“I can explain–” Erich said.
He reached for her hand and she shrunk back from him, stepping further away as a gasp came from the crowd.
“Don’t touch me!” she said. In the next moment, Winn was at her side, catching her wrist before she slapped her uncle’s perplexed face.
“Sit down, Fire Heart,” he said. Erich drew away, and someone else righted her bench. Teyas and Rebecca made room for Winn to sit next to her.
She glared at Winn, every ounce of her frustration now bent on him, taking the last slice of her self-control to keep from screaming at him as well. She knew he could see it from the way she trembled, her finger nails digging into his arms.
“I sent yer mother with my lord to seek safety. I knew he would protect my sister with his life. Dagr is my Chief, and my most trusted friend,” Erich said. Marcus watched the interaction, still seated, resting his elbows on the table in front on him. “I see ye know nothing of yer powerful blood. Have ye told her naught, my lord?” Erich said, directing his question to Marcus.
“She knows verra little. Her journey here was unexpected. I leave her teachings to ye now.”
Eric grinned. He leaned up over the table, nearly upending his bench as he waved a younger man to his side.
“Harald! Up fer a tale, boy?” he shouted. “He fancies himself our Skald, ye know,” Erich laughed, shooting a sly glance at Marcus.
The young man approached, eyeing them shyly from beneath thick dark lashes. His tousled brown hair was worn shoulder length, like some of the other men, with small sections wrapped in cord hanging about his narrow face.
“Yes, my Lord. A good one, fer our guests, then?” Harald said. Erich glanced in a questioning manner at Marcus, who waved him on with a flick of his wrist and resorted to downing the rest of his drink. When young Harald smiled, Maggie could not help but let out a giggle, which she muffled under her fist. He was missing the bottom half of one front tooth, which did not seem to bother him in the least as he started his story.
“Aye, but they are no guests. This man is son to our Chief. My lady is a blooded MacMhaolian. Make it yer best fer them, boy,” Erich declared. Children gathered in a circle at his feet, shooed over by elders to enjoy the tale.
Harald made a sweeping bow to Marcus and then another to her, bringing a smile to her face. He was a gangly young man, eager to please, and she liked him immediately. He was a welcome contrast to the testosterone infused brawn and bulk that surrounded her, masquerading as newfound kinfolk.
“Once there was a man called Jarl Drustan. He was born at Brattahlid, in the land of Greenland, a most treacherous place, indeed,” Harald jumped up onto the bench beside Maggie. He placed a hand across his brow, his knobby elbow sticking out, searching the room from end to end. “Jarl Drustan was a man of the sea. But he was a man of secrets as well, for it was his kin, and his alone that were bound by blood for a greater task!”
“What task? What task!” the children cried, their faces upturned in rapt anticipation.
“Oh, it is a great honor, that which he had! For Jarl Drustan protected the Blooded Ones, our very own blessed ones.”
Maggie’s heart skipped and her mouth felt suddenly dry.
“A finer man ye wouldna find in all the land, Our Lord Drustan. One fateful day our Lord Drustan was ordered to the sea, where he was to go a-Viking. He set out with his clan to search fer new lands, on a fine new Longship made fer such occasion.”
“Where did he go?” A tow-headed boy called out. Maggie noticed Ahi Kekeleksu sitting with the boys, just as enthralled in the tale as the other children.
“He searched and searched, for many long days, and many long nights. He searched for land, but never found it. He searched until the last of the food was eaten, and the people began to suffer of hunger. There was no land to be found, and it seemed he had led his people to death.” He crouched down in dramatic pause, on eye level with the children. “Aye, ye know this tale, do ye not?”
“Nay, nay, tell it again, again!” the children shouted.
“Well, our Lord and protector, he would not let his people die at sea fer his own fault. He knew the blood of a Chief could save them, and so he bid his lovely Finola goodbye. Before they could beg him off, he held his Bloodstone, and spilled his blood upon the vessel. He sent his people to a new place. They came safe to this time, aye, and now ye all sit before us, all ye little hens,” he said, reaching out to pat the head of a blond haired girl. He tapped the heads of the children one by one as he murmured, “Each of ye have a bit of the Blooded Ones in ye, a sprinkle here, a tad bit there. Not enough fer such a grand journey, but enough in ye to be one of us.”
