The Blooded Ones

by Elizabeth Brown

  “Kyra!”

  Uncle Chetan stood above them, his eyes wary, his hands planted on his hips. Chetan was not a man easily angered, so when Kyra saw the dark glare in his eyes she was instantly worried. He grabbed her by the elbow and yanked her up off the ground, out of Morgan’s arms, his face contorted as he surveyed them.

  “What the–never mind! Be glad I found you instead of your father!” Chetan growled. Then he turned to Morgan, who was sprawled beside the log. “And you! Go back to town. I think you are too old for my niece to follow you any longer. Go. Now!”

  Morgan slowly rose to his feet, his skin burning with crimson color from his neck to his ears. Although Chetan’s grip on her arm was unbreakable, his eyes were still fastened on Morgan. Kyra stomped her foot and tried to wrench her arm away from her uncle, but he held fast.

  “Why must he leave? Uncle–”

  “Not another word, Kwetii,” Chetan snapped. Her heart seemed squeezed by a fist as she watched Morgan mount his pony with a flying leap and take off away from the village.

  Chetan escorted her to the Northern Hall, where her father was sitting at the long table with the other men. Uncle Makedewa sat beside him, not drinking like the rest, merely staring into the tankard he gripped it in both hands. It was clear the other men tried to console him as his wife labored to birth their child. As Chetan brought her into the hall, her father rose from his seat and met them near the door.

  “Where have you been? Your mother was worried,” Chief Winn chastised her. She grimaced under his narrowed gaze and ducked her head. She knew she had been ordered to stay near the Longhouse, but when she saw Morgan had come to visit she could not help but escape with him to avoid hearing the wails. Everyone was so caught up in the birth of Rebecca’s child that they did not even notice when she slipped away. She didn’t understand why her uncle seemed so angry. After all, she had not been far away, and nothing bad had happened.

  “I found her with Morgan White near the woods,” Chetan said. Kyra scowled at her uncle but quickly hid her scrunched face when her father turned his attention to her.

  “Is that true, Kwetii? Did you disobey your mother?” Father asked. She nodded sourly, keeping her eyes down at her feet. Great. She would be in trouble again. She hoped they would not make her sit in the corner. That was her mother’s favorite punishment, and Kyra found it entirely boring.

  “I think Morgan is growing too old to play with Kyra any longer,” Chetan added. Kyra’s head snapped up at that.

  “He’s not that old! I’ll be older soon, too!” she interrupted. Winn grunted a warning at her, and she put her head back down.

  “Too old, hmm?” Winn asked. From the corner of her eye, she saw Chetan nod, and the two men exchanged a peculiar glance. Kyra did not like it, not one bit.

  Chief Winn bent down, placing one hand on her shoulder. His gaze was still fierce, but his eyes held a twinkle of softness that she needed to see from her father.

  “I know you grow older with each sunrise, but he is the age of your cousin and needs friends his own age. I think you should play with the girls from now on, daughter,” he said. She tried to stop the swell of tears that surfaced, wiping angrily at her eyes with one dusty fist.

  “He’s my friend,” she said softly. Father squeezed her shoulder.

  “I know. But he is no longer a child. Would you want the other boys to think him weak?”

  “Morgan doesn’t care what the others think.”

  “Maybe not, little one. But I do. You are my daughter, and I must look out for you. No more playing with Morgan in the woods. Play with the other girls. Make new friends.”

  “Yes, Da,” she muttered. She said it, but she did not mean it, and she was certain her father could see through her shallow promise quite easily.

  “Good. Go to your mother, she worries after you.”

  Kyra shot one more seething glare at her uncle, then picked up her skirts and ran from the hall.

  Well, her father might be Chief, but she still had two legs. There was no way he could command her to stop being friends with Morgan.

  She stalked across the yard to their home, pausing outside the open door. The sounds of Rebecca’s screams reached a pealing squeal, yet still there was no sound of a babe. Kyra bypassed the door, went to her tied pony, and mounted up.

