by Angela Hunt
She scraped the dinner dishes into the compost jar and glanced out the window. A sudden moving shadow caught her eye, and she paused for a moment as a dark premonition held her still. What business had anyone to be about at this hour? But after a moment, nothing else moved, and Audrey resumed her clattering work with the dishes.
When she had finished, Master Bailie took her hand and pulled her onto the bench next to him. “Would you like some cider?” he asked, his smiling eyes two bright points in a battlefield of wrinkles. “Is there anything I can get for you?”
Audrey jumped as a loud rap sounded at the door. Master Bailie sighed and opened it, and his annoyance deepened into irritation when he discovered that William Clement had disturbed him. Audrey held her breath. What possible reason could William have for disturbing the master’s privacy? He knew better than to visit at night!
“I give you good evening, Master Bailie,” William said, bowing carefully after he entered the house. He carried a wooden tray upon which were two steaming mugs. “I thought you might like to have some tea. Pauwau recommends it.”
For an instant Audrey thought she saw William wink at her, then he looked solicitously toward his master. “I know the day was hot and long. And Pauwau has promised the tea is very soothing”
“Tea,” Master Bailie said, glancing toward Audrey. “In truth, tea does sound good—”
“No, Master Bailie,” Audrey whispered. A niggling doubt rose in her mind and would not be silent. She rose from her seat and placed a restraining hand on her husband’s arm. “In truth, I would prefer cider.”
“The cider jug is empty,” William said, his cold blue eyes snapping. “And this tea is good. Pauwau told me how to brew it.”
“It does have a nice cherry color,” Master Bailie said. He took one of the mugs and passed it under his nose, inhaling deeply. “Ah, ‘tis nice indeed. Here, Audrey, have some. Thank you, William, for your thoughtfulness.”
Audrey took the mug her husband offered, and gazed thoughtfully at William. If, as she suspected, he intended her husband harm, then did he plan to harm her, as well? If she drank, would he leap forward to dash the cup from her lips?
She raised the cup and pretended to sip it, but William did not move. Her husband raised his cup to sample the brew, but Audrey threw her arm against him. If his mug contained poison, she would never forgive herself.
“Hold, sir,” she said to her husband, then she turned to the man she had thought she would love forever. “William,” she said, her tone artificially bright, “why not join us in a cup of tea? We must raise a toast to my soon-coming child.”
“I am not thirsty,” he said, his brows rushing together in a frown.
“Nevertheless, you shall drink with us,” she answered lightly, placing her mug on the bench near the fire. She hastily grabbed a clean cup, filled it with hot water from the kettle in the fire, and handed it to William.
He paused, his eyes blue and questioning, and she lifted an eyebrow. “Have you no more of the delicious herb?” she asked. “We will not drink without you, William.”
“No, my man,” her husband interjected. “A generous gesture, dear wife.”
“I have no more of the berries,” William said, his voice even and calm. “But surely the same taste is acquired through the leaves.” He tossed his tray onto the ground and pulled from his pocket a handful of needles, which he crushed in his fist and dropped into the hot water. Stirring the mix with his finger, he lifted his cup toward Master Bailie’s outstretched mug.
“To your child,” he said, his eyes steady upon Audrey.
She brought her mug from the bench and touched it to the other two. “To my child,” she whispered, and all three drank deeply.
When they had done drinking, William bowed and left them. As she undressed for bed, Audrey laughed at her worries that William had poisoned them. The tea warmed her belly and made her feel deliciously light-headed, and she snuggled willingly into the arms of her husband as they both fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
William Clement did not go to his house immediately, but danced through the village in celebration. On the morrow he would be master of Roger Bailie’s wife, house, and possessions. As heir to the wife, he would also inherit the master’s seat on the council. People would bow before him with the respect they had awarded the generous old fool, and James Hynde would finally stop chiding William for his lack of gumption.
He had done it! Mayhap even now the old man drew his last breath, or perchance his vile seed had already passed from Audrey’s womb. How brittle she had been with him when he offered her the tea! But she had always been softhearted and protective of the old man. ‘Twas one reason William loved her, for silly Audrey had always been unduly concerned about the helpless.
