by E. B. Brown
“I will not stop,” he whispered as he parted her thighs with his knee.
“Don’t,” she replied. She meant it, and so did he.
*****
He was not spent until the early hours before dawn. Even then, she did not think it was enough to tame the demon. Something was broken inside him that would not yield, no matter how hard he buried his despair in her body, nor how many times. He heard none of the soothing words she whispered, and by the time he was satiated she felt as hollow as the emptiness in his eyes. Her flesh felt bruised. Her soul was battered.
Early in the morning she felt him reach for her. It was only a questioning touch, a brush of his fingertips across her shoulder, but it was enough to let her fall back into the recesses of uneasy sleep. Yet he was gone when the sun finally rose and she woke. She busied about the morning tasks of tending the children, herding the tiny mob toward the Northern Hall as she placed Daniel in a sling. The child eagerly set about nursing as they walked through the village, content in his chore as the other children whooped and hollered around them. Kwetii grew annoyed with Malcolm stumbling alone, so she picked up her youngest brother and toted him along, finally plunking the child down on a bench once they entered the hall.
“Here, give ’em to me,” Gwen called, waving her arms. Maggie handed Daniel over to her aunt, glad for the reprieve and eager to find Winn. The men had not yet split off into work groups so the hall was quite crowded, the benches filled shoulder to shoulder as they grappled amongst each other for the morning meal.
Maggie finally spotted Winn. He was standing apart from the others near the head of the table, speaking with Erich. With the events of the night prior still haunting her, she hoped he would acknowledge her as he usually did. The way he slipped from their bed as she slept troubled her. She knew he was mourning his brother’s absence as they all were, and that to Winn it was a deeper pain than others endured. Her body ached as it had the first time they made love, yet that time Winn had been slow and loving with her. What they had done the night before, however, was nothing one might call lovemaking. For her, it had been a surrender. For him, some primal need. She did not recognize a sliver of the man he had revealed to her, and that was the most frightening aspect of all. Had Makedewa taken Winn with him on his journey? And if he had, would he ever be able to return to her?
She was not consoled when Winn merely lifted his chin briefly in her direction, barely meeting her eyes across the room. Enough of a gesture to show he saw her, but enough to convey he would not speak with her. As she watched him leave the Northern Hall without another glance, her ire simmered. Yes, he was hurting. But she would not let him leave without a fight.
After checking that Gwen would watch over the children, Maggie followed Winn outside. She was stunned to find he readied his horse as if he prepared for a trip. His mount was packed with enough supplies she guessed for a two-day ride; so he meant to go visit Pepamhu at Mattanock. 58 It made sense that Winn would wish to speak with him. She did not fault him for his journey. What rankled her was that her husband seemed to be leaving without even saying goodbye.
He was tying off a strap when she approached, but she knew he heard her by the way he paused. The muscles tensed across his arms, his shoulders tight beneath the edges of his silver fur vest. His voice was quite low when he spoke, controlled, as if he still fought his demons of the night before.
“No goodbye?” she said quietly. She came up close behind him but did not touch him, and he did not turn to face her. His skin bristled with goose bumps where her breath hit his bare arm, and she saw his fist clench and unclench on the rawhide tie. So he was not too far gone to be unaffected by her. At least she had that.
“You need no words. You know where I go,” he said simply.
His response stung. She struggled to stem her rising temper, reminding herself he was damaged, and that he needed something more from her than she had ever given him.
“You’re right. I know,” she replied. “I suppose you’re finished here.”
She was sure he did not expect her acquiescence. Perhaps he wanted a fight? He let out a sigh and his shoulders slumped forward, only slightly, but enough that she could see the battle leave him. The hand wrapped around the rawhide tie gripped into a fist, and he bowed his head toward the horse. She ached to touch him but did not, giving him the space to reach out in the way he needed.
“When I saw his pain, I grieved for him. I raged for why the Creator would take his woman. I would have forgiven him,” he said softly. “Yet now, as I stand here, I tell you this: he will never spill your blood again. I will kill him first.”
She clasped her palm over her mouth, shaking her head as he turned toward her. No, she thought. Surely he did not believe his own words.
He reached for her, holding her at arm’s length. He caressed an outline down the edge of her face, then took a length of her hair between his fingers, staring at it for a few moments in silence before he dropped it. Finally his eyes met hers, and it was all she could do to match his gaze. Hollowed, barren blue eyes stared back at her.
“He was right when he said it was too late.”
“Winn, no –”
“What does that make me, Red Woman, that I would do such a thing?” he asked. His use of the title unnerved her, sending a shiver over her skin. “And what I did to you last night…I would have killed my brother for harming you, yet I take you like you are nothing to me, as if you were only here for my selfish need.”
“You took nothing, I gave it,” she insisted. His hands cupped her face, twisting into her hair.
“You should have more from me. You are more to me than that.”
“I’m fine. And he was wrong. You – you wouldn’t have hurt him. He’s your brother – I know you,” she whispered. He pressed his warm lips to her ear, his fingers tightening around her face. His breath sent tremors down her spine.
“You. Don’t. Know,” he said softly. “You don’t know…what I would do…to keep you.”
