The Blooded Ones

by Elizabeth Brown

  “Was that pleasing to ye?” she asked, at loss to say anything meaningful.

  “You please me quite well,” he replied, his voice low and measured. She felt the blush rise to her cheeks, and dipped her head to avoid his heated stare.

  “I have never kissed a man,” she said softly. She did not know why she felt the need to confess it to him, but suddenly she felt as if her heart was flayed open and she wished to share all the things she had kept buried for so long. He would not allow her to look away, taking her chin in his fingers and tilting it back upward.

  “Then I thank you for that honor,” he whispered. His hand caressed the small of her back as he captured her gaze. “I would be the only man to ever have that honor, if you would have me. I want you for my wife, Rebecca.”

  She did not realize she cried until he kissed her tears away, and when he covered her mouth again with his own she tasted the salt of her tears between them.

  “Ye do not want me,” she said quietly, as he tried to kiss away her protests. She tried to stem the panic as their embrace became more heated, loving his gentle hands on her flesh, yet fighting the surge of buried memories all the same.

  “I do. I have always wanted you,” he murmured.

  “How could ye, when ye know my shame?” she insisted. He held her face in his hands and stared into her eyes, his face etched as if in pain.

  “You bear no shame for what was done to you,” he whispered, his voice fierce and tense.

  “But I am no maid,” she protested.

  “You are to me,” he replied.

  She placed her hand on his face and then kissed him softly.

  “Why do ye act so fearful, when ye have such a kind heart?”

  He sighed and made the agitated half growl, half snort the men often uttered.

  “There is no kindness here, chulentet,” he murmured. “Perhaps a bit for you, that is all, my little bird.”

  She smiled. They both looked up at the sound of voices. Ahi Kekeleksu had found them, calling them to the late day meal. It was an unwelcome distraction but they drew apart nonetheless. They gathered the bows and made their way back to the cottage, and for the first time in what seemed ages her heart soared with pleasure at the knowledge Makedewa watched her every move.

  CHAPTER 12

  Maggie

  Traveling with their party was by no means speedy, as Winn had predicted. After three longs days of being astride a horse she was ready to wash the sweat from her skin and catch a few hours of rest. When her feet finally hit the ground again her legs felt like jelly and she suspected she walked like an old cowboy, bowlegged and bedraggled to boot.

  “The village is not far from here. We should reach it in the morning,” Winn assured her when they stopped. As she helped Teyas start a fire while the men tended the horses, she took a look around. The forest was filled with dense growing cypress, the ancient trees more common the deeper they traveled inland. She had never been so far away from the banks of the streams they typically lived near, so although she expected the different terrain it still made her uneasy. The soil was less sandy than the lowlands, and the men were pleased to find small game more plentiful for hunting. Winn was right. Their lives would be better the further they lived from the English towns.

  Makedewa resumed teaching Rebecca how to shoot the bow, and Maggie settled down by the fire to watch them. Exhausted from the travel, Kwetii slept curled into a ball on the furs beside her, with her tiny thumb pressed up against the roof of her gaping mouth as she gently snored. Maggie brushed the child’s dark hair off her heart-shaped face with a smile.

  Winn sat down beside her while the other men stood watching the lesson. He offered her a sip from his flask that she gladly took. It was the last of the sack Makedewa had won playing dice and it left a pleasant burning warmth in her belly as it settled.

  “Is Rebecca well?” he asked. He sat resting his arm on one bent knee, watching his brother. Maggie raised an eyebrow.

  “Why do you ask? She’s fine, as far as I know.” She noticed the subtle nuzzle Makedewa gave Rebecca when he leaned close in his instruction, and the way Rebecca leaned into him with a smile. Apparently, they were getting on quite fine.

  “I thought she lost her sense. I never thought to see her use a weapon.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes.

  “Oh, yeah, why not? She’s as capable as anyone else is. She just needs a little confidence,” Maggie replied. “Rebecca, strike quickly when you mean to kill a man! A warrior once told me that!” she called out. Winn chuckled.

