Her blows only caused him to laugh louder.
“Ye must be mistaken,” Rebecca insisted. “I saw my mother die.”
“She lives still. She was badly injured, mistress, but she lives. Yer ma married Kaleb Tucker, a gentleman, no less. They have a fine new house in Elizabeth City. When I told her I’d see my Indian friends today, I assured her I would send ye word. Would ye like me to carry a message fer ye?”
“You did not tell them where this village lies, did you?” Makedewa interrupted. John shook his head, his throat turning crimson at the accusation.
“Of course not! I only told her I could carry word that might reach her lost daughter. It’s all I can hope fer with my own sister, ye know.”
“She’s alive?” Rebecca whispered. She was glad that Makedewa’s arm slipped around her waist to stop her from falling. Her legs shook and her stomach threatened to dispel her morning meal at the realization her mother still lived.
“Here, hold onto me,” Makedewa murmured. He swept her into his arms in one swift motion, holding her against his chest as if she weighed nothing. She saw her husband cast a glare at the Englishmen.
“I shall be fine,” she said weakly, not surprised when he refused to release her.
“You have upset my wife,” Makedewa growled.
“I–I’m all right, it’s just a shock,” she explained.
“Good day, John,” Makedewa snapped. He turned and stalked away to their Long house, depositing her gently on their bed despite his obvious rancor. When he pressed a cup of water to her lips she gently pushed him away, too breathless to drink as the truth of John’s words settled upon her.
Makedewa’s brows tensed as he lowered his head, avoiding her gaze as if he were afraid to see her. She suspected what fears troubled him, those whispers never spoken of between them.
“You have never sought to return to the English,” he finally said quietly. His palms rested on her knees, yet he remained quite still, even the force of his breathing not enough to move his rigid body.
“Those I love are here,” she replied. She ran her fingers over his head, caressing his ear, then his shoulder, finally pausing to rest on the hollow of his shoulder.
“Your mother lives.”
It hung there between them in the silence. She was not certain if he needed her to deny her English blood, or confirm her place as his wife, and for all of the confusion swelling in her heart she knew not what to say to him.
Her mother was alive. Of course she should go to her mother. But how could she say the words to her husband, when her intention was so much more?
She was not a woman to demand her will be done, and it was an unknown she stepped into when she prepared to make her request. Yes, he was her husband and she would obey him in all matters, but she hoped he would relent of his English hatred long enough to hear her out.
“I–I want to see her. Will ye take me to town?” Although she felt as if the very blood in her veins trembled, she did not stammer when she made her voice heard. After all, this was the man who promised to keep her safe, who promised to love her and honor her above all else for all their days.
“If you ask it of me, I will take you,” he murmured. She placed her palm flat on his cheek, felt the warmth of his skin. His ebony eyes tilted up to meet hers, sending a rush of heat straight down through her belly.
No, her faith was not misplaced. His gaze was steady. His fingers tightened on her knees.
“Thank ye,” she whispered. He did not smile, but she felt his fingers twist into hers on her lap as he nodded.
CHAPTER 14
Makedewa
ELIZABETH TUCKER STOOD behind her husband as they approached. Even shielded by the broad Englishman, Makedewa could see how much his wife resembled her mother. Her hair was pulled back in a severe knot, but a few blond curls fell astray at her ears. She was heavier than Rebecca, her face a bit rounder and her stature somewhat taller than Rebecca’s petite height, yet there was no denying the resemblance. Her pale skin betrayed little of her age except for the crease along her forehead as she surveyed their approach.
Makedewa tightened his grip on his horse and cast a sideways glance at Rebecca as he shifted in his seat. She rode her favorite sorrel mare, but he could see the indecision in her demeanor as well. It had been four years since she had seen her mother, a woman she thought long buried. He cared nothing for what the Englishwoman had endured during that time; he only cared for what it would do to his wife to see her again.
