But she insists that her God is a rigid, colorless Reformer who loathes our beautiful Madonnas and the music of the Mass, and anything else reeking, as she says, of ritual and tradition.”
Aimée chewed her lip. “That doesn’t sound like Ginette . . .”
“She doesn’t want to hurt you, my dear. I had hoped that by getting her alone that day, I could sway her from these foolish and dangerous notions.” He sighed. “But I’m afraid she remains quite adamant.”
“It’s all the fault of that wretched Jean Cavalier! Ginette has always harbored a sort of hero-worship for him.” She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. “Oh, Julien, you won’t tell anyone, will you? I’m so angry with her, but I truly wouldn’t want her to be in trouble!”