Time Walkers 2 Book Bundle: The Legend of the Bloodstone, Return of the Pale Feather (Time Walkers 1-2) (56 page)

“Aye,” Benjamin said quietly to the boy. “What news do ye bring, lad?”

Morgan looked up at the men towering over him. Maggie thought he must be afraid, with the semi-circle of brawn surrounding him, but the youth held his stance and glared defiantly at them.

“Ye need to come for yer savage if ye want him to live. There’s men planning to kill him when he leaves town with Joseph Benning. They say they will hang him in the square.”

Maggie felt a swaying beneath her feet.
No. Not Winn
. He had been faithful in his task, served the English and Indians fairly. How could they turn on him?

“Gather the men from the fields, send them to the Northern Hall. Boy, ye’ll stay here with us,” Marcus ordered. No one moved for a moment, until Marcus swung on them in a fury.

“Go!” He bellowed. The men scattered, and Maggie followed Marcus through the courtyard.

*****

They gathered in the Northern Hall, yet Maggie did not understand why they did not immediately leave. Cormaic and Erich roused the others, demanding a quick response to aid Winn. Maggie grew frustrated as Marcus stayed silent, listening to the others argue on the best plan. Finally, Marcus threw back his shoulders and stood up, and the hall fell silent as attention shifted to the Chief.

“We will make two groups. I will take two men into town. The others will wait outside the palisades. If we show them he is not alone, they will not dare follow him,” Marcus announced.

Maggie hung back away from the others, poised at the door to the Northern Hall. She crossed her arms over her chest and closed her eyes as she listened to the men, their words blending into a senseless fog to her ears. There was only one thing she wished to hear, that they would immediately ride out to find Winn. Panic washed through her with each moment that they delayed.

“What if they already attacked? We must take them by surprise. It is the only way,” Cormaic argued. Erich placed his hand on his son’s shoulder, shaking his head.

“We have not enough men. And they have many more guns, we only have a few.”

“What of the Nansemond? Send a rider for help, the warriors will come fight with us,” another man suggested. The hall erupted with murmurs, discussions of what course to take trailing off between men.

Benjamin remained silent through the exchange as he sat at his father’s side. Tense through his shoulders, wearing the fur mantle of a Chief’s son, Benjamin glanced over at her. She met his eyes briefly before she left the hall.

Damn them for not leaving right away. Every sliver of her sense screamed it would be a mistake, but all she could think of was getting to Winn. After all, she had snuck into Martin’s Hundred to help Benjamin.  It might be more sensible for a woman to try to go in. The English would not expect it, and she was fairly sure no one would recognize her, since she had not been near any English towns since the Massacre.

She needed a plan, but she would have time to make one on the way to town. Rebecca would keep Kwetii without alerting the men, giving her time to take one of the horses and slip away. She entered her empty Long House and took stock of her supplies: one rifle with half a bag of gunpowder, her bone-handled knife, and one of Rebecca’s English style dresses. It would have to do.

Her hands were slippery with sweat as she clutched the rifle and grabbed a traveling sack to pack with supplies.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

At the sound of Benjamin’s voice behind her, she bit down on her lower lip. She kept her back to him and continued shoving items in her bag.

“Leave me alone,” she replied. He placed a hand on her arm and she shook it off, turning on him in a fury. She slapped his second attempt to reach for her, until he stepped back with both arms held wide to give her space.

“All right! Stop yer fighting! I willna touch ye! But yer not going anywhere, I canna let ye leave!”

“By the time the others decide what to do, he could be dead. I have the best chance of sneaking in without notice, and you know it,” she countered. “I saved your hide once, didn’t I?”

“Yes, ye did. At too much risk to yer own blasted neck. Jamestown is different than Martin’s Hundred, Maggie, ye’ll be
caught. Even if ye get in, ye canna get him out. Did ye think of that, or do ye wish to sit in the cell with him?”

“I won’t lose him again.” She swallowed back a sob as the sting of tears blurred her vision, and he reached for her again, but then dropped his hands when she backed up.

“What of yer daughter? Who will see to her if ye end up dead?” he said quietly. It was that notion that finally rattled her, and she felt the tears streak down her cheeks. He was right.

She sat down hard on the bedding platform and dropped the sack onto the floor. He kneeled down in front of her, his tousled locks falling over his face as he bowed his head. She could hear each breath he took, slow, controlled, as if he meant to speak but could not. When he finally looked up, his fingers were clenched into fists and his slate eyes were round and shallow.

