The Blooded Ones

by Elizabeth Brown

  He saw her wave from the doorway as he rode away and he lifted his chin in return. As he galloped toward the river he brushed away the twinges of doubt.

  After all, it was only a few hours apart.

  He did not see Winn and the others until he rode up into their midst. Although he sensed they were nearby, the Norse were a canny bunch and were skilled at lying in wait. Makedewa jumped down off his horse and scowled when an arrow pierced the air and burrowed into the ground only a few inches away.

  It was Chetan’s arrow, and he knew his brother meant to miss.

  “Waste no more on me, kemata tehpahta!” Makedewa sniped. He kneeled down beside the others, giving Chetan a shove in the process.

  “You are as loud as a bear! Does marriage make you clumsy?” Chetan taunted him. Winn made a hissing sound at them.

  “Enough! Look, they have dozens of men. Even English soldiers, like you said. I think we have plan,” Winn answered. The teasing guffaws stopped and all ears turned to the Chief. At Winn’s side, Erich pointed through the tall grass toward the plantation. The Norse were well hidden in the brush along the river tree line, with an unobstructed view of the barn and the main house. It did not look any different than when Makedewa had followed Sturlsson’s men there, but it certainly had many more people milling about.

  Makedewa glanced around at the gathered Norse. They did not have enough men for a full on assault, and he could see Winn meet his gaze.

  “No,” Winn said. “We will bring them out, we will confuse them. Cormaic and Hamish will set the barn on fire. When the English scatter, we will go in. Then we will find Benjamin.”

  Makedewa felt his skin tingle and fear gripped his chest. They had not planned such a rouse; Rebecca was still in town, and such a commotion would make it much more dangerous for him to retrieve her.

  “I need you to show me where to find him,” Winn continued. Makedewa glared at his brother.

  “This is not what we planned!” he replied.

  Winn nodded in agreement but his gaze was fierce. There would be no argument.

  “I know. But it must be this way. I will not risk our men for this when we know not what we face. The men have already left to start the fire, they should return here soon.”

  Makedewa noted Erich looking frantically in the direction of the barn, and he saw the older man’s shoulders relax when the shrouded forms of two hulking men ran through the low brush toward them. Their errand had been successful, the large barn erupting into a fiery blaze within moments of their return. Three groups of men set off in different directions, Makedewa assumed to start a series of smaller fires to divide the English resources. The plan was a brilliant one, save the unnerving fact that it would keep Makedewa there much longer than he anticipated. All he could hope for was to find Benjamin quickly, or risk being caught when he returned to retrieve Rebecca.

  “Benjamin was held in the far room, the one closest to the smokehouse. That is the only place to look if he does not leave the house,” Makedewa offered.

  Perhaps it was the catch in his voice, or the plea of one man’s heart, but it was then that Winn turned to him with a frown. Something unspoken occurred between Winn and Chetan, a swift nod, an acknowledgement of sorts, and suddenly Makedewa knew his brothers felt his pain.

  “Go fetch your woman,” Winn commanded. “Meet us at the river. Ride fast, brother.”

  Makedewa closed his eyes and bowed his head. He felt Chetan put a hand on his shoulder, and Winn touched his fisted knuckles to his chest.

  Moments later he rode low against the neck of his horse, galloping down the riverbank back toward town.

  It was by habit that he crept quietly up upon the house. He had given them no cause for alarm, yet even he knew his kind were always viewed with suspicion. With the knowledge of the fire roaring downstream at the plantation he knew it was only a matter of time before the townsfolk were roused, and he planned to have his wife far away from the melee when it ensued.

  He made to go to the door when suddenly it opened. A glimmer of light spilled out from the portal and he could hear the sounds of laughter inside. He felt an insatiable pull to take his wife far from the English town, one that would not be stemmed until he held her safely in his arms again. When he saw a hooded figure with a flash of blond curls poking from beneath her cloak he nearly met her halfway, but when he saw the bundle in her arms he stopped cold.

