The Lost Duchess

by Jenny Barden

  The man was magnificent, tall and strongly built with the sinuous grace of an athlete, clothed in nothing but a breechclout, but covered in tattoos from head to toe that flowed around the lines of his powerful muscles. His hair was shaved either side of a spiked and feathered roach, and at his chest was a great square pendant of burnished copper. There was copper around his neck and in bands around his wrists. When he smiled, as he drew closer, Kit saw a gap between his upper teeth.

  ‘Wanchese!’ Manteo croaked, stiffening at Kit’s side.

  Kit groaned inwardly, sensing their chances crumbling. What was Wanchese doing at Choanoke if not fomenting trouble for the colony?

  The warrior eyed Manteo suspiciously, and spoke in English. ‘Still fawning before our enemies, Manteo? There is no place for you here. I can speak for myself and the Choanokes in the tongue of the English. I can tell everyone at this council the truth of what is said. We have no need for your meddling.’

  Kit spoke up. Manteo’s position had to be recognised.

  ‘We would like Manteo to stay so there is no misunderstanding. He can put your words to us in the tongue of the Choanokes for the benefit of those assembled, and you can do likewise with our words to you.’

  Wanchese inclined his head.

  ‘Very well, Englishman. I will know if he lies.’

  Manteo’s translation followed, hoarse but defiant.

  With his arms spread wide, Wanchese welcomed Kit and his company and turned to include everyone.

  ‘Greetings, English, ghosts from the spirit world.’ His eyes narrowed as he addressed Kit directly. ‘You must know you cannot speak here with the weroance Menatonon. He lies now in the House of the Dead.’

  Kit swallowed with an effort, looked at Wanchese and saw their ruin. They were surely finished. Menatonon was dead, and Wanchese, their known enemy, now commanded the respect of the Choanokes who had once been their friends. What hope was there left?

  But he would not abandon the course they had embarked upon, not yet, not with the lives of Emme and his son at stake. He would see it through until he could hope no longer.

  ‘We grieve to hear of the death of Menatonon,’ he said, projecting as much authority as he could. ‘My name is Kit Doonan, and I speak for the City of Raleigh at Roanoke, and the English, my countrymen. Our greetings to you and all the people of Choanoke.’

  Wanchese bade everyone sit, and settled opposite Kit on a mat in front of the elders. The smell of sweat and smouldering tobacco pervaded the air. But Wanchese did not smoke, nor did he offer a pipe to Kit. He stared with eyes like glowing embers.

  ‘Menatonon spoke to you, the priests tell me. He told you there must be no more mistrust between us.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that help everyone?’

  Wanchese calmly placed his hands on his outspread knees. His posture reminded Kit of the idol Kiwasa. Against the light he seemed almost as dark. The warrior half closed his eyes and inhaled. When his eyelids flicked open again it was to glare straight at Kit.

  ‘Menatonon died broken after you English took his best loved son.’

  ‘Skiko was not sent back?’

  ‘No one has seen him since you English took him away.’

  Kit bowed his head. Lord, what had they done? Damn Lane for his arrogance and for handing the good citizens of Raleigh a chalice poisoned by cruelty. He understood Menatonon’s suffering; it would be his if Rob was taken from him to live out his life as a hostage, a misery he remembered all too well. He wanted to turn around, to reassure himself with a glance that Rob was still alive and behind him. But he did not move. Thank God for the boy’s colour; Wanchese would never recognise him as his son. But Rob’s fate, and Emme’s, now depended on healing the hurt that had been done, and all he could offer was remorse. He looked up.

  ‘Skiko should have been released and returned to you. We apologise for his loss.’

  Wanchese shook his fist.

  ‘Apologise! You think that is enough for destroying the great weroance of the Choanokes and his son? He offered you friendship and tribute and in return you tore out his heart.’

  Kit raised his scarred palm and turned slowly to take in all those gathered round, from the savage faces crowded together at one end of the longhouse to those at the other, some of them pooled in light, most cast in shadow, the whites of their eyes gleaming: hundreds of people he had to convince through filtered words and unasked for gifts with little to aid him but the way he spoke, the distance between them made greater by deep suspicion. How could he reach them?

