The Blooded Ones

by Elizabeth Brown

  “But Benjamin, I only want to talk to them.”

  “Good day, brothers,” Benjamin said curtly, forcibly guiding her away. She shook her head and shoved him, unable to tolerate his behavior when she only wanted to say a few words to them. Was this how it would be, whenever she wished to see them?

  “No! I need to talk to them!”

  “We wish happiness for you in your new marriage, Red Woman.”

  Maggie balked at the sound of Makedewa’s cold voice. She turned back and saw Chetan glare at him and make a low barking sound as she had often heard an irritated warrior make, but Makedewa had her attention now and a sneering grin stretched across his face.

  “And we will have a feast in honor of your child. May the Great Creator bless you and your husband.”

  “What?” she whispered as the ground seemed to drop beneath her feet. She struggled to remain standing at the hate in his voice and the menace written on his face. He clearly despised her, more than he ever had, and by his words she suspected he thought Benjamin was the father of her babe.

  What did it matter? Winn was gone. She could never go back to the Paspahegh village. Her child would never know a father other than Benjamin.

  “Let us go,” Benjamin insisted. This time she let him lead her.

  Benjamin seemed distracted the rest of the afternoon. The conversations between them were a mere barrage of polite responses, and when it was time to retire she was happy to put the day behind them. If he were sore at her for speaking to the warriors, she would gladly leave him to his sulking. She readied herself for bed and sank down into the deep feather mattress, her mind just as weary of the day as her tired body.

  Maggie placed her hand on her taut rounded belly. Just a bulge, easily hidden under her skirts, but soon it would be more apparent and she dreaded anyone else knowing her condition.

  Benjamin cracked the door and entered the room. He stared wordlessly at her now, and she could see his round blue eyes stained bloodshot, his shirt unbuttoned and skewed about his neck. He watched her as he undressed, shedding his waistcoat and shirt and stepping out of his tall boots.

  “Benjamin, I am sorry if my speaking to the braves upset you,” she began, but he cut her off by raising one hand and a firm shake of his head.

  “No, wife. I am not upset with ye.”

  She inhaled as he approached the bed, working the clasp of his buckle to shed his breeches. A wisp of strong brandy, and the telltale remnants of sweet pipe smoke clung to his clothes, and she realized he must have taken his enjoyment before he came to bed. His hair was wild, frazzled in a mop that looked as if he had been running his fingers over his scalp, in his eyes a strange hollow look that reflected some sadness yet undisclosed. Perhaps he would only talk and fall asleep, as he usually did when he drank.

  He slid under the quilts and pulled her gently to him, and she let out the breath of air she had been holding.

  “Ye are my wife, by the King’s law,” he said softly, his breath hot against her neck. “My wife.”

  She made no answer, frozen into helplessness as she lay in his arms. He seemed to need no response, as soon his breath grew shallow and the gentle snores of his inebriated sleep filled the room, and she was content to see his attentions distracted for the evening.

  CHAPTER 33

  Snow was still falling when Winn awoke. Although he could see the dark clouds overhead through the smoke hole from remnants of the last storm, he was warmed from the layers of furs that covered him. The fever had passed days ago, but his muscles still ached as if they had no strength and it was the most he could do to roll onto his side. He could only roll onto the right, lest he risk tearing open the healing wound to his left chest.

  Chulensak Asuwak and Teyas tended him faithfully, taking turns cleaning the bullet wound, but despite their attentive efforts it festered anyway. When the fever took him they moved him to the sweat lodge for five days expecting either his death or recovery, he was not sure which. Whatever the intent had been at the time, he was grateful they cared enough to nurse him, since he would need to recover every ounce of his strength before he went to find his wife.

  Winn expected the villagers to denounce him when he announced his bond to Maggie, but he was stunned to see that he retained their loyalty. He would never have asked it of them, knowing he risked his own life by defying Opechancanough, and he did not expect any other to stand by his side in defense of a Time Walker. Yet their love humbled him, and he gladly accepted it.