  She looked toward the glass window for a moment, as if indecisive. It was only a brief pause before she placed the bundle of items on the ground beside the door. He waited until she went back inside before he approached, his chest clenching tight into a relentless spasm when he realized what she left.

  On the ground lay his spare moccasins.

  His carrying sack.

  His tunic and vest.

  The groan from deep in his belly was involuntary, a roar of denial that shook him to the bones. He grabbed the door handle to rush after her, yet then dropped it and jumped back as if burned. Thrusting his hands through his hair, he stalked through the courtyard away from the house, back to where his horse stood patiently ground-tied. The horse made a soft snorting sound at his approach, pacing in place at the presence of his master.

  “Not yet, friend,” he muttered to the animal.

  How had this happened? He left his wife in the care of her kin for a few hours, and he returned to be cast out?

  She knew what it meant. She did it with her own hands, of her own…choice.

  Perhaps she could not face him with the truth?

  He took his hand axe from where it lay sheathed on the neck of his horse and stalked back to the house.

  He watched them through the thick glass window as they took their evening meal. It had been a long time since he had dined in the house of an Englishman, yet he could still recall with the ache of youthful innocence how devious such people could be.

  Untrustworthy.

  Liars.

  Murderers.

  They stood for everything he hated. And they stood between him and his wife. Laughing, passing bread, drinking sweet port as if they had no care in the world other than to enjoy the decadence littered in front of them.

  He flexed his fingers against the handle of his axe. He would slaughter them all. Every. Single. Englishman.

  No man would keep him from his wife.

  Laughter bubbled through the glass panes, catching his attention before he stepped away from the window. He should not let their rituals sway him, nor let their amusement stem his hatred. Yet he recognized the voice, and when he peered into the room he could see her.

  Rebecca stood laughing with her toddler step-brother perched in her arms. The child grabbed for one of her golden curls, setting her off into a fit of giggles as she swung around to avoid him. Rebecca’s mother watched them, her weathered face betraying her joy. Makedewa saw the older woman glance up at Kaleb Tucker, and he patted her shoulder as if to ease her worry.

  Rebecca looked radiant.

  He sank down against the slat house to rest on his heels, his heart racing in preparation for what he must do.

  Break in. Kill anyone who challenged him. Retrieve his woman.

  It seemed so simple as he stole into town, yet now, staring at her through the window, suddenly he was not so sure. She was his wife, his heart. She belonged with him, she had pledged her soul to his. It was not a vow one broke, not in his world or any other.

  A memory of their wedding night haunted him, and he could not deny it tore through his resolve.

  “Look here, into my eyes. See how much I love you. I will always honor you,” he murmured. “And I will always serve you.”

  Yes, he had made her promises. Promises he meant to keep.

  The axe slid from his grip to rest against his thigh. His heart pounded near breaking with the knowledge of what he meant to do. Before that moment he thought he knew what it was to love a woman. He felt secure in his vow, sure of where it would lead them. Yet it took sitting on his heels in the di
rt for the blow to stun him, so much so that he rocked back with a low coarse groan. If he ever knew what love was, then his illusion of it fell shattered like shards at his feet at the sight of her happy face.

  She was happy with her family. She was happy with the English. And she had put out his belongings. She had made her choice.

  He had told her once she always had a choice. It had been an easy vow to give when he was sure he knew what her answer would be. Now, as he stood up, sheathing his axe at his waist, the true meaning of those words burned through him. He could not take her from her happiness, no matter what the cost. It was her choice.

  The ache in his chest was foreign, nothing that he had ever encountered. Even in the darkest hours of his life, even in the dank place where Nathanial Webb imprisoned him, he had never felt such a tearing. It was as if his soul pulled away from his body, seeking another place to shelter it. He suspected the beaten thing meant to stay with Rebecca, when he honored her wish to stay with her family and left her forever.

  After all, he had pledged to serve her. To his benefit or not, he knew he must do so. If he was not man enough to keep that promise, then all he had asked of her and all they had meant to each other was lost.

