A Roll of the Bones

by Trudy J. Morgan-Cole

  “Very short thanks, indeed.”

  “Poor Matt Grigg is barely dead, and the men still digging his grave. This is no day for light talk or merriment.” She was glad he had the other bucket; it occupied at least one of his hands and slowed him down enough that she could step lightly ahead of him on the path.

  “But when we are surrounded by the dead and dying, should we not taste the joys of life while we can?” he offered, and when she did not turn back to him with an answer, he added, “Why are you such a curst jade, Nan? Why so proud?”

  Now she did glance back over her shoulder at him. “Have you ever stopped to think that I am not curst and proud, but only that I do not like you? I know ’tis a hard thought to take in, that a woman might not be charmed by you, but you should consider it.”

  “You are a right shrew, you know that?”

  “Then why waste your time trying to charm me?”

  She knew the bold words were a mistake even before she felt his hard grip on her shoulder, pulling her to a stop, turning her to face him. She tried to wrench out of his grasp.

  “I’ve no interest in wooing such a harpy as you have turned out to be. I only want to know why you disdain me so—and not only me, but all men. Poor Ned follows round after you like a little dog after a bone, and you’ll not give him the time of day. Do you think you’ll find a better husband among the savages, proud Nan? Or do you fancy yourself too good for any man on God’s earth?”

  His fingers were like iron, and she knew she would see bruises if it were ever warm enough for her to peel off her shift and examine her arm. “You know well that I’d take an Indian for a husband long before I’d ever consider you. I don’t know why you make it your business to torment me.”

  He dropped the bucket, then, spilling water all over the ground, and with a wrench to her arm he tore hers from her hand as well. She struggled in vain as he towed her off the path into the trees. Their dark branches were laden with snow.

  “Torment you, is it? I’ve a better woman than you already, and she’ll be in my bed as soon as this plague passes and the preacher says the words. But I’m tired of waiting for my bride, and a slut who thinks herself too good for all of us will do while I wait. Tell you what, you grant me one kiss and I’ll trouble you no more.”

  Nancy twisted to wrench her arm from his grip. “Here’s my offer—you leave me go, no kisses, never speak to me again, or I’ll tell my master. Then he’ll tell the governor that you force your favours on virtuous maidens. The governor won’t—”

  His mouth was on hers, hard and brutal as a slap. He pushed her back against the bare trunk of a tree, and a little fall of snow from the branches dumped down on both their heads. It did not cool Whittington: while one hand still gripped her upper arm and his mouth crushed hers, his other hand fumbled at her breast and squeezed hard. She wriggled and tried to twist away from him, and he thrust his tongue into her mouth. Nancy felt herself gagging; she could not breathe.

  When he pulled away, she shouted in his face. “You filthy knave! Don’t think you will get away with such behaviour!”

  This time he stopped her mouth, not with his own, thank God, but with his hand over her face. She tried to get enough purchase on his flesh to bite down, hard, but he was skilled at holding a captive—almost as if he had done this before.

  One hand over her mouth, the weight of his muscular body pressing against hers, he moved his hand almost lazily from her breast, down to her skirts. Holding her in place against the tree trunk, he reached through apron and petticoat, groping around between her legs. As if he could even feel her privy parts through all that woolen fabric, Nancy thought—but of course touching wasn’t the point. Proving to her that he could touch, could take as he pleased—that was the point.

  “Say one word to Master Nicholas Guy, or to the governor,” Whittington whispered, his mouth next to her ear, “and I’ll ruin you, my lass. I’m the governor’s golden boy now, and I mean to rise high in this colony. If you tell tales, I’ll tell some of my own. Perhaps I’ll tell Nicholas Guy I’m not the only one stealing kisses. Thomas Willoughby stole them too, from your mistress. She’s no curst shrew like you—she gives willingly, so I’m told. A most cheerful slut, more than willing to cuckold her husband. I’ve got young Willoughby’s own word for it, but I swear I won’t tattle on her, if you don’t tell tales on me.” His fingers pinched, hard through the heavy russet of her petticoat. Now the hand moved back to her breast, pinched and twisted again. “Have we a bargain, Nancy?”

