“I — I only wished to tend Reynaud.
“Indeed?” He turned toward his mother. “Maman?”
The woman stared at her, her strong features shuttered and her eyes dark with swift thought. Abruptly she nodded.
“Tend him you shall,” the Great Sun said, his mouth curving into a smile of utter charm. Elise, watching him, was caught suddenly by his resemblance to Reynaud. They were, in truth, twins, with the same eyes, the same hair, the same body structure. The only obvious difference was that the Natchez chief was tattooed not only on his chest, but on his shoulders and, as a mark of great distinction, on his knees as well.
Looking away from the blatant flattery of his gaze, she said, “If I could cover myself first …”
He pursed his lips, sending a glance to his brother’s scowling expression and from him to his own two wives who squatted at their fires, watching, the only women left other than Tattooed Arm and Little Quail. Turning back, he sighed. “If you must.”
Elise released herself and leaned over to take up her skirt, settling it around her with her lips tightly pressed together. She had come to help; a simple thing, really. Why had she been attacked, mocked, and finally left naked, displayed to all? When she thought of her position as a respectable landowner not so long ago, one who ordered her own days and nights, who made her own decisions and was answerable to none, her resentment was so great that she wondered how she could contain it.
Little Quail brought her short cape that, tied onto one shoulder, covered her breasts. Her longer outer cloak was hung on a peg. Tattooed Arm rose from the bench beside her son, indicating with a courteous gesture for Elise to be seated there.
Elise glanced at Reynaud. Seeing the sympathy and understanding mirrored in his face, a faint flush rose to her cheekbones. She turned to his mother. “I would not take your place.”
“I give it to you,” Tattooed Arm replied.
“But the medicine I brought is gone.” Already one of the wives of the Great Sun was busy gathering up the broken pottery, scooping up the spilled herbs and bear fat with a piece of the pot.
“I have more. Wait and I will bring it,” Little Quail said and turned swiftly away, bending her head to pass through the open doorway.
After everything that had happened, not just here in the house of the Great Sun, but her estrangement from Little Quail, the coolness of the Frenchwomen, the trial by pain that Reynaud had been forced to undergo because of her, she felt odd about approaching him. Why it should be so she was not certain, but it was as if a distance had been placed between them. It seemed as if the very nature of the Indian village made him a stranger again, a different man from the one she had known at his own home near the Bayou Duc du Maine.
She looked at him. Her voice stiff, she said, “You will permit me?”
His eyes lighted with warm amusement. “I would be flattered. In fact, I welcome the attention from you, as you well know.”
She moved forward and seated herself beside him on the bench. With a touch on his shoulder to indicate that she wanted him to turn his back more toward her, she leaned over to look at his injuries.
She was prepared, or so she had thought. Still, she had to swallow hard against the sickness as she saw the lacerated condition of his back. The skin around the livid red stripes was beginning to turn purple in great blotches with bruising. Some of the places where he had been struck were ragged cuts; others ran together into a mass of torn flesh, particularly between his shoulders where Path Bear had jabbed his cane. Tattooed Arm had cleaned the area well, and most of the bleeding had stopped, but Reynaud was going to feel the effects of the beating he had received for a long time.
“If only I had a little cognac to use,” Elise murmured to herself.
“Cognac?” the Great Sun inquired, his tone doubtful.
“I have seen it used on wounds. It seems to help the healing.”
“I may have a dram or two.”
“Humph,” his mother snorted and the Great Sun sent her an injured glance before turning to instruct one of his wives, the one who was less obviously pregnant, to fetch the brandy.
Elise scarcely noticed the byplay. She had dipped the leather into the pot of warm herb water Tattooed Arm had been using, pressing it to a still oozing gash.
The brandy was brought, just a few inches left in a stoneware bottle. The Great Sun looked at it regretfully, then handed it to Elise. “It might be of greater use to let my brother drink it.”
Reynaud shook his head. “I don’t think that would be wise, as empty as my stomach is just now.”
