The Blooded Ones

by Elizabeth Brown

  “So when we next meet, we meet as enemies?” Winn said, his voice rising to a shout meant for the ears of all who listened. Benjamin heard the rustle of weapons drawn behind them and the murmur of men preparing to fight.

  “So we shall, brother,” Benjamin replied. He fought to make the words audible to all, finding the last echo of strength in the honor of what he meant to do. It was safer for them all this way. Only Winn could know his true purpose, or they would all be in danger. “The next Norseman I see will be a dead one,” Benjamin added. An empty promise in truth, but enough of one to cause a collective gasp among the Norse.

  Winn straightened his back and loosened his fingers, his hands falling away from Benjamin. Benjamin stepped away from his brother. The day their father died would haunt him for all his days, but as he watched his only brother turn his back on him he felt cause to compare that pain.

  Yes, he thought, it does feel like that. Like a stake had been run through his belly, and he was slowly bleeding out what was left of his honor.

  So be it. If it was only the cost of his honor that would keep his kin safe, then they could have it.

  As the Norsemen faded away into the woods as if they had only been a whispered myth instead of flesh and blood warriors, Benjamin heard the pounding of hooves and the shouts of soldiers approach. It was Agnarr’s loyal battalion, armed Englishmen ready to pursue any threat.

  “Are the savages far gone, man?” they asked.

  “Aye. No sign of them. We’ll go back to town, lest they double back while the dock sits unprotected,” Benjamin answered. One of the soldiers offered him a leg up, and he mounted behind him.

  As they galloped away back toward Elizabeth City and Agnarr’s estate, Benjamin did not look back.

  No. He would never look back.

  CHAPTER 16

  Rebecca

  SHE WOKE TO the sound of the clock chiming on the mantle. Unfamiliar as it was, the deep twang startled her, yet she was grateful for the help in waking. She had not meant to doze off, sure that Makedewa would return for her before the night grew too late, but the freely flowing rum had been too much for one unaccustomed to such spirits. It had been easy to enjoy the laughter of her young half-brother and sit with the mother she thought long lost. Rebecca silently cursed herself for falling asleep as she rose from the trundle bed and went to the window.

  Still no sign of her husband.

  Her visit with her mother and new step-father had been a pleasant one. Rebecca surprised even herself by putting her mother firmly in place.

  “But he’s a–a heathen! What will people think?” Elizabeth sputtered once Makedewa was out of earshot.

  “He is my husband. I choose him, mother. People here in town can think whatever they want, I care not.”

  “You could still find a good English husband. An Indian marriage is not a real marriage, in any case.”

  “It is to me. And if you say that again, why I’ll–I’ll let my husband scalp ye!” Even as the words left her lips, she could not believe she uttered such a hateful thing to her own mother. After an uproar of tears between the two of them, they mended fences, and they stopped speaking of Makedewa entirely.

  Now that her visit had come to an end, Rebecca was more than ready to return home. Home. With Makedewa.

  “Why are ye awake, child?” Elizabeth said softly. Rebecca smiled at her mother. Elizabeth wore a plain white night rail, buttoned up securely to her neck. Rebecca wondered with a secret grin what her mother would think of her sleeping without a stitch on, snuggled deep in the arms of her warrior husband.

  Yes, things had changed between them, and they could never return to what had once been. Not that Rebecca had any intention of doing so.

  “I thought my husband would return sooner,” she admitted. She did not mention his name, hoping to stem an argument.

  “Well, ye canna wait here all night. Sleep, I’m sure we shall see him in the morn.”

  Rebecca nodded in agreement, and her mother turned back toward the bedroom. Needing to feel the breath of air on her skin, Rebecca took a moment to open the front door. Her tired eyes searched the horizon for any sign of her wayward husband, but there was none to be found. With two clean bare feet she stepped out onto the dirt, shuffling along to the edge of the path where it turned to grass.

  “Rebecca? Come in here at once!”