  His limbs were numb as he mounted up, but his horse knew the way.

  CHAPTER 15

  Benjamin

  SMOKE.

  Funny, he did not recall leaving a fire burning in the hearth. In fact, his last thought before drifting off to sleep was that he would need to share the quilt with the tiny lass nestled in his arms.

  Most definitely smoke.

  The window was cracked open, and when Benjamin sat up he could see the thick haze misting in through the window. Something burned outside in the yard, and by the scent of burnt tobacco he could only guess it was the storage barn.

  He nudged Jora, who did not stir with the gentle gesture. With a sigh he pulled on his braies, running his hands through his hair. He had no idea how to proceed with the situation he found himself in, and he suspected Jora was just as befuddled as he was.

  A fine pair they would make, he thought, shaking his head.

  As he shoved on his boots and fastened his belt the door opened wide.

  “Ah, well. I suppose a wedding is in order then, aye?” Agnarr smirked. He entered the room without pause, his eyes roving first over Jora lying on the bed, then flickering back to Benjamin with a salacious grin.

  “I’ll have ye close that door, with ye on the other side of it,” Benjamin said. He tried to temper his tone, but the menace came through as if he shouted a threat. No, he was not yet ready to challenge Agnarr, but neither would he let the man shame Jora any further.

  For a tense moment Agnarr stood very still. Benjamin slid his knife into his belt as they surveyed each other. He tried to betray no relief when Agnarr’s face broke into a wide grin and he muttered a few obscenities under his breath before he turned on his heel and left. It was a small battle, but one that had suddenly become important to him: Jora was under his protection now, and Benjamin would not let Agnarr use her for whatever malicious purpose he concocted.

  “So your spine shows itself,” Agnarr taunted him. Before Benjamin could reply Agnarr waved him off. “A discussion for another time, friend. I fear we have bigger problems to address, what with my barn on fire.”

  Benjamin followed him outside. The barn was ablaze, the roof engulfed in flames. Reinn shouted orders to men, who were heaving a line of water filled buckets from the well in a most inefficient manner. The splashes they sent onto the fire would not quell a spark, let alone a full blaze, and the situation was rapidly swinging out of control.

  Agnarr joined Reinn and made quick orders to abandon the barn. Reinn was only too happy to oblige, taking a half-dozen men to see to one of the smaller storehouse fires. The reasoning was sound. The main storage barn was beyond salvage, yet they might make headway with one of the smaller fires.

  Benjamin noted a small band of English soldiers ride into the yard who took orders from Agnarr and then split up to spread their efforts. Benjamin joined another group of men to fight one of the smaller fires, leaving Agnarr standing in the middle of the courtyard. For a man losing a large amount of money he seemed quite calm, surveying the damage with his hand knotted under his chin, elbow resting on a crossed forearm.

  When they arrived at the small outpost on the dock it was only the roof gone smoldering, so he was sure they could stem the damage done. If there was too much lost, Agnarr might have need to keep him and Jora at the plantation, and that was one scenario Benjamin did not want to consider. The more he learned about Agnarr, either from the man’s own mouth or slips of tongue from the others, he knew enough to want to put distance between them.

  Yes, it would be wise to let the man believe they were allies, even business partners. It was the only way to discover what danger he posed to his kin, and now, it meant keeping Jora safe as well.

  As men worked on opening the doors to the outpost, Benjamin ducked away toward the river to douse his clothes in water before he entered the flaming building. Smoke choked his lungs, the thick scent of the burnt tobacco leaves clinging to his skin and hair despite the dunking. As he shook the water out from his hair he heard the sound of footsteps behind him.

  “Wet your clothes, men, it might help,” he called out.

  He was puzzled at the bemused chuckle in response. He ran his hand over his wet hair and raised his head.

  If not for the time they had spent in close quarters Benjamin might not have recognized them, but when they spoke throaty Norse between themselves he knew them instantly. Faces covered in mud, Cormaic and Erich each grabbed one of his arms and hauled him up out of the water.

