Scares-The-World turned his level gaze on Angel, ignoring all others. “You have brought us great gifts, and we are pleased. What do you wish from us?”
“Only that you not be swayed by one man’s poisonous words.” He stared pointedly at Jean, who ground his teeth in impotent rage. “White Wolf holds the Englishwoman in great esteem. He has asked me to petition you for her release.”
“Why should we give her her freedom?” one of the warriors demanded. “White Wolf’s woman should burn in our fires, an appeasement to the spirits of our loved ones!”
“Burn the woman, and White Wolf’s rage will know no bounds. How many men have you lost to his revenge for the death of his wife and son?” He paused for dramatic effect. “How many more of your young men can you afford to sacrifice?”
“In the woman, we have something White Wolf wants!” Jean countered. “Grant her freedom, and we have nothing!”
“Grant her freedom, and you will have White Wolf!” Angel cried in ringing tones. “He offers his life for the Englishwoman’s!”
“No!” Sarah cried, but her protest was quickly drowned by savage yips that exploded all around her. The women among them exclaimed softly to one another, and Jean looked inordinately pleased.
Sarah saw and heard it all through a blinding haze. A dull roar began in her ears. Issuing from the center of her being, it increased in volume until it threatened to drown out everything.
Jean’s tight hold on her arm was the only thing that kept her from crumbling. “How do we know this is not a ruse to fool the Huron and Ottawa into giving up the woman with nothing in return?”
“I give my word,” Angel said. “As does White Wolf. He vowed to decimate your ranks and he kept his word. Can you really afford to doubt his sincerity? In accepting this offer, you have nothing to lose, and everything to gain. Turn it aside and you will suffer greatly, I vow.”
“The woman is the one who will suffer!” Jean spat, wrapping his fist in Sarah’s hair. “Sauvage, you cowardly wretch! If you are truly here, then show yourself!”
Angel appealed to Scares-The-World, who sat silently through the exchange. “Sachem, will you accept the ransom offered, and honor the terms of this agreement, giving the woman into my care in exchange for White Wolf’s surrender?”
“The woman is mine to do with as I please,” replied Jean, “and I say that Sauvage surrenders his freedom first. Without him, there can be no agreement, and I do not trust this strutting peafowl.”
“Blackguard,” Angel said in silken tones. “Killer of women and helpless infants, I do not bargain with you, but with Scares-The-World, a just man. Your word is worth nothing.”
Jean shoved Sarah aside and started forward, a look of black rage twisting his handsome face, his hands fisted while Angel smiled and Sarah held her breath.
“Hold!” The single utterance from the sachem silenced everyone, including Jean. “Is it not true that La Bruin is a brother to the Huron and Ottawa?” Scares-The-World asked Jean.
“It is true,” Jean replied. “But—”
“And is it not true that the Ottawa and Huron share in all things? That if a man hungers, and his brother has food, then he shall hunger no longer?”
“It is the way of the people,” Jean said, “But—”
“Many among us have suffered from the death and destruction brought by White Wolf’s wrath. As our brother, La Bruin will wish to do what is best for the People, and not just for La Bruin.” The sachem seemed satisfied with Jean’s silence, for he turned to de Angelheart, who patiently waited. “La Bruin and his Huron and Ottawa brothers accept your terms. You may have the woman, in exchange for White Wolf, our enemy.”
A collective shiver ran through the crowd as a man stepped from the trees, followed by the startled gasps of the women, the shouts of the warriors, the soft exclamations of the old ones.
Sarah’s heart melted at the sight of him. He was battered and bruised from his fall from the cliffs and the hair at his right temple was matted with blood. Breaking away from Angel, she ran to him. He raised his gaze, and Sarah saw something kindle in the dark depths, the light of a burning passion, a keen regret. And then it was gone, replaced by a chilling acceptance. “Get her out of here!” he shouted to Angel as Jean stepped up to greet him.
Mirror images they seemed, only Jean’s was reflected in a dark and shaded glass. As Sarah watched, stunned, Jean embraced Kingston, kissed one cheek, and then the other. He took a half-step back. “Brother, how good it is to see you after all this time.” He brought back his fist, slamming it into Kingston’s midsection.