  She had been cold as long as she could remember, for months now, but that was an outside cold that worked itself from the skin inwards. Now she felt cold as if ice were in her veins, as if her heart stopped. “I make no bargains with the likes of you,” she said. “But I’ll give you no excuse to spread lies and slanders about my mistress, either. She would never stoop to such a thing.”

  But even as she said the words, she thought of Kathryn laughing with Thomas Willoughby, locking her eyes with his. ’Tis a foolish dalliance, and he a foolish boy, Nancy had told her then. Surely it had gone no further?

  “They are no lies, believe you me.” Whittington laughed at her and pushed his mouth up against hers again. She had never been kissed by a man before, and it was a horrible sensation: his teeth and his lips and his stale breath all up against her own mouth. But none of that mattered, all that mattered was that the kiss distracted him enough to loosen his grip a little. With her arms free, she pushed against his chest as hard as she could; hard enough to make him stumble back a step.

  “Nancy!” That was Ned now, coming up the path at last, and Whittington stepped away from her, almost lazily, releasing her from his grip and turning back to the path.

  “There comes poor Ned, your devoted puppy—go throw him a bone, or at least a kind word,” he sneered. “And do not forget our bargain, fair Nancy.”

  She followed him onto the path just before Ned appeared. How was she meant to explain that she was coming back from the pond with George Whittington and two empty water buckets? But when she saw him, she knew Ned had no thought for explanations or water buckets.

  “Come quick to the house,” he said.

  “’Tis not poor Molly?”

  “Just breathed her last, and Mistress Kathryn is most distressed—two deaths in the house in one day. Both Daisy and Bess are distracted with grief, and poor Tom, too. We need you to come and put all to rights.”

  He put out his hand. She took it, and followed him back to the house.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  An Occasion of Hope

  You say that you would live in Newfound-land,

  Did not this one thing your conceit withstand;

  You fear the Winter’s cold, shar , iercin air.

  They love it best, that have once wintered there.

  CUPIDS COVE

  MARCH 1613

  IN THE END, WHEN THE GROUND THAWED, THERE WERE NINE new graves dug in the little plot of land between the settlement and the woods. Eight men dead, and one woman. Nearly one-sixth of the settlement. Half the colonists had fallen ill, and some who recovered were slow to regain their strength. Master Crout gave great credit to raw turnip as a cure for the disease, though he did not mention that Nancy had been the first to suggest it. The men who had not fallen ill made forays into the woods on the trails they had cut last summer and autumn, hoping to hunt or trap animals to supplement their stores of food.

  One morning in late March, not long past the turning of the new year, Kathryn sat by the hearth knitting and stirring the pottage. She shifted on her stool in a fruitless effort to find a comfortable position now that her belly had swollen to enormous size. The weariness that had bound her to the bed for weeks had rolled away, leaving her with a restless energy that felt almost as if her skin were itching from the inside. She longed to be done with carrying the baby inside her, to feel that her body was her own and free to move about again, but before that must come the childbearing itself, a prospect that filled he
r with terror. She tried to busy herself with what tasks she could still manage to do, to keep her mind from dwelling on it.

  She was alone in the house. Her husband, impatient with how long it was taking him to grow strong after his sickness, was out chopping wood; she heard the comforting ring of his axe. Nancy, Bess, and Daisy had gone out to tend to the livestock. Ned, Tom Taylor, and the other men were out checking the snares they had laid in the woods for rabbits or other small prey. It seemed their efforts were successful, for Ned and Tom soon came back into the house with a brace of hares.

  “Those will be a welcome change,” Kathryn said, hauling herself to her feet with effort.

  “Don’t trouble yourself, Mistress. I’ve skinned them already; now I’ll clean and dress them,” said Tom, taking the small bodies and pulling out his knife as he moved to the table.

  “Have something to eat,” Kathryn said, gesturing towards the pottage that simmered in its pot, suspended over the fire. “The girls made barley bread, though there’s not enough lard, so ’tis a bit tough and dry. But it is better than ship’s biscuit. Is there any sign of a thaw at all out there?”