  It had been a long time since she had been allowed into town with her father, but the path was worn into a thin sandy line through the woods by the many times Morgan had traveled back and forth. Her pony followed the path without much prodding, which was fortunate since she was lost in her own thoughts as she approached Elizabeth City. She knew Morgan had moved there with his guardian, John Jackson, who was an acquaintance of her father’s. John Jackson was a gunsmith, and Kyra had heard Morgan speak once or twice about working at the local ordinary. It was not much to go on, but she was determined to find him. She needed to tell him that they would always be friends, no matter what her father or uncle had to say.

  The town was much different from what she was accustomed to. People milled about, so many people that no one seemed to notice her at all. It was a comforting thought, since she was utterly exhausted of people butting into her business at every turn. Her mother could tell people to “mind your business!” but Kyra, unfortunately, was not allowed to speak to her elders that way.

  She followed the sounds of music and bawdy laughter into the center of town. There, a brightly lit tavern stood, cramped full of bodies as daylight left the sky and settled into nightfall. She imagined someone there could help her find Morgan. After all, how many boys could there be named Morgan White in one town?

  After tying her pony to a hitching post, she slid in through the open door. Lacking in manners in such a situation, it was all she could do to stare at the passel of English as she pushed through them. Some wore frilly finery, dressed in bright fanciful colors and covered with jeweled baubles. Others wore the clothes of laborers, with muted shades of homespun on breeches and tunics, pointed wool hats and work-stained hands. It fascinated her to see them all in one place, such a hodgepodge of different likes and tastes. So caught up in taking it all in, Kyra was startled when a hand suddenly closed on her upper arm.

  Her first reaction was to look down at the hand. It was large, quite large, in fact, and it was latched securely over hers as if the stranger held some authority over her. Who dared handle her in such a way? Well, obviously he did not know who she was, and her father would surely have words with him over his attempt to manhandle her.

  “I beg yer pardon, ye ignorant old fool!” she hissed, trying to jerk her arm away.

  The man bent down, and she clamped her mouth shut at the sight of him. He was bigger than her uncle Cormaic, even larger than her own father. A swatch of unruly black hair fell over his brow as he bent down to her level. His eyes were a deep, blazing blue, seeming alight with what she could neither discern as annoyance or amusement.

  “Quiet yer tongue, lass! What on God’s earth are ye doing here?” he replied, shaking her a bit as he spoke. She peered up at him. Even kneeling, he was still a monster, and for the first time since her hasty escape from the village a sliver of fear infused her.

  “I–I’m looking for my friend. It’s none of yer concern, sir!” she sniped. She figured at least if she sounded brave, he might think she was.

  He glanced over his shoulder toward the long wooden bar, then turned back to her as he uttered a sigh. His face softened, only a bit, but enough to ease her mind that he meant her harm. Truth be told, the man seemed perplexed.

  “Not quite eleven years old, and here in a tavern. Well, I suppose there’s a first for everything. Where’s yer father? Does he know ye’ve run away from him?”

  “No,” she admitted. She saw a woman approach, and Kyra knew the strange man noticed her as well. The woman rubbed a glass in her hand with a cotton cloth as she approached, her eyebrows upraised in question. The man stood up straight as the woman joined them.

  “What have
ye got here, Benjamin?” the woman asked. She was pretty, Kyra thought, for an Englishwoman. More of the height of Kyra’s mother, the woman’s head barely reached the man’s shoulder. She did not seem intimidated by Benjamin in the least, tossing her loose brown hair back as she crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Nothing fer ye to worry on. Just a stray from town, I’ll see her back to her folks,” Benjamin said. Kyra started to open her mouth, but clamped it shut instead. Something unspoken was going on between the two adults, and somehow she was plunked right smack in the middle of it.

  Before Kyra could protest, she was shoved unceremoniously out the door, her arm still firm in the man named Benjamin’s hand. It suddenly occurred to her that she was in a heap of trouble. Lost in town, with no idea how to find Morgan, no one would know where to find her when she ended up dead. As much as the fear ignited her anger, she felt tears spring onto her cheeks as Benjamin dragged her out into the street. Despite her tears, he did not stop dragging her until they were alone in the shadows behind the tavern, out of sight of anyone she might call out to for help.