Somewhere close by, a woman screamed, and Sauvage knew that it was Sarah. He wanted to urge de Angelheart a second time to take her away from this place, but Jean’s blow had driven the breath from his lungs, driven him to his knees. For one terrible and brief instant, he thought he would be sick, until he forced himself to forget the crippling pain that had exploded in his stomach, to forget everything except for Jean, his brother, his most hated enemy.
The thought triggered the anger, and the anger numbed the pain, creeping along his veins like an opiate, drowning all physical sensation. He came to his feet, and stood. Jean was still there, still full of black arrogance and pride.
“He is the flesh of my flesh, and the blood of my blood,” Jean declared. “And the one who ends his life prematurely will answer to me. That privilege is mine, and mine alone!”
“La Bruin will have a say in the fate of White Wolf,” the sachem stated, “as will the council. Now, let us gather to welcome White Wolf to our village.”
At his signal, the crowd divided into two long rows that stood facing one another. Each man, woman, and child held some weapon, a stout stick, a crab apple switch rife with inch-long thorns, a war club with a rock fitted into its blunt end. There was much talk and laughter among them; an air of jubilation infected the participants.
Sauvage, aware of what waited, did not join their celebration. He glanced briefly at two young women who came forward to strip him of his clothing, leaving only his breechclout, then his gaze slid back to Jean.
His half brother had taken his place at the very end of the line, near the bark hut which he must try and reach. Neutral ground. Sunlight broke through the clouds and glinted off something metallic in Jean’s hand. Kingston pulled air into his lungs and drew upon his anger, preparing for the run. He could not allow himself to think of Sarah, whom he could see from the tail of his eye.
Damn Angel for not carrying out his wishes. She had no business standing now at a little distance, her face a dim oval, her hands clasped as if in prayer.
Scares-The-World gave the nod to begin. Sauvage ran, sprinting between the parallel rows as if he ran for sport, and not his life. Concentration and speed got him past the first third of the participants before they could land a blow. Sauvage heard them howl their frustration, and felt their clubs and switches slice the air behind him.
The warrior with whom he’d fought that day on the bluffs caught him a glancing blow on the shoulder with a heavy cudgel, but Sauvage’s pulse was racing so violently that he barely felt it. Another sought to strike at his face with crab-apple thorns; Sauvage thrust an arm up to protect his eyes and felt the thorns bury themselves in the flesh of his forearm.
Several more blows landed—one, more solid than the rest, caught him alongside the head and made his ears ring. If he fell short of his goal, they would beat him senseless, break his bones, and he desperately needed to be whole in order to vanquish his formidable enemy.
The thrust of a war club opened a cut at his left brow. Blood streamed down into his eye, blinding him. The club’s owner hooted with glee and moved up the line to attempt another pass, only this time Sauvage was ready for him. Feinting to the right, as if to avoid the blow, he swiftly came left again, grabbed the balled end of the club and tore it from the startled man’s grasp, ramming it into his enemy’s face. The man toppled and lay in a heap, blood pouring from his flattened nose and ruined
mouth. Sauvage, armed now, sped onward, using the war club to fend off further blows.
The participants went wild. Down the way, Jean was livid. “Stop him!” he roared. “Seize his weapon!”
Sauvage butted the first man to try in the jaw, tripped the second and bounded on. A dozen paces separated him from the neutral ground, temporary safety. Once he reached the bark hut, he would be granted a reprieve from further violence, a little time to rest and lick his wounds while the council met to decide his fate.
His enemies would take great care in killing him, of that much he was certain. Yet he could not dwell on that now, not with Jean limping up to block him, to deny him that slim, hard-won reprieve.
Jean, who had destroyed his happiness, his life, and who now sought to keep him and Sarah apart.
Hatchet in one hand, knife in the other, Jean took a solid stance. “You’ll not get past me, little brother.”
