Judith E. French (24 page)

“It was a nightmare,” Cailin insisted stubbornly.

“In any case, the time grows short,” Moonfeather said. “You are strong enough to walk?”

“Aye. Of course. I’m sorry if my weakness made me—”

“Visions come to the chosen. You are unused to seeing them. Next time, it won’t be so frightening.”

“There won’t be a next time.”

“Perhaps,” Moonfeather said.

The men were making ready to continue the march. Cailin looked from one bronze face to the other, wondering how she’d come so far from the glens and lochs of Scotland. A few more years, and she’d begin to believe all this nonsense about ghost wolves and amulets that could raise the dead.

The first rumblings of thunder rolled across the hills, and Cameron shaded his eyes and looked up at the clouds. “It looks like a bad one coming. Maybe we’d best look for shelter.”

Cailin moved close to him. “Thank you ... for what you did ... before. I don’t know what to say. Nothing like that has ever happened to me before.”

“What did your ... What did Moonfeather say about what you saw?”

“Nonsense, really. She’s as superstitious as the rest of them.”

Cameron’s brow wrinkled. “She’s a wise woman. I’d take most of what she says as gospel.”

Cailin forced a smile. “If you’d heard it, you wouldn’t say that. Spirit wolves and—”

He sighed. “I pride myself on being an educated man, but I’ve lived long enough to know that life isn’t as simple as it seems. There are things and things under heaven, lass. Moonfeather is a rare person. At home, we’d call her fey. My grandmother was like that. Oh, none dared call her witch, but we all knew she had something. She foretold her own death.”

“An old woman with the sight is a far cry from ghost wolves,” Cailin argued.

He shrugged. “Come, lass, it will be raining buckets any minute. Let’s get under cover while we can.”

The entire group took refuge under an overhanging ledge while the storm raged. One hour passed, and then two. Cailin ate, and slept in short catnaps. Rain fell into the night, but finally, the wind ceased to blow and the deluge tapered off.

Before they set out again, Moonfeather changed into a dress of white doeskin, adorned with tiny shells and porcupine quills. She slipped a cascade of minute silver bells into each earlobe and settled a white embroidered headband over her forehead. Kitate shouldered her pack so that she was unburdened as they headed north through the dripping forest.

Cailin watched the trees on either side of the trail for wolf eyes in the night, but she saw nothing. They walked steadily until the first light, when Cailin saw that they were following the shoreline of a wide lake.

“Are we getting close?” she asked Moonfeather. The Indian woman nodded. “A few more days if Inu-msi-ila-fe-wanu smiles on us. We are in the heart of Iroquois country now.”

“But we haven’t seen a living soul.”

Moonfeather nodded. “And I hope we won’t. The Shawnee are at peace with the Iroquois League, but that doesn’t mean we couldn’t meet with a hunting party who would rather not have us here. If we simply vanished, who would know?”

“We would,” Cailin answered.

“Nay, my friend. If they catch us unawares, we will be beyond knowing or caring. My mother had a saying, ’Better dead than captured by the Iroquois.’ ”

“That’s a comforting thought.”

“Aye,” Moonfeather agreed. “It is, isn’t it.”

F
renzied barking by the village dogs woke Sterling soon after dawn. He strained against the cords pinning him to the earth and turned his head to try to see what the commotion was all about.

Mohawks began to spill from the longhouses as the guards on the walls beat an alarm on small hand drums. Armed warriors dashed across the square, and old men and women demanded in shrill, peevish tones why they had been awakened at such an hour. Babies squalled and children shouted, adding to the confusion.

Jit-sho, the shaman, appeared without his mask, his sparse hair partially covered with an owl-skin cap, his eyes sleep-swollen. Right behind him came a tall, untidy woman hastily braiding her hair and glancing around nervously “Is the town under attack?” Jit-sho cried. “Who comes?”

A flea bit Sterling’s neck, and he cursed the creature to a fiery hell. Fleas from the moth-eaten deerskin he was lying on made his existence miserable, and a man bound hand and foot couldn’t scratch.

