Cain brought a deerskin robe from the hut and folded it to make a seat for his grandmother, then produced a backrest of woven willow branches for her to lean on. M’biak went to the pond for fresh water to quench her thirst, and the Shawnee searched through a pack to find a goose-feather fan.
Mistress Dare beckoned Elizabeth to sit beside her as the men hastened to open the oysters and pluck the turkey. “Come, come, child,” she cried. “I want to speak with you. Tell me of the Queen. Is she well?”
“Queen Catherine?”
“Catherine? I know nothing of this Catherine,” Mistress Dare insisted. “I would know of England’s good Queen Bess.”
“Catherine of Braganza is queen, madam. The old queen has been dead for many years.”
“Are you certain?”
Elizabeth nodded. “My cousin is lady-in-waiting to her majesty. I have been presented to her several times myself.”
“Aiiee,” Mistress Dare groaned. “Cain said it must be so, but this one did not want to believe. When I heard your name, I was sure you were named to honor her majesty.” The faded blue eyes took on a faraway look. “My mother said Elizabeth had always been queen and always would be. I knew she was a silly woman, my mother.” She folded her knotted hands and rocked back and forth. “She was a good woman, but foolish at times.” Her head snapped up, and she fixed Elizabeth with a piercing stare. “I suppose Raleigh is dead too.”
“Yes.”
“This Catherine of Braganza—she is good queen?”
Elizabeth paused for a moment and considered her answer. “It is said that she is a kind and just lady, but many would think better of her if she could give King Charles a son.”
“Char-les.” The name on Mistress Dare’s lips was softly accented and foreign. “King Char-les.” She shook her head as though unconvinced. “Good Queen Bess was the Virgin Queen. She had no man to rule beside her.”
“True. But she left no heir either. James of Scotland ascended the throne of England, then his son Charles.” Elizabeth watched the old woman intently to see if she was able to comprehend.
“Then this Char-les is a Scot.” Mistress Dare’s eyes were nearly lost in wrinkles when she smiled. “My father said the Scots were savage warriors.”
“There has been war in England, madam,” Elizabeth explained. “Terrible war. That Charles died horribly, and his son, also named Charles, now rules.”
Mistress Dare made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Ah,” she exclaimed. “Then that is why my grandfather did not come for us as he promised. My mother did not know why. All her life she watched the sea for a ship.”
The men had cleaned the turkey and washed it in the sea. Cain was making a spit to hold the bird over the fire. He caught Elizabeth’s eye and smiled at her.
“Are we to eat today?” his grandmother demanded. “I was promised oysters.”
“And you shall have them,” Cain promised. “They are roasting in the coals.”
She wrinkled her nose. “They are probably as small as wren’s eggs,” she grumbled.
“For you, Grandmother,” he teased, “I cook only those as large as pumpkins.”
“Hmmph!” Mistress Dare clapped her hands and M’biak brought her a pipe of shiny green stone. Carefully, he packed it with tobacco, lit it with a coal from the fire, and handed it to her. The old lady drew a long puff and blew smoke into the air.
“What was your grandfather’s name?” Elizabeth asked. When she was a child, her grandfather had read her the story of Raleigh’s lost colony. She knew that after establishing a settlement on Roanoke Island in Virginia, the leader of the expedition had sailed back to England for much-needed supplies, leaving his daughter and newborn granddaughter, Virginia Dare, on the island. When he returned, three years to the day later, all trace of the English were gone. Although it was commonly believed that the settlers had perished at the hands of hostile Indians, the mystery had never been solved.
Mistress Dare chuckled. “You think I have forgotten? I have not. His English name was Gover Norwhite.” She took another long draw on the pipe. “I think it is best he did not come for my mother. The Lenni-Lenape follow the peace trail. Grass grows on the path of war, and babies with empty bellies do not weep for dead fathers.” Suddenly she reached out and seized Elizabeth’s hand. “You do not believe me, do you?”