“Getting past La Bruin was never my intention, not when I will derive such satisfaction in stepping over his lifeless body.” Sauvage swung the war club in a wide arc, forcing Jean to step back in order to avoid being struck. “What is this? Giving ground already?” He made another pass with the club, this time intentionally close to Jean’s nose, then chuckled when Jean leap aside. “Not as easy to fight someone as big and powerful as you are, is it, brother? Shall I petition the sachem on your behalf? Perhaps he will pit you against a woman—a contest more to your liking, not to mention your abilities, eh?”
Jean swung his blade, his face flushed dark with rage, and a thin crimson stripe appeared on Sauvage’s forearm. But the wound was superficial, and Jean was not satisfied.
He stepped in again, the opening for which Sauvage had been waiting. He struck hard, the tip of the club connecting solidly with Jean’s chin. Jean staggered, shaking his head. “I’ll see you roast in hell, Sauvage, and while you scream, I’ll take your woman, just the way I took Caroline. You wonder how I know her name?” he asked. “She told me. Indeed, she told me many things before she died, including how much she scorned you.”
As the last word passed Jean’s lips, he swung the hatchet; Sauvage saw it coming and moved to block the pass. The handle clattered against the club, splintering as it connected with the heavier weapon. Jean dropped it, useless now, mouthing a vicious curse.
Sauvage clucked his tongue. “Too bad. I’ve broken your weapon. Do you wish to forfeit, Jean? The next time, it might just be your skull.” Another jab, short, but powerful.
Jean took it on the chin once more, so hard that Sauvage heard his teeth clack together. He turned his head and spat blood. “Damn your black soul!” he roared, lunging at Sauvage with knife raised.
Sauvage grabbed the hand that held the knife, bringing that wrist down with all his might across his upraised knee. He heard the bones snap, and Jean cradled the injured limb, his face contorted in agony, but it was not enough for Sauvage.
He wanted him to bed for mercy, wanted to look him in the eye and know that death awaited... just as Caroline had done that day a year ago. To see Jean’s face and hear Jean’s pleas was the only way to calm the rage, to cool the fires of vengeance burning inside him.
Those fires leapt to towering heights, and in seconds the last vestige of his restraint lay in ashes. Dropping one shoulder, he bowled into Jean, who sprawled on his back like a turtle. Then, lacing his fingers together to form a bludgeon, he brought them crashing down, again and again and again.
“Enough!” Angel’s hard hand stayed him from further retribution, preventing him from murder. “You have bested him. Now, you must show restraint. He is their ally. You are their enemy. Kill him now, and you will not live to see the sun set.”
There was wisdom in Angel’s words. Sauvage slowly stood, stepping over Jean’s unconscious form and walked the few remaining steps to the bark hut and the neutral ground.
Chapter 16
Kingston sat against the eastern wall of his temporary prison, listening to the soft chatter of the women drifting through the thin walls, the pounding of the children’s feet as they raced past, the barking of the dogs, heard at frequent intervals throughout the day, announcing yet another arrival to the village.
Word of his surrender had spread quickly, and scores of Indians had poured into the small encampment. The burning of the infamous White Wolf was an occasion for great celebration, and the preparations had already begun in earnest. All of the village slaves had been sent to the woods to gather fuel for the fire.
Sauvage had watched them file past the door of the hut. Then, he had watched the morbid procession return, burdened with sticks, each one staring at the ground, the sky—anywhere to avoid looking into the condemned man’s eyes.
One old woman, bolder than the rest, paused to squint at him. “Sae ye’re the great wolf they been moanin’ aboot fer weeks on end, the one they be fixin’ to burn on the morrow.”
Sauvage stared at the old crone, wishing she would state her business and be on her way. The last thing he wanted was to spend his final hours conversing with a fellow captive, or anyone, for that matter. Better to spend that time thinking, dreaming of Sarah, conjuring up the memories they had made together so that he might relive those precious, stolen moments.
The old woman, however, seemed wont to linger. “What do you want from me?” he finally asked.
She shifted her bundle of wood to a more comfortable position as she considered her reply. “Only to see if it were true that Old Cripple Dick an’ ye were kith and kin. It’s plain to see ye are. Must have been hard for the lass, to keep company with yer dark half, feelin’ as she does aboot ye.”