“Do ye remember that day, when we were children? The last time I saw ye?” he said softly. She nodded. She could recall it well.

She placed her raven on the ground as she played on the floor of the old barn. No one would bother her there.  Grandpa had no use for the space, but she liked it. It was a secret place, her hiding spot, a place to call her own among the world of adults.

Hinges creaked, and she saw the wood plank door open. A pair of round blue eyes peered at her between the slats.

“Can I come in, Maggie?” he asked. She rolled her eyes. It was the boy, Marcus’s son.  He wasn’t so bad.

“Oh, I guess. Hurry up and close the door.”

He slithered in and plopped down beside her.

“Ach, crap, I cut my finger on the stupid door. Gimmie your sock, will ya?”

“No, I’m not giving you anything! Go get a band aid, or keep bleeding, I don’t care!” she sniped. He shrugged.

When he saw her raven sitting solitary in the dirt, he fished in his pocket for a moment until he produced his own treasure.

The boy held it up, a wide toothless grin stretching across his face.

“See? Da gave you the raven, but I have the eagle. It’s better than the raven,” he bragged.

“No it’s not!” she hissed.

“Aye, it is! My Da said so!”

“You’re a liar, and I’m telling!” she shrieked. She jumped up and left him in the dirt.

It was the last time she saw him. Grandpa said not to speak of it, poor Marcus could not bear it. His little son, disappeared without a trace. The police said the mother must have taken him.

“You followed me everywhere, you were such a pest,” she laughed, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. His eyes softened and he nodded with a wry smile.

“That I did.”

They both laughed, a nervous, strained interlude in an otherwise uncomfortable silence.

“I think I knew who ye were, when we met again. The day Winn brought ye to town, even with yer hair in braids and dressed like a squaw, I thought it was ye,” he confessed.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she whispered.

“Those memories were buried down deep. I had to keep them silent, lest I fear I was mad. I was only a boy when I traveled here, not like ye, a woman grown. And then ye turned up, and I started to remember things. I knew where I came from, where ye came from.”

He thrust his fist into his pocket, pulling out his eagle figurine. She was shocked it was still in his possession, but it was the same as when she’d last seen it. He placed it gently in her hand and closed her fingers over it.

“You may be right. One man could get in, and warn him, much better than all of us,” he said.

“What are you saying?” she whispered.

“Ye’ll stay here. If the others know I’ve left, they will follow, and I will lose the chance to get into town. Let no one know I’ve gone.”

Her eyes followed his as he stood up, his face a steady mask betraying no sign of fear. He took the rifle from her hands and turned to leave.

“Why would you do this?” she asked. He paused at the door, without turning back.

“I have only one brother in this world. And he has only one wife.”

He closed the door gently as he left.

Maggie

When Marcus learned of her role in helping Benjamin leave the village alone, he descended on her in a fury. He slammed the door of her Long House, his face a mask of heathen rage she had never witnessed before, even the first day he had helped save her and Winn from attack.

“Are ye out of yer mind?” he hollered. She stood trembling before him, more at the shock of his response than fear of him. They had suffered through many a heated argument over the years, and despite the violence clouding his blue eyes she knew he would never harm her.

“He wanted to go. He has a better chance being alone—” she tried to explain.

“He chances being killed!” Marcus shouted.

“I wanted to go. He wouldn’t let me!”

She heard the sharp intake of his breath, and watched him wave his hands at her in dismissal.

“What would ye do, save him yerself?
Dinna I raise ye to have more sense than that? Jesus, Maggie, sometimes I think ye haven’t the good brains ye were born with!”

“You can go to hell, Marcus! I am sick and tired of being treated like I have no say in things! I’m sick of all you stinking men, running around like a bunch of idiots, making all the decisions! I’m sick of this stupid time, the stupid English—and—and you bloody
men
!” she shrieked.

She threw an empty bowl at him and watched him duck to avoid it. He glared at her, eyes widening in surprise before he closed the distance in two strides.  He grabbed her arms before she could launch another missile, shaking her like a child.

“In this time, you have no say in it,” he snapped as she tried to twist away from him. He shook her roughly by the arms, his face contorted. “This is the time ye were meant to be born to. Ye live here now, and ye cannot change the ways of men. Do ye want to see them dead, for want of yer stubborn pride? For you to say ye saved him, like a woman of your time might do? Yer foolish plan will get him killed. Both of them this time. Both my sons.”

She felt her anger slipping away as he stared down at her, the sounds of their ragged breaths the only murmur between them. His fingers loosened on her arms, and with a sigh his frown deepened.