He noticed Kaleb Tucker had a musket propped up against the doorway. It was close enough to reach quickly, and Makedewa suspected it was loaded. John Jackson had been helpful in explaining what to expect when they arrived, and the wiry gunsmith had also carried word of their impending visit. Makedewa was not happy to be indebted to the man and he was loathe to admit sending word was wise; if Makedewa and Rebecca had ventured into Elizabeth City unannounced, their arrival was likely to be greeted with violence. Makedewa was not on friendly terms with the English as Winn had once been. He would never forget how Winn had once served as liaison between the Powhatan and English, or how the settlers had turned on Winn and tried to kill him.
No. He would never forget their treachery. As a boy, or as a man, he would always remember.
Kaleb Tucker broke the silence with a stilted cough.
“’Tis good to see you hale, Rebecca,” Kaleb announced. It seemed a formal declaration, meant both to acknowledge her absence and welcome her arrival. Makedewa dismounted and glanced up at her Rebecca. Her face had been a careful mask as they rode into town, but now he watched it crumble as she looked upon her mother. He helped her down off the mare, his hands firm on her waist. He did not want to let her go.
Her eyes darted from Makedewa, to her mother, and then back to him. He could see the tear in her composure, the hint of uncertainty.
She waited for his approval. A stagnant bile rose in his chest as he nodded. He must be the one she could trust, no matter how this day with her mother turned out.
The corner of her mouth turned up in a smile as she gazed up at him and he could not help but make an amused snort in response. With that exchange, she left his side and went to that of her mother.
As the women embraced amidst tearful sobbing, Kaleb Tucker reached his side. Makedewa thought he looked familiar, more so than the usual English he encountered, and he wondered if they had met before. He was of common height and stature, although he looked healthier and more refined than most of the Englishmen Makedewa was accustomed to. His brown hair was pulled neatly back at his nape in a fanciful blue ribbon, and his attire looked to be more leisurely than serviceable. His skin seemed smooth on his hands, ending in long tapered fingers that bespoke of a gentle life. So he was no laborer, Makedewa thought. John Jackson had been correct when he said Rebecca’s mother married and English gentleman.
“Thank you, sir, for your care. My name is Kaleb Tucker. And you are…?”
“Her husband,” Makedewa answered simply. He was not yet ready to speak his Indian name to the stranger. Although familiar with the way the Tassantassas used given names so freely, he was reluctant to allow them to know his true name. There was still a part of him that feared his soul might be captured if his enemies knew his true name, and until he could know more about Kaleb Tucker it would remain unsaid.
Kaleb nodded, his eyes wary.
“Well, yes, then, of course. John Jackson told us of yer–of what had happened to dear Rebecca,” Kaleb stammered.
Rebecca and her mother linked arms and entered the house. Makedewa glanced briefly at Kaleb and made a low snorting sound, then followed the women.
They would put no walls between him and his wife.
“Why not give them some time, ye surely can see they must speak!” Kaleb exclaimed as Makedewa strode toward the house.
The horses were ground-tied, they would remain where they stood. They could have run off for all he cared. All he knew was that he did not like any of the sounds aro
und him, not the murmur of voices from onlookers who peered curiously at them as they passed by, nor the absence of songbirds and sunshine. It seemed nature had abandoned the settlement the moment the English clawed into the earth; the scent of life was gone in Elizabeth City that had once been called the land of Tsenacomoco. Overrun by the stink of stale sodden tobacco and the closeness of human debris, it was nearly too much for him to take in. As he opened the door to follow them he noticed a puddle of foul liquid below one of the windows, trickling into a narrow gulley behind the rows of houses.
So they polluted the earth and lived in their own filth. How his beautiful wife could have come from vermin such as them, he could not fathom.
He entered the house. Rebecca and her mother sat by the hearth facing each other, hand in hand. He noticed the bible on a stool between them, similar to the one Rebecca had read to him from. It had been a gift, taken from the ruins of Martin’s Hundred after the Great Assault.