“Why did he die? Could he not go with them?” the blond girl asked, her round face scrunched into a frown.
“Oh, nay, little one. It takes too much to send a whole Longship through time. It takes all the blood of a Chief to do such a great deed. The life of a Chief, or a blooded MacMhaolian, only one of them can make that magic work. Ye know the Bloodstone’s a dangerous magic. That’s why none of ye wear them round yer necks. None except our MacMhaolian lady, returned to us by our Great Chief Dagr.”
All heads turned to Maggie as Harald knelt down beside her, taking her hand into his with a flourish. He made great sport of kissing it, and then bowed deep to both her and to Marcus. Maggie’s pulse pounded in her throat as the hall full of onlookers focused on her.
Marcus lifted up his hand. In his fist was a long, tapered white horn, embellished with gold and silver filigree and studded with dozens of gemstones. The hall fell silent once again as he raised it in salute, then took a long drink.
“Esa svá gott, sem gott kveþa,
öl alda sunum,
þvít fæ'ra veit, es fleira drekkr,
síns til geþs gumi!”
The Long House erupted in chaos, men and women shouting and stomping, beating their fists on tables and screaming their approval. She looked slowly around the room. Erich had a grin on his lips, raising his tankard to Marcus in a silent gesture.
“What did he say?” she whispered, not directly addressing Erich, yet knowing he was the only one who might answer her.
“He shouts his thanks to be among his people once more, and bids us all many cups of mead.”
Marcus left his perch, drinking horn held carefully out as he came to their side. He placed one hand on Winn’s shoulder, and while he looked briefly at Winn, he offered the horn to Maggie.
“Margret, I have watched over ye since the day ye were born. There is much to tell you of how it came to pass, and tell ye, we will. But for now, drink. This is the vessel of my ancestors. Take of it, wife of my son, daughter of my heart. Drink and be happy.”
She wanted nothing more than to pour it on his head, but when her husband took the horn and drank, she felt she had no choice. When both she and Winn had tasted, a roar of shouts emerged from the crowd once again. The ground beneath her feet seemed to rumble with the pounding of the drums, and the rowdy voices of men broke into song.
To her chagrin, Winn had the look of amusement about him. As those around them bent to the task of celebrating, he pulled her near and whispered in her ear.
“How is it?” he asked. She scrunched her brow.
“How is what?”
“Being the kin of a Norseman? Do they seem so brave to you now?”
“Not funny, Winn,” she replied, kicking him lightly with the tip of her moccasin-clad toe. “Not funny at all.”
CHAPTER 13
Winn
Winn noticed the women gather the small children as they made ready to leave the Long House. Although he sat with Marcus and Erich, he waited for Maggie to look to him. Angry or no, she would not leave without some sort of acknowledgement. She wiped Kwetii’s mouth with the edge of her shift and adjusted the sleepy child in her arms, and as she turned to say something to Teyas, her eyes met his across the room. She issued him a wry smile, and he nodded in return. It was a small gesture but a necessary one, a
nd he was glad she had calmed her fire long enough to relax with her kin.
He stood up from his seat beside Marcus with intent to join his wife, but both Marcus and Erich protested. Other young men filled in the benches where the women had left, shouldering in to grab the next pass of the mead tankard. Winn had seen the Englishmen soused on ale many times, but it was nothing compared to how the Norse consumed. He lost track hours ago of how much he had taken, drank only because each warrior who greeted him insisted on filling his tankard after slapping him heartily on the back. Apparently, being the son of the leader held many perks among the Norse, and having a plentiful supply of mead was one of them.
“Stay. The women need us naught, let them tend the mitings,” Marcus said, filling Winn’s mug yet again. Winn eyed his father warily.
