by E. B. Brown
When Maggie offered the men cups, Rebecca made rounds to fill them. Winn did not go out of his way to acknowledge his wife, but Rebecca saw the subtle movement of his hand brushing Maggie’s hip when she greeted him. Would things ever be so easy between her and Makedewa?
Early that morning Makedewa expressed remorse at needing to leave their marriage bed, but she understood he had duties to his kin. After their first night together as man and wife she had longed to waste the day away in exploration of their newfound bond, yet that respite was not theirs to be had. Life marched on, newly married or no. Makedewa wore his careful aloof mask, and Rebecca felt like a flustered girl once more under his watchful stare.
When she finally made way to Makedewa and moved to fill his cup, he closed his fingers over hers and kept her close. Only for a moment, it was a gesture so slight that no one noticed, and warmth coursed over her skin at his touch.
“Hello, wife,” he murmured, bending so that his lips brushed her ear. She kept her head lowered and smiled as the men continued with their conversation.
“Hello, husband,” she whispered. He raised the cup to his mouth, and she could see the corners turned up in a grin over the rim.
“And Makedewa, what say you? I hear ye’ve married this Englishwoman, vous batard cornee! Dare I bid ye good tidings, or do ye care naught for the well wishes of an Englishman?” John Jackson proclaimed, interrupting their private moment.
Makedewa took another sip, pausing before he responded. Rebecca thought she saw the light of tense amusement in his eyes as he glanced at John Jackson.
“Not from an Englishman. But I shall take it from a French fils de pute today,” Makedewa said evenly. She was not sure what was said, but from the way all the men grew silent she suspected it was not polite. She expected John Jackson’s mouth might catch a few bugs the way it gaped open, but she was relieved when the visitor resorted to a wide grin.
“Touche, my friend!” John bellowed. He was a short man, but his deep voice carried, and at the sound of renewed friendship, the other men went back to their rowdy conversation.
She noticed Makedewa nod to Winn before he took her elbow and steered her away from the crowd. She followed him away from the courtyard toward their Long House, pleased when he gently placed his hand on her lower back to guide her.
“Are you well this morning, wife?” he asked once they were out of earshot. His head tilted toward her, and she could see his features soften for a moment.
“Yes, of course. I mean, yes, I am well,” she stammered. Memories of their night sparked her gaze, and she felt her skin flush at the decadent thoughts.
“Then why do your cheeks look like red apples?” he teased. She stopped short with an indignant squeak as he laughed.
“I’m fine! And ye! Ye look like a—like a strutting peakcock!” she retorted, elbowing him in the ribs. “And I—“
He stopped her words with his mouth, catching her face gently between his palms. He kissed her soundly until her murmurs ceased, then let his forehead rest against hers.
“I was teasing, chulentet. I only wish to know if you are pleased with me. With being my wife,” he said softly. His tender declaration brought the swell of tears to her eyes as she nodded.
“I am…most pleased,” she answered, not trusting her voice for more than a mere whisper. He smiled.
“Good. I thought of you all morning. I heard nothing of what my brothers spoke. All my thoughts were with you.”
“Yer brother would not be happy to hear that,” she chided him. He shrugged.
“I only care for what you think. Was I not clear on that last night?” he whispered, dappling a series of teasing kisses down her neck. Breathless, she squirmed away and gave him a gentle shove.
“So marriage suits ye!”
John Jackson approached them, a broad smile breaking his thin face. Rebecca stepped back from her husband as Makedewa made an annoyed grunting sound of acknowledgement.
“It does. Is your business ended here, John? I see not why you should stay much longer,” Makedewa answered. His words were said evenly, his voice tempered with restraint. Rebecca noticed the way her husband tensed in the presence of the Englishman. Even half-French and being a friend to Winn, it was not unusual for Makedewa to distrust outsiders. If there was nothing Rebecca knew of her new husband, it was that he did not place his loyalty lightly, and it seemed John Jackson had not met that threshold yet with Makedewa despite the help given to Chief Winn.