Elizabeth tried to pull free, but the old woman’s grip was like iron. “Please . . . madam,” she stammered. ”I do not—”
“Hah!” Mistress Dare released her and laughed. “It does not matter, for this one be not sure she believes you. The English speak with tongue of hahees—the crow. Good Queen Bess may still sit on the throne of England!”
Chapter 7
By the time Cain announced that the meal was ready, evening shadows were beginning to spill across the campsite. The five gathered near the low fire and shared the bounty of the land and sea. Although Elizabeth had lived with Cain for weeks, she still marveled at the variety of delicious food he and the men produced without a proper kitchen.
There were oysters and tiny clams, some raw and others steamed in their shells, and a rich soup of crab and fish, seasoned with wild onions and herbs. The turkey had been divided in two; part was grilled over the fire and part wrapped in a casing of mud and baked in the hot coals. There was a dish of pale green seaweed that Mistress Dare declared delicious, and steamed cattail shoots, along with pumpkin and squash, flavored with honey. Dried, crushed berries added to the taste of flat corn cakes—cakes that bore no resemblance to Elizabeth’s earlier inadequate attempt at baking.
To Elizabeth’s surprise, Cain apologized to his grandmother for the poor quality of his feast. “If you had sent a runner, Grandmother, I could have offered you better food.”
“Hmmph,” she muttered. “Or perhaps you might have hidden this good turkey and offered me cold fish.” The three men laughed.
The meal went on for hours, and it became clear to Elizabeth that much of Mistress Dare’s grumbling was only done in jest. All of the men obviously regarded her with great respect and affection. Cain was careful to offer each new dish to his grandmother first and then to Elizabeth. Cain and Mistress Dare spoke in a mixture of softly slurred English and Indian; often Cain made a point of translating something that was said in Algonquian.
As the others talked and joked with each other, Elizabeth watched. She was not yet convinced that Cain’s grandmother was who she said she was. The leader of the lost colony and the grandfather of the real Virginia Dare had been the artist John White. Was it possible that she had merely forgotten her grandfather’s name? Regardless of who she was, it was obvious that the old woman had had a great deal of contact with the English. If Mistress Dare could be persuaded to help, Elizabeth was certain she would be reunited with her people.
Her opportunity came when the three men announced that they would walk down the beach in search of sea turtles. Elizabeth and Mistress Dare were left alone together. As soon as the men were out of hearing range, Elizabeth moved close to the old woman.
“If you are English, you must help me,” she whispered urgently. “Your grandson is holding me captive.”
The corners of Mistress Dare’s mouth turned up in a sly smile. “You do not look like any prisoner I have seen, Eliz-a-beth,” she said. She took a sip of water from her painted water jug and looked at Elizabeth quizzically. “Has Cain beaten you? Does he force you to carry water and cook for him?”
“No, but—”
“Ah.” She held up a finger for silence. “I did not see you prepare this meal.” She extended both hands and waited expectantly.
An owl hooted from the direction of the pond. Elizabeth trembled, despite the warmth of the fire and the mildness of the evening. Reluctantly, she put her hands in Mistress Dare’s.
Nodding approval, the old lady turned Elizabeth’s hands over, examining her palms by firelight. For long minutes, she stared, saying nothing. Finally, she raised her eyes to meet Elizabeth’s. “These are n
ot slave hands,” she pronounced in her lilting, high voice. “Too soft, like hands of a babe.” She arched one snow-white eyebrow. “I see you watching my grandson. You do not watch with the eyes of a captive.”
Elizabeth pulled her hands away. “That’s not true!” she protested. “I want to go to Jamestown. I must! The man I will marry is there.”
“The lines of your hand say he is not there,” Mistress Dare intoned softly. “Your hand says you will bear strong sons and daughters for my grandson.”
“No!” Elizabeth moved to the other side of the fire. The owl hooted again, closer, and a queer prickling sensation rose in Elizabeth’s throat. “You can’t read the future,” she cried. “That’s witchcraft.”
The old woman chuckled. “A witch now, am I? I have been called many things, but never witch. Aiiee.” She rocked back, and mischief twinkled in the faded blue eyes. “No, no, child, you need not fear me. Think you I can fly up into that tree? Turn into a owl?”