Four days he’d lain here naked, burned by the sun and wind, ridiculed by the camp women and children. Four days, lying in his own waste, so that Ohneya’s injuries might heal enough so that they could do battle.

No one had tended Sterling’s wounds. His hip and shoulder were the worst. Hot aching told him that the cuts had festered, and he knew that only the heavy rain the day he’d run the gauntlet had prevented his cuts and scrapes from becoming running sores.

Yesterday, he’d insulted an old woman carrying a bark bucket of water from the river until she’d tossed the contents over him. If he shut his eyes, he could still taste the water on his parched lips and swollen tongue.

A few more days and he’d be unable to stand, let alone fight Ohneya. If he was too weak to stand, they’d not give him a chance to wipe the smirk off the Mohawk war chief’s face. They’d simply tie him to the stake, skin him alive, do as many other nasty things as his living body would permit, and then light the faggots heaped around his feet.

He’d seen what was left of a burned woman in the Scottish border country when he served in the dragoons. Someone had accused the poor lack-wit of being a witch. It wasn’t a sight or a smell he cared to remember. Especially since Jit-sho had taken it into his warped mind that Sterling was a sorcerer because he’d managed to survive the gauntlet and deliver a few good knocks to the Mohawk.

He wished the shaman was right. If he were a witch, he’d have been glad to use whatever supernatural powers he could summon to get him the hell out of here. instead, he waited, rehearsing his coming battle with Ohneya in his mind, imagining himself facing the war chief with a knife or tomahawk. Swinging. Dodging. Using feet and fists and head to knock Ohneya off balance and delivering the coup de grace before twisting around to finish off that little shit, Jit-sho, before the Mohawk swarmed over him and killed him.

Sterling wasn’t particularly curious about the cause of the excitement among the Mohawk this morning. He greatly doubted that it was his friend, George Whithall, leading a mounted company of His Majesty’s finest to the rescue. Like as not, the visitors were more Iroquois, come on a holiday outing to witness the burning of a white Shawnee witch.

One thing he could be certain of—the distraction would prevent his keepers from feeding him any time soon, or from providing food and water at all. It didn’t take much to deter them; meals were few and far between for captive slaves. He decided he ranked somewhere below the dogs in the social order of the village. Yesterday, they’d given him some burned corn mush; it was hard to swallow without salt or sugar. This morning, he’d gladly eat the sticky porridge and the rotten deer hide under him, given half a chance. He was hungry enough to devour Jit-sho, wooden mask and all, even though he suspected the little man would taste like crow dung.

When Sterling understood enough of the shouted Mohawk to realize that the village turmoil was due to the arrival of a delegation of Shawnee, he was stunned. He’d never imagined that any of his mother’s people would come to try to rescue him.

“Peace,” one of the Iroquois women cried. No, he reasoned, it wasn’t
peace
she’d said, it was
peace woman.
Surely, he’d misunderstood. It couldn’t be—but it was. There was another shout, and he saw Moonfeather’s small proud form leading an honor guard of Shawnee warriors.

Behind her ... Sterling swore under his breath and shut his eyes. The sun was getting to him. He’d almost thought that he recognized another slim figure amid the Shawnee. He forced himself to take another look and groaned as realization hit him. It was Cailin. There was no mistaking that wild mane of red hair shining in the sunlight.

He shut his eyes.

Minutes passed before he heard her call his name.

“Sterling.”

He opened his eyes to see her standing over him. “What in hell are you doing here?” Heat flooded his neck and face. He was naked, filthy, and helpless. Of all the people in the world, the woman he loved was the one he least wanted to see at this moment. “You stupid wench,” he said. “I left you—”

Cailin dropped to her knees and took his face between her hands. “Dinna say what ye may regret, Sassenach,” she whispered. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

“Don’t touch me,” he flung back at her. Sweet Jesus. He strained at the ropes that held him fast. Not even the thought of Mohawk torture could cut him as deep as having her here. If they hurt her, he’d crack ... he knew he would. He’d beg ... He’d kiss Jit-sho’s skinny brown arse to save her. And it would be as useless as pleading for the sun to rise in the west tomorrow.