“Yes, yes, I shall be leaving. But I have news ye might find interest in. I wasna sure before, but yer the daughter of Robbie Graves, aren’t ye?”
She felt Makedewa close his hand over her wrist. The sting of her dead father’s name fell heavy in the air, spiking through her chest. It had been years since she said her father’s name. Although she thought of her family often, the image of seeing them slaughtered was one that still haunted her dreams. It was easier for them all to avoid that echo of the past.
“He—he was my father. They’re all—they’re all…”
Makedewa interrupted her.
“Her family is gone. Say what you must, but leave them to rest,” Makedewa said.
“I mean no disrespect. ‘Tis only that I have word from yer mother, no harm! She’d be right pleased to know her daughter still lives, she thought ye captured like my sister,” John prattled.
Her throat suddenly felt dry and her vision seemed to blur. Her mother? What was he talking about? She had watched her mother die. She would remember that day as long as she lived.
Rebecca pressed her cheek flat to the floor. She could see her mother’s feet across the room from her hiding spot beneath the bed. Mother’s boots were ankle-high black leather, newly purchased from the trade-ship that arrived earlier in the week. Mother had been so happy to have new boots, and father was pleased to gift them to her. It was the little things that made mother happy; clean linens, serviceable dresses, and new boots were enough to make her swoon.
The door cracked against the wall when it burst open, causing mother to let out a screech.
“Please, we mean ye no harm!” Mother cried. Rebecca saw the boots slide back against the floor toward her hiding spot, the heels leaving black smudges on the wood plank flooring as the woman shuffled backward. A sickening thud came next, followed by mother slumping to the floor in a heap.
Rebecca clamped her hands over her mouth, but it was too late. At the sight of her mother’s lifeless face she uttered a scream. Mother’s eyes lolled back in her head, like a china doll, staring blankly back at her before they fluttered closed. Her mother’s lips made no sound, and Rebecca’s panic burned her throat as she struggled to keep from vomiting.
Two moccasin-clad feet walked toward the damaged door. She closed her eyes and swallowed as the savage left the room. After waiting for what seemed like hours, it was the empty gap of her mother’s open mouth that led her to crack. Her body shook with fright and tears fell free down her cheeks, muffled sobs coming through her closed fist.
It was then that the raider returned. She stifled her cries when she saw the bottoms of his browned legs return to the room. It was the same savage, she was sure of it by the color of his moccasins and the way her mother’s blood splashed his feet. He approached the bed and paused. She tried not to make a sound of relief when the feet shuffled around back the way he had come.
The trill of a whistle pierced the air, and then a hearty laugh. She could not stifle her scream when he stalked back toward the bed and then his body dropped flat to floor. He stayed there, staring at her with his face inches from hers, a grin stretched over his gleeful face. His teeth were bright against his brown skin, white daggers inside his malevolent mouth. When he reached her for her, she finally let loose, screaming and thrashing at him with her last vestige of strength.
Her blows only caused him to laugh louder.
“Ye must be mistaken,” Rebecca insisted. “I saw my mother die.”
“She lives still. She was badly
injured, mistress, but she lives. Yer ma married Daniel Tucker, a Gentleman, no less. They have a fine new house in Elizabeth City. When I told her I’d see my Indian friends today, I assured her I would send ye word. Would ye like me to carry a message fer ye?”
“You did not tell them where this village lies, did you?” Makedewa interrupted. John shook his head, his throat turning crimson at the accusation.
“Of course not! I only told her I could carry word that might reach her lost daughter. It’s all I can hope fer with my own sister, ye know.”
“She’s alive?” Rebecca whispered. She was glad that Makedewa’s arm slipped around her waist to stop her from falling. Her legs shook and her stomach threatened to dispel her morning meal at the realization her mother still lived.
“Here, hold onto me,” Makedewa murmured. He swept her into his arms in one swift motion, holding her against his chest as if she weighed nothing. She saw her husband cast a glare at the Englishmen.
“I shall be fine,” she said weakly, not surprised when he refused to release her.