Sauvage looked hard at her. “You know Sarah?”
“Enuff to know she’s fool in love wi’ ye, and ain’t gonna leave as ye wish her to do. Ye’re the father of her bairn.” The old one cackled at his surprise. “Oh, aye. She’s wi’ child. Yer child. A few weeks gone, she is, and sick as a bluddy hound.”
Sauvage shook his head. “Impossible.”
The hag snorted. “If ye believe that, ye’re a whole lot dumber than ye look!”
“How do you know this?”
“I seen it in the smoke of the night fire. I seen lots of things, past and future, and I know for sartain that yer prospects without the lass ain’t lookin’ so bright. If ye got some fool notion of givin’ them devils a bluddy spectacle to remember ye by on the morrow, then ye need to consider it a while yet. Ye’re two halves of a whole, ye and the lass. She’s made a hard journey, and she’s a tender little thing still, and she’ll not make it half a year without ye. Only together can ye thrive.”
The old woman was gone in a whirl of dun-colored rags, leaving Sauvage to stare at the bright rectangle of the open doorway. Sarah... his Sarah, with child. The old woman’s creaking voice came back to haunt him.” She’ll not survive half the year without ye. And he was to die on the morrow. The future, it seemed, did not bode well for either of them.
Dark thoughts, like bad birds, came to roost upon his shoulders. If he could not save himself, how could he hope to save Sarah? “Caroline. Caroline! Cher, come to me now! I need you, please! Caroline!”
He thought he saw a pale blur from the outer corner of his eye, yet when he turned to look, there was nothing. The cool air of the hut brushed his cheek, like the flutter of feathered wings. But Caroline proved fickle, refusing to break his solitude with her stark presence. Perhaps she knew that he was soon to enter the spirit realm. Perhaps, she was preparing a place for him.
His throat constricted. An hour before he had been resigned to his fate, his only regret that he must leave Jean among the living. Quite suddenly, the stakes were so much higher.
He had failed Caroline; would he fail Sarah, too?
Into his blackest hour came a subtle scratching sound, issuing from the entrance to the hut. Frowning, Sauvage glanced up and saw a black-robed priest, accompanied by another smaller figure half-hidden behind him.
“You are Kingston Sauvage?”
�
�I am.”
“I am Father Francois Tu, from Fort Duquesne of the Blessed Virgin.”
Sauvage inclined his head. “I would rise, Father, but alas, I cannot.” He raised his arm, rattling the chain fastened to the supports and manacle that circled his wrist. “Compliments of the good soldiers of the garrison, and my brother.”
“Father Tu frowned. “I have been informed of your difficulties, and am come to offer my services at the request of your friend, Monsignor de Angelheart.”
“I am not sure what he has told you, but I am not a practicing Catholic, Father.”
Father Tu raised a gray brow. “You were baptized in the Church, were you not?”
“Yes, but—”
“How long has it been since your last confession, my son?”
Sauvage sighed. “Five years, Father. But there is nothing I wish to confess.”
“Are you certain, monsieur?” the priest’s companion edged into view. “Confession is good for the soul.”
“Sarah,” Sauvage said, all of his ardor, his misery apparent in that one word.
“I know that it was your wish that I go,” she said hesitantly, “but I cannot leave with everything so unsettled.”
What a nice way to refer to his torture and death, Sauvage thought. And how very like his mouse.
“I only wish to be here with you.” She bowed her head, looking up through her lashes. “Are you terribly angry?”
“Incredibly so,” Sauvage said, his voice grave. “You should have listened. De Angelheart should have carried you off bodily, anything to keep you from harm.”
“You must not blame Renoir. He tried to convince me of the wisdom of your reasoning, but he is a romantic at heart, and I used my considerable talents of persuasion to sway him.”
“I should have known that the two of you would conspire against me.”
Father Tu watched the exchange with interest, looking from Sauvage to Sarah and back again. “Well, since it seems there is nothing I can do for you, I shall be on my way.”
Lord of the Wolves Page 21