The Blooded Ones

by Elizabeth Brown

  “I finished my business with the Governor. Tell him I will call on him another day. It grows late, and I am weary of talking.” Winn spoke his words, slow and even, as he turned back to his horse.

  One of the men raised a musket level with Winn’s chest.

  “Ye’ll come now, or have a hole in yer hide,” the one with the musket said.

  He heard Thomas Martin make a wheezing nasal laugh. Winn turned to the men, making a purposeful effort to relax his tense back as he surveyed them. The street was eerily empty except for the group surrounding him, with not even an English soldier in sight. It seemed the Englishmen had planned well.

  That one, he thought, glancing at Thomas Martin, that one he would kill last.

  He saw John Jackson watching, unmoving as he stood by his shop. Winn squinted up at the sky and considered mounting up. He could get away, but he would not make it out of the palisades, which remained closed and guarded.

  “Go then. Take me to the governor,” Winn said. He knew he was not being returned to the fanciful dwelling the Governor enjoyed within the settlement, but he complied nonetheless.

  He left his horse tied to a post and followed the men.

  Winn twisted his wrists against the rope binding, but the jailer had done his job well and they would not loosen. He sat upright with his arms bound behind him, and his ankles tied to the wooden legs of a chair. The English did not have a large space for detaining men, so they used a storehouse adjacent to the Governor’s dwelling. It was a simple one-room structure fit for no more than housing vermin. His shoulders ached from the strained position, and his head throbbed from where he had been struck with the butt of a rifle near his temple. Apparently, the English had more in mind for him than simply speaking with the Governor. He suspected Thomas Martin had much to do with his detainment.

  “If ye tell us where the village lies, perhaps we will kill ye quickly,” Martin said. Somehow, the English had knowledge of the Norse colony up in the hills, and they wanted it taken for their King.

  When Winn did not acknowledge the taunt, Thomas grabbed Winn’s hair and yanked his head up. The man’s squat, flushed face looked about to burst as he shoved it close to Winn, his breath nearly as rancid as the stench littering the storehouse.

  “Nothing to say? Yer not so hard to kill now, are ye? Why, if a musket dinna finish ye, maybe this will,” Thomas said, letting Winn’s head drop. As his chin hit his chest and his gaze clouded over, he felt the burn of a rope twisting around his neck. He summoned all the strength he could muster to fight then, wrenching his body away from the men as they cut his ankle ties and pulled him to his feet. His muscles failed him as they looped the end of the rope over a low-hanging rafter and stretched his body upward until only the tips of his toes touched the ground.

  Tighter it pulled, the pain of the rope burning like fire as he gasped for air, straining with all his might to keep his neck stiff against the hanging. His hands and legs fell numb and useless, like pins sticking him over every ounce of his skin, and when he thought he would take his last breath, they dropped him to the floor.

  “We know they live near the Nansemond! Tell us where, save yer own life, ye filthy fool! We know it’s a bunch of Spaniards or worse up there, hiding in the hills! Why do ye protect them?” Thomas shouted as he kicked Winn in the ribs. The impact of the boot was a dull strike, yet an effective one, knocking the breath from Winn’s lungs. He knelt over on both hands, gasping shallow breaths against his screaming chest as he struggled for air.

  He would not tell them. Let them hang him, let them take his life. He would not give up the last place his family could be safe.

  “There is no village in the hills,” Winn said, spitting the blood from his mouth onto the dirt floor.

  The Englishmen strung him up once more.

  It was well into the night before Winn’s captors tired of the game. Finally they closed the door to the storehouse and left him in the shadows, the only light a glimpse of the moon from between the slats of the window shutters. He pressed his face to the earth as he lay on his belly, his arms still bound behind his back. The packed clay felt cool upon his skin, numbing the swelling of his jaw as he closed his eyes to the sensation. He considered the Bloodstone pendant still hanging from him neck, crusted into the wounds on his raw throat. If his hands were free, might he have used the magic to escape? It was better to have no choice, he imagined, rather than risk leaving his family. As he felt the wings of sleep take him into the darkness, the door burst open.