  “Brother,” Chetan spoke as he entered the yehakin.

  Winn opened his eyes and watched the warrior kneel beside him. His eyes were downcast, and by the lines creasing his face Winn could see he was troubled. Makedewa entered a moment later, yet he hung back, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “Did you get word to her? Is she well? What say you?” he demanded, his hoarse voice rising as he surveyed his brothers. Winn had only been awake less than a day since the fever broke, but his first thought had been to retrieve Maggie. He knew she watched him fall from the rifle shot, and he feared she would think the worst when he did not return for her. Somehow he staggered out of the furs and made it to the door, but his brothers stopped him and insisted they would carry a message to her.

  Now as he looked at the expressions of the two anxious men, he feared to hear their tale.

  “She is well, brother. Benjamin Dixon tends to her,” Chetan said carefully. Winn noticed that Chetan glanced at Makedewa, who appeared ready to boil over as he waited to speak. Winn nodded with relief to Chetan and looked to his second brother.

  “What, Makedewa? Does Chetan not speak truth?”

  “He speaks true, brother. Yet he does not tell all. The Red Woman married Benjamin Dixon. She breeds his babe even now.”

  Winn felt the grip of icy fingers around his neck as his blood rushed cold.

  “You must be mistaken,” he growled.

  “No, it is true. Benjamin told us both by his own tongue. I wanted to kill him and bring her back to you, but Chetan refused me. Give me your word, and I will go back to finish it,” Makedewa ground out.

  Winn struggled to sit up and was glad the braves did not move to help him. He felt his wound tear, only a minimal disruption, but the healing flesh parted and a fresh gush of blood began to spread over the dressing on his chest.

  “No. I do not believe it.” Winn grimaced and tried to stand, but at this both warriors moved forward to stop him.

  “It is truth. I am sorry. I ask Makedewa to wait to hear your word before we act,” Chetan said.

  Winn swallowed hard. Benjamin? The man he called brother left him for dead slung over the back of his horse, and then stole his woman? And what of Maggie – his wife, his heart? She would marry another, as if Winn had never existed? He remembered the words she once spoke during an argument.

  A bad woman, she had said, as if the words were most distasteful. A woman who sleeps with any man.

  No. He would not believe that of her. He would believe the vows they spoke. He could believe nothing else, or risk slipping back down deep into that dank place the fever took him to, that soulless void bereft of light.

  “Leave me, brothers,” he said. “I will think on these things.”

  CHAPTER 34

  She tucked her hands beneath her thighs as she sat on the plank bench next to a young blond-haired girl. The girl did not talk much but Maggie did not mind, content to watch the others dance from her perch away from the festivity.

  Benjamin stood across the barn with a handful of similarly dressed men, drinking from a pewter mug that he refilled at least twice from a cask at his feet. She hoped he would drink enough to ensure a quick slumber when they arrived home. He caught her eye and smiled, raising his mug up to her in salute through the crowd of dancers. She tilted her chin up to show him her acknowledgement, and he turned his attention back to the men.

  A brisk fiddle beat filled the barn. It was a temporary meeting place in Wolstenholme town, sitting next to the com
munity storehouse, serving the various needs of the citizens until more suitable accommodations were built. Although they went to church twice a day, the English spent an equal amount of time on their entertainment, finding some reason or another to drink and play music nearly every night.

  “Would ye care to dance, Miss Dixon?”

  She looked up at the grainy voice. Charles Potts stood beside her, hand outstretched in a most polite fashion. His stick-straight hair stood out like thorns beyond his brown woolen hat, his pox-marked face shaved clean for the evening, yet he still held an air of arrogance and she did not want to spend any time in his presence.

  She shook her head demurely.

  “I’m sorry, I fear I am taken a bit ill. I think I’ll take some air.”

  “Are ye sure? Should I escort ye, miss?”

  “Ah, no. Thank you,” she said firmly, putting a distinct end to the near uncomfortable discussion. He gave her a quick half-bow as she stood up. She left him standing there and made her way out of the barn.