Not Cailin here. He couldn’t stand it. Not when he’d imagined her safe on the Tidewater ... Not when he’d summoned up the courage to sing the Shawnee death chant and meet his end like a Shawnee warrior ...

It was more than a man could bear. He closed his eyes and shut her out, retreating behind a wall of stone where her voice or her touch couldn’t find him. Bear Dancer shouted an order, and two tattooed Mohawk warriors bore down on Cailin. She stood and faced them, bracing herself for the hard hands on her body. But before they could touch her, Moonfeather spoke.

“The flame-haired woman is my sister. She travels under my protection. Harm her, and you tempt the anger of the spirits.”

“Shawnee spirits!” snarled a man wearing a red and black wooden mask. “What cause do the Mohawk have to fear Shawnee ghosts?”

But the Mohawk braves stopped in their tracks. Trying not to show fear, Cailin left Sterling and ducked past the enemy warriors to Moonfeather’s side. Despite the threat from the fierce braves, she couldn’t take her eyes off the masked man. The face was the same one that had loomed up in her waking dream. The peace woman had been right when she’d said that Cailin had the sight. Days and miles away, she’d seen that mask—as horrible and bright as it was today.

Her insides felt as though they had turned upside down. Her mouth was dry, and her hands and feet were numb. It took her another minute to realize that the man wearing the mask was the one Cameron had pointed out to her near the stockade wall as being the infamous Mohawk shaman, Jit-sho.

Cailin tried to focus on what Moonfeather was saying, but she was speaking to the Mohawk leaders in their own language, and Cailin couldn’t understand a word.

Cameron stepped close and shot her a reassuring glance. She wanted to seize her father’s hand and hold on tight, but she didn’t dare. She stood motionless in the center of the clearing with the morning sun on her face and tried not to look at Sterling as the throb of Iroquois drums turned her blood to ice.

Damn them! she thought. Damn them all to a bottomless hell. Look at what they’d done to him. Sterling was thin; his body was covered in welts and gashes. He was lying in his own filth like a cur dog. Worse than the English, they were. Even her terrible cell in Edinburgh Castle had not been so foul.

She didn’t care that he’d cursed her. She didn’t care that he stank like last week’s uncured cowhide. Let him rant and rave like a bedlamite if he wanted to; all she wanted was a chance to wash his poor wounded body and feed him a hot meal. He was alive! Alive! Finding him strong enough to snap at her was a taste of heaven.

The Mohawk sachem’s voice had taken on a steely thread, but Moonfeather never flinched before his tirade. She seemed so small beside the Mohawk leader, but her tiny, erect stature did nothing to diminish the effect she had on these savage Iroquois. It was impossible to look at her and not feel the power radiating from her. Despite the hopelessness of their situation, Cailin was certain that the peace woman had never looked as beautiful or as dangerous as she did at this moment.

Behind her, Moonfeather’s Shawnee stood like lead soldiers, faces stern and emotionless, shoulders back, heads high. Each man had decked himself in his finest attire. Eagle feathers dangling down their scalp locks, faces painted, they stood as proudly as if they were honored guests of the Mohawk. But no lead soldier had ever had eyes so black or shining with defiance as those of this honor guard. Old Pukasee’s weather-worn features were as hard and fierce as the gray wolf that had shadowed Cailin’s trail. And even sweet Koke-wah, the boy, had taken on the demeanor of a seasoned warrior.

Cameron leaned closer to Cailin. “She says that the Shawnee and Iroquois are brothers of the peace pipe, and that she will not allow the foolish actions of one young war chief to jeopardize that treaty. She says that Bear Dancer is known from the Ohio to the mountains of the Cherokee as a man of honor. And she offers gifts of friendship to smooth the tempers of his people. She says that she does not come to buy back the captive but to retrieve a Shawnee warrior unjustly taken.”