  “Wake up!” A voice whispered. He felt hands on his wrists, and the smooth metal of a blade as it sliced through the rope. Unbound after hours of torture, his arms fell to his sides, limp and tingling. Winn kept his face flat to the floor, wondering what further punishment they sought to inflict at such a late hour.

  “Can ye stand? Hurry, before they find us both!”

  Winn opened one swollen eye, the one that was not plastered to the floor. He knew that voice, and he knew that face. It was Benjamin who kneeled over him, shaking Winn by one sore shoulder.

  He had little enough strength to protest as Benjamin hauled him to his feet and looped Winn’s arm over his shoulders. His legs failed him at first but he gained his stance quickly. They had no time to lose, and for whatever reason his brother was there, it would likely be his only chance at survival. As Winn stumbled beside Benjamin through the door, his foot hit something soft and large lying on the ground.

  “Lucky they left only one man to guard ye. It seems they dinna expect a rescue tonight,” Benjamin muttered. “That one was full in his cups when I came upon him.”

  Winn was shocked that Benjamin had killed the Englishman, but would not dwell on it further. They had more pressing matters to deal with at that moment.

  “The gates are guarded,” Winn said, his voice strained through his dry throat and cracked lips. He took in a breath and then bent abruptly over at the sharp pain in his side, coughing up a froth of bloody mucus. Benjamin held him by the shoulders to keep him upright as Winn heaved, and then pressed a flask to his lips. Winn took a gulp of the rum, spit it out, then took another.

  “Ye ready?” Benjamin asked. Winn nodded as Benjamin pressed a knife into his hand. He rose up on shaking legs and followed of his own accord as they left the building.

  The streets were dark and quiet. A sliver of a crescent moon still graced the purple sky, assisting their escape, but daylight would be upon them soon. Instead of making toward the gates as Winn expected, Benjamin led him behind the storehouse where there was a rope coiled in a heap on the ground.

  “Can ye climb? The only way is to go over.”

  Benjamin threw the looped end of the rope over the pointed tip of the palisade fence and gave it a yank. It held. Facing Winn, Benjamin could not see the Englishman sneak up behind him, but Winn did. Winn snatched the knife from his belt and threw it at the intruder, narrowly missing Benjamin’s head, but hitting the man squarely in the throat.

  His brother slumped back against the fence, holding the side of his face where the knife had sailed past him.

  “Could ye warn me, next time, ye think?” Benjamin snapped. Winn made a harsh snorting noise as he nodded.

  “Yes. Next time,” he agreed. He bent to the fallen man and pulled the knife from his throat. Winn wiped the blade with his fingers. As Benjamin watched with his eyes narrowed and his lips pressed tightly closed, Winn placed the palm of his bloodied hand flat against his face. There the sticky, hot blood left a mark, one he would wear until he repaid the English in kind.

  “Good Christ, man,” Benjamin muttered, shaking his head. They scaled the fence and made off into the woods behind Jamestown.

  There was only one way out of town. Since Jamestown was almost completely surrounded by water, travelers to and from the town always took the same path. Benjamin, however, knew the area well, and he had used an unchartered trail through the dense forest that would be less likely to draw attention. It might delay an English search party, bu
t Winn knew it would not deter them for long.

  They walked for more than an hour before they found the place Benjamin tied the horses. The two men spoke little. He was not so dense as to be ungrateful for the help, yet Winn wondered why Benjamin had taken the risk of freeing him. Even more so, how did his brother know Winn had been detained?

  Benjamin tossed him the flask as they sat down by the horses.

  “How did you know?” Winn asked quietly. He took a sip, and passed it to his brother.

  “Old Morgan’s son rode to the village for help. Sent by John Jackson.”

  Winn considered the response, and it made sense. He recalled John Jackson watching from the gunsmith’s shop, and the lack of surprise the man showed when the English surrounded him. It seemed John had helped Winn in his own way, without the risk of showing involvement to the other Englishmen.