  She turned back to her mother, who was hanging from the doorway, her voice filled with stark panic.

  “What is it, mama?” she replied. The words poured forth before she saw the pile on the ground, sitting next to the door. Somehow she had missed it when she ambled outside, but there was no mistaking it now.

  It was Makedewa’s belongings, set out next to the door.

  “Mother,” she said, her voice rising into a shrill squeal despite her wish to curb it. “Who put my husband’s things outside? Who put them there?” she shrieked. “He thinks I cast him out! How dare ye? Oh, I could–I could hate ye if ye were not my mother!”

  Her mother burst into tears, and the resultant screaming between the two women brought Kaleb running outside. In the adjoining houses, candles flickered at windows, and Rebecca heard a door open at the neighbor’s house. There was no hiding such a ruckus in the middle of town.

  “I’m leaving!” Rebecca shouted. Her anger spilled over into frustrated tears as she shoved her few belongings into Makedewa’s carry sack. She pulled her ermine-lined cape over her shoulders and ran to the corral where she tossed the bag over her horse’s back.

  “Please, no! Daughter, please, it is better this way, ye must see–” Elizabeth pleaded, her round face streaked with tears.

  “No, Mama. I see it was a mistake to come here. That is all I see,” she shot back. The voice came from somewhere she did not recognize, a shadow of the former voice she would have spoken to her mother with. Instead the strength of her husband filled her, his devotion, his promise.

  That is what she would hold onto as she traveled alone back home to find her husband.

  She was not skilled at tracking, but when she realized someone followed her she had one guess at who it was. His mount plodded through the brush with the grace of a plow horse, and her new step-father was not a much better rider to boot.

  “Kaleb, ye can go back. I’m going home, and ye cannot go with me,” she called out sweetly. “My menfolk do not take kindly to strangers. I fear the worst if ye persist.”

  He urged his unruly mount forward to ride alongside her.

  “Ye cannot travel alone, and at night, no less. It’s nay safe and ye know it,” Kaleb sighed. His round dark eyes darted beyond her shoulder, then he twisted to look behind them.

  “It’s safe enough,” she muttered. How was she going to lose him? He could accompany her perhaps to the meadow, but beyond that he could go no further. There was a narrow trail well hidden that led into the mountains where the village lay, but she could not risk that he might find it after she left him. Her urge to return home and find her husband burned stronger than her self-preservation, however, but she was reluctant to admit striking off in the middle of the night was not the most intelligent of ideas.

  Good Lord. She was acting like a senseless ninny.

  She prayed it would turn out better than the forethought she put into it.

  “I’ll see ye there, and then I’ll leave. I have no quarrel with the savages,” Kaleb commented. She turned a squinted eye to him. Tall and fairly refined in his quiet bulky way, he seemed out of place in the dense heart of the woods. It amused her that he had such a narrow view of the people she lived with, a view she was well aware most settlers shared, but it was one that she thought needed mending.

  She knew quite well, better than most, what the Powhatans had done during the Massacre. Yet she also knew that not all men were alike, and the man she married was an honorable one.

  “They’re men, just like ye, nothing more,” she replied tartly.

  “Ye married an Indian, call it what ye will. But to the En
glish folk, yer nothing more than a savage yerself now. Surely ye know that, girl. So it’s truly the life ye choose?”

  “It is.”

  They rode in silence for a few minutes. Rebecca was too consumed with irritation to notice the rustle in the trees beyond them, or the shadows creeping up behind the swinging tails of their horses.

  “I knew yer husband. He was there when I was a teacher at Henricus,” Kaleb commented. The words seemed intended for casual conversation, but at the mention of the time when Makedewa had endured unspeakable horrors she pulled her horse into a sliding stop.

  “At Henricus? The surely you knew Master Webb?” she whispered, her voice trailing off as he nodded.

  “I was an apprentice teacher to him. Nathanial Webb…well, he wasna the kind of man I’d lend my animals to, if one had choice in the matter.”