His lips traced across her cheek until his warm mouth settled over hers. He tasted bitter at first, a touch of the morning mead, but as he explored her mouth with his tongue he was hers again. Tender, then firm, giving and taking, until finally he sighed and bent his forehead to hers. His breath hitched as he crushed his lips to her hair and she let out a muffled moan.
“I know that you belong to me. Your body. Your soul. It is mine. Yet still, I ache for you. I am never finished with you. We never end,” he whispered. He pressed his lips to her ear. “We never will.”
When he pulled away she closed her eyes, hugging her arms around herself. She dug her fingers into her palms to stem the flow of tears. He deserved a brave wife, and she would give him one. She watched, wordless as he mounted up.
Though she kept her eyes closed, his voice echoed through the pounding hooves as he rode away.
“Two days,” he said.
She nodded. She would wait.
*****
Chetan leaned back against the bench, sitting at her feet as the night grew dark. A spray of stars dotted the sky, a sprinkle of twilight springing to life overhead as they sat together. Maggie’s backside felt numb on the rough-hewn bench, her arms and legs aching from the work of reaping the harvest all day. With the summer drawing to a close and the scent of autumn nearly upon them, it was still warm sometimes at night and she was happy to enjoy it. As the children slept soundly inside the longhouse and night settled upon them, the only thing missing was Winn.
“It’s been two days,” she commented, more to herself than to Chetan. Yet he cocked his head up at her in response and made a low snorting sound.
“He will return. Spare no worry on that, sister,” he replied.
She felt her heart skip a little beat at his use of the endearment, and she battled the urge to embrace him in a fierce hug. Chetan was a kind-hearted man, but she suspected her unabashed displays of affection often embarrassed him. When he addressed her as sister, however, it melted the
icy fingers clawing at her heart. It was the closest he had come to kindness toward her since Makedewa left, and she missed his friendship terribly.
“Thank you,” she said softly. He nudged her knee with his elbow, looking up at the sky.
“For what?”
“For being here.”
“Ah, where would I go?” he snorted. He continued to stare up at the sky as if her words were only casual conversation instead of the tentative stab at discussing their shared loss.
“I thought you might go to your father…”
“No. This is my place. I will be here when my brothers return.”
“Do you think Makedewa will come home?”
Chetan nodded.
“His spirit is so troubled, he must wander now. Yet a part of it is tied here, in the heart of his son, and I know he cannot run from that forever.”
“Oh,” she said softly. She was not sure exactly what to say to his explanation, but it made sense in some way. The Paspahegh believed the spirit of a man must be shown the way through life, and sometimes part of that lesson was the act of taking a journey. She knew Chetan had performed some sort of ritual near the ground where Rebecca was buried, but it was only natural that he would consider the flight of his brother’s spirit until he was at peace once more.
“There? See it? The star you tell stories of, the one that points the way. Perhaps it will point my brothers back to us soon,” Chetan said. She raised her chin and looked in the direction he pointed. He was right, it was a star they had spoken of together many times. Chetan enjoyed hearing things from the future, and sometimes she just needed to talk about the life she once lived.
“The Northern Star. I see it. I think you’re right,” she said.
“Hmpf,” he muttered with a grin. “Of course I am.”
She smiled. The clear night sky held many stories, a welcome distraction from the things they could not change. It was enough for them for the moment.
CHAPTER 11
Winn
PEPAMHU LOOKED thinner than Winn recalled. His mother’s husband walked with a stilted gait, his legs bowed with the weight of time. As Winn watched him sit down across the fire, Pepamhu was seized by a fit of coughing, one that appeared to take the strength from the older man. Had it been so long since he last saw them? Surely Pepamhu’s hair had not been so white before, nor his hands so unsteady.
Winn listened to the elders speak, keeping his silence as they discussed the business of the village. He knew some of the older men, noting Pimtune with the crooked upper lip and old Kayaro, but he did not recognize many on the council any longer. Those left from the decimated Paspahegh tribe blended in with neighboring villages, and as far as the English were convinced, the Paspahegh had been exterminated.
The Nansemond had many of the same problems as the Norse. With the English expanding into Tsenacommacah, the Powhatan people were forced to leave or fight. Game was scarce, forcing the men to leave the villages for longer periods as they struggled to feed their people. Many of the smaller villages simply disbanded, their numbers decimated by disease or the fury of the English. Those who left their lands merged with other tribes, blending to gain some semblance of strength. The ones who stayed lost not only their homes, but their lives as well. Although Winn and Pepamhu were of like mind in keeping their people neutral, it was clear that time was coming to an end.
Soon there would be no choice. Fight what Winn knew was a losing battle, or abandon his homeland to the English forces. Neither option was one he was ready to accept.
“John Basse seeks an alliance, if our people will accept his Christian God,” Pepamhu said. Winn noted the abrupt silence. Powhatan men listened first before they voiced dissent. Although it was considered polite to give the speaker their attention, it was clear by the stony faces they did not care for the topic.