Makedewa left Rebecca in the care of Maggie in the cave that day. He knew she needed the comfort of another woman now, after all that had happened to her. Even before Maggie confirmed his suspicion, he knew it. He had seen it in her eyes, as if it were a secret shared only among those who had suffered the same fate. Although it had been many years since he thought on the evil done to him by Nathanial Webb, seeing Rebecca had brought it screaming back like a teeming banshee bent on destruction.
He must be patient; he must be slow. He must take care to show her he meant her no harm. If it took the rest of his life to do so, he would do it, even if it meant someday she only looked on him as a friend. Yet from the first moment he saw her he knew she would always be more to him. No tale could ever prepare him, no story could have made him understand. He loved her from the moment he saw her, and for him, even if unrequited, it was forever.
At loss to do anything useful as Maggie tended Rebecca, he left the campsite near the cave and traveled back to the ruins of Martin’s Hundred.
Yes, it had been his kind that set fire to the houses. It had been his kind that killed the women and children, and he had meant to join them. Only Winn had asked him, as a brother, to help save Finola, and in saving Finola they discovered Maggie was with her. If not for that, Makedewa would have joined the slaughter. He would have struck them down with no more thought than that of satisfaction.
Yet when the girl ran out of the flaming house with her flushed cheeks stained with dirt and her dressed splattered with blood, she looked back at the warrior and screamed. Makedewa heard her scream, he heard the voice behind it, and he could not let her fall. The warrior raced after her, and Makedewa pursued them as if his legs served no purpose other than to follow.
He knew the man he killed; he was Pamukey, and they had shared meals together when Makedewa had visited the tribe. He was called Attemous, and his name meant “dog.” As Makedewa raced after him, he thought the name was most fitting, since only a dog would attack a woman in the spoils of battle. He was thought to be a great warrior among his people, but to Makedewa he was just another man when his blood ran red onto the dirt.
When Makedewa took the man to the ground and ended his life, he moved away from the fallen body, his knife still dripping blood. He looked at Rebecca, lying in Maggie’s arms, and he wanted to shout:
“See? See what I have done for you? For your honor. So that you may have peace. I have slain the man who hurt you!”
Yet instead he said nothing, unable to make his mouth form words when Rebecca stared at him in terror. It had taken Maggie’s urging to convince Rebecca to ride with him away from the burning town, and even then when she collapsed in his arms Makedewa knew it was from stark fear.
So he would bide his time in other ways. He would give her a token of his affection, with no expectation of thanks in return. If only he could make her smile someday, to see the light of happiness chase away the fear in her sweet tawny eyes, it would be enough for him.
He stole back into town after darkness had fallen, and he went to the church. It was one of three buildings left standing; the two others were houses that were mostly unscathed. Yet it was the church that called to him and he thought he would find something to please her there.
When he picked the book up off a long plank table, he knew it was what she needed. Thick bound leather, covered with the hide of some unfortunate animal, it smelled of ink and smoke when he pressed his nose to the pages. Pressed into the cover was the phrase “Holy Bible,” which he recognized from the time he spent at school in Henricus. The binding was intact; it would make a good gift. He searched the church for something more personal to add to his collection, but all he could find were long soft crimson ribbons attached to the books. He carefully tore three of them from the binding, then laid them flat inside the pages of the bible. She could use them for her hair. Surely she would want to tie it back?
He could search the two intact houses for women’s trinkets, but he did not want to give her the tidings of the dead. The English said their God lived forever, so taking a few ribbons from God should not trouble the living.
“Makedewa! Momma, this is my husband,” Rebecca exclaimed. He grimaced at the use of his true name in the presence of the strangers, but nodded politely to the women all the same. He had never explained what names meant to the Paspahegh, so he could not fault Rebecca for that. There was so much for them to speak of, so much about each other they had yet to discover, yet suddenly seeing her with her mother and knowing Kaleb had a loaded musket in arms reach sent a surge of unease through his bones. He hoped what was meant to be a short visit would not sprawl into something more.