“We will remedy that as soon as you are trussed up.”
“Could you hur-hurry,” he said, catching his breath in the middle as Elise poured the brandy onto his back.
By the time Little Quail had returned, Elise was ready for the ointment. She spread it on liberally, then covered his back with strips of woven mulberry cloth, binding them into place with longer pieces that encircled his body.
They ate then, Reynaud moving gingerly into a sitting position. They were joined by others: an elderly man who appeared to be the father of one of the Great Sun’s wives; a pair of elderly women, one of whom Elise had met the day before tending the little boy. They were apparently the aunts of Tattooed Arm. The small bronze cherub himself was brought in and introduced as the child of the Great Sun. All were most solicitous of Reynaud, Offering him tidbits of meat and bread and pressing strong broth upon him to give him strength. Even the boy, whose name was Small Owl, seemed to realize that something was wrong, for he climbed very carefully up to lean on Reynaud’s shoulder and reached to nuzzle his lean cheek with a small nose.
Reynaud ate ravenously and with enjoyment, trading quips with the older women, joking with his brother, playing with the child. In a short while, however, he grew quiet. Glancing at him, Elise saw him sway, catch himself, then inch back to rest against the wall of the house. As she looked at him more closely, she saw that there were the dark shadows of weariness under his eyes and his face appeared drawn.
Why shouldn’t he be exhausted? He had kept watch, seldom sleeping, all that long journey from his home, had stayed up half the night they had arrived for the obligatory feast, then had spent last night keeping vigil at the temple. He had eaten nothing for more than thirty-six hours, then had undergone severe punishment. The wonder was that he was able to retain his senses at all.
Reaching out, she touched his arm. “Lie down. Sleep.”
Beyond him there was a stir. The Great Sun had moved to his side. “Yes, sleep. This I command.”
Reynaud looked at her and none other. His eyes were dark, glazed with weariness and pain, but without subterfuge. “Lie with me, Elise.”
It was a powerful appeal in his present state, with the press of self-blame upon her shoulders. And yet she had sworn that she would not return to his bed. He was no danger to her now, it was true, but if she went to him voluntarily now, would he accept her refusal later?
She drew a deep breath. “I would only disturb you.”
“I missed you last night and all the other nights on the trail.”
“I told you before, our bargain is ended. I am no longer compelled to — to be your companion of the bed furs.”
“We will argue about that another time. For now, only come.”
He held out his hand. Behind Elise, Tattooed Arm spoke. “Do as he asks.”
“I can’t.”
The Great Sun moved to stand over her. “Must I command this also? It is no great sacrifice, Frenchwoman.”
Wasn’t it? What of her pride and self-respect? What of her future?
“Elise, please—”
Reynaud’s gray eyes were dark, his face pale. The hand that he held out to her had a faint tremor. It was compassion that made Elise take a stiff step forward, reaching out to him. Compassion and the order of his brother. Nothing more.
Ignoring the stares and whispers, she moved to lie on the bench beside him, taking the space nearest th
e wall and drawing him against her. She covered him with a bed fur, cushioning his back with a part of its softness. With a hard constriction around her heart, she saw that before she had lowered her own head to the straw-stuffed pillow he was already asleep. There seemed nothing to do but attempt the same.
It was dark when she awoke. She was pressed against the wall of the house with the upright logs jammed into her back. It was hot, suffocatingly so. There was a rough muttering in her ears. She pushed at the heavy weight that held her, raising herself to one elbow.
The coals of the dying fire gave a red gleam to the dark. In their light she could see the sleeping forms of the others along the benches in the house of the Great Sun. Beside her, Reynaud said something deep in his throat. She understood it so little that a sudden fear sprang into her mind. Lifting her hand, she placed it on his forehead.
