The Warrior's Captive Bride

by Jenna Kernan

  Night Storm moved through the herd and down the sandy bank to the curve in the river. There the ground opened up to a wide grassy plain and before them lay the village of the Black Lodges. She looked out at the five hundred tepees, the conical tips of each smoked black. It was from this heavy smoke color that the tribe had derived its name while her tribe, the Low River tribe, received its name from their favored camping sites.

  She forced a smile as she saw the people moving leisurely between the lodges that each had the distinctive blackened peaks of heavily smoked leather. Judging by the thoroughly smoked top portions of the buffalo lodges, she could tell his tribe kept their lodges for several seasons. This black smoked portion of the lodge was very prized, she knew, for it was completely waterproof. When her auntie recently made a new lodge, she had cut Skylark’s uncle a fine hunting shirt from the very top portion of hide.

  As they drew closer, she did lean against him because the nervousness in her stomach had traveled to her lungs.

  “You are trembling again,” he whispered.

  “What if your mother and sisters all hate me?”

  He chuckled as if this were some joke. “Pretend they are owls and shake a stick at them.”

  She elbowed him in the ribs. “Do not joke. I want to make a good impression.”

  But why? So she could later disappoint them with her leave-taking?

  Night Storm gave her a reassuring squeeze as if she were really his wife. “My mother has been after me to wed for three winters.”

  “But what if she finds out? What if she knows what we have done?”

  “Now you sound like a nervous bride. Where is my strong medicine woman who can walk all day and sleep alone in the forest while the wolves circle her tree?”

  “I think you left her back around that last turn.”

  He squeezed her arm. “I have said I will protect you, and so I shall, from everyone and everything.”

  Did that include Beautiful Meadow, she wondered.

  “Lift your chin and sit tall. You are the wife of a warrior of the Black Lodges.”

  She shivered in the sunlight, and he tightened his arms about her as if to fortify her with his body.

  Now in the Hunting Moon, the water slowed and the evenings turned crisp. The sunlight seemed deeper and colder, but most of the leaves were still green. She glanced about seeing a touch of red here and yellow there. Soon the War Moon would come and the trees would blaze with golden hues, like a fire just before the wood burns out.

  As they neared the closest lodges, Skylark noted the women carrying loads of wood and water as they moved in groups on the opposite side of the river. They paused to look as she and Night Storm splashed across the wide, shallow stretch. She felt their stares fix upon her and tried her best to look calm and composed. But, actually, her heart pounded inside her chest as loudly as a charging herd of buffalo, and her face felt hot as a stone lying in the summer sun.

  Which one was Beautiful Meadow?

  He leaned close. “You are squirming like a babe with a wet breechclout.”

  She forced herself to stillness. “I have never been a wife and, anyway, a husband comes to his wife’s tribe. You should come to my home.”

  It would keep her from Beautiful Meadow until the gathering. Why hadn’t she thought to ask him to come to her tribe? But she had. He’d said he had to hunt for a widow here. If he could hunt, she thought.

  “We are visiting here until the gathering, or that is what I will tell them. Besides, you have no reason to fret. You are pretty and smart and useful. My family will love you.”

  “Your mother?”

  The hesitation did nothing to convince her. “Of course.”

  “I forgot their names.”

  “Why are you so concerned? It is only temporary.”

  That was right. She remembered that, but her stomach did not, for it twisted tight.

  “I think I might throw up,” she muttered.

  “At least you do not have to worry about falling off your horse in front of everyone.”

  She gasped at that and her gaze shot to Frost, who trotted happily along at their heels as they cleared the river and moved onto the wide, muddy bank. A woman came toward them.

  “Is that Beautiful Meadow?” she asked.

  “No. I do not see her, yet.” His words held a definite edge and she knew he dreaded this meeting as she did. “That is my sister. Smile.”

  Skylark forced a smile that felt tight and unnatural. Night Storm swung down from the saddle and then lifted Skylark to the ground beside him.

  His sister was a tall woman who seemed about Skylark’s age, but with eyes the same shape as Night Storm. She halted and lowered her burden of wood.

  “Brother, welcome home.”

  Her dress was lovely, with fine beading across the yoke and fringe that had been twisted so that the strands curled like the tail of a buffalo. She had stained the bottom of her dress yellow. His sister approached her brother as Frost danced about her in pure joy.

  She touched foreheads with her brother as she clasped his shoulders. Then she stepped back and turned her smile toward Skylark.

  “And who is this?” she asked.

  Night Storm took Skylark’s hand and tugged her forward. “Bright Shawl, meet Skylark of the Low River tribe. She is my wife.”

  That announcement caused gasps from some and titters from others.

  “Well, this is a surprise,” said Bright Shawl. “Let me be the first to welcome you to our family.” She quickly touched foreheads with Skylark and then motioned to the woman beside her. “This is my good friend, Many Blessings.”

  “Yes,” said the woman at his sister’s side. “And your husband has just broken my heart.”