“You have upset my wife,” Makedewa growled.
“I—I’m all right, it’s just a shock,” she explained.
“Good day, John,” Makedewa snapped. He turned and stalked away to their Long House, depositing her gently on their bed despite his obvious rancor. When he pressed a cup of water to her lips she gently pushed him away, too breathless to drink as the truth of John’s words settled upon her.
Makedewa’s brows tensed as he lowered his head, avoiding her gaze as if he were afraid to see her. She suspected what fears troubled him, those whispers never spoken of between them.
“You have never sought to return to the English,” he finally said quietly. His palms rested on her knees, yet he remained quite still, even the force of his breathing not enough to move his rigid body.
“Those I love are here,” she replied. She ran her fingers over his head, caressing his ear, then his shoulder, finally pausing to rest on the hollow of his shoulder.
“Your mother lives.”
It hung there between them in the silence. She was not certain if he needed her to deny her English blood, or confirm her place as his wife, and for all of the confusion swelling in her heart she knew not what to say to him.
Her mother was alive. Of course she should go to her mother. But how could she say the words to her husband, when her intention was so much more?
She was not a woman to demand her will be done, and it was an unknown she stepped into when she prepared to make her request. Yes, he was her husband and she would obey him in all matters, but she hoped he would relent of his English hatred long enough to hear her out.
“I—I want to see her. Will ye take me to town?” Although she felt as if the very blood in her veins trembled, she did not stammer when she made her voice heard. After all, this was the man who promised to keep her safe, who promised to love her and honor he above all else for all their days.
“If you ask it of me, I will take you,” he said murmured. She placed her palm flat on his cheek, felt the warmth of his skin. His ebony eyes tilted up to meet hers, sending a rush of heat straight down through her belly.
No, her faith was not misplaced. His gaze was steady. His fingers tightened on her knees.
“Thank ye,” she whispered. He did not smile, but she felt his fingers twist into hers on her lap as he nodded.
Chapter 14
Makedewa
Elizabeth Tucker stood behind her husband as they approached. Even shielded by the broad Englishman, Makedewa could see how much his wife resembled her mother. Her hair was pulled back in a severe knot, but a few blond curls fell astray at her ears. She was heavier than Rebecca, her face a bit rounder and her stature somewhat taller than Rebecca’s petite height, yet there was no denying the resemblance. Her pale skin betrayed little of her age except for the crease along her forehead as she surveyed their approach.
Makedewa tightened his grip on his horse and cast a sideways glance at Rebecca as he shifted in his seat. She rode her favorite sorrel mare, but he could see the indecision in her demeanor as well. It had been four years since she had seen her mother, a woman she thought long buried. He cared nothing for what the Englishwoman had endured during that time; he only cared for what it would do to his wife to see her again.
He noticed Kaleb Tucker had a musket propped up against the doorway. It was close enough to reach quickly, and Makedewa suspected it was loaded. John Jackson had been helpful in explaining what to expect when they arrived, and the wiry gunsmith had also carried word of their impending visit. Makedewa was not happy to be indebted to the man and he was loathe to admit sending word was wise; if Makedewa and Rebecca had ventured into Elizabeth City unannounced, their arrival was likely to be greeted with violence. Makedewa was not on friendly terms with the English as Winn had once been. He would never forget how Winn had once served as liaison between the Powhatan and English, or how the settlers had turned on Winn and tried to kill him.
No. He would never forget their treachery. As a boy, or as a man, he would always remember.
Kaleb Tucker broke the silence with a stilted cough.
“’Tis good to see you hale, Rebecca,” Kaleb announced. It seemed a formal declaration, meant both to acknowledge her absence and welcome her arrival. Makedewa dismounted and glanced up at her Rebecca. Her face had been a careful mask as they rode into town, but now he watched it crumble as she looked upon her mother. He helped her down off the mare, his hands firm on her waist. He did not want to let her go.
Her eyes darted from Makedewa, to her mother, and then back to him. He could see the tear in her composure, the hint of uncertainty.