“I know ye think ye have no power here, Maggie. But ye have it all, ye just don’t know it yet,” he said softly. 

“Do you mean as a
Gothi
? I still don’t understand.”

“Aye, there’s that. But more than that. Ye have the love of two brave men, who each would move the earth itself to see ye happy. In this time, my wee hellion, that power is the most fearsome of all.”

She felt her throat constrict as tears smeared her cheeks. She had no answer for him. Her heart was filled with the love of one man, yet she knew in some part that his words held truth.

“I bid ye keep yer arse here while we fetch my sons. I’ve never had cause to take ye over my knee, but if I find ye up to any more trouble, I’ll tan ye good, grown woman or no. Agreed?”

She nodded. He kissed the top of her head before he left the Long House, slamming the door behind him.

*****

The village was quiet without the men. The women gathered in the Northern Hall to prepare for the eventual return of the warriors, yet a veil of unease hung thick among them as they worked. She sat next to Gwen, who was focused in a dedicated manner pounding dried stockfish with a mallet. Maggie idly stirred the thick butter mixture they would soak the fish in later for the night meal as she stared off toward the doorway.  She felt the eyes of the other women upon her as she worked, her skin prickling with the unsaid accusations. The men were gone to battle to retrieve her husband, and there was nothing she could do but sit by and wait to see if they all returned safely.

“Do you think they will return soon?” Maggie asked. Gwen continued to pound the fish, her mallet sliding off the slippery table edge as she worked.

“They’ll nay be long, worry not.” Gwen answered. “And ye would be dead right now if ye’d gone to town,” the older woman added.

Maggie dropped her ladle and looked up.

“I know,” Maggie replied quietly. She had already endured being chastised by Marcus. As much as Maggie knew she deserved it, she felt a heaviness in her chest at the thought of Gwen being angry with her as well.

“Ye
dinna mean any harm, I can see that. But fer want of your foolish acts, our men might die,” Gwen said as she clenched her mallet. “We’ve survived here peaceably until today. No one bothers us, and we keep to ourselves. Some of these women willna forget if the men do not return.”

“Gwen, I’m so sorry,” Maggie whispered, her voice trembling. “They’ll all come home safely, they will—”

Gwen cut her off, pointing the mallet at Maggie.

“Ye need to take yer place here, girl, and remember who ye are. Ye cannot act alone as ye did today. Winn will be our Chief someday, and he needs a strong wife. Not a spoilt girl who thinks only of herself.”

Maggie could not answer. The breath caught in her lungs and tears coursed down her cheeks. Gwen was right.

“I—I’m sorry,” Maggie said. Gwen clucked her tongue and shook her head, laying down her mallet. Maggie put her face in her
hands and brushed away the tears, trying to keep from falling apart as the painful truth roared in her ears.

“I know ye are. I know yer sorry,” Gwen replied quietly.

Maggie knew Gwen’s words were true, and the implication of her actions tore through her. If some of the men did not return, it would be her fault. She had made a foolish decision in a heated moment, and as a result, the lives of many men were put at risk. How would anyone ever forgive her if something terrible happened?

“I can’t sit here like this. I’m going to check on Kwetii,” she said. She avoided looking into Gwen’s face. Maggie knew she would break down in front of all the women if she stayed any longer.

“Go on then, have at it,” Gwen muttered. “Yer no help fer me here, with ye staring off and no work done.”

Maggie left the Northern Hall and made a brisk walk back to her Long House. There was no way she could concentrate on anything but worrying over Winn and the others. She knew better than most how ruthless the English could be, and how bloody a battle between them might turn out. As she entered the space she currently called home and reached for her sleeping child, it was all she could do to lay beside her without crying.

Maggie nestled down beside Kwetii, the child’s unique toddler scent comforting amidst the fear that threatened to suffocate her.  Kwetii’s long lashes twitched as she slept, her bow-shaped lips making a sweet snoring sound as she breathed. Maggie suspected her daughter would be through with afternoon naps soon, but for now she watched the last remnants of her childhood slipping away too fast. Kwetii was born to the seventeenth century, and as such, her childhood would be a short one before she was thrust into the reality of life. Lying beside her and holding her close, Maggie wished she could shield her from what was to come. She prayed that Winn would be there to guide them.

It was impossible for her to rest, knowing the men she loved were in danger. After watching Kwetii sleep for a few minutes, Maggie decided to busy herself with tidying the Long House. 