He was burning with fever, his skin holding an intense dry heat that made her jerk her hand away in consternation. She scrambled upright, crawling over him to get off the bench, then sitting back down beside him on its edge. She felt him again, then sat with her hand cradling his face, trying to think
Cool water, that was what she needed. She must bathe his body in it, then see to the preparation of an infusion of willow bark. She would need help. Looking around at the sleeping forms, she bit her lip in indecision. Should she wake someone? And if so, who? She considered a moment longer, then as Reynaud began to speak hoarsely in delirium once more, she rose with sudden energy and moved to put her hand on his mother’s shoulder.
The hours passed. Morning came and still Reynaud did not know them. His fever rose and fell according to their ministrations but did not break. Somewhere around noon, they removed his bandaging and used the water in which red oak bark had been steeped to wash his wounds once more, allowing the water to stand in the worst of the gashes. If it made any difference, they could not tell. An ancient crone, the oldest woman of the tribe who kept the secrets of the plants, brought an evil-smelling brew that she insisted he drink at sunup, midday, sundown, and midnight. They spooned it into him with some difficulty, but could see no results.
People began to gather outside the house. Elise could hear them talking among themselves while now and then a woman would wail as if in grief. When Little Quail entered the house once more, well after night had fallen, Elise looked up from where she was wringing out a cloth.
“What is all the commotion? One would think they expect him to die.”
“They fear he may.”
“They needn’t make it so obvious! What if Reynaud heard them?”
The Indian woman shook her head. “He would understand their fears.”
“But I thought Indians were stoical about such things? That they hardly grieved at a death.”
The woman gave her a strange look. “It is useful to grieve aloud before death so that the one who must depart will know he is loved, don’t you think? And Hawk-of-the-Night, now Tattooed Serpent, is much loved. Besides, he is a Sun and the great war chief.”
“You have a point, but as for the other, what difference — Oh! I see.”
As a high-ranking Sun, if Reynaud died there would be many who would be chosen to die with him, to go with him and serve him in the hereafter. There would be more ceremonial stranglings before the temple. Since he had been raised to the position of war chief, there would presumably be many more to honor his newly acquired rank. If she were his wife, even she—But, no, she would not consider it.
“There is another thing. Four years ago, when the old Tattooed Serpent, the man who was war chief before the last one, died, there was much terror because he, too, had been the brother of the Great Sun. So strong was the love of the brothers, one for the other, that our supreme ruler had sworn a blood oath that he would follow Tattooed Serpent in death. This would have meant many more ritual deaths, to number perhaps a hundred. It was prevented by a Frenchman who sat with the Great Sun through the night following the death. In the end, of course, the Great Sun met death, anyway; of grief, some say, and the dishonor of breaking his word. Now the people fear that because of the birth tie between the man who is now the Great Sun and Hawk-of-the-Night, the new Tattooed Serpent, he, too, may decide to destroy himself.”
“Surely not?”
“Who can say? It isn’t often that two who come from the same womb are suffered to live. One is usually destroyed, as with all others that are malformed. It was the French father who saved the second-born, claiming that there was one child for the Natchez and one for his people. Still, it is this tie that causes the greatest fear now.”
Elise stared at the other woman, absorbing what had been said without surprise, rather as if she had lost the capability of feeling such a thing. Finally she said in firm tones, “No matter. Reynaud is not going to die.”
“If only it could be certain,” Little Quail said, her face anxious as she came to stand and look down at Reynaud where he tossed restlessly on the bench.
“I will make it certain. I won’t let Path Bear win.”
“What do you mean?”
Little Quail had been in and out of the house all day bringing whatever was needed, helping to turn Reynaud and to restrain him, seeing to Small Owl. Without the necessity of spoken words, the two women had put aside their differences. In many ways, they had regained the closeness that had existed between them when they had been united against the petty tyranny of Vincent Laffont.
Now Elise said, “Did I not tell you? I thought I had spoken of it; it’s been so strong in my mind. It was like this.”