  “I say we clout ’em,” Cormaic announced.

  “Nay! He lost his wits the last time, aye? Bind him, I say!” Erich answered, eying him levelly. Benjamin glared up at him.

  “You’re a bunch of fools! Get out of here, have ye no sense?” he shouted, struggling to free himself from the two burly Norsemen.

  “Well, clout him then!” Erich said with a sigh, shaking his head. “The damn fool doesna know when he’s been rescued!”

  “Enough!”

  The men became still as Winn approached. Swinging his bryntroll up behind his back into the harness, he stalked toward them with the ire of a disgruntled war chief on his face.

  “Go. Back to the woods.”

  The Norse obeyed without further argument, gathering Benjamin up and dragging him toward the wood line. Winn trailed behind them, pacing with a backward glance to ensure they were not followed. At the edge of the clearing Benjamin finally broke free from Cormaic and Erich, twisting out of their grips to confront his brother.

  Whatever retrieval Winn had in mind, Benjamin could take no part of it. Agnarr’s men would follow them, there would be no escape, and if they were followed to the village all would be lost. Benjamin still did not know the full intent of what Agnarr might do with a blooded MacMhaolian, but he knew as well that he was not willing to risk the lives of those he loved to find out.

  “No!” Benjamin shouted. “Leave me! Go on with ye, I willna join ye!”

  Winn turned to face him, and it was then that the power of their bond betrayed them both. Benjamin lowered his head, resting his hands on his knees as he gasped for air. When he raised his eyes, he could see his brother’s fists clenched at his sides. Yes, he could see it clearly now. They both remembered their vow, given on the day their father died.

  “The power of time travel must remain our secret, and ye are sworn to protect it. Put aside yer quarrels, for the good of your people. I left my family, and all those I loved, to see it safe. Do not make it for nothing. Keep them close, see that they live on. I was born to protect them, and so are ye. I ask ye both, as my sons, to make it so.”

  “Father–” Benjamin said. Marcus shook his head.

  “No. Give me yer oath, as protectors of our blood. Give me yer oath!”

  The choked demand strai
ned Marcus, and he fell back onto the furs. Winn took his father’s hand and bowed his head to him.

  “I give it to you, father,” Winn said. Marcus clenched his hand.

  “As do I,” Benjamin agreed.

  Marcus had died because of Benjamin’s mistake. Benjamin had done unforgivable things in his life. Stealing his brother’s wife, letting her believe Winn dead. Failing to protect his father when Marcus needed it most. It was too much for any many to carry within. Winn had every reason to take vengeance, yet had failed to do so. To Benjamin, death would have been a welcome reprieve. Facing the truth of what he had done was much worse, and living in the light of their forgiveness was even more torturous.

  This was the only way he could go on. If he must live, if he must keep breathing air, he would do it apart from them. This is how he could honor those he loved–by staying away.

  “Go,” he said again, hoping that with the final plea they would honor it. “Hurry,” he choked.

  “Brother, come home,” Winn said, his voice hoarse.

  “This. Is. My home,” he answered. “I can never return to the village.”

  Benjamin straightened up to face his brother.

  “I will not release you from your vow. Not now. Not ever,” Winn said, his voice so faint that his words fell only on Benjamin’s ears. Benjamin nodded. He expected no less from his brother.

  “I do not ask it of ye, my Chief,” Benjamin replied. Winn’s eyes flickered, and Benjamin saw the muscles of his throat tighten. “I will honor the vow I made to ye and yours until I take my last breath. I made that promise to our father. I will keep it. This is how I must keep my word. This is how we must leave it.”

  Winn leaned in and snatched Benjamin with two fists, his fingers twisting in his collar. Benjamin did not fight him. He closed his hands over his brother’s wrists. They said nothing for what seemed hours, and Benjamin knew the sight of his brother’s broken gaze would stay with him forever. Winn knew. He understood what must happen. Those berserker blue eyes saw through him, to the very depths of his broken soul, and it was Benjamin’s only consolation that he was assured Winn knew his true heart.