“And what does he say?” Cailin whispered. It was plain to her that the Mohawk chief wasn’t happy with his guest’s speech, and that the masked man was even more enraged.

Cameron swallowed. When he looked into Cailin’s eyes, his gaze was sorrowful. “Bear Dancer says that the white Shawnee—Sterling—killed many Mohawk warriors. He says that their souls cry out for revenge. He insists that Sterling must fight Ohneya in a battle to the death. And if he survives, the sachem has promised that Jit-sho can burn him at the stake. Jit-sho has convinced the Mohawk that Sterling’s some kind of a witch.”

“That’s nonsense,” she replied. “He’s as good a Christian as I’ve ever met.”

“Indians take witchcraft seriously. My Iroquois is rusty, but Bear Dancer said something about a wolf and a storm that Sterling called down on their heads.”

A cold hand squeezed Cailin’s heart. She had to struggle to breathe. The awful threat of Sterling’s burning had shadowed her since the raid, but she’d pushed the fear back once they’d reached the village and found him still alive. She’d been certain that the Mohawk had changed their minds. Now the terror returned with renewed fury. “What about the wolf?” she asked. “What’s that about?”

“Later. Shhh,” he cautioned. “Bear Dancer seems to be coming to a decision.”

The sachem raised a hand and said something to the gathered Mohawks. There were outcries and grumblings. One Mohawk brave threw his bow onto the ground and kicked it in frustration. The masked shaman shook a turtle-shell rattle and howled in frustration.

Bear Dancer cut the air with his hand in a final gesture that plainly said there would be no more discussion. Then he clapped his hands, and two squaws came running. The younger one approached Moonfeather, touched her own forehead in salute, and motioned for the Shawnee peace woman to follow her.

Moonfeather glanced back at her people. “Come,” she said. “We are to be honored with a feast of dog meat.” Cailin’s face must have registered her disgust, because the peace woman’s answering look brooked no argument. “You’ll eat it and smile,” she said.

The hell I will, Cailin thought. “What about Sterling?” she said. “He’s hurt. He needs—”

“We will be permitted to administer to his injuries,” Moonfeather answered. “Come with me now.”

Cailin looked back at Sterling. He was lying just as she’d left him, eyes clamped shut, unmoving. Her heart went out to him. She wanted nothing more than to cut his bonds and bathe him with her own hands. “But—”

Moonfeather’s stern gaze silenced her. With a final glance back at her husband, Cailin followed the peace woman into the big log longhouse at the end of the open square.

The Mohawk woman led them through the high-roofed structure to a partially secluded room at the eastern end of the building. Raised platforms ran along the walls, obviously meant for sleeping, much the same as those inside the smaller Shawnee dwellings. Baskets, rolled blankets, and a few copper kettles were stacked on the floor and beds. Strings of dried tobacco, corn, pumpkin, squash, and beans dangled from the roof rafters. A fire pit in the middle of the room was lined with blackened rocks, and there was a stack of dry kindling, but there was no fire lit. The floor was hard-packed clay, swept as clean as any Highland cottage, but tanned skin rugs lay scattered around the hearth and heaped in one corner.

The Shawnee piled their packs on one side of the room and took up guard stations around Moonfeather, Cameron, and Cailin. Moonfeather signaled that they should remain silent until the Mohawk squaw left them alone. As soon as she did, the peace woman settled onto a deer hide and motioned Cailin to join her.

“They will take Sterling to the river and let him bathe, then they will take him to a place where we can care for him,” Moonfeather said.

“Not here?” Cameron asked.

Moonfeather shook her head. “This longhouse is reserved for honored guests. They consider Sterling ...” She shrugged. “They don’t trust us enough to let us have him.”

Cailin licked her dry lips. “I thought they’d be willing to sell him to us.”

Moonfeather sighed. “Ordinarily, they would. But this talk of witchcraft has frightened them.”