  “So tell me where yer father is, so I might return ye to him,” Benjamin said softly, finally letting his grip on her arm loosen. He was no fool, however, and he did not let go entirely as he bent down again to her level.

  “He–he’s not here,” she admitted as she started to cry. “And he’s gonna tan me good if I ever see him again!” Despite meaning not to, she burst into tears.

  “Och, there, mite, don’t cry, I’ll take ye back to yer father. Ran away, did ye?” he asked gently, patting her back as she cried. She nodded. “Oh, I see. Like that, hmm? Sick of his uppity orders and such?”

  She choked back a sob as she nodded and glanced up at him through her tear-soaked lashes.

  “He said I couldna play with Morgan anymore. He said Morgan’s too old. But I’m almost grown! I’ll be older, soon, I will!” she explained.

  Benjamin smiled. He took a clean cloth from his pocket and wiped the tears from her dirt-stained cheeks as she tried to control herself. Somehow, the stranger did not seem so threatening any longer. In fact, she felt quite comfortable with him.

  “Well, if yer speakin’ of Morgan White, then I must agree with yer Da. Morgan’s a young man now, and he shouldna be playing with bitty girls like ye,” Benjamin said.

  “Do ye know Morgan?” she said, her tears instantly squelched at the prospect. Benjamin nodded.

  “Aye, I know the lad well. As I do yer Da.”

  Benjamin looked a little sad at that confession, and Kyra wondered how they knew each other. If they had met before, she was certain she would have remembered him.

  “I need to find Morgan.”

  “Ye need to go home. C’mon. I’ll see ye back the way ye came.”

  He kept hold of her hand as if she might run. As they rounded the corner to where her pony should have been standing, she let out a groan when she saw Blaze was not there. Oh, sweet Odin! Not only had she run away, but she’d lost her horse. If she made it home, she was going to be walking bow-legged from a busted arse for a solid week.

  “My pony’s gone. Da’s gonna tan my arse,” she whispered. Benjamin’s eyes burst wide open and he uttered a deep laugh despite her dismay.

  “He might, Kwetii, he might just that,” he agreed. A rush of unease surfaced at his use of her Indian name. How did he know it–and how did he know her?

  “Here, we’ll make a stop, and then we’ll get going.”

  She walked obediently with him down the street, for lack of options or lack of wits about her, she did not know. He had to be friends with her father is he knew her Paspahegh name. They stopped at a small cottage, and it was not long before she realized where they were. With the smoke stack above and the smell of gunpowder, it could only be the gunsmith’s house where Morgan lived.

  When Benjamin knocked on the door it parted open only a notch, but he spoke swift and softly to the occupant. The door closed and a moment later Morgan came outside, rubbing his eyes with his closed fists with his hair sticking out in blond tangles around his face. He was dressed in a long shirt over a pair of breeches, hastily pushing them down into his tall boots as he joined them.

  Thrilled to see him, Kyra moved toward him, but Benjamin held her firm. She was glad at that moment, because Morgan glared at her in a way he had never looked upon her before, and it tore what was left of her childlike heart into tiny pieces.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll help ye return her,” Morgan muttered and turned sharply to her. “Yer father will have yer hide, ye little fool. Why would ye defy him? He’ll kill ye when he finds out, be sure of that!” Morgan brushed past Kyra without another glance and readied his horse. Benjamin lifted her easily onto a second ready horse and then mounted behind her, and they took off in a brisk lope toward the outskirts of town. They did not slow until they reached the seclusion of the wood line and the lights of the town were just dim glimmers through the trees when she looked back.

  They looked longingly back at Morgan as they rode, but he refused to meet her gaze. She didn’t understand why he was so angry at her, and how her plan had spiraled so horribly out of control. She had only wanted to assure him they would always be friends, that there was no other who could replace him in her heart of hearts. Even when separated, that is what it meant to be friends, and she would stand by that vow until she grew old enough for him.

  “I meant no harm,” she said. She saw Morgan stiffen upright in his saddle.