  Once outside, she leaned back on the plank wall and pulled her bodice away from her breast. It was damn hot in the place, with all the warm dancing bodies and half-soused men stumbling around. She fanned her neck and chest with her hand. There, that felt better.

  The wail of the fiddle could still be heard, the stomps of the dancers thudding off the wall she leaned against. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, her breath misting as it left her lungs in a sigh.

  She thought she heard a rustle of leaves coming from the tree line, distinct from the pounding of dancing feet, yet still the fiddles wailed and she supposed it was only her imagination.

  “Ye shouldna be out here by yer lonesome, Miss.”

  Charles Potts stood in front of her, an arm’s length away, her cloak folded over his elbow. She scowled and snatched it from him, but he held onto it and used it as an excuse to move close to her. She shrunk back into the solid wall to keep a proper space between them, suspicious of the gleam in his muddy brown eyes. Her stomach curled when he spit out a chunk of wet tobacco at her feet.

  “I’m fine, thank you. I’ll be going to find my husband now,” she said dismissively, trying to brush past him. His hand shot out to block her exit, braced against the barn at the height of her shoulders. She did not turn to look at him, gritting her jaw as she tried to keep her voice low. If there was one thing she knew for sure about the English, it was their distaste for public embarrassment, and if she caused a scene, she knew she would be considered the one at fault, not the teetering Master Potts.

  “Are ye out here meeting someone? Maybe yer savage lover?” he sneered.

  “You’re a disgusting sod. Let me pass!” she hissed. She shrugged off the hand he placed on her shoulder. “And keep your hands to yourself, you bloody bastard!”

  The insult struck a nerve, and before she could get away he shoved her against the wall. His faced came close to hers in all its rancid glory, his breath like curdled milk tainted with ale. Her head snapped back painfully when he clamped a hand over her mouth.

  “You best keep that trap shut, if ye know what’s good fer ye! Yer the blasted harlot who shacked up with the savages, are ye not?”

  She cursed him, her words muffled under his hand. Suddenly he let go, looking her up and down from breast to toes, nodding to himself.

  “Off with ye, now. I wouldna touch the leavings of an Indian, in any case,” he muttered.

  She darted away, her cloak clutched in her hands. It was not the first time a man made inappropriate advances, and she was certain it would not be the last. The colony was sorely lacking in women, and when the men drank too much they could be quite obnoxious. Just like men of any other time, she thought angrily.

  When she reached the inside of the barn without further pursuit, she stood there for a moment, scanning the crowd. Her heart hammered like a jackrabbit through her chest as she searched for Benjamin, who she finally spotted in a crowd of men. He saw her and grinned, and raised one finger with his brows raised at her. She nodded and took her former seat watching the dancers.

  The frantic squeal of the fiddle rose above the laughter, a rhythmic illusion of happiness in the air. She felt the wetness on her cheek, streaking down as she closed her eyes, wishing the numbness to take her far away.

  Looking around at English, skirts rustling and cloaks flinging in dance, she let out a sob and found camaraderie in the tears. Is this how her life would be, and endless cycle of aimless dance, pleasing her husband, pleasing the townsfolk, yet helpless to fill the empty pit where her heart once resided?

  Now you will never be lonely, for we will be together.

  His voice smothered the noise of the celebration. She could hear it as if he were next to her, holding her hand, brushing his lips across her cheek, the sweet simple touch of the man she missed so much.

  But Winn, I am lonely.

  She felt a wave of nausea, that gentle reminder of the life growing inside her. She placed her hand over her belly.

  She would carry on, because she must. She would endure a life in his time without him, because she must. She would protect their son with the last bit of her breath, if it was needed of her.

  And she would love Winn until the day she died.

  The next night Maggie watched as Finola tended the last customer of the day. She was not often present when the healer closed down her wares for the evening, and frankly was puzzled Benjamin left her at the shop for such a lengthy visit. Whatever motive was behind his reasoning, she was grateful for it, happy to relax with Finola. The only comfort she felt of late was spent in the presence of the healer, the only person who knew all her secrets and accepted her as such.