  “Today is warmer than yesterday,” Tom said.

  “You can hear the snow melting off the trees when you’re in the woods,” Ned added. “But ’tis best not to put too much stock in that. This place is the very devil for making you think winter’s over and spring’s at hand, and then hitting you in the face with another blizzard the very next day. Sure, you cannot count on spring till it’s halfway through summer. Like enough we’ll get a few warm days in July or August.” He darted a grin at Tom, then quickly arranged his face into a more sober expression. They were all cautious now, after the sickness, of any levity, though Ned’s good humour was hard to repress. Poor Tom had not smiled since his Molly was laid in the ground. He gave only a grim nod as he busied himself cutting up the rabbits.

  The others came back soon after. Daisy, as sad and solemn as Tom, moved at once to help him with his task, but Nancy and Bess were all caught up with a small bundle Nancy carried wrapped in her shawl. One of the nanny goats had died while birthing a kid early that morning—the latest of the goats to perish; they seemed to have had a plague of their own just as the settlers had had, though in their case it was likely to be the lack of good grass for fodder. The girls had brought the kid goat to the house in an effort to keep it alive near the fire.

  Nancy sat on the bench beside Kathryn, cuddling the little creature. “See, I’m getting a bit of practice for when I need to play nursemaid to your young one.”

  “I hope my child will be a fair piece prettier than that. Truly, Nan, would it not be kinder to let it die? The poor thing cannot survive.” The kid goat looked little different from the poor skinned rabbits Tom was now putting on the spit to cook.

  “It can indeed. The other nanny goat has milk, and though she won’t take this kid, I got a little milk from her—look, see how she suckles?” Nancy had dipped the shawl in the little bowl of goat’s milk, and was taking great pleasure in watching the kid suck at it. Ned knelt beside them, his head and Nancy’s close together, laughing softly at the little goat.

  Well, let them laugh, Kathryn thought. The household, the colony, needed laughter. With the loss of Matt and Molly and so many others, and the loss of Mistress Catchmaid’s unborn child, Kathryn felt as if all eyes were on her growing belly, waiting for a newborn to give them a shred of hope for the future. It was too heavy a weight to bear; what if something went wrong again? Let Nancy have her moment of pleasure in the little kid goat before it, too, died.

  Kathryn took what pleasure she could in simple things: the gamey smell of meat cooking; Nancy’s and Ned’s smiles; the sight of her husband coming through the door with an axe over his shoulder. And one more small pleasure, though a private one: the news from the main dwelling-house that Thomas Willoughby, who had fallen ill, was out of danger and up walking about again. She had not seen him in weeks; communal meals and even worship services had been curtailed since the scurvy had struck down so many. When Frank Tipton came in for dinner and told them the news of how all the sick were faring in the other dwelling-houses, he mentioned Willoughby in the tally of those who were recovering. Kathryn felt Nancy’s eyes on her, and studied to keep her face cool and uninterested.

  Kathryn slept poorly that night. Thomas Willoughby’s face rose up in her dream: he reached out a hand towards her, and she took it. Then the dream twisted: she was in bed in her father’s house in Bristol, Nancy by her side, losing her first baby in a torrent of pain and blood. Then she was fully awake: the pain was real, and the bed beneath her wet. Her belly clenched like a fist, and she gritted her teeth to keep from screaming.

  Between waves of pain she shook her husband, told him it was her time.

  “What?” He flustered awake, turning to look at her. “I will fetch Mistress Butler. Do you—is there aught you need now?”

  “Only wake Nan before you go—she will know what to do.”

  In seconds Nancy was at her side. The door opened and a gust of chilly wind blew in, then it slammed closed again as Master Nicholas went out into the dark morning to find the woman who might act as midwife. Bess and Daisy, roused by the fuss, went to build up the fire. Upstairs, the men slept in their beds, untroubled by the drama unfolding in the master’s bedchamber.