Exhausted from his frantic dance, he collapsed under a tall oak tree in the center of the village and laughed. All would be finished on the morrow, and no one would suspect a thing. As Master Bailie’s servant, he would naturally be the first person to visit after sunrise, and he would clean up the mugs and put them away. Audrey would be there, in bed, alive, but mayhap weak, and he would call frantically for the doctor and midwife even as he carried the cold corpse of Roger Bailie from the house.
He laughed again and the sound rolled eerily through the night, then seemed to halt against a wall of silence. Clement abruptly stopped laughing. Rectangles of yellow and orange light gleamed from a few of the houses as nighttime fires died down, and above him the moon sailed across a sky of deepest sapphire casting bars of silver shadow across his hands and feet as he sat under the tree.
Suddenly the silver bars gained density and weight, and William gasped in awe as they became actual silver ingots. He held his breath, afraid to move lest the bars shift from his body and fall immaterial into the darkness. What riches, and here, upon his body! He had sailed to America in hope of finding silver and gold, yet all one had to do was lie in the moonlight and wait for Nature to cast her spell . . .
A sense of foreboding descended over him with a shiver. ‘Twas but the herb, for hadn’t Pauwau said it would make him sleep? Struggling to mask his fear, he painted on a stiff smile, but still the moon poured heavy silver upon him. The weight of the ingots pressed upon him now, driving the breath from his body. His legs and feet were immobile beneath the burden, even his hands could not move.
Terror stole his breath; his forehead gleamed with perspiration despite the cool evening air. As cold as lead, he was, and about as helpless. Above him, insects and animals sent their calls through the night and the stars washed the sapphire heavens in brilliance until William Clement’s soul left his body and nothing remained under the oak tree but the poisoned corpse of a would-be murderer.
It looked, Thomas told Jocelyn, as though William simply sat down and gave up the ghost. Roger Bailie reported that William had brought them tea just after darkness had settled, then had wished them a good night and left as if nothing whatsoever was wrong.
Thomas had found berries and needles from a yew tree in William’s pocket and had taken them to the Indian village. Pauwau had listened to the story of William’s death in silence, then studied the berries and needles without expression. “The tree is death,” she said simply when Thomas had finished. “If the man used these, ‘tis God’s justice that he is dead.”
And so at William Clement’s funereal, Thomas had nothing to tell the village except that a man had died, and God alone knew what had happened.
In January 1594, Audrey Bailie gave birth to a son, and when the baby was one week old, Jocelyn and Regina visited the happy mother and father. “Oh, Audrey, he is beautiful,” Jocelyn said, taking the baby into her arms. “I’m certain there hasn’t been a prettier baby in all the colony.”
“He takes after his mother, of course,” Roger Bailie said, proudly sitting behind his wife on the big family bed. “Though he certainly did not waste time being born, I can promise you that!”
“Roger caught the baby himself,” Audrey ad
ded proudly, smiling at her husband. “There was no time to call ye, Jocelyn, or even Pauwau. One minute I had a pain in me back; the next minute I was on the floor with a baby between—”
“He’s lovely,” Jocelyn interrupted, remembering Regina’s curious ears. “Have you named him?”
“Fallon Roger Bailie,” Audrey said, lightly running her hand across the wisps of fuzz on the baby’s head. “Fallon means ‘ruler’ in Gaelic.”
“Fallon Bailie,” the proud father repeated. “The best boy in the village, and no doubt!”
Four weeks later, Roger Bailie caught pneumonia and lay near death. Audrey allowed Jocelyn to take care of baby Fallon while she nursed her husband. As Roger’s strength ebbed, Audrey knelt by the side of the bed and held his hand.
“Mistress Bailie,” he whispered, struggling for breath, “are you there?”
“I’m here, dearest,” she said, leaning closer to him. “I won’t leave ye, Roger.”