Elizabeth Tucker stared boldly at him, giving him no indication that she saw him as anything other than a savage. Yes, he had seen that look before. Rebecca was too deliriously happy to see it and Elizabeth shielded it well, but it was there.
“Thank ye, kind sir, for keeping my daughter safe. I fear we are indebted to ye. Please,” Elizabeth murmured, patting a bench beside them. “Please sit with us. I cannot say I am not troubled that my daughter has married outside the church, ye surely understand that.”
Makedewa tightened his hand over the butt of his knife and remained standing. Rebecca looked at him curiously but did not question him, instead rising up to stand beside him. He let out a breath when she looped her arm through his and he felt the heat of her body close to his.
“So this village ye live in. Ye willna tell me where it is? And I cannot visit ye?” Elizabeth commented, her eyes fastened on Makedewa rather than her daughter.
“Strangers are not welcome there. No, you may not visit,” Makedewa answered. He heard Kaleb close the door behind him, and the sound of the man’s boots as he crossed the floor. Elizabeth kept Makedewa’s gaze for along moment, then obediently rose from her place to fetch a drink for her husband. Rebecca left his side to help her mother, and it was from his wife’s hand that he took the offered ale.
“Are there other English women you keep there? Other captives?” Elizabeth continued. Rebecca made a sharp gasping sound and made to move, but Makedewa placed his hand on her wrist. It was only a gentle reminder, but enough to keep her steady.
“My wife was never a captive. The choice is hers,” he answered. He studied the woman over the brim of the pewter cup. At first he had thought Rebecca looked like her mother, yet as they spent more time together he decided that was not the case. Rebecca was everything light and honest; this Englishwoman might share his wife’s riotous blond hair and creamy pale skin, but that was where the resemblance ended. At the revelation of clear disgust in Elizabeth’s gaze, he suddenly felt less threatened by Kaleb with his musket propped against the doorjamb.
“You say she is not a prisoner, when so many other English women are still missing? Yet it was your kind that brought evil upon us. I think my daughter had no choice in the matter.”
“Wife!” Kaleb snapped. His voice was sharp and Elizabeth immediately ducked her eyes. Well, there was some fire in the woman. For now it was kept
in check by her English husband.
Makedewa broke the silence. The tension was thick and he had no urge to drive it further. He had meant only to see Rebecca safely for a visit and then return to show Winn the way to the river plantation. Rebecca knew the plan when they set out that day, so he was assured she would not argue.
“Kaleb, I think my wife needs to spend some time with her mother. I have duties to tend to and will return. I would be grateful for you to keep Rebecca until I return. Can I trouble you for some water for my horse?”
“Of course, friend. I shall show ye the way,” Kaleb agreed.
“Ye do not have to leave,” Rebecca murmured. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, her lower lip stained pink from bite of her teeth into her flesh. He brushed his fingers along her jaw. Although he longed to pull her into his arms, he was not a man to display his need so boldly, so a gentle touch between them would have to be enough to convey his heart’s desire.
“Do not fear. I will return for you,” he said softly. She smiled and nodded. He left her with her mother and joined Kaleb outside.
Makedewa occupied himself with tying Rebecca’s horse to the corral and watering the animals. He left his traveling bag and belongings in Rebecca’s care, knowing he would not be gone long. The shadow of unease nipped at his skin, like pin pricks from an unseen spirit, and he could not shake the sense of worry that plagued him. Perhaps it was the intended raid on the river plantation where Benjamin was held; or more likely it was the knowledge he was leaving his wife in the care of Englishmen. It had not been his doing. Rebecca had insisted she would visit with her mother and then when Makedewa returned for her they would leave together. Makedewa sought to give her voice in matters between them, yet he could only hope that this venture had not been a mistake.
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