To comfort his wife would show weakness. To ask others to make a decision would make him powerless. If only he had any idea what they wanted from him, he could try to make a ruling.
“Speak, wife,” he said, in the most even tone he could manage.
“I ask you to look on this child with no mother…and no father to claim him,” she said softly, her voice barely audible to his ear. “I ask you to wash him, dress him, and give him a name.”
Winn grimaced as he looked down on his wife. He did not like the fear spread across her face, nor the way her hands were clenched so tightly around the child. To see his brave woman in such a state riled him to the core, and be it his lack of Norse upbringing or his flaws as a leader, he thrust away his pride and went down to one knee in front of her. He thought his heart might crack when he reached for the babe and Maggie pulled away, but suddenly what was being asked of him became clear.
“Please,” she whispered. “Claim him. Give him a name. I cannot turn him out. I’m begging you. Please.”
Through dry lips he murmured a word of consolation to her in his native Paspahegh and she nodded, relief flooding her face. When he reached toward her again, Maggie placed the child in his arms. Winn looked down upon his nephew, a child he would now call son, and he looked at the woman he loved more than his own life.
“Wife,” he murmured. “You beg of no man.”
He rose to his feet with the newborn in his arms, letting the swaddling cloth fall to the floor. The child squealed at the intrusion but Winn still held him up for all to see, raising the squirming mite above his head.
“I claim this child, son of my brother, now son of my heart. His name –”
He paused and glanced down at Maggie, who whispered, “Daniel.”
“– his name is Daniel. Let him live a long life!”
It never occurred to him he would need to claim his own nephew, but Winn knew he had made the right choice when he finished to cries of “Daniel, Daniel!” Maggie held a copper basin as he bathed the crying child, and then together they wrapped Daniel in fresh swaddling clothes. Winn made the sign of the hammer over the wean’s head and the ceremony was complete; Winn claimed the boy, and as thus, the child was one of them.
“Thank you,” Maggie said softly. Winn placed his hand on her waist and she leaned slightly into him, the child wedged between them.
“Have no doubt,” he replied. “What you ask of me, I give it gladly. Your fear wounds me, ntehem.”
“I’m so sorry. Finola told me I must present him to you, or he could be cast out with no one to claim him. And it had to be you – a man – I mean, I’m not allowed to claim him. I would have, but it’s not in the rules, and –”
“Ah, enough,” Winn said. A smile turned up the corners of her lips, and as difficult as it was for his wife to show deference, he grinned when she bowed to him. “Go now,” he added. “Take the boy to join our children. I shall be finished here soon.”
Maggie nodded. She gathered the child snug to her breast and turned to go, but not before glancing up at her uncle. Erich responded with a slight dip of his head toward her, the edge of his mouth tight in what might have been a grin. Winn briefly wondered what his MacMillan kin had been plotting behind his back, but dismissed the thought as fast as it surfaced. Let Maggie and Erich have their victories; Winn was glad to oblige them.
The scream of steel suddenly pierced the air and every man in the Northern Hall responded in kind. It was Cormaic who drew first as he stood guarding the entrance, his broadsword unsheathed and held in readiness. Maggie, who was near the door, was thrust behind her cousin where she had the good sense to remain as newcomers approached. Winn stood up and was immediately flanked by the Norse and Indian men of the village, with Erich barking a terse command to be ready in his foreign tongue.
“Goor viroar!” Erich grunted.
Winn stayed on the dais only so that he could see over the heads of his men as visitors entered the hall. When he noted the leader of the group he realized why his men were so unsettled.
It had been years since a Powhatan emissary had stood before the Norse. And if Winn recalled his father’s family history correctly, he suspected the last time the two groups collided it had ended in the near extermination of the Norsemen from the lands of Tsenacommacah before Winn was even born.
One warrior stepped forward from the group of five. Dressed in the simple breechcloth and leggings most warriors wore, the man’s attire held few clues to his identity. His skin, however, was littered with a swirl of dark tattoos that decorated a path from his neck to his waist, giving Winn the impression it was only a common man who stood before him. Those who accompanied the leader held the same look about them, and it was with some relief that Winn noticed it. He decided to greet them with a simple welcome friends and let them proceed from there.
“Sesegan, wìdjìkiwe,” Winn called out. Erich muttered an oath in Norse at the use of the friendly Powhatan greeting, but Winn ignored him. Winn switched to English so that most in the Northern Hall could understand the exchange. “Who are you, and what brings you here?”
“I am Pìmiskodjsì, sent by Weroance Opechancanough,” the leader replied in a stilted tone. “We come to speak with Winkeohkwet, nephew of our Great Leader.”
“Then you have found him,” Winn said. He met Cormaic’s eye across the room and gave the younger man a nod. Cormaic obeyed the command and lowered his weapon, the other men following his lead. Winn waited to speak until Erich relaxed his sword hand and then he sat back down in his chair. “What need does my uncle have for his nephew? It has been many years since he sought my counsel.”