  ‘We apologise sincerely,’ he said. ‘That is the truth. This company, and those of us now at Roanoke, had nothing to do with the taking of Skiko.’

  A sneer curled the warrior’s lip.

  ‘Neither did I have anything to do with the offers of peace made by Menatonon.’

  Kit turned again to all the Choanokes assembled.

  ‘There have been wrongs on both sides.’

  Then he spoke directly to Wanchese, looking him in the eye.

  ‘You murdered one of our best men at Roanoke, a man innocent of any offence against you.’

  Wanchese’s sneer twisted to a baleful smile.

  ‘His offence was to be English, as is yours. You English have proved you cannot be trusted. You bring us tainted gifts and evil ways. You invade our lands and kill us by stealth.’ He raised his voice to a shout. ‘You must all die.’

  Kit sat motionless as a shiver shot through his spine: the chill barb of hatred. Wanchese would never accept the offer of friendship he brought. It was too late to try and reason with him; his ears had been blocked by the blood spilt in the past. Their only hope now lay in direct appeal to the Choanokes despite Wanchese’s malign influence. He would have to try. He spoke to the elders and the people looking on, a task made harder by the sunlight that bathed him but left most of his audience in the shadow behind the walls. He felt the power of his own conviction, strong as the light, but he could not gauge the effect of his words.

  ‘I pray the Choanokes will think differently. I accept that some of the English who came before us did not act as honourably as they should have done. But we too have suffered wrongs. The Englishmen who came to Roanoke before us were brutally attacked. Many were killed though they had done no native here any harm. Now one of our own men has been murdered by the Secotans. I say the time has come for peace. The Roanokes and the Secotans have had their vengeance.’ He spread his hands, palms flat. ‘Let us call an end to enmity and move forwards in friendship.’

  He picked up some of the gifts that had been brought: a knife and a scythe, their blades flashing in the light, a lodestone and a nail that flew to its surface, a magnifying glass that he angled so it sent rainbows over the walls. Some of the Indians gasped; he heard their wonder. Perhaps others had seen such things before.

  ‘We can bring you tools of great use, medicine and learning. When we are resupplied, we can bring you animals for breeding: horses and cattle that will ensure you never go hungry, tobacco better than any you have known.’ He held up a single large papery brown leaf from Hispaniola, one collected from his own voyages. ‘Good uppowoc,’ he said, ‘new crops, delicious fruits. Let us share for the benefit of us all …’

  ‘Share?’ Wanchese interrupted. ‘Would you share your weapons, Kit Doonan?’

  The challenge came as no surprise to Kit. He knew it had been a rule of previous expeditions never to give the savages arms of war, yet to deny the request would undermine any prospect of the peace he sought. How could the Indians be expected to overcome their mistrust of him if he didn’t demonstrate his trust in them first? He could be overpowered anyway along with everyone in his company. Better to give freely than be stripped. He unbuckled his sword belt and laid it complete with scabbard and broadsword on the mat in front of Wanchese.

  ‘Take this as my gift to you.’

  Wanchese smiled slowly. He picked up the belt, unsheathed the sword and held it up to the light; then, very deliberately, he reached across
the space between them and brought the point to Emme’s throat.

  She did not move, but Kit sensed her fright. Her eyes were fixed unblinking on the blade. Her hands stayed frozen halfway between her lap and her throat.

  Kit responded carefully without any show of undue concern. He had to keep control, but in his mind he was calculating his moves: the lunge he would make if Wanchese drew back to strike; the reach for his dagger; the thrust into Wanchese’s guts with the overbalancing charge. He wouldn’t hesitate, and he knew Lacy and the others would be with him as well. But Wanchese remained poised, not moving, only smiling.

  Kit raised his hand. ‘I have given my sword to you in friendship.’

  Wanchese lowered the sword and sheathed it unhurriedly then placed the scabbard back on the mat. ‘Give me your firearm as well, friend.’