The face of Little Quail was grim when Elise had finished. She swung away, calling to Tattooed Arm to listen to the tale. The other women gathered near, exclaiming, looking from one to the other as the Indian woman told of Path Bear’s vicious trick.
Tattooed Arm was silent for long moments when Little Quail fell silent. Her face was grim, etched in sorrow and implacability. She turned at last to the oldest woman among them. “Grandmother,” she said, giving the ancient one the honorary title, “what say you?”
It was some time before the toothless woman spoke, but no one was impatient, no one hurried her. Finally, her ancient features drawn with grief, the woman looked up from her contemplation of the floor. “Path Bear has shown himself unworthy,” she said. “Let it be banishment.”
The others nodded in slow agreement. From one to the other the single word ran, a sentence, a curse. “Banishment. Banishment. Banishment.”
It did not sound like a harsh decree. The banishment, according to Little Quail, was only from the Grand Village, not from the tribe itself. Path Bear would still hold his office as chief of the Flour Village, still take part in the feasts and dances and be allowed to fight as a warrior. But the decree meant the end of his ambitions, for it was at Grand Village that the council of elders met to plan for the planting and the harvest, for the hunting and the wars. It was there that the Great Sun held his court and dispensed honors and favors. Path Bear was condemned to stay as he was, a small chieftain who could never again influence the decisions that meant famine or prosperity, life or death, in the tribe. He was finished.
The wives of the Great Sun looked at each other, then the youngest slipped from the house. The voices outside increased in volume, with a sharp note of outrage rising above them now and then.
Time passed as Elise and the others worked on Reynaud. It was perhaps an hour later when a hail came. Since the request for entry had been made in a female voice, the eldest wife of the Great Sun called out to bid the woman inside. The door slid open and a woman stepped into the house.
It was the mother of Path Bear, the woman known as Red Deer, who had attacked Elise. A massive woman, her heavy features hinted at mixed blood, perhaps of Natchez and Tioux. She had come to plead for her son before Tattooed Ann and the Great Sun.
The Great Sun was at the temple and Tattooed Arm refused to go with Red Deer to him or to send him a message to let him know that the other woman was there. She heard Path Be
ar’s mother out in silence, never turning from her though the woman gestured wildly in the direction of Elise and Reynaud, lying on the bench. Finally Red Deer ran dry of words. Tattooed Ann raised her arm and began to speak, the phrases smooth and eloquent as they fell from her lips.
Elise could not understand what she was saying, but the import was obvious. There would be no repeal of the sentence. When she ceased to speak, the mother of Path Bear turned away. Her bearing was erect and there was venom in the look she cast at Elise, but on her face were stamped the lines of defeat and broken grief.
The judgment of Path Bear had been quick and without formality, but it was no less effective for all that. There was no one who would carry out the sentence, no armed men who would escort Path Bear from the village, but if he did not go he would be treated as one dead. No one would speak to him or acknowledge his presence. His friends would look through him as if he did not exist. The women in particular would ignore him, speaking of him in his hearing as a worthless one whose absence made life better. Few could tolerate such ostracism for long. Often suicide was the result of so great a disgrace. Sometimes, rather than try to live under such a decree, the person faded away into the woods. Of these, some joined other tribes; most were never heard from again.
The night passed with little change. Elise searched her mind for some other concoction, some other method of treatment they had not yet used. She had heard of pouring brandy into the wounds and then lighting it to cauterize them, but she could not bring herself to believe that the added shock and pain would not override any benefit. Some people swore that pieces of bread tied to the injury and left to moulder away into crumbs were helpful, but she had no wheat bread to use. There were powders used by surgeons aboard naval vessels that were much touted by the surgeons themselves, but Elise had grave doubts that they were any more efficacious than the herbs that had already been applied.
Toward dawn, Tattooed Arm rose and, ordering Elise to bed, took her place. As much as Elise would have liked to refuse, she could not summon the effort. She was weary unto death, tired out with the worry as much as the physical exertion of caring for Reynaud through the long hours since his fever had started.
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