The Legend of the Bloodstone (29 page)

“Yes, he is a smart one,” Benjamin agreed. “Perhaps I should speak with the natives about it. Would ye excuse me for a short time, dear? I will return soon.”

She nodded wordlessly.
She was surprised he would go talk with the brothers, considering the role he played in Winn’s death.  She was doubly shocked to see the braves in town so soon after the disaster, but sure as well it was part of their plan to extinguish the English.  A flutter in her belly spoke volumes as she watched Benjamin walk toward the natives, who were preparing to mount their ponies. Would her son ever know his people, or would they be his enemies, as most of the English looked upon them?

Relieved to see Benjamin clasp arms with both men, she tried not to appear too interested, but
abruptly she realized it was all in her hands. Chetan and Makedewa were kin to her child, and she would be damned if she would be the one to break that bond.  Perhaps Makedewa would not care to see her, but she was sure Chetan would be, and she knew he would pass a message to Teyas, who she missed terribly.

She dropped her mug to the table and went to meet them, ignoring the squawk Aunt Alice uttered and the furious glare Thomas sent her way. She cared no more what either of them thought, and she
would not be kept silent any longer.

She
silently practiced the Paspahegh words she knew in greeting, and finally decided that a simple
How are you
would do just fine.

“Kulamalsi hach?”
she said as she approached.  She noticed Benjamin appeared distressed, and for that, she was sorry, but she hoped he would understand why she needed to speak to the brothers.

“Fire Heart,” Chetan greeted her, bending his head toward her in respect. Makedewa grunted and crossed his arms, but it was an acknowledgement and for
that she was grateful.  She wondered briefly why Chetan used the name Winn had often called her, the sound of the English version quite different than she was accustomed, but still the words stung her.

“Magg
ie, I was about to return to ye, there was no need for ye to fetch me,” Benjamin laughed, placing his hand on the small of her back.  She noticed his voice tremor and ignored it, too eager to speak to the warriors, but he took her hand firmly and turned her back the way they came.

“But Benjamin, I only want to talk to them-“

“Good day, brothers,” Benjamin said curtly, forcibly guiding her away. She shook her head and shoved him, unable to tolerate his behavior when she only wanted to say a few words to them. Was this how it would be, whenever she wished to see them?

“No! I need to talk to them!”

“We wish happiness for you in your new marriage, Red Woman.”

Maggie balked at the sound of
Makedewa’s cold voice.  She turned back and saw Chetan glare at him and make a low barking sound as she had often heard an irritated warrior make, but Makedewa had her attention now and a sneering grin stretched across his face.

“And we will have a feast in honor of your child. May the Great Creator bless you and your
husband.”

“What?” she whispered as the ground seemed to drop beneath her feet. She struggled to remain standing at the hate in his voice and the menace written on his face. He clearly despised her, more than he
ever had, and by his words, she realized it was likely her child would never be welcomed among the Paspahegh.

“Let us go,” Benjamin insisted.  This time she let him lead her.

***

Benjamin seemed distracted the rest of the afternoon.  The conversations between them were a mere barrage of polite responses, and when it was time to
retire she was happy to put the day behind them. If he were sore at her for speaking to the warriors, she would gladly leave him to his sulking. She readied herself for bed and sank down into the deep feather mattress, her mind just as weary of the day as her growing body.

Maggie placed her hand on her taut rounded belly.  Just a bulge, easily hidden under her skirts, but soon it would be more apparent and she dreaded anyone else knowing her condition.

Benjamin cracked the door and entered the room. He stared wordlessly at her now, and she could see his round blue eyes stained bloodshot, his shirt unbuttoned and skewed about his neck. He watched her as he undressed, shedding his waistcoat and shirt and stepping out of his tall boots. 

“Benjamin, I am sorry if my speaking to the braves upset you,” she began, but he cut her off by raising one hand and a firm shake of his head.

“No, wife. I am not upset with ye.”

She inhaled as he approached the bed, working the clasp of h
is buckle to shed his breeches. A wisp of strong brandy, and the telltale remnants of sweet pipe smoke clung to his clothes, and she realized he must have taken his enjoyment before he came to bed.  His hair was wild, frazzled in a mop that looked as if he had been running his fingers over his scalp, in his eyes a strange hollow look that reflected some sadness yet undisclosed. Perhaps he would only talk, and fall asleep, as he usually did when he drank.

He slid under the quilts and pulled her gently to him, and she let out the breath of air she had been holding.

“Ye are my wife, by law,” he said softly, his breath hot against her neck.

She made no answer, frozen into helplessness as she lay in his arms. He seemed to need no response, as soon his breath grew shallow and the gentle snores of his inebriated sleep filled the room, and
she was content to see his attentions distracted for the evening.

***

Snow was still falling when Winn awoke.  Although he could see the dark clouds overhead through the smoke hole from remnants of the last storm, he was warmed from the layers of furs that covered him.  The fever had passed days ago, but his muscles still ached as if they had no strength and it was the most he could do to roll onto his side.  He could only roll onto the right, lest he risk tearing open the healing wound to his left chest.

Chulensak Asuwak and Teyas tended him faithfully, taking turns cleaning the bullet wound, but despite their attentive
efforts it festered anyway.  When the fever took him they moved him to the sweat lodge for five days expecting either his death or recovery, he was not sure which. Whatever the intent had been at the time, he was grateful they cared enough to nurse him, since he would need to recover every ounce of his strength before he went to find his wife.