Since their arrival in the Norse village, they had acquired many more items than they were accustomed to owning. Winn found it strange to have personal possessions since the Indians regarded supplies as belonging to the community instead of individuals, yet even he had adapted to the change. She folded his braies and tunic and placed them in a basket hanging along the wall, and put his spare boots there as well. He must have worn his breechcloth and leggings into town, and she was not too surprised to see he had worn his native attire to conduct his business.

After she arranged his clothes in the basket, she turned to the corner he piled his belongings in.  Sitting there, propped against the wall, was his sword.  It gleamed in the flicker of the hearth fire, the amber light bouncing off the smooth metal. She ran one finger down the long, thick handle, which was carved deep with a tangle of runes.  The symbols were meaningless to her, but a part of both her blood and Winn’s. A grandfather he had never known, Chief
Drustan Nielsson, had held that sword in his hands as he fought those who meant him harm. So many tales, so many legends. Would she ever sit with her husband and children, and listen to the stories?

She looked up when Kwetii made a tiny mewling sound.  The child did not wake, and for that she was glad. Maggie preferred to spend her desolation alone.

Winn’s second pair of leggings was still damp from washing, so she decided to lay it out in the sun to dry. Fall was upon them, and winter would arrive soon, but still they had the last remnants of summer sun in the afternoons and she preferred to take advantage of it. She draped the doeskin leggings over a bench and sat down, letting the warmth of the sunshine caress her face. She wished it was his touch on her skin, his fingers in her hair, instead of her own hands raking over her face as the tears fell.

What if the last words between them were those said in anger? If there were Gods in his time, did they listen to requests? If she asked for forgiveness, would it be granted? Perhaps if she promised to be a good wife, an obedient wife, a wife that Winn would not need to fight, it might be enough to please the Gods.
Whatever Gods looked over the Powhatan, or the Norse, she would do anything to appease them. Even if it meant denying the time she was born to and all that she was.

She heard a stifled cry from the Long House and hurriedly wiped her hand across her face. It sounded as if Kwetii were in the throes of a nightmare, and with a wry smile she thought of how both Winn and she had suffered the same as children. As she turned to retrieve the child, her attention was distracted by the scent of smoke in the air. Across the courtyard, the storehouse was in flames, its roof alight like a torch against the blue sky. Maggie could see the other village women gathered outside the burning structure. She raced back into the Long House for Kwetii.

Crouched over her child was the misshapen back of a man. At the sound of her footsteps, he swung around, his fur cloak swirling around him as he snatched Kwetii into his arms. It was an older man she had never had words with, but she recognized him from meal times. Was his name Old Ivar? She could not recall.

When she took a tentative step forward, he stepped back and held up one hand straight out. Her stomach made a sickening leap when she saw he held a knife.

“Sir, I—I think my daughter must need me, if you please,” she said softly, her voice trembling. Kwetii hung from the crook of his elbow, her round eyes wide as she uttered a grunting cry. Her dangling legs kicked out. Maggie held out her arms. What on earth did he want with her child?

“Keep yer distance, ye
Gothi
devil!” Ivar said. “Move away, or I’ll cut her, I swear it!”

She noticed his arms shook, the knife quivering in his unsteady fingers. She kept her eyes on his instead of Kwetii, afraid seeing her child’s terror would cause her own fear to take over.

“What do you want with her?” she asked.

“You’re the ones with the power to send our ship back. I won’t stay in this blasted place anymore, I’m going back to Vinland, no matter what yer Chief says!”

“I don’t understand. Truly. Let her go, we can talk about this –”

“No! It’s too late
fer that! I’m going back without them, let them rot here with the Indians and the English, I’ll nay be part of it any longer. Git out of my way, woman, now, I have a ship waiting fer me.  All I need is the blood of the
Gothi
, and I can return to my true time.”

“Then take me,” Maggie pleaded. Was this it? Was this her punishment for her crimes, for her rash actions? Would the Gods take her child as penance? 

She slowly dropped to her knees before him, bowing her head, her body wreaked with tremors as he gripped her crying child. If it was Kwetii’s blood he wanted, she shared it as well. She did not understand what he meant, or how he meant to time travel, but the sight of a man holding a knife to her daughter lent to desperate measures no matter what the reason.

She felt his hand on her shoulder and she thought he might relent, but instead he thrust her aside and brushed past her with Kwetii in his arms. As she pushed to her knees, she saw a flash of yellow hair by the doorway, and then heard the hollow twang of a bowstring plucked.