  Now the pains were faster, harder. No time in between to catch a breath. Voices in the background, women’s voices, high and fluttering. Someone put a cup to her lips. She tried to drink the bitter brew, no doubt full of healing herbs, but she gagged and spluttered it over her nightdress. “Stop giving her that,’twill choke her!” she heard, and another voice said, “What do you know of it? I have seen many a woman through the birth pains with this brew.”

  Pain invaded her whole body, made her vision blur. She shut her eyes. Hands gripped her hands. Nancy? Yes, it must be Nan. Who else would hold her through all this?

  “Say a prayer for me, Nan,” she begged through gritted teeth. “One of Tibby’s old prayers, if you know any.”

  Nancy’s face was close to her ear. “I wish I knew all her charms,” she said—Nancy who put no stock in charms and magic. “I only know the one Mary the Virgin brought forth Christ…” Kathryn gripped Nancy’s hand tight as her friend whispered the old, half-remembered prayer charm, a reminder of home. “Lazarus come forth, Lazarus come forth.”

  “Push! Push! Bear down, now, bear down. This babe is quick coming!” A woman’s voice: not Nancy. Very close to her ear, someone repeating the word push over and over. And she felt it, like an urge inside her, her whole body clenching to drive out the new life inside, force it into the world whether it was ready or not. Push! She pushed, feeling as if she was engulfed in flames.

  The women’s voices clamoured, layering over each other till she could not tell who was saying what. They all shouted orders and instructions, but the only imperative she could obey was that of her own body, that outward and forward surge. She wanted to hold back from the pain, but she could only rush forward into it, though her whole body would split in two.

  And it was done. A thin, high wail replaced the cacophony of women’s voices.

  “Ah, he’s a bonny lad,” someone said.

  “Listen to him! A good healthy cry,” said another.

  Kathryn wanted to open her eyes, to see what they were talking about, but she was suddenly so exhausted. The pain was ebbing now, though there was one more quick spasm as someone leaned close and placed something warm on her chest. “Look at your fine baby,” Nan said. “See what a grand little lad you’ve had.”

  Kathryn blinked, looked down. The baby was small and red, still wet and slimy with the birthing fluids. She thought of the little kid goat, the skinned rabbits. Then he blinked too, and dark eyes looked up into hers. Another person—the baby that had been just a thought, a hope, a dream all these long months was suddenly a human soul who could look up at her, meet her eyes.

  “Good-day,” she said, not
sure how to greet her child. “Good-day, little one.” She looked from the baby to Nancy. “Where is my husband? Does he know of the child yet?”

  “We shooed all the men down to the big house. Bess has gone to carry the news. I’m sure Master Nicholas will be up here as quick as he can to see for himself.”

  He was, indeed, there within the half hour, allowing time for Nancy to help her tidy herself a little while Daisy cleaned the baby and swaddled him. He was back in Kathryn’s arms, rooting for his mother’s nipple, when his father entered the house.

  Nicholas Guy touched his wife’s cheek before looking down at his infant son. “You look well. I am glad you have come through without too great suffering.”

  He gathered the baby in his arms, then, and looked long and solemnly at the little bundle while Kathryn looked at him. He was a good man, her husband. He had protected and provided for her in this harsh land, and she was glad to give him a son and heir. God willing, she would bear him more in the future.

  Life was no minstrel’s ballad, Kathryn reminded herself. She was not a maid in a romance, but a colonist’s wife and now a mother. She took the baby back from her husband’s arms as he said, “I wish to call him Jonathan. My grandfather’s name, and a tribute to my cousin John as well.”

  “’Tis fitting,” Kathryn agreed. Every time he had raised the question of a name before the birth, she had told him it was ill luck to talk about it. She had been so afraid she would never bear a living child. Even now, of course, a baby was a fragile thing. Especially in this harsh land, at the far end of winter. She held her warm, living child in her arms, and wondered if she could dare to hope he would survive.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A New Beginning is Celebrated

  When they had wisely, worthily begun,

  For a few errors that athwart did run,

  (As every action first is full of errors)

  They fell off flat, retired at the first terrors.