He licked his dry lips and struggled to speak. “Can you forgive an old man for desiring your youth? Though I know you loved William Clement, I couldn’t bear to see you waste your beauty—”
“Don’t fret, me husband,” Audrey said, shushing him. “Save your breath so ye can get better.”
“No, Audrey,” he whispered. His eyes darkened with the love he wasn’t trying to conceal anymore, and she bent to kiss him. His hand tightened around hers as she lifted her head. “I am sorry if I made you unhappy.”
“Unhappy?” she whispered, surprised out of her calm ministration. “Faith, Roger, how could ye make me unhappy? Ye lifted me from a life of servitude and made me your wife. Ye honored me with respect and liberty, and ye have made me fruitful and given me a son. God knows I never expected to have any of these things, Roger, and I owe them all to ye.”
Gently, she lifted his hand to her cheek. “Don’t ye see, dear? I love ye, Master Bailie. And I have known nothing but kindness from ye in all our days together.”
As she pressed her lips to his hand, Roger Bailie closed his eyes. She heard him inhale—once, twice, thrice—then he paused and exhaled for a long moment to breathe no more.
Audrey blinked back her tears and continued to hold his hand. “So you’ve gone, have ye now, Master Bailie?” she called, lifting her eyes toward heaven. “Go in peace, me love. I’ll take good care of your son. I’ll give me life for him, if I have to.”
Outside, a cold wind blew past the house with soft moans. Inside, pillowed by her husband’s hand, Audrey Bailie slept.
FIFTY
Eight years passed. The graves of Roger Bailie and William Clement sank into the marshy land as did the graves of others who breathed their last on Virginian soil, but life continued in the way it had since the beginning of time. The city of Raleigh and the Indian town of Ohanoak merged and became known in the region as Ocanahonan.
Jocelyn marveled that there had ever been two distinctly different villages, so completely had the colonists and Indians become one people. ‘Twas a society of mutual benefit: the Indians taught the English the secrets of hunting, fishing, and planting, and the settlers taught the Indians how to build multi-story, permanent buildings and work iron and metal. Together they mined copper from the hills further inland, and together they travelled through the nearby region on hunting expeditions.
The Weapemeoc and Tripanick tribes were taken aback by the sight of their dark-skinned brothers in such close alliance with the “clothed people”, as the English were called, and despite Thomas’ high hopes, they did not accept the gospel readily when they chanced to visit Ocanahonan. Most Indian tribes were too set in their ways and too wary of the English to eagerly embrace a foreign religion. Jocelyn often found it necessary to remind Thomas that they must be patient—they had worked for years before the first Indians had converted to Christianity.
One spring day in 1602, however, emissaries from a band of the Mangoak tribe approached the ever-expanding palisade. With their hands open to declare their peaceful intentions, their chief, a tall, solidly built Indian called Rowtag, approached the gate and asked through an interpreter to address the elders of the village. In response, Ananias called a meeting of the council, which now included the minister and two Indians: Abooksigun, the aged werowance of the Ohanoak clan, and Chogan.
The Mangoak chief stood before the council with an indolent, tomcat grace, and spoke to Abooksigun in a voice of careful restraint. His muscles bulged and slid under his bronzed skin, and the sight of his hard jaw, tendoned neck, and deep, painted chest struck the other men speechless. “I hope the man is on our side,” Ananias jokingly whispered to John Sampson. “I would as lief battle the devil himself as this savage.”
When the stranger had finished speaking, Abooksigun nodded and translated for his English friends: “Rowtag leads fifty people in a tribe that used to number one hundred,” the werowance said, enunciating carefully. “A Powhatan war party has killed many of the tribe, and there are not enough hands to plant crops. Many of his people are children under the age of ten summers.”
“What does he want us to do?” Ananias asked.
Abooksigun interpreted the question, and Rowtag replied, opening his hands in an expansive gesture.
Abooksigun spoke again: “He and his people have heard of the greatness of the town of Ocanahonan. They have heard of the God who rules this town, and would know more of him. They would like to bring their children, their warriors, and women into this place to live and work and worship this God.”