  “Leave them be, woman,” he grinned.

  “Us girls need to stick together.”

  “No doubt.”

  She snuck a sly glance at his profile. Sculpted and strong, with bright blue eyes set against thick brows, he still made her breath hitch when he looked at her. The way he cocked an eyebrow at her, or twisted the corner of his lip in that secret boyish grin, it was enough to render her senseless, even after all they had been through. Would it always be so between them?

  She reached for his hand and he smiled, clasping it firmly in his own. He rubbed the base of her wrist with his thumb, a firm yet gentle pressure, sending a shock of goose bumps over her skin. She felt the warmth spread at the contact, and a flush rose to her cheeks.

  Yes. It would never change. He would always be a flame in her darkness, searing her with his heat. As if he sensed her thoughts, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed the scar upon her palm.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

  “For what, ntehem?”

  “For tending the fields that day. I didn’t think any harm of it.”

  He squeezed her hand.

  “You are no obedient wife. I know that well.” He ran his fingers up the length of her arm and pressed a gentle kiss to her bared shoulder, where he rested his lips for a moment. “There are things I fear losing in this life now. Before you, I feared nothing.”

  His words were gentle, considering the circumstances. It was not the first time they had such conflict. Despite her desire to behave like a proper wife, it was an endless struggle to subdue what was left of the twenty-first century woman inside her. At times she feared the way their pasts pulled them apart, yet she knew it was their differences that also bound them together.

  She stiffened and sat up as he pulled abruptly away. She saw them at the same time as he did, the strangers standing at the edge of the clearing. Two men, both tall, both fair skinned, with full beards and long, unruly hair.

  Rebecca dropped the bow when Makedewa pushed her behind him, and Teyas grabbed her hand. Chetan crouched, hand on his knife, and Marcus unsheathed the axe on his back. The sound of metal sliding from the sheath screamed in the silence, followed by the clang of weapons revealed by the newcomers. Other than drawing weapons, the men remained still as they inspected each other.

  Winn slowly stood, his eyes never wavering from them. Marcus stepped forward in front of the others, standing between all of them and the intruders.

  “Hvata bak, ofugr,” one said, taking a step toward them. He was taller than the first but younger, nearly as broad as Marcus was through the shoulders. His hair was a russet gold hue, hanging thick down his back with a series of tiny braids edging his scalp. Crisscrossed over his chest he wore flat leather straps, which secured several weapons including a knife. The handle of a sword protruded over his shoulder from where it was secured to his back. She did not recognize the language he spoke, yet she suspected Marcus did by the way his eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

  “Go back where you came from. You are not welcome here,” the stranger said in stilted English.

  There was a rustle from the woods beyond the clearing and suddenly a half-dozen more men came forward. All attired in a similar manner, every man appeared ready to fight.

  “Sa er tala? Show me who commands ye,” Marcus replied, his arms flexed with gripping the sword. Maggie gasped when Winn moved to stand beside Marcus. His knife was drawn, his muscles t
ensed, his body coiled like a spring as he shielded them from the intruders. Makedewa and Chetan flanked them.

  An older man stepped forward. His russet hair was similar to the first, his beard longer and streaked with scattered grey. He put up his hand and motioned to the younger man, who immediately sheathed his weapon.

  “Dagr?” the older man said. Marcus did not waver when he moved closer, his stark blue eyes widening. Marcus dropped his hand to his side.

  “Erich?” Marcus replied.

  The man called Erich suddenly reached out and clasped both hands around the one arm Marcus extended. They stared into each other’s faces for a brief moment without words, and then the stranger dropped down on one knee before Marcus and Winn.

  His deep voice was strangled yet loud when he spoke.

  “Chief Dagr has finally returned to us! Thank the Gods for his safe passage! Long life to Chief Dagr!”

  Maggie let out the breath she held as the strangers fell to their knees, the sounds of their reverence a growing murmur which rolled through them as a gathering roar.

  “Long life to Chief Dagr! Chief Dagr!” they shouted. She saw Winn take a step back and look to his brothers, who were staring at the kneeling men in wonder.