  “Ye never do. Yer a spoilt child,” Morgan replied.

  “I’m not that much younger than ye, Morgan White!”

  “Yes, ye are! And I doona want to see ye anymore. I’ll never turn a lady’s eye with ye following me about. It’s best ye listen to yer Da.”

  Kyra felt the warmth of tears as they slid down her cheeks, and she turned her face away so Morgan could not see. She choked back a sob, and she felt Benjamin’s arms tighten around her.

  “That’s enough, lad. She knows she’s done wrong. No need to be so harsh,” Benjamin admonished the youth. Morgan uttered something low she could not decipher, and then pushed his horse forward to ride ahead of them.

  “Yer broken heart will mend, lass. I promise ye that,” Benjamin commented. Kyra sighed.

  “Why is he mad at me?” she asked.

  “Because he’s a young man and yer only a girl, and he doesn’t need ye following him about. He doesn’t want to hurt ye.”

  “How do ye know so much? And how do ye know my parents?”

  “Well,” he replied. “Ye look like a ghost of yer mother at the same age, there’s no mistaking who yer ma is. And I happen to be well acquainted with yer Da, ye wee hellion.”

  “He never speaks of ye,” she replied. At that she felt his arms stiffen, and she bounced with the stilted gait of the horse.

  “No, he wouldna. Nor would yer ma.”

  Benjamin fell silent after that, and she relaxed enough to close her eyes a bit. It was well past her bedtime, and the excitement of the day wore heavy on her.

  Finally they arrived in a meadow near the Norse town, which she knew was only up over the next ridge. They dismounted, and Benjamin spoke quietly to Morgan.

  “Take her into the village, and see her back to her Da. Make sure she goes in, make no doubt of it,” he ordered Morgan. Kyra had scarce time to wonder why Morgan took Benjamin’s instruction without issue, as if he knew Benjamin as well and had cause to respect the man. “And you. Don’t let me find ye in town again, or it willna be yer father tanning yer hide. Bide my word, Kwetii. Yer place is here, with yer kin.”

  She didn’t know how to answer his demand other than to nod in agreement. Benjamin put his hands on her waist to lift her onto Morgan’s horse, when suddenly the air grew still. Only the sound of a snort from the horse punctured the silence, and Kyra felt the tiny hairs on her arms stand at attention. Benjamin froze, his hands tight on her waist, then pushed her behind him as if to shield her. An arrow whizzed by her, clearing h
er by a good foot to impale in the grass at her feet, and Kyra knew with certainty that the archer had meant to miss.

  The tall grass at the edge of the meadow rustled, and every Norseman she knew then stood up from the cover. Chetan had his bow poised for another shot; Erich held a flink-lock musket perched in aim on his shoulder.

  And then her father parted from the men and strode toward them, his face an echo of a legion of hell unleashed as he raised his bryntroll.

  Chief Winn stopped a few paces away, his eyes darting back and forth between Benjamin and Kyra. Kyra kept behind her new protector, putting off the inevitable of facing her father as long as she could. Benjamin stood up straighter and met Winn’s gaze. For two men who were friends, surely they were acting right barmy, Kyra thought.

  “My daughter. Was she harmed?” Winn said evenly. Kyra had never heard her father utter such strangled words before, and it sickened her. She instantly regretted her rash actions.

  “I found her in the tavern. She’s fine,” Benjamin replied tersely.

  The two men were silent for a moment, and then Benjamin broke the pause by pulling her forward. He bent down on one knee and gently wiped the remnants of tears from her face.

  “Go on, lass. Go to yer Da,” he said softly. She was utterly confused but she did as he bid her, walking dutifully to her father’s side. Once she reached Winn and he had a hand on her shoulder, she saw her father lift his bryntroll and then gently lower it. The Norsemen behind him lining the meadow lowered their drawn weapons.

  “Her pony returned without her. I feared–I feared she was hurt…or worse,” Winn said quietly. Benjamin broke the standoff by taking a few paces toward them, and Kyra heard the rustle of the Norsemen in the trees behind them.