Ananias glanced at the minister, who sat speechless at the end of the council table. “It seems, Reverend Colman, that news of your work has preceded you,” he remarked dryly. He smiled at the tall newcomer. “Pray tell Rowtag that he and his people are welcome in Ocanahonan, the City of Walter Raleigh.”
Dark and fair-haired youngsters began to be numbered among the many at Ocanahonan, and Jocelyn watched the rainbow children play in the shallows of the river and wondered what her father would say if he could see his fourteen-year-old granddaughter shepherding the children safely from the river to their homes. Regina had grown tall and lovely, as slim and dark as her father, but with Jocelyn’s startlingly blue eyes. She spoke the Indian tongue more fluently than Jocelyn, and her quick smile warmed the hearts of even the most stoic Indians.
In the late spring of that year, Regina’s menses began soon after her fourteenth birthday. On that morning Jocelyn was surprised to see Hurit and the ancient Pauwau coming toward the house. Wordlessly, Pauwau beckoned to Regina and led her outside the town to a hut on the riverbank, motioning for the girl to go inside.
“She must stay inside until the bleeding has stopped,” Hurit explained to Jocelyn, who had followed out of curiosity. “She has become a woman today.”
“Thomas won’t like this,” Jocelyn said, twisting her hands. “‘Tis too heathen—”
“Doth your husband not go alone into the woods to pray?” Hurit said, cocking her head. “This is the same. Regina needs time to think and pray, for she must put away the things of children and put on the things of women.”
After the Indian women had gone, Jocelyn peered inside the hut and called anxiously to her daughter. “I am well, mama,” Regina called back, her voice strangely mature. “I will see you soon.”
And three days later, when Regina returned from the riverbank, hungry and pale, she walked with a proud assurance that Jocelyn had never seen before. William Wythers, who had always been Regina’s favorite playmate, followed the girl like an entranced schoolboy. Thomas, too, watched his daughter wistfully, doubtless remembering the chubby child who used to climb on his lap. Jocelyn sighed, knowing that those days were gone forever.
Gone forever, too, were the settlers’ regular visits to Croatoan. Manteo reported that the five men Ananias had left there disappeared one day, and simply never came back to camp. Whether they were drowned in the sea or met with mischief, Manteo could not tell.
So Ananias and the council members tied the pinnace to a dock on
the river and left the boat slowly to rot, using the more maneuverable shallop whenever they had to journey on the water. And every afternoon, Eleanor Dare left her maid and her daughter and walked to the dock, watching the horizon for signs of a ship that never appeared. In public, Eleanor referred often to her father, who was always around the corner or in the next house, and Jocelyn understood that her cousin had slipped back to a more comfortable time because she could not accept that her father had abandoned her in the wilderness of Virginia.
“Hurry, Jocelyn, the feast is about to begin,” Audrey called through the minister’s window as she led eight-year-old Fallon by the hand. Jocelyn picked up a ribbon and tied her hair at the base of her neck, then studied her reflection in a bowl of water on the table and smoothed the curly tendrils which escaped to frame her face. She looked neat and prim in her worn English outfit, hopelessly out of style by Ocanahonan standards, and not at all like a woman on her way to the biggest celebration of the year.
From behind a stack of books, Thomas looked up at her. The silvery gray strands which had first appeared in his hair after his illness had multiplied, and dignified furrows lay at the sides of his mouth and upon his forehead. At forty-five, he looked his age, but Jocelyn thought he had never looked more handsome.
“Are you sure you won’t go with me?” she asked, picking up a bundle of bread. “Regina’s there already, and she’d love for you to sit with her, Thomas.”
“You have lost your mind,” he answered smoothly, running his finger over the pages of his book. “Go without me. You always do.”
Jocelyn took two steps toward the door, then turned to face him again. “‘Tis not a pagan feast, you know. Mayhap it used to be, but now we see it as an occasion for rejoicing, a time of forgiveness—”
“Go without me,” Thomas urged again, and because she knew she was wasting her time, Jocelyn left the house.