Winn expected the villagers to denounce him when he announced his
binding to Maggie, but he was stunned to see that he retained their loyalty.  He would never have asked it of them, knowing he risked his own life by defying Opechancanough, and he did not expect any other to stand by his side in defense of a Time Walker, but their love humbled him, and he gladly accepted it. 

“Brother,” Chetan spoke as he entered the
yehakin.

Winn opened his eyes and watched the warrior kneel beside him.  His eyes were downcast, and by the
lines creasing his face Winn could see he was troubled.  Makedewa entered a moment later, yet he hung back, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Did you get word to her? Is she well? What say you?” he demanded, his hoarse voice rising as he surveyed his brothers.  Winn had only been awake less than a day since the fever broke, but his first thought had been to retrieve Maggie.  He knew she watched him fall from the rifle shot, and he feared she would think the worst when he did not return for her. 
Somehow he staggered out of the furs and made it to the door, but his brothers stopped him and insisted they would carry a message to her.

Now as he looked at the expressions of the two anxious men, he feared to hear their tale.

“She is well, brother.  Benjamin Dixon tends to her,” Chetan said carefully. Winn noticed that Chetan glanced at Makedewa, who appeared ready to boil over as he waited to speak.  Winn nodded with relief to Chetan and looked to his second brother.

“What say you? Does Chetan not speak truth?”

“He speaks true, brother.  Yet he does not tell all.  The Red Woman married Benjamin Dixon.  She breeds his babe even now.”

Winn felt the grip of icy fingers around his nec
k as his blood rushed cold.

“You must be mistaken,” he growled.

“No, it is true.  Benjamin told us both by his own tongue. I wanted to kill him and bring her back to you, but Chetan refused me.  Give me your word, and I will go back to finish it,” Makedewa ground out.

Winn struggled to sit up and was glad the braves did not move to help him.  He felt his wound tear, only a minimal disruption, but the healing flesh parted and a fresh gush of blood began to spread over the dressing on his chest.

“No. I do not believe it.” Winn grimaced and tried to stand, but at this both warriors moved forward to stop him.

“It is truth.  I am sorry.  I ask Makedewa to wait to hear your word before we act,” Chetan said.

Winn swallowed hard. Benjamin? The man he called brother left him for dead slung over the back of his horse, and then stole his woman? And what of Maggie – his wife, his heart? She would marry another and take his seed, as if her body were nothing more than a bottle of rum to be passed around? He remembered the words she once spoke during an argument.

Whore,
she had said, as if the world was most distasteful.
A woman who sleeps with any man.

No.  He would not believe that of her.  He would believe the vows they spoke.  He would believe the fire in her gaze and the softness of her yielding to
him as he loved upon her. He could believe nothing else, or risk slipping back down deep into that dank place the fever took him to, that soulless void bereft of light.

“Leave me, brothers,” he said. “I will think on these things.”

Chapter 20

She tucked her hands beneath her thighs as she sat on the plank bench next to a young blond haired girl. The girl did not talk much, but Maggie did not mind, content to watch the others dance from her perch away from the festivity.

Benjamin stood across the barn with a handful of similarly dressed men, drinking from a pewter mug, which he refilled at least twice from a cask at his feet.  She hoped he would drink enough to ensure a quick slumber when they arrived home. He caught her eye and smiled, raising his mug up to her in salute through the crowd of dancers. She tilted her chin up to show him her acknowledgement, and he turned his attention back to the men.

A brisk fiddle beat filled the barn. It was a temporary meeting place in Wolstenholme town, sitting next to the community storehouse, serving the various needs of the citizens until more suitable accommodations were built. Although they went to church twice a day, the English spent an equal amount of time on their entertainment, finding some reason or another to drink and play music nearly every night.

“Would ye care to dance, Mistress Dixon?”

She looked up at the grainy voice. Charles Potts stood beside her, hand outstretched in a most polite fashion. His stick-straight hair stood out like thorns beyond his brown woolen hat, his pox-marked face shaved clean for the evening, yet he still held an air of pestilence and she did not want to spend anytime in his presence.

She shook her head demurely.

“I’m sorry, I fear I am taken a bit ill. I think I’ll take some air.”

“Are ye sure? Should I escort
ye, miss?”

“Ah, no.  Thank you,” she said firmly, putting a distinct end to the near uncomfortable discussion.  He gave her a quick half-bow as she stood up.  She left him standing there and made her way out of the barn.

Once outside, she leaned back on the plank wall and pulled her bodice away from her breast. It was damn hot in the place, with all the warm dancing bodies and half-soused men stumbling around.  She fanned her neck and chest with her hand.  There, that felt better.

The wail of the fiddle
could still be heard, the stomps of the dancers thudding off the wall she leaned against. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, her breath misting as it left her lungs in a sigh.

She thought she heard a rustle of leaves coming from the tree line, distinct from the pounding of dancing feet, yet still the fiddles wailed and she supposed it was only her imagination.

“Ye shouldna be out here by yer lonesome, Mistress.”

Charles Potts stood in front of her, an arm’s length away, her cloak folded over his elbow. She scowled and snatched it from him, but he held onto it and used it as an excuse to enter her space. She shrunk back into the solid wall to keep a proper space between them, suspicious of the gleam in his muddy brown eyes.
Her stomach curled when he spit out a chunk of wet tobacco at her feet.

“I’m fine, thank you. I’ll be going to find my husband now,” she said dismissively, trying to brush past him. His hand shot out to block her exit, braced against the barn at the height of her shoulders. She did not turn to look at him, gritting her jaw as she tried to keep her voice low.  If there was one thing she knew for sure about the English, it was their distaste for public embarrassment, and if she caused a
scene, she knew she would be considered the one at fault, not the teetering Master Potts.