  “Some tea, child?” Finola asked. Maggie nodded and rose to help her with the heavy copper kettle.

  “Here, let me.”

  “Nay! Sit yerself, dear, I can manage.” The older woman tossed her long blond braid back over her shoulder, her brows raised as she surveyed Maggie. “Has the sickness passed yet? I fear ye eat not enough to feed the babe.”

  “I’m eating more now, it will be enough,” Maggie assured her.

  “Ye thinks the wean a boy or girl? I canna see myself what it is.”

  Maggie smiled as Finola shook her head. The witch had been trying to see the sex of the babe for the last few weeks, eager to give an identity to the child. The English rarely asked for her predictions, so she was out of practice, and with a much more personal stake in the knowledge of Maggie’s pregnancy the woman tried every method she knew of to decipher what it would be.

  “If only we had an ultrasound, there would be no question,” Maggie laughed.

  “What do ye speak of? Tell me of this magic!”

  “Ah, it’s no magic. Just a … a machine that makes a picture of the baby, inside the womb. It uses sound waves to make the image.” Maggie did the best she could explaining the marvelous use of the medical device. Finola was a most avid listener, devouring every tidbit Maggie explained of the life she left behind. In their frequent talks, Maggie had already described television and cameras, so the description of ultrasound was not too far of a leap to comprehend.

  “Tis most useful then, this yulta-sound?”

  “Yes,” Maggie sighed, knowing she would have no such comforts of the well-being of her babe during the pregnancy. Although she had no bleeding or other indication of problems, she still worried damage was done by the beating she endured. “I would give just about anything to have an ultrasound right now.”

  Maggie felt Finola pat her hand, then the woman turned quickly back to the boiling kettle.

  “Perhaps we should send ye back. Back to ye own time.”

  Maggie froze. Surely, she had not heard the woman correctly. There was no way to return, Maggie had accepted that fact.

  “There is no way to return, is there, Finola?” Maggie asked, her hoarse voice rising shrill the more she spoke. “Please tell me!”

  “Aye, I know no way, without yer own Bloodstone,” t
he woman admitted, shaking her head with her eyes fastened on the mug of tea she poured. “But I will go to the Paspahegh village, and try to find it for ye, if that’s what you need to be happy, child.”

  Maggie felt the wetness on her cheeks, unaware she was crying.

  “You would do that for me?”

  “Oh, I would,” the woman murmured, taking her into her arms. Maggie squeezed her tight, never in her life knowing what the embrace of a mother’s love felt like, yet knowing her friendship with Finola echoed the spirit of it. “Of course I would. If sending ye back to yer time would make it all easier to bear, then yes, I would.”

  “I don’t know what I want,” Maggie sniffed, feeling the comfort of Finola gently patting her back. “I don’t know where I belong. Here, or in the future, I would still miss him. Can the Bloodstone take this pain away, can it make me forget? Or can it take me back…” she stood upright away from Finola, tremors overtaking her body as the ideas leapt into her mind. “Can I go back to stop it? Can I stop what happened that day, to save Winn?” She grabbed Finola’s hands, barely able to contain the rush of hope. They sat down together on a wooden bench.

  “No, child. It does not work in such a way. You canna live a time more than once. And if ye do not know the runes to direct ye, ye should have a bit of yer place on ye when you go, so the Bloodstone knows where to send ye. It’s a tricky thing, ye see.”

  “Runes? A bit of your place?”

  “The mark of a rune will send ye to a place, but if ye have no rune, ye need a piece of the time yer meant for. Something tied to that place. Anything will do. A button, a brooch, any small tidbit of the time ye mean to travel to. It helps to point the way.”

  Maggie reached into the folds of her apron and pulled out the raven. The pitted stone was heavy in her hand, but the tiny likeness felt solid. She held it out to Finola.

  “Something like this? How could it matter, it’s just a toy.”