“You know little of my wife. She looks now to see there is no bloodshed.” He felt her presence behind him before her fingers touched his shoulder, the scent of her musky skin stirring his blood. He clenched his jaw, wanting nothing more to bury his frustration into his wife’s willing arms, but when he glanced at her he could see she was as agitated as he.
“I’ll see you soon, husband?” she murmured, bending close to his ear. He nodded.
“Take your rest. I will join you soon.”
He touched Kwetii’s trailing heel before they left, and turned back to the men. He noticed Marcus and Erich watch her leave as well, and wondered how his wife would adapt with such change. Suddenly she had a family, when her entire life, she had only Marcus and her grandfather. He listened when she told him the stories of her childhood, often fascinated by the tales of the future she told, yet in one very deep-rooted way he could understand her anger. Suddenly thrust into a family where secrets and lies abounded? Yes, that was an anger he knew well.
“I know that woman as much as ye, and don’t ye forget it. I’m surprised she hasn’t split ye over the head yet, with the way ye order her about. She doesn’t take so well to orders,” Marcus grumbled, taking a swig of his mead. “They grow up different in the future. Where did ye find her, when the Bloodstone took her from me?”
“On a bluff overlooking the valley, near where I buried the Bloodstones you left.”
Marcus sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Why did ye bury them?”
“The Pale Witch said a Time Walker would come, a Blooded One that I would fail to kill. I meant to break the curse, to keep it from happening. I wanted no part of that magic, nor of any Time Walkers.”
“That surely dinna work,” Marcus replied with a half-choked snort. “Instead ye put them right in her path. The bluff over the valley? That’s where we lived in the future. We had a farm on that same spot. It’s the same place the Bloodstone took her from.”
“You just leave Bloodstones lying around in your future?” Winn asked. Winn swallowed down another swig of mead, watching his father’s face turn from amused to something else. The man lifted his head, looking out over the crowed room before he answered.
“No. Ye buried the stones. Whoever built the house dug them up and used them, not knowing what they were. It was pure chance that she stumbled upon them. Maybe ye meant to keep her away, but it’s because of you she’s here, all the same. She and I would both still be in the future if ye had not buried the bloody things.”
“You would have left Benjamin here in the past?” Winn said, surprised at the confession Marcus spoke. His father’s shoulders sagged and he uttered a deep sigh.
“I dinna know where he was, until I found the note from Maggie. Benjamin was just a lad when he disappeared. I thought his blasted mother took him, but I knew nothing fer sure. It could have been magic, or she could have just left with him. When Maggie was taken, I took a shovel to the barn floor. I found the stones, and the letter your wife left in a pewter flask. I realized Benjamin was here as well. That’s when I knew I had to come find ye.”
“That was near two years past. Why did you wait?”
“To prepare. To look for clues. I searched records and deeds, every church log I could find. It’s different in the future, Winn. Some of us disappear from history, some remain. Marriage contracts, court logs. Birth records…death records. I found nothing of the Norse I left behind. There is no trace in history of any Norse who lived among the First People. I thought if any survived the attack by your uncle, they must have tried to flee to Vinland. Even so, I found enough clues to track ye down—you and Maggie.”
Winn’s chest tightened.
“You say there are records of us? Death records?” Winn said.
Marcus nodded, his lips tight in a thin line.
“There’s much I know about how things will go,” his father said quietly. “Best we leave it at that, don’t ye think, lad? It’s enough now to be here, with my kin once more. I thought they were all lost to me.”
Winn remained silent. His thoughts scattered, lost in how it all happened. As an angry young man he had buried the cursed Bloodstones to prevent the Time Walker from using them. Instead, it was because of his actions that Maggie ended up in the past. He would not change it, even if he could, that selfish voice down deep in his blood making itself known. She belonged to him, to his time, and no other.
“She’s a rare one, that Maggie is. Ye know I raised her as my own,” Marcus said.
Winn eyed him, gazing square at blue eyes so like his own.
“I know this.”