  She had never seen Marcus so unsettled. His back straightened and his eyes swept over the men before him. Biceps tensed, the veins standing out like a web over his skin, she watched him as he spoke.

  “Rise. Stand up, ye needn’t kneel to me,” Marcus said, his voice strained and low. The man called Erich stood with a grin spreading across his face. The others remained bent in deference.

  “Ach, no, ye never did wish to be Chief. But Chief ye are, and thank Odin you’ve returned to us. You’ve come back from Valhalla, yet you’re no spirit.”

  “Nay, no spirit. Just a man,” Marcus mumbled. “I thought you had taken the others and left for Vinland, Erich. Or worse—that you did not survive the attack.”

  “Then you are just in time. We near gave up on seeing you again as well, my friend.”

  Maggie watched as the men clasped arms again.

  “This is Winkeohkwet. My son,” Marcus said. Erich made a half bow, his head lowered in respect to Winn. “And his family. I–”

  “By the Gods! Esa?” Erich whispered. The color drained from his face as he looked to Maggie. She stayed kneeling on the ground next her sleeping daughter, unwilling to risk waking the child in the midst of such confusion. She had no idea who the men were or what was going on, and until her husband made indication it was safe she would not leave the child. Erich started to approach her, and Winn immediately stepped between them with his knife drawn. Makedewa gripped his knife and Chetan moved closer to Maggie at Winn’s motion.

  “Please,” Erich said. “I mean no harm.” He slowly placed his sword on the ground and then held up both hands extended in a gesture of submission to Winn. Marcus put a hand on Winn’s shoulder. After a terse exchange in Paspahegh between the brothers, they lowered their weapons.

  “He willna harm them. He’s kin to her,” Marcus said. Maggie’s head snapped up. Kin to her? She had no family, other than the loved ones she shared with Winn. The sting of realization of yet another betrayal by Marcus was only dampened by her curiosity. Who was the massive beast of a man staring at her?

  “What is yer name, astin min?” he asked. He knelt beside her with his hand extended. She did not flinch when he gently touched her cheek with his calloused fingertips, too entranced by his deep jade eyes to move. It had been a long time since she had seen her own eyes in a mirror, yet she knew the ones staring at her mimicked her own.

  “Maggie. Maggie McMillan,” she said softly. His eyes widened and his lips parted.

  “Maggie MacMhaolian. Aye, of course. And this wee miting by yer side, she be yer child?”

  She nodded. “Winn’s daughter and mine. Who are you?”

  “I am Erich MacMhaolian. Thank ye, my lord,” he said, bowing his head when Marcus placed a hand on his shoulder. “My greatest thanks for keeping her safe.”

  “Ye would do no less, in my stead,” Marcus answered.

  “Who are you?” she whispered.

  “Yer uncle. Erich is brother to yer mother,” Marcus said.

  It was fortunate she chose to remain seated, for if not, she was certain she would have fallen on the ground.

  “I thought my family was gone,” she replied, glancing up at Marcus, who had the good sense to grimace at her accusation and bow his head.

  “Aye, I was dead to ye, as far as a man in the past would be. We hoped to have ye returned to us one day, but it’s been so long…one never returns to a time once lived, even with the magic of the Blooded Ones. I fear ye were lost to us, as were yer mother and my father.”

  “My mother?”

  “And what of my sister, my lord?” Erich said to Marcus, although his eyes remained still fastened on her as if he feared she would disappear.

  “I’m sorry. She’s gone, and Malcolm as well. We honored our vow. Malcolm lived a long life. And Esa—Esa left her daughter in our keeping.”

  Erich’s jaw tightened and he nodded his head. He slowly rose to his feet and extended a hand to Maggie.

  “Come. We have much to celebrate.”