She waited for his approval. A stagnant bile rose in his chest as he nodded. He must be the one she could trust, no matter how this day with her mother turned out.
The corner of her mouth turned up in a smile as she gazed up at him and he could not help but make an amused snort in response. With that exchange, she left his side and went to that of her mother.
As the women embraced amidst tearful sobbing, Kaleb Tucker reached his side. Makedewa thought he looked familiar, more so than the usual English he encountered, and he wondered if they had met before. He was of common height and stature, although he looked healthier and more refined than most of the Englishmen Makedewa was accustomed to. His brown hair was pulled neatly back at his nape in a fanciful blue ribbon, and his attire looked to be more leisurely that serviceable. His skin seemed smooth on his hands, ending in long tapered fingers that bespoke of a gentle life. So he was no laborer, Makedewa thought. John Jackson had been correct when he said Rebecca’s mother married and English gentleman.
“Thank you, sir, for your care. My name is Kaleb Tucker. And you are…?”
“Her husband,” Makedewa answered simply. He was not yet ready to speak his Indian name to the stranger. Although familiar with the way the Tassantassas used given names so freely, he was reluctant to allow them to know his true name. There was still a part of him that feared his soul might be captured if his enemies knew his true name, and until he could know more about Kaleb Tucker it would remain unsaid.
Kaleb nodded, his eyes wary.
“Well, yes, then, of course. John Jackson told us of yer—of what had happened to dear Rebecca,” Kaleb stammered.
Rebecca and her mother linked arms and entered the house. Makedewa glanced briefly at Kaleb and made a low snorting sound, then followed the women.
They would put no walls between him and his wife.
“Why not give them some time, ye surely can see they must speak!” Kaleb exclaimed as Makedewa strode toward the house.
The horses were ground-tied, they would remain where they stood. They could have run off for all he cared. All he knew was that he did not like any of the sounds around him, not the murmur of voices from onlookers who peered curiously at them as they passed by, nor the absence of songbirds and sunshine. It seemed nature had abandoned the settlement the moment the E
nglish clawed into the earth; the scent of life was gone in Elizabeth City that had once been called the land of Tsenacomoco. Overrun by the stink of stale sodden tobacco and the closeness of human debris, it was nearly too much for him to take in. As he opened the door to follow them he noticed a puddle of foul liquid below one of the windows, trickling into a narrow gulley behind the rows of houses.
So they polluted the earth and lived in their own filth. How his beautiful wife could had come from vermin such as them, he could not fathom.
He entered the house. Rebecca and her mother sat by the hearth facing each other, hand in hand. He noticed the bible on a stool between them, similar to the one Rebecca had read to him from. It had been a gift, taken from the ruins of Martin’s Hundred after the Great Assault.
Makedewa left Rebecca in the care of Maggie in the cave that day. He knew she needed the comfort of another woman now, after all that had happened to her. Even before Maggie confirmed his suspicion, he knew it. He had seen it in her eyes, as if it were a secret shared only among those who had suffered the same fate. Although it had been many years since he thought on the evil done to him by Nathanial Webb, seeing Rebecca had brought it screaming back like a teeming banshee bent on destruction.
He must be patient; he must be slow. He must take care to show her he meant her no harm. If it took the rest of his life to do so, he would do it, even if it meant someday she only looked on him as a friend. Yet from the first moment he saw her he knew she would always be more to him. No tale could ever prepare him, no story could have made him understand. He loved her from the moment he saw her, and for him, even if unrequited, it was forever.
At loss to do anything useful as Maggie tended Rebecca, he left the campsite near the cave and traveled back to the ruins of Martin’s Hundred.
Yes, it had been his kind that set fire to the houses. It had been his kind that killed the women and children, and he had meant to join them. Only Winn had asked him, as a brother, to help save Finola, and in saving Finola they discovered Maggie was with her. If not for that, Makedewa would have joined the slaughter. He would have struck them down with no more thought than that of satisfaction.