  “Would you like me to bring Skylark to your lodge, brother?” asked Bright Shawl.

  “I will bring her. Where are Mother and Father?”

  “Mother is tanning a hide before our lodge. Father, I do not know.”

  Night Storm lifted the reins and set the two horses in motion. She wanted to ask Night Storm who that was, but before she could ask she saw a woman charging forward with her chin lowered and her hands gripped in fists.

  “Beautiful Meadow,” she whispered, certain she was right. Skylark sank behind Storm’s body as the woman came at them straight as an arrow released from the bow.

  The woman was taller than Sky and heavier. In a fight, Skylark thought she would lose. And this woman looked ready to fight. She stared at Sky now, pinning her with her eyes just like a hawk choosing its victim.

  “Storm?” she whispered. Skylark had been in a few fights with other women but none had such a red face or dangerously glittering eyes.

  Beautiful Meadow was certainly better dressed in a two-elk dress that was stained a becoming green at the bottom and had an expert band of green-and-white beading across the yoke. Her moccasins lifted dust as she stomped forward.

  “Beautiful Meadow, we were just coming to find you.”

  Sky’s gaze flicked from her adversary to the other women hurrying along to catch up with Beautiful Meadow and witness the entertainment that was certain to follow.

  “Is it true?” she screeched.

  “I would like to introduce you—”

  She interrupted, fairly shouting. “Is it true? Have you taken this scrawny little nobody as your wife?”

  Storm lowered his chin. “It is true.”

  She flapped her arms. “But you are promised to me!”

  “It is a promise I will keep.”

  Beautiful Meadow gave him her back. “I was to be your first wife.” She rounded on Sky, aiming a finger at her. “You are a thief.”

  “I am not.”

  “No? You stole my husband. You don’t look like an elk to me.” Her gaz
e lifted to Night Storm. “Isn’t that what you told me? Where you said you were going day after day? To hunt elk. Yet you bring home nothing until today. You were hunting. But not for meat.”

  “Beautiful Meadow, you do not raise your voice to me,” said Storm.

  His fiancée’s mouth dropped open and she sputtered. “I am going to tell my uncle of this. I think that woman has bewitched you.”

  Sky’s throat went dry. This was worse even than she had imagined. Her uncle was the shaman. He had a great deal of power.

  Beautiful Meadow aimed a finger at her. “I am not done with you. If you are wise you will set his things outside tonight and go back where you came from.” If Sky set out his belongings, it would signal to all that their marriage had ended.

  Storm took hold of Skylark’s arm and drew her past Beautiful Meadow, who spit at her. The warm spittle struck her in the neck and oozed down below the collar of her dress. Sky pressed a hand over the spot and lowered her head. She let her husband lead her past the gawking women and the rows of tepees. She looked at the ground as he continued on and on, the shame burning deep inside her. All the while she struggled with tears.

  What had she done?

  Chapter Ten

  Storm did not stop and she did not succeed in keeping the tears from rolling down her face as they continued toward his lodge. Gradually she was able to lift her head.

  “She hates me,” said Sky.

  “She needs time to get used to the idea that she will not be my only wife.”

  “You cannot marry her while I am here.”

  “Yes. I know. I will speak to her later.”

  They meandered through the series of lodges, some decorated with bright paintings, some patched and old, and others so new the hide at the peak had barely time to turn smoke-black.

  Just as in her village, there was no set location for a lodge. The chief’s wife set her lodge and then the council of elders chose a place in close proximity for the council lodge. Important men, such as the shaman, also camped close to the chief. But, after that, the village grew outward in all directions so that none had to walk too far to fetch water.

  Night Storm drew up beside a small lodge of perhaps four buffalo skins.

  “This is my lodge.” Then he pointed to the larger one beside his. “This one is my parents’, Red Corn Woman and Many Coups. Both my sisters, Bright Shawl and Fills a Kettle, are unmarried, though both are now women.”

  Which meant they lived with their parents and likely had suitors.

  “My brother, Iron Axe married a woman from the Wind Basin tribe last gathering. My brother came to visit before my injury to say he already has a son called Firefly.”

  “That is a great blessing.”

  “He said Little Rain was very strong and needed no help birthing their child.”

  She wanted a child. Her gaze flashed to Night Storm and then away. Did she have the courage to go to his sleeping robes, knowing she must let him go?

  “What?” he asked in response to her impolite stare.

  “I was thinking of the plants I must collect.” She looked away and began doing just that to take her mind to a different problem and one that she had some hope of solving. She was here to help him. That was all. She mentally made note of all the plants she must collect to help him as she shifted her gathering bag from her shoulder. Some of the ones she needed she already had on hand. But how did she know what other ones he needed? He went a full moon between his first and second falls. Could the moon trigger a fall? But there had been no moon last night. This was the most difficult problem she had ever faced because he was only occasionally ill.