  “I think ye owe an explanation…” her voice slowed as shadows moved from the brush onto the trail. One in front of them, and with a quick glance she noted one behind them.

  These were not Indians that she knew. Not that she knew very many, but there had been Nansemond visitors to the village that she had grown quite friendly with. With the little knowledge she held, she was certain these were not friends of her husband, and by the looks of their disjointed clothing and sparse weapons, she suspected they might be a band of stragglers that Makedewa mentioned roamed near town.

  The one in front wore a scalp-lock braid knotted behind his left ear, his lean body littered with scars. He wore copper bands on his upper arms, thick battered metal like the ones Makedewa used to wear. Maggie told her he sold them to buy her red ribbons for her hair, what now seemed so many years ago.

  The man who flanked them was made of the same ilk, another lean warrior with a plucked scalp. This one wore a simple breechcloth and leggings, and his flesh was decorated with an array of tattoos. Even his face bore ink, causing his lips to seem in a perpetual scowl.

  “Hello,” Rebecca stammered. She could not think of a single Paspahegh word to say. By the looks of the strangers, it would not have stirred them anyway.

  “English?” The first brave questioned. He moved forward and took hold of her horse’s bridle, staring up at her with a curious expression on his face.

  “Yes! Yes, we’re English,” Kaleb agreed. Rebecca snapped her head back toward him with a scowl.

  “No! I’m not English!” she shouted.

  The man behind them laughed, and before she could respond he dragged her down off her horse. Kaleb swung his horse around in a circle to avoid seeking hands, but his attempt ended when the man who held her placed a knife to her throat.

  Kaleb slowly dismounted, his eyes locked on the man who held her. She closed her eyes briefly as the blade pressed into her neck, feeling the coldness of the metal like a dip of rainwater on her flesh. He picked up a stray curl from the riotous mop on her head and nodded, grinning to himself.

  “English,” he laughed.

  Her scream was stifled by his hand covering her mouth. She fumbled for the knife at her belt. No. She would not be taken again. If it meant her life, she would not. She was the wife of a warrior and she would not yield.

  “My English. Mine.”

  Makedewa?

  It was Makedewa’s voice, making claim.

  He had not abandoned her!

  Her eyes flew open despite the hand covering her face. She bit down hard on the fingers, and with every ounce of strength she possessed she twisted in his arms, grabbing a firm hold on the butt of her knife. She flailed once and slashed his flank, and she saw her abductor’s eyes widen at the sight of her knife. When he snatched her wrist and shoved her to her knees, she was sure she would feel the sting of the knife across her throat, yet it did not come.

  The next vision she saw was that of Makedewa, wrestling with the man on the ground. The two bodies writhed as if in an ancient dance, grasping for control when the upper hand meant the end of a life. She felt Kaleb move to her side and take her arm but she refused to be swayed, her eyes locked on the battle before her.

  “Walk to the spirit world in shame, lenutet,” Makedewa whispered as he lowered the man to the ground. It almost seemed a lover’s embrace, the way he cradled the man in his arms as he set him against the earth, his eyes locked with those of the dying man as the stranger took his last breath. He made a choking sound, and a trickle of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. His eyes lolled back into his head like a lifeless doll and Makedewa stood up.

  His gaze fell first on the second would-be assailant, and Rebecca was relieved to see the other man take off at a run into the forest.

  Her husband turned to her, his face an unusual pallor. She could see the pain in his gaze, but she could not see a wound.

  “Take her,” he said curtly, with any trace of care chased from his gaze. She shook her head as the men conversed as if she was nothing, as if her word held no power.

  “We’ll go back to town, she’ll be safe there,” Kaleb agreed.

  “Good. I will follow you to the palisades, but I will go no further.” Makedewa spit his last command and then turned away from her. He pulled his knife from the body of the fallen man and wiped it off on the man’s leggings.

  “I’m not going back there,” she whispered. As she gained more courage, her voice echoed her resolve and it was near shouting when she added, “I’m going home. With you.”