  This was the greater test. In firearms lay the best advantage the English had. The Indians had no hope of making such weapons, and even the use of a firearm was an arcane mystery to most. Kit had placed his caliver on the mat by his side like all the men in his company. He picked it up and put it in front of Wanchese. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Lacy’s hand move to his belt.

  Wanchese sat stock still. ‘Load the piece first and set the match.’

  Kit did so in silence, as fast as he could so the complex steps would not easily be remembered, though he felt that nothing escaped the warrior’s attention. Surely none of it would have been new to him. Wanchese had been to England and back with men from two expeditions; he must have seen a caliver loaded before. Kit closed the priming pan and handed the piece to Wanchese along with a length of match cord attached to the serpentine.

  Wanchese lit the match with one of the elder’s pipes and opened the pan; then he levelled the caliver straight at Kit.

  There was a ripple of movement. Most of the Indians cowered, some gasped. Those nearest ducked to the ground.

  The men in Kit’s company gripped their sword-hilts.

  ‘Don’t move,’ Kit commanded them, his voice low, not taking his eyes from Wanchese. ‘Say nothing.’

  Wanchese cocked the caliver and took aim. The muzzle hovered only inches away from Kit’s forehead. The shot, if it came, would blow his head off.

  ‘No!’ Emme sobbed, quiet as a whisper, and Kit knew she was weeping.

  Wanchese rocked with laughter, tipped back his head and fired.

  The blast left ringing silence, a thick cloud of dust and smoke, drifting fragments of matting, and the stench of scorched hair and sulphur. Kit turned in a daze and clapped his hand to a burning pain in his scalp. He saw a hole ripped out of the wall high in the rush screens behind him. Screams gradually penetrated his deafness. Emme was crying with her eyes half closed and her lips drawn between her teeth. Her face was rigid but trembling; tears streamed down her cheeks. He wished she had not been so upset. He wiped his brow and saw that his fingers were black.

  Wanchese laughed louder and brandished the caliver above his head.

  ‘See how the power of the English is now mine.’ The look he gave Kit was gloating.

  ‘You wish us to share, Kit Doonan? We will exchange women: one of yours for one of ours. I will have the one you have brought.’ He jabbed the caliver towards Emme before tossing it down. ‘You may choose.’ He gestured to some of the women looking on and spoke to them in their own tongue.

  Manteo leaned closer to Kit and whispered. ‘He is ordering them to go to you.’

  The women rose and stood before Kit in a line: six maidens of savage beauty with pearls around their necks and blue markings across their cheeks. Their breasts were exposed, unsuckled and firm, the nipples were soft cones. Kit saw Emme glance towards him and he shook his head.

  He looked back at Wanchese.

  ‘We do not share people. This lady is not mine to give.’

  Emme murmured without moving. ‘I will go with him.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If it is what he wants and will bring peace …’

  ‘No.’ Kit spoke to her in an undertone. ‘It won’t bring peace. He is having sport with us. You must not answer him.’

  He should have expected Wanchese’s interest. Emme was lovely to behold, far more lovely than the young women before him, and she must have looked intriguing to any man, with her soldier’s garb and armed to fight. But Wanchese would not have her.

  The warrior beckoned using one long muscular arm and a single curling finger. ‘She wants to come to me, Kit Doonan. Let her go.’

  Wanchese smiled at Emme, though Emme looked back at him stone faced and with her eyes half shut as if to blank him from her sight.

  He chuckled softly. ‘She likes what she sees.’

  She closed her eyes and bent her head.

  Wanchese reached out to stroke her hand. ‘Come, lady, I will treat you well.’

  She pulled back with a start, and Kit thrust out his arm like a barrier before her. ‘No. I cannot give her to you.’

  Wanchese met his eye. ‘Then let her decide.’

  In the silence that followed, Kit sensed the expectation. How could he answer in fairness if he was not seen to allow Emme a choice? Slowly he withdrew his arm.

  The warrior beckoned again. ‘Come to me and be my weroanca. Let our union show the trust between our people.’

  She turned to Kit and spoke softly. ‘Give me leave to go with your blessing for the sake of everyone else.’