  Night Storm staked his horses and removed the saddle blanket from his chestnut as she unloaded the packhorse. She might be a new wife, but she knew her responsibilities. This night, she would likely not be preparing a meal unless perhaps her husband’s mother expected to be served as a test of her skill.

  Sky gripped her collecting bag close as a child clutches her doll.

  Her breathing caught for, though she was excellent at foraging, she was less than adequate at preparing meals.

  “You seem rooted as a tree,” said Night Storm. He pried the folded rawhide parfleche container from her fingers, bringing her back to herself.

  “This was a mistake.”

  He lowered his chin and gave her a hard look. “Sky. You promised me you would try.”

  She nodded. “Yes, but I am not a very good cook.”

  His brows lifted. “Most new husbands are not concerned with such things.”

  His smile faded, and his long look made her feel more inadequate. Her throat began to burn and ache. She swallowed at the lump forming there.

  “My mother is a very good cook,” he said. “She can teach you.”

  “No!” She had not meant to shout, but to have his mother teach her would be humiliating.

  He frowned. A wife did not yell at her husband, especially in public.

  She dipped her head in shame. “I am sorry.”

  He nodded his acceptance.

  When he spoke she heard no hint of annoyance. “Bring that buffalo robe into the lodge.”

  Skylark was happy to do so and have a moment alone. She lifted the door flap, leaving it open and resting on the lodge’s outer surface. Then she dipped to step into the circular opening. Inside she found a central fire pit surrounded by one buffalo robe. The second was in her arms. Extra weapons hung from pegs on the lodge poles and there was a tall stack of furs. Mostly beaver, she saw, but also wolf, fox and one that was quite obviously a puma. She had only seen one such hide before, but she recalled it well. This cat must have been at least fifteen hands long. What concerned her, as she turned about, was not what she saw, but what she did not see. There was an absence of containers for food. Also absent were the tools of a woman’s lodge. There were no bladders for gathering water, no awls or tanned buckskins waiting to transform into clothing. No cooking pot. No strings of dry Timpsula tubers hanging in ropes or coiled like a lariat.

  What would they do for food? It was late in the season to begin digging for roots and tubers.

  Night Storm ducked through the opening and stood before her. She stared at him in horror.

  “You are not pleased?”

  “What will we eat?”

  “My mother feeds me.”

  “But she will not feed your wife. She will expect me to feed you, as I should.”

  He set aside the pack frame and then nestled his fists on his hips and looked about as if the stored food might appear if he waited long enough.

  “I was not expecting a wife.”

  She threw up her hands at this.

  “Hello!” A woman’s voice came from outside the lodge. Since the flap was open, their guest entered, because an open flap door was an invitation to visitors.

  Skylark spun and watched an older woman glide through the entrance. Her motions reminded Skylark of Night Storm’s. When she straightened, her smile changed to one of astonishment as she set eyes on Skylark.

  “Who is this then?” she asked.

  “Mother, this is my wife, Skylark of the Low River people.”

  Her mother pressed a hand to her heart and took one retreating step. Skylark noticed that her face was dark and round, with few wrinkles. Her hair had one distinctive strand of white that she had braided along with the rest, the white road weaving in and out of the rope of black.

  “Wife?” The shock was gradually disappearing, changing to curiosity. She inched closer, her brows lifted. She did not look very much like her son, except around the jaw. They had the same square chin.

  “Yes. My wife. We have come to visit until the gathering,” said Night Storm.

  “But I thought... What of Beautiful Meadow?”

  “We me
t her on the way in. I have to go speak to her.”

  His mother stared at him with an owlish expression, the tension clear in the lines that flanked her face.

  “I am certain she is upset. This will not be a welcome surprise to her. Son, most men have their wife’s consent before they take another.”

  “Beautiful Meadow is not yet my wife.”

  “True, but she is your intended and, though her uncle, Thunder Horse, has joined our tribe through marriage, her mother and father are Wind Basin people. I am certain she intended to return there with her husband.”

  Night Storm gritted his teeth, following his mother’s words and knowing where this trail would lead.

  His mother held his gaze. “You have chosen two women from different tribes. So once you have wed Beautiful Meadow, will you live with the Low River people or Beautiful Meadow’s family in the Wind Basin tribe?”

  Night Storm stood silent. Clearly he had not anticipated this problem, either. A husband went to his wife’s tribe. Generally a second wife was from the same tribe and often his first wife handpicked this woman. She might be her sister, if her sister’s husband died. Or a dear friend. She was not a stranger from a different tribe.

  Skylark’s eyes widened as they flicked from mother to son. Her heart hammered so loudly she could barely hear Night Storm’s reply.

  “We have not decided. But Beautiful Meadow will go where I go,” he said at last.

  His mother stroked her chin between a thumb and index finger.

  “Perhaps.” His mother studied them.

  Storm lifted one arm, hesitated and then set it awkwardly on Skylark’s shoulder. The weight of that self-conscious embrace, combined with his mother’s confused stare, made her wish she could sink through the dried yellow grass and slip under the lodge hide like a snake.