“He is a friend to me. If you choose that path, I think it will be a wise one,” Winn answered. He was truthful in his response, knowing what he did of the future. If Winn could encourage even a few of the Powhatans to the way of survival, then he would feel there was something he could do to ensure their blood lived on.
“Will you accept the White Christ, Winkeohkwet?” Pimtune asked. The old warrior’s twisted mouth turned up in a grin as he placed his palms flat together. He bent his head over his hands with a shrug. “I do not see how they call their God. He does not answer when I do this.”
A chorus of laughs broke the silence, bringing a smile even to Pepamhu’s lips.
“John Basse will ask us to be Christians, but he will not force it on those who object. He is not like the other English,” Winn said.
“He calls his land Basse’s Choice. Is that where you would have us live?” Pimtune asked. All faced turned to him at the question, silently awaiting his answer.
“It would be a safe place for our people. One where our women would be safe when we must leave them. One where our children need not fear attack – at least from the English.”
“Opechcanough will slaughter them, just as he will any Englishman. If our families are at Basse’s Choice, they will die as if we were traitors,” Pimtune said.
Pepamhu straightened his back as much as he could, rising up onto his knees as he leaned forward onto his walking stick.
“My son knows more of this than any man here,” Pepamhu said. “Speak, Winkeohkwet. We will hear your voice.”
Amidst the snorts and grumbles, Winn told them what he knew, and with each part of his story to them, his own future became clear.
The path was not one he wished to take, but it was his path, and he could no longer avoid it.
CHAPTER 12
Winn
He watched from the edge of the tree line, his presence masked by the shadows of early evening twilight. He arrived home to find his wife missing, and when Gwen gave a mumbled excuse for Maggie’s absence, he suspected there was something amiss. It did not take him long to find her in the meadow with her uncle and cousin.
She was stubborn, he knew it well, but this time…well, this time his wife had gone too far. Winn knew she was troubled in the time since the English came to the village. Now, staring at his wife dressed in braies and wielding a sword, it became clear. Although their sword blades were swaddled with rags to blunt the blow, it still made a solid thud on impact. Cormaic landed a graze across her shoulder, and Winn did not know if he was angered or proud that his wife did not flinch.
Once again, Maggie defied him. She disobeyed his orders, and even worse, she cajoled his men into casting aside his command as well. Erich stood with arms crossed, surveying the training with his careful eye. Cormaic looked to be struggling more than Winn though he should as Maggie went at him with a sword. Cormaic was a skilled fighter; Winn could see he taught Maggie well.
Should he turn around and leave, pretend he never stumbled onto her secret? One part of him wished to let her have her glory, let her feel secure in her newfound skill. That was the voice of the one who loved her, the one who was a mere man when they stood next to each other. It would be easy to give it to her. After all, Maggie’s biggest fear was being beholden to others for her own safety.
Yet the command of the Chief within surfaced, and it was that man that could not let his woman carry on. Maggie had given her word she would stay out of the men’s business, and she had broken it. The danger of her broken vow had deeper implications than just the act; it was the false sense of security it gave her that was the most pressing problem. Maggie could not continue to think she was capable of standing up to fight. If he allowed her such illusion, he was betraying all he was as her Chief, and as her husband.
The snap of brush under his boots announced his presence as he left the shadows. Erich placed a hand on his knife and turned quickly to the sound, but when Maggie’s uncle realized it was Winn he relaxed. Erich’s eyes met his for a long moment, during which neither of them spoke. Finally, Erich swallowed hard, as if he prepared himself for some punishment. The older man ran a hand throu
gh his silver-streaked copper hair. As much as Erich deserved it for aiding Maggie, Winn would not chastise him. It was Maggie who was in need of a lesson.
“She fights well,” Winn said. Erich nodded.
“Aye, she does,” Erich agreed. Maggie ducked a blow and delivered a crack to Cormaic’s flank in return, and Erich smiled grimly.
“She disobeyed me.”
Erich appeared chagrined at that comment. He lowered his head with a sigh.
“She is my niece, Winn. If she must wield a weapon, it should be her kin that teaches her.”
“Her kin will protect her. There is no need for her to fight.”
“She has the heart of a warrior inside, surely ye see it. Ye know she is different than other women,” Erich said quietly.
“She is still only a woman.”
Erich snorted. “Well, I’ll leave ye to tell ‘er that. I’d have her put down her sword first, fer sure.” Erich whistled low against the tips of his two fingers. Cormaic and Maggie paused and looked toward them. Cormaic had the good sense look away from Winn’s seething stare, but Maggie was full on defiance. After the initial surprise at seeing Winn, she planted her legs and crossed her arms over her chest, her sword cradled between her breasts.
Despite her bluster, Winn could see her breath coming quick and shallow, and a touch of crimson creeping up the pale skin of her neck. The battle was evident in her demeanor, in those green eyes he knew so well. Succumb or fight?
As he walked toward her, her scowl deepened.
Ah, well, fight it would be then.
Cormaic muttered something about leaving them alone, but Winn was too focused on his wife to acknowledge it. She opened her mouth as if to explain, then clamped it shut. Instead of retreat as he stalked toward her, she revealed her weapon and met him halfway, her eyes gleaming with insolence and daring him to challenge.