  “We will be followed. Are you ready to fight?” Winn asked, tilting his head as he looked at the man who was his brother. Benjamin let out an insulted sigh.

  “Ask yourself such. I’m the one that saved yer bloody arse, didn’t I? I can kill a man, the same as ye.”

  “So you’ve learned to kill?” Winn answered.

  “I’ve changed a bit,” Benjamin said. “As have ye, brother.”

  They fell silent at the use of the title aloud. It hung there heavy in the air between them, waiting for acknowledgement, for either of them to broach the damage that had been done. Benjamin cleared his throat with a cough and took a swig of the rum.

  “I’m not like ye, Winn. I thought ye were dead when I sent ye back on your horse that day. I knew not what else to do. As for her,” Benjamin said, his voice lowering an octave as he referred to Maggie. “I did the best I could. I had no people then, no man to stand by my side. I know I wronged ye, and I will pay for it all my days. There was no way for me to keep her safe unless we wed.”

  “It meant more to you than that,” Winn answered. He felt the old anger rise, the sting of betrayal knowing his friend had stolen his wife. As Winn lay feverish and wounded near death, Benjamin had taken everything from him. Was his brother asking for forgiveness as he made his excuses?

  “Aye. I wanted her. I willna deny it. But if I thought ye lived, I would have returned her to ye. Believe it, or not. I tell ye now as the truth of it.” Benjamin passed him the rum. “She suffered much with Martin. To make the marriage contract he asked for twice the bride price, and I gave him all I had. I couldna see her treated so poorly.”

  Winn raised his head.

  “How so?” Winn asked. Maggie had hated living with the English, but she had not spoken of any mistreatment.

  Benjamin sat up as he squinted at Winn’s question.

  “Martin saw her run to ye when ye were shot, and she tried to take the gun from him. He dinna care for the sting on his reputation, I suppose. The man hates the Indians. Maggie would not tell me what had been done to her, but I saw her wounds. I couldn’t leave her there.”

  “What wounds?” Winn asked. His chest tightened as he realized what Benjamin spoke of, and his heart sank with the knowledge that Maggie had kept it from him.

  “He beat her. I feared the babe would not survive. There was scarce an ounce of her skin without mark.”

  Winn stood abruptly to his feet. He strode a few paces away, his hands tight at his sides as he let out a low groan.

  Why would she hide such a thing from him?

  He knew the answer immediately, of course. Maggie knew Winn would have killed Martin, and it was the fighting and death that his wife feared the most. His chest ached as he drew in his breath, and he did not know if it was due to the trauma to his ribs or the fist that clenched his heart. She was a stubborn one, he knew that well, but keeping such a thing from him? He could only imagine how she must have felt. Trapped alone in his time, carrying his child, with no way to care for herself. It was no wonder she fought so hard to stay with the Norse. Perhaps it was the only way he could make her feel truly safe.

  Benjamin stood.

  “Winn-”

  His words were cut off by the roar of a rifle. As Winn turned, he saw Benjamin thrown to the ground with a wound to his shoulder. Winn’s eyes darted to the periphery of the clearing to find the source of the shot, but in the cover of darkness even his sharp eyes were of little use. He grabbed hold of Benjamin’s good arm and dragged his brother into the trees for cover.

  “Quiet!” Winn hissed when Benjamin let out a groan.

  “Help me to the horse, we need to leave!”

  Winn shook his head at Benjamin’s plea.

  “I don’t know where they are. Stay down.”

  Winn took a few precious moments to tear apart Benjamin’s shirt and put pressure on the wound. Although it surged with blood, it was not deep, the flesh only torn by the graze of the shot. It would not kill him, but Winn was sure it was painful. Benjamin pushed Winn’s hand away and applied pressure to his own wound as he tried to sit up.

  “Come out, Speaker! You’ll fare no better for hiding!” an Englishman called out from somewhere beyond the tree line.