  He turned to face her, and to her chagrin he dropped to one knee with his head bent down.

  “What are ye doing?” she asked.

  “I ask to speak in private with a woman who is no longer my wife. If you wish, then have Kaleb stay, but I ask to speak between us.”

  “Of course,” Kaleb muttered. He gathered his horse and gave them a private space of about ten feet, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched the exchange. Too shocked to protest, Rebecca kneeled down beside him and touched his face.

  He did not pull away. Instead, he turned his cheek toward her palm and rested it there, closing his eyes.

  “Ye don’t understand,” she murmured. He shook his head, opening his eyes to meet her gaze. Stark brown orbs, rounded and soft, a touch of dampness glazed over his pupils.

  “If you wish to keep the house we shared, it is yours. I thought–I thought I could stay near, to watch over you, but I will not stay in the village. You will always have…my protection.”

  “Is that all I have?” she whispered, her heart feeling as if it stopped beating within her chest at the pain he suffered. It was what she would suffer if she thought he no longer loved her.

  “You have that. Always,” he replied.

  “I will have more from ye. All of it.”

  He raised an eyebrow, his mouth set in a twisted line.

  “Then take it all, chulentet,” he said softly. “For all I have is yours.”

  She leaned forward, her eyes boring into his, and placed her lips very softly against his. She thought he would explode with passion, but instead he lowered his forehead to hers and rested it there, heavy upon her.

  “I love ye, husband. My mother did me a grave betrayal, she put yer moccasins outside. It was not I, because I love ye so. I’m so sorry,” she told him, choking back tears as he gripped her harder.

  His hands slid down to her neck, and his head fell down onto her shoulder.

  “That brings me joy wife, and I would show you how much…if I could just take another breath …” he groaned. He slid further down her body, his hands falling limp as he lost his grip on her and collapsed.

  “Oh, God, Kaleb, help!” she screamed.

  Blood bubbled from a wound under his right arm. It was high up on his chest, and when she pressed her ear to his skin she could hear it make a hissing sound.

  CHAPTER 17

  Makedewa

  HE FELT A stabbing in his chest with each jarring motion of the horse, and by the time he recognized where they were he was near to darkness. It seemed easier than staying awake, and for someone who had rarely taken an
easy path that was a startling assumption to make. Yet with each breath, each tiny shift of his body, the pain came back, as if she took a dagger to his heart with the image of the sweet face he so loved upon it.

  He moaned when someone dragged him down off the horse. His nose grazed the mane of the animal, bring a snort from the horse and a groan from Makedewa’s lips.

  Did any of it matter now? Of course there was a wound. He had felt the warrior’s knife pierce his flesh, felt it bury deep into his side before he killed the man. Yet until Makedewa kneeled at her feet he did not feel it, as if he needed her words to drive it truly home.

  “I will have more from ye. All of it,” she had said.

  He raised an eyebrow, his mouth set in a twisted line. So she had become greedy in the short time with her English kin? Well, he would gladly give it to her. He would carve his beating heart from his chest and hand it to her, if that is what she asked of him. After all, it served no purpose if she was no longer his wife.

  “Then take it all, chulentet,” he said softly. “For all I have is yours.”

  “Maggie, get Maggie!” he heard someone say. He wished to speak, to tell them Maggie was not who he wanted at his side as he took his last breath.

  Even if she was not his, even if she cast him out, it was Rebecca he wanted there when his heart stopped its fight. If only he could raise his hand, if only he could make his mouth form words…

  “Please!”

  It was Rebecca’s voice then, and he felt comfort that she was near. He tried to move his left arm, the one undamaged. Wasn’t the wound to his right side? Then why would his body not obey? It was only an arm, only one limb. He still had one good arm to touch her with.

  “Do not move, husband,” she demanded. “Stay still, ye stubborn lout!”

  He smiled at her oath. Although he did not wish her distress, at least that meant she had some care for him. He had never heard her use foul language in all the years they had known each other.