  At first glance, the Norse village could have been mistaken for Powhatan. A straight central path divided two rows of long-house style dwellings, taller and larger than the yehakins the Indians used, but similar in structure with thatched roofs and bark slat shingles. As they rode the path through the village, the sounds of crushed stone beneath the horse’s hooves announced them. Wide-eyed women and children peered out from doorways as they passed, clad in homespun tunics with cord-wrapped waists, with long locks braided amongst red and golden hair. Maggie did not know if she felt sheltered or trapped as she rode surrounded by the Norse, her heart pounding against the toddler bound in her lap. As they came upon a massive Long House at the end of the path and dismounted, several young boys ran out to take the horses. She was stunned to see a copper-skinned youth among them, a boy with long black hair and eyes like coal pellets, dressed in breeches like the others. He was clearly part Indian, living among a colony of Norsemen.

  The men walked clustered behind Marcus and Erich. They were an intimidating bunch, all brawn and steel weapons among bared chests and fur-covered shoulders. Most were brawny, like Marcus and Winn. Many were fair-haired like Erich, with reddish blond locks lying long down their backs. They carried decorated weapons, lavish appearing items that seemed out of place considering the simple way they lived.

  Winn and Maggie were escorted to the end of a long plank table that sat centered in the Noroanveror Skali, the place they called the Northern Hall. End to end, it breached the span of the room, with enough spaces on the benches to hold more than the number of warriors that accompanied them. Other smaller tables lined one wall and a fire rose from a pit in the other corner. Women and children began filling in as well, and from the smell of thick venison in the air she imagined it was time for a meal. Teyas offered to take Kwetii and Maggie gladly complied.

  “What is this place?” Maggie asked, craning her neck to see past the men. Winn studied the warriors in silence before he answered her.

  “I have heard of Tassantassas that live near the Nansemond, but I have never been to this place. If my uncle knew of them, they would all be dead. What else Pale Feather lies about, I know not,” Winn said tersely.

  “I don’t think he lied about this, Winn. He told me most of the other Time Walkers were gone. He seemed just as surprised as we were when they showed up. Maybe he didn’t know.”

  He grunted his doubt.

  “Believe what you must,” he replied.

  Maggie was shown a seat to the left of Marcus, who held position at the head of the table. She saw him attempt to refuse the chair but Erich insisted, and finally Marcus grabbed the tall chair and shoved it back, plunking down with a scowl on his face. She expected equal resistance from Winn, yet was surprised when he took the
bench across from her at the immediate right hand of Marcus.

  “I hope ye find our table suffices, my lady,” Erich said as he sat down beside her. He stared at her for a moment with his full lips parted as if to speak, but then clamped his mouth shut while shaking his head.

  “What is it?” she asked. She had no idea what to say to the stranger, nor how to address him. Growing accustomed to living in another time had been difficult enough, but now as she sat beside her newfound relative, the reality of it all felt like an elephant sitting on her chest. She held her breath, afraid to look too closely at him, lest he disappear. Was he truly her uncle, this massive brute of a man? And if so, why had he sent her mother, his sister, away with Marcus to the future?

  “Ye have yer mother’s look is all. I’m afraid ye might be a ghost sitting beside me, and if I look away for too long, ye’ll be gone.”

  Erich looked sincere, but it was too much for her to tolerate much longer. Marcus, or Dagr, whatever name he was called by, sat perched at the head of the table like their long suffering King. Men came by, patting him on the shoulders with hearty welcome, then moved to Winn to welcome him. With the scowl on his face and the doubt in his eyes, she was perplexed to see him nod gracefully to each man who approached him. Makedewa and Chetan looked on, their faces reserved, while Ahi Kekeleksu made friends with the other youths running through the hall. The intensity of testosterone-induced semantics was rapidly rising to more than she could bear, so when Erich patted her hand in a soothing manner, she jerked away from him. She had known the man all of an afternoon. How dare he treat her as if he had claim to her, as if being a blood relative meant anything?

  “You sent my mother away. Why? If you loved her so damn much, how could you do that?” she snapped, her voice rising a pitch. The murmurs in the hall silenced and heads turned their way. She stood up, knocking her bench over backward in the process, unflinching when it clattered to the ground.