  Winn looked down at Benjamin. The wounded man might be able to make it to the horses, if the English had not scared them off. If Winn distracted their attention long enough, perhaps his brother would succeed in getting away. There was no time to think of a plan, nor regret that they had stopped for rest instead of continuing on. Although Winn did not yet know whether to trust Benjamin or not, the man had saved his life, and for that he could not let him be taken by the English.

  The English came out of the trees, and Winn could see that they had gathered more men before they pursued the escaped prisoner. Winn crouched at the waist and shifted his stance so that he stood between Benjamin and the approaching English. He adjusted his grip on his knife as he eyed them. More than a dozen settlers all held muskets, a show of firepower against the single knife Winn held and the flintlock rifle tied to Benjamin’s horse. Winn weighed the probability of winning the fight.

  No, he might not win it, but he would take many of them with him when he fell.

  Winn saw one man raise his musket, wavering as he pointed it into the trees near where Benjamin lay. Instead of waiting for the sound of the shot, he dug his heels into the soft earth and took off at a run toward the man. As Winn uttered a guttural scream, the startled man fumbled the weapon and nearly dropped it, leaving Winn the opening to launch himself at the Englishman. Chaos exploded around them as he tackled the man to the ground, and he heard the scuffle of bodies and shouts behind him, yet all he could focus on was the one lowly man he held in his grasp at that moment. His gaze became a tunnel, seeing through his opponent, yet narrowed on the prize, and as Winn thrust his knife into the side of the man’s shuddering chest, he could see only blood cloud his vision.

  Winn took the gun from the dead man and used it to smash into the head of the next Englishman who dared challenge him. Winn dipped his shoulder and rammed it into another, slicing his knife upward across the next throat with a shrill scream. The remaining English seemed to recover from their panic at his distracting warrior bellow, and from the corner of his eye he saw Benjamin grappling with two men as Winn crouched to face yet another attacker.

  Two attacked the wounded Benjamin. If he could kill three more that stood circling him, he might help his brother.

  His fist slipped when he clutched his knife, holding it out in front of him, and he was perplexed to see a smear of blood trickling down his arm when he glanced at his palm. He had not felt it when the Englishman sliced his skin, and he did not feel it now, it was only a semblance of distraction at losing his grip. He tossed the knife to his dry hand and wiped the blood off on his bared chest. His blood or that of another, he would wear it until he ended them.

  Thomas Martin lifted his flintlock musket, standing no more than a few paces away. Winn lurched for the man, grabbing the barrel of the weapon before the man fired it. The shot rang out close to his ear, but Winn found Martin’s neck with one hand and sque
ezed it as he felt his strength begin to fade. His damaged ribs screamed with each breath as Winn thrust his knife up into the man’s chest.

  Martin glared back at him, his black eyes forming a look of defiant surprise as Winn held him.

  “I should have made sure ye were dead,” the man groaned.

  “Yes,” Winn muttered. “You should have.”

  Winn dropped him to the ground, and the remaining Englishmen closed in. He refused to retreat as he felt Benjamin scramble up behind him.

  “We should run,” Benjamin said.

  “No,” Winn replied evenly, his eyes on the advancing men.

  The decision was suddenly taken from them. He heard the bellows before they came into view, the sound of the pounding hooves and fierce war cries piercing the air and causing even the English to shudder. Norse and Indians rushed upon them amid a clash of metal and bodies, and suddenly the upper hand in the fight changed. Winn heard the shout of his father and the screams of his brothers as they ran into battle.

  The English were outnumbered, and although most continued to fight after the initial burst of surprise, a few tried to run away and were quickly cut down. Makedewa and Chetan fought alongside each other, cutting through men who challenged them. Crouched down beside Benjamin, Winn watched as Marcus brought his bryntroll down with a sickening thud across the chest of a fleeing Englishman he knocked to the ground, and then calmly wrenched it from the fallen body as he surveyed the scene.

  “Is that all of them?” Marcus called out. Cormaic approached, his face flushed like a ripe cherry and his reddish blond hair hanging streaked with blood. His breath came rapid, but Cormaic nodded, a smug grin on his face as he looked to his Chief.