“He sends these gifts to show his favor,” Pìmiskodjìsì said. Two of his companions came forth, placing bundles of hide-wrapped gifts before Winn. “For you and for your Red Woman.”
Winn nodded his acceptance, but his entire body tensed at the mention of Maggie. The warriors obviously had been instructed to deliver the gifts, yet the mention of his wife as the Red Woman was no doubt purposeful. It was very much like his uncle to remind Winn there were thousands of Powhatans ready to strike down a Blooded One upon a single command.
Winn did not need a reminder, nor did he take kindly to threats.
“Tell my uncle I thank him for his gifts. Tell him he need not thank my wife again for saving his life.”
Pìmiskodjìsì met Winn’s gaze. One of the Powhatan placed a hand on the knife sheathed at his waist, and Pìmiskodjìsì grunted a command at the man. The man dropped his fist.
“Your uncle will be pleased to hear his gifts were favored,” Pìmiskodjìsì said. “He sends us on another matter as well. The English are as rodents, spreading in number. They drive our tribes west and claim the lands for their king.”
“I know this,” Will replied tersely. His patience was ending after the veiled threat at his wife, and he was in no mood to hear what he already knew. “What does my uncle ask of me?”
“Our Weroance asks that you send five of your strongest men to join us. He has need of more warriors for the journey we must make.”
So it was war Opechancanough planned, the true intent behind the gifts and threats. For years Winn had kept his people away from the skirmishes, away from the disputes. Although he would gladly kill any English that warranted it, Winn knew the best way for his family to survive was to stay out of the fray. In the Great Assault of 1622, hundreds of English had been slaughtered, yet even that did not stop their expansion for long. Shiploads of English arrived from across the Great Sea, replenishing the numbers and bringing more weapons. Retaliation from both sides left more Powhatan dead than English; for what purpose, Winn did not know.
What did it mean to fight, if it meant your family lay dead before you? What good was land stained with the blood of the ancestors?
Opechancanough viewed Winn’s neutrality as weakness; Winn saw it as the only way to survive.
He leaned forward in his chair as he spoke so that there was no confusion as to the i
ntent of his message.
“Tell my uncle I have no warriors to spare. Tell him I thank him for his gifts, and I wish him the blessings of the Creator.”
Winn’s men shifted stance, closing in their ranks around him. The Powhatan warriors bowed their heads in deference and turned toward the door. As Pìmiskodjìsì crossed the threshold, the decorated warrior paused. The dark tattoo on his jaw stretched tight as the man shot Winn a sly grin.
“Your brother told us you would not fight. He told us you have abandoned your people. Opechancanough will not be pleased Makedewa spoke true. Many blessings, Winkeokwhet. Be proud your brother is there to slay the English for you.”
The last of the pronouncement slammed through Winn, but he would not show the Powhatan his weakness. He nodded stiffly to the warriors and motioned to his men to let them pass. As they left, Winn leaned back in his chair.
So Makedewa had proclaimed an alliance.
Winn glanced at his wife who still stood behind Cormaic. She clutched the swaddled child to her chest, her green eyes shadowed in confusion as she met his gaze.
Makedewa made his choice, and there was nothing more they could do but carry on. Winn’s life and that of those he loved hinged on the decisions he made as a leader. He had no luxury of chasing after his wayward brother, of asking him to return to his family. Winn wondered if the killing would dampen the hate inside of Makedewa, or if it might consume what remained of his soul.
It was a question Winn feared would be answered soon enough.
Winn unclenched his fingers and gave a slight flick of his wrist. Erich took note and gave Winn his attention.
“Speak on the next matter,” Winn said.
He settled back on the chair and placed his hands on the armrests. The sting of splintered wood cut into his palm, reminding him that he was yet still only a man, powerless to stop what tale history had already written.
CHAPTER 7
Maggie
The babe latched onto her breast, but all she felt was the tug of his hunger and the failure of her body to respond. She closed her eyes to the sensation, begging her body to let the milk flow. Yet no matter what she envisioned, or where she sent her scattered thoughts, it was Rebecca’s face that haunted her thoughts, a ghost that would not be chased away. The boy let out a weak squeal, and she swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. She could feel his frustration, as thick as the despair that rolled through her bones, leaving them both helpless in the face of shared disappointment. She could not give the infant what he needed. The harder she tried, the more she failed, and as his tiny weak hand gripped furtively at her breast she felt the tears slide down her cheeks.