“Yer uncle waged war on us. All these men here,” he said, waving one arm out to encompass the table. “I thought all these men dead, or gone into hiding. Opechancanough told me he had killed them and their women. Even my right hand, Erich, who sits here with us. I did what I must to protect the rest–Malcolm, Helgrid, and Maggie’s young mother, Esa. It was my duty to protect Esa and her unborn babe. I knew nothing of ye, you must understand.”
“Would it have mattered, even if you knew of me?”
Marcus hesitated before he spoke.
“Yes, it would have mattered. But still, I would have gone.”
Winn clenched his tankard, and then made the effort to loosen his grip as he slowly released it. He waited for Marcus to explain himself further before he responded, staring into his cup as his father struggled to explain.
“Yer mother was a good woman, but she wanted Pepamhu, even then. Yer uncle and my mother arranged our marriage as a means to prevent more bloodshed, but it failed. Pepamhu helped us escape when it all went bad. I left knowing he would take her to wife. I regret that it pains ye, but that’s the truth of it.”
Winn let out the breath he held and let the tension recede from his flexed arms. After taking a swallow of the mead and feeling its warmth creep into his belly, he nodded.
“I thank ye for keeping her safe,” Erich interrupted, reaching across Winn to smash his raised tankard to the horn Marcus held. Erich peered at Winn. “And fer ye, I’m verra pleased to have ye married to my niece. We always planned to see yer son wed to a MacMhaolian, did we not, Dagr?”
Winn saw the way his father’s eyes narrowed and his brow creased. He suspected his father had a different son in mind, but being he was attempting to understand the man he let that suspicion lie.
“Aye, that we did,” Marcus agreed. “Seems she chose just fine without us, and here we are.”
Erich grinned, nodding along with Marcus.
“I dinna get the honor of making ye fight fer her. I think her cousin would have given ye good reason to treat her well, right Cormaic?” Erich hollered. The young warrior who had first greeted their party in the woods grinned from his seat at the end of the table, raising his arm amongst the crowd of men surrounding him.
“Aye, father! A good thrash I’d have given him, for the honor of my pretty cousin’s hand!” Cormaic shouted. The men erupted in hoots and bellows around him. “It is not too late to show the Chief’s son my hammer!”
“Ach, down with yer fookin lucht talk!” Erich laughed, waving a hand at them. “Save it fer the English whoresons, so ye
can end them when we next meet.”
“What of the English? Do they come to this place, like they do the other villages?” Winn interrupted. He had the uneasy feeling of not quite understanding their humor, with the thick accents they all spoke and the unfamiliar dialect. He could glean enough from their body language, however, so when the topic of Englishmen arose and the younger men stopped laughing, he suspected there was reason for it.
Marcus looked to Erich, who drained his cup and held it out for more. A younger man quickly refilled it, and Erich resumed drinking as he spoke, his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed like emerald pebbles.
“They sent a man here a few days past, just one, and not much of a fighter, that be sure. The Englishman spoke naught of what he was sent fer, so we have no thought as to what they want. I sent a rider to the Nansemond to ask on it, he should return soon.”
“This Englishman, he said nothing?” Marcus asked. Erich shrugged, lowering his head to his drink.
“Nay. He said nothing useful before I clouted the lucht.”
The men roared with laughter, and although his cheeks flushed bright red, Erich grinned.
“Great. Ye’ve clouted the only man who could give us an answer. Nothing has changed, aye?” Marcus grumbled. “Ye hotheaded MacMhaolian!”
Winn grinned along with his wife’s uncle, and finished the rest of his drink.
The plank door was ajar, and he pushed it further open so he might enter the structure. It was smaller than the Great Long House yet similar in build, with a tall peaked roof topped with a smoke hole. A fire pit along one wall of the single room warmed the space well, sheltering a pile of sleeping furs nearby that lay strewn across a low platform bed. Not that they needed much warmth on such a humid summer night, but he was pleased with the space they had been provided by the Norse.
Teyas stood with Kwetii on her hip, the child hanging limp with exhaustion. Maggie was shaking her head at Teyas in protest.
The Blooded Ones Page 37