Elizabeth shivered as icy fear rose within her. Was the woman a witch? Elizabeth had always scoffed at those who ranted of demons and black magic, but what if it were all true? Her mouth went dry as sand, and she felt her pulse pounding as she looked about for a weapon to defend herself.
“Shhh,” Mistress Dare soothed. “I have never harmed a child in all my life. What I see in your palm is not sorcery. It is written here plain for any to read. Each life has a destiny.” She closed her eyes and rocked slowly to and fro. “Three times you will cross the sea,” she murmured, “and three times you will wed.” She took a long breath. “Three but only two, and of the two, only one.”
“Stop,” Elizabeth said. “No more, I beg of you. All I want is your help to get to Jamestown. I’ll take you with me, if you wish. I’ll see you get safely home to England.”
Mistress Dare chuckled. “Home? Home to England? England is not home.”
“It is for me.”
“Is it?” Mistress Dare closed her eyes.
Minutes passed, and Elizabeth realized the old woman had fallen asleep. Her breathing was so light that only the faint stir of her feather ruff gave any indication that she was alive.
What am I doing here? Elizabeth cried inwardly. Why me? I should have gone with my aunt instead of pushing that stupid chit into the boat in my place. At least if the boat went down, we would have drowned together.
“No,” she murmured, as shame replaced self-pity. I’m not sorry for what I did, and I’m not sorry I’m alive. Elizabeth chuckled wryly. I’m not even sorry I left England. If I had stayed safely at home, I’d never have glimpsed this strange New World. I’d never have known Cain.
Elizabeth jumped as a hand descended on her shoulder. “Oh!” She whirled to see Cain standing behind her. “I didn’t hear you come back.”
“I did not wish to frighten you, Eliz-a-beth. We find a turtle. She comes to lay her eggs in the sand. Do you wish to look upon her?”
“A sea turtle?” Unconsciously, she twisted the fringe of her skirt in her fingers; her breathing quickened and she averted her eyes. The heavy night air seemed charged with expectancy, and the man she felt she knew was suddenly a mysterious stranger. “On the beach?”
“Yes.” He fixed her with an unwavering gaze.
His impassive face gleamed in the flickering firelight; his copper-hued shoulders seemed to Elizabeth too broad, too perfect to belong to a living, breathing man.
The tightness in her throat spread down her chest, making her breasts swell and tingle. Her nipples rubbed against the inside of her leather dress with every breath. Nervously, she smoothed her hair. “Your . . . your grandmother,” she stammered. “Will she—”
“She sleeps,” he said.
Elizabeth moistened her dry lips. “Harry . . . M’biak.” It seemed important she not be alone with Cain on the beach tonight. Not with the luminous moon hanging like a great golden crescent among the clouds . . . not with the scent of beach plum blossoms wafting so sweetly in the air. “Where are they?”
“They wait and watch.” With tantalizing slowness, he captured her hand and raised it to his lips, placing a lingering kiss on the sensitive underside of her wrist. “You have beauty, Eliz-a-beth,” he said in his soft, husky cadence. “Nibeeshu, the moon, has not your beauty.”
Her heart fluttered wildly in her breast as she leaned against him, letting her lips brush the satin of his skin. The tip of her tongue flicked against the hollow of his throat; he tasted of salt and pine needles. “Cain,” she whispered. “Cain.”
Across the fire, Mistress Dare’s faded eyes opened a crack, and a smile tugged at the wrinkled creases of her mouth. She coughed and jerked upright with a snort, as though waking from a dream. Cain and Elizabeth jumped apart. “Hmmph.” Mistress Dare rubbed at her face and called sleepily in English. “Grandson? Are you here?”
“I am here, Grandmother.”
“We are both here, madam,” Elizabeth said, too loudly. “Are you well?”
“M’biak? Where is M’biak?” the old woman demanded testily.
“N’dapi, onna,” came M’biak’s reply. He and Harry entered the firelight and sat down on the sand.
“This one is hungry,” Mistress Dare complained. “Am I such a poor guest that my belly is to shrivel like an empty waterbag? I suppose there are no corn cakes left.”