  He gave the same answer under his breath feeling hollow to the core of his heart. Sending her to Wanchese might help for reasons that were right, but he could not do it. ‘No.’

  ‘Come!’ Wanchese boomed, raising his voice for every Choanoke to hear. ‘Let there be an end to mistrust.’

  Kit’s blood pounded hot in his veins. Wanchese had cornered him with the love he felt for Emme; the warrior must have sensed it. But the taking of people was wrong, however it was done. It had been wrong for him, wrong for Skiko, and it would be wrong for sweet Emme to be handed to this man as a sacrifice. He would not let her go.

  ‘You do not need hostages to be able to trust us and we ask for none to trust you.’ He turned to the patriarchs sitting behind Wanchese. ‘I appeal to the elders of the Choanokes. Will you accept our offer of peace and alliance?’

  They heard Manteo translate the question then averted their eyes, bowing their grey heads to confer with one another, their shoulders hunched as if they wished to shrink from the need to answer. After a silence in which smoke from their pipes coiled like warring phantoms floating above them, one of their number spoke up in a tremulous voice.

  ‘Wanchese now guides us. You English have offered peace before; then you have taken and killed us in ways that cannot be seen. We must protect ourselves. You withhold the woman Wanchese asks for as proof of your trust. How can we trust you? Wanchese will give you our answer.’

  Wanchese smiled again, triumphantly. He looked from them to Kit and his eyes narrowed.

  ‘Let me tell you something, Kit Doonan. The elders of the Choanokes invited me here for a council of war. They heard of your coming and they sought my advice. “How can we rid ourselves of these English?” That was what they asked me. “They keep coming and coming. We drive them away but they come back again.” My answer is this: “You must kill them all, because only the fear of us will keep the rest away.”’

  So this was the decision that Wanchese was working up to all along, and now it was the Choanokes’ answer: the end of the colony. There was no hope of peace. All of the English would be wiped out, every man, woman and child. Nothing would stop Wanchese. Kit felt sick. He’d never even get back to Raleigh to warn the colony. He’d be killed along with Rob and Emme and everyone else he’d led like lambs to the slaughter. But perhaps Wanchese might hesitate if he thought his own people would be put at risk. It was a chance, very slim, and one Kit didn’t like to take. It was a feint, but he had no choice.

  ‘If you kill us now then your people will suffer. Our friends on Roanoke will destroy your settlement
s of Acquascogoc and Pomeiooc if we do not return. Those are their orders. If we do not return before the next sunset then they will attack. While you are here you cannot protect your villages; remember that. So let us go, Wanchese. We have come in search of peace, and we wish your people no harm, but if you kill us then there will be war.’

  Wanchese’s proud face darkened more. The light seemed to stream from behind his great crested head and shoulders. His eyes burned with hatred.

  ‘Now we see your true intent. Do you think to frighten me with such talk? Your threats are pitiful. It makes no difference to me whether we kill you now or later. I will take your woman when your city is destroyed and she will pay for your insolence.’ He raised his arm as if to sweep Kit away. ‘Go back and tell your people to prepare for death. Wait in fear, for in your agony we will savour our revenge.’

  Kit silently let out his breath and kept his expression impassive; Wanchese must not see his relief. They had been given a reprieve but it would not last. Could he gain any more – a chance to escape?

  ‘Let us consider another way. Suppose we were to leave and trouble you no more; would you give us safe passage?’

  Wanchese gripped his knees and laughed. Then he fell suddenly quiet and eyed Kit with contempt. He got to his feet and stood, towering over Kit, punching the air as he pounded out his message. His voice was like thunder.

  ‘There will be no safe passage. You must die. All of you. We are the mighty nation of the Choanokes, the Secotans, the Weapemeocs and the Roanokes, and we will not rest until our land is cleansed of you and all invaders. For the misery you have brought us, for your lies and treachery, we give you death in return.’

  Kit rose also and eyed Wanchese levelly. He turned to the elders who gazed up at both of them with fear blanching their faces. He asked a simple mild question. ‘Is this what you want? Death?’