Cain chuckled indulgently. “There are corn cakes, Cocumtha.″ He glanced at Elizabeth, and she picked up a bowl and handed it to him.
The old woman took a cake and nibbled at it. “Am I to eat alone?” she said.
“Mata,” Cain replied. He took a portion of the flat cake and broke it in two, offering half to Elizabeth. M’biak and Harry exchanged glances, then they too helped themselves to the crumbly bread as Cain ate his.
Elizabeth bit off a piece of the cake, then gratefully sipped from the water jar Cain passed to her.
“Grandson,” Mistress Dare cried. “Do you care for this woman?”
“I have given her bread and water.”
The old woman wiped the crumbs from her mouth and sighed. “You, Eliz-a-beth.”
“Madam?”
“My grandson pulled you from the sea?”
Puzzled, Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, madam. I told you so before.”
“He is your friend?” Mistress Dare persisted. “You trust him?”
Embarrassed, Elizabeth nodded and mumbled something incoherent.
“Yes or no?” the old woman demanded. “You care for him?”
“Yes . . . of course,” Elizabeth answered, ”but I—”
“Is enough,” Mistress Dare declared. “So be it.” Chuckling, she clapped her hands. “Does the moon sleep in the west? Are you men or suckling babes?” She grinned at her own joke. “Let our hearts be warm on this night. Let us laugh and tell wonderful stories.”
M’biak said something in the Indian tongue and slapped Cain on the back. Harry passed Mistress Dare a turkey wing, and the old woman began to chew on it greedily. M’biak got to his feet and spread his arms over his head.
“M’biak will tell the first story,” Cain explained in English. The older man began to speak, and Cain and Mistress Dare took turns translating.
“Long ago, when the world was young and the animals could talk . . .”
The story went on and on until Elizabeth could no longer keep her eyes open. Vaguely, she was aware when her head drooped and someone put a deerskin over her. Then, the firelight and the droning voices blurred together and she was no longer aware of anything.
When she opened her eyes again, the sun was rising over the rim of misty blue-green sea. The fire had burned to ashes, and she was alone with Cain. With a start, she sat bolt upright and looked around. There was no sign of M’biak, or Harry, or Mistress Dare.
She rubbed the crick in her neck and yawned. Cain smiled at her. “Where are they?” she asked. She had the strangest notion that it had all been a dream, that the old grandmother and the others had only existed in her mind.
“Cocumtha
never visit long,” he said. “She is on way to make visit of my cousin at the Place of the Bubbling Spring. My cousin, Okottimaang, has a new baby girl. Grandmother will give the baby a name.” He grinned. “She says she will name the baby Eliz-a-beth.”
Elizabeth rubbed her eyes and pulled the robe around her against the damp morning air. “Do you always eat so much?”
“Sometimes.”
She stood up, and something tumbled into the sand at her feet. She bent and picked it up. It was a locket of tarnished silver, surrounded with a circle of seed pearls. “What is this?” she asked. “Did Mistress Dare lose this?”
Cain shook his head. “Open it.”
Her fingers found the minute catch, and the lid snapped open. Inside was a painted miniature of the old queen, Elizabeth. “Oh.” She stared down at the lovely painting. “Oh,” she repeated. “You must run after your grandmother. This must be very precious to her.”
“She did not lose it. She left it for you, Eliz-a-beth.”
“A present? For me?” Her forehead creased in a frown. “But why?”
Cain chuckled. “It is her marriage gift to you.”
“Marriage?” Elizabeth’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “But I’m not—”
“You are. Last night . . . when we broke the corn and drank of the same jug. We are wed, ki-te-hi. In the eyes of the Great Spirit and of my people, you are my wife.”
Elizabeth shook her head in disbelief. “You’re lying. I’m not your wife! I can’t be.”
“It is not good for man and woman to share wigwam when they be not one. Unless . . .” He looked at her questioningly. “You be not widow, be you?”
Her balled fists dropped to rest on her hips and she glared at him. “Widow? Widow?” she cried. “I’m not even a wife.”
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