For now, they called him Daniel, but he had no Paspahegh name. There was no one to claim him, with Makedewa still missing in the shadow of Rebecca’s death. If the Norse followed their tradition, the babe would have been set out exposed, left to the fate of the wild to decide if he should live or die. At the time, Maggie had been relieved Winn supported her objection to the old ways, granting her claim to the child. Now as she looked down at his pale face and sunken brown eyes, she wondered if it would not have been kinder to leave him to his fate. After all, a swift death would be preferable to slow starvation. Despite her best intention, she knew he pulled no sustenance from her body. The milk simply would not flow.
As she dipped her head to the rush of tears, she felt a pair of hands take the babe from her arms. It was Winn. He tucked the babe into the crook of his elbow. Too weak to object, little Daniel snuggled close to Winn’s bared chest.
“You’re crying,” he said.
“I can’t give him milk. It just – it just won’t flow. Maybe it’s been too long since Malcolm weaned,” she whispered. Winn’s brows scrunched down and he took her hand in his free one.
“Gwen told me,” he replied.
She nodded, wiped the back of her hand over her damp eyes.
“But there’s no one else. None of the other women have nursed a baby in months. If I can’t do this, he …. he won’t live,” she said.
Winn pulled her to her feet.
“Come with me,” he said simply. She followed, more of duty than desire. Numb with the truth of her failure, knowing the child was suffering for it, it was too much to bear.
Winn led her through the village to the edge of the woods where the bathhouse lay nestled in the mountainside. After he guided her inside he closed the door behind them, and she let him pull her into the warm water as he continued to hold the tiny babe in against his chest.
If her mind had not been so cluttered with grief, she would have objected to soaking her sleeping shift, as she hardly felt up to bathing with him. After all, she had insisted on taking care of the child, and spending time with him as if he might live just seemed a cruel reminder of the inevitable.
The babe let out a muffled squeak as they slipped down into the shallow pool. Winn placed the baby in her arms, and then settled behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her snug against his chest as the hot steam moistened their skin. She could feel his lips near her ear and the way his muscles yielded to surround her, shielding her tenderly within his embrace. The water was a warm clasp, sheltering them, pulling them down to the damp depths where she could feel a trickle of hope.
“I promised Rebecca I would take care of him,” she whispered. The babe stared quietly up at them, his almond-shaped eyes so unnaturally dark for an infant. His gaze was steady, almost knowing, as if he could see through to her heart and know her true intent.
“You will keep that promise,” Winn said softly. From his place behind her, Winn’s legs wrapped around hers and one of his hands slid up. “Close your eyes,” he murmured. “When Makedewa was born, my mother could not feed him. The village women bathed her with warm water until the milk returned. I remember watching them, hoping the Gods would help her and my brother would live.”
She leaned back against him with a sigh as his fingers caressed her torso. At first she did not think it would help, but as he continued to stroke her skin lightly with his fingertips, she realized she was starting to relax.
“The women told my mother to think of her other children, the ones she made strong. They said if she could picture it, the milk would return,” he said softly. “Think of Kwetii, the first time you held her. And of Dagr. You said once he was greedy, like a little piglet, taking more than he needed.”
“Winn, I can’t –”
“Yes,” he insisted. “You can. You will.”
She pictured Kwetii as a newborn, and that precious time where her only tie to survival was what could be found in Maggie’s arms. Then it was Dagr, a robust babe who took greedy satisfaction and never went hungry. Finally, it was Malcolm she saw, the tiny son she feared might not live. Daniel was like her youngest son, she thought. So tiny, so needful. His fist clenched and unclenched as he sucked, and as the warmth of the letdown filled her, she could hear his satisfied suckle.
Winn’s cheek lay pressed to hers, his chin on her shoulder as he watched. There was little she had master of in her life, but this, this giving, it was something she could wield. As the babe finally quieted, her body relaxed back against Winn.
“See?” Winn whispered. “You will feed him, and he will grow strong. Only you can give him this gift, the gift of living. The Gods smile on you now, ntehem,” he said.
Soon the babe stirred, arching his back and pulling away from her. His mouth dropped off from his feeding, staying draped open with a trickle of milk on his chin as he succumbed to slumber. As Winn washed the babe’s face, she realized it was the first time she had heard the child snore.
The babe slept well that night, tucked in next to her between the furs. Maggie woke to Winn’s arms surrounding them both, his large hand keeping them secure in his embrace. She uttered a groan of dismay when Winn stirred and left the warmth of their bed, but smiled at his promise to see her later in the day at the Northern Hall. As he woke Dagr to take with him on a hunt she dozed, and they stum
bled about the Longhouse in a sleepy haze as they tried to ready themselves without waking the women. Winn kissed her on the cheek before he left, his fingers brushing gently over Daniel’s head in acknowledgement.
The matter of a Paspahegh name for the boy was something they would need to discuss soon. With Makedewa gone the entire subject seemed in limbo, with neither she nor Winn wanting to take that task from the child’s father. Yet the longer Makedewa stayed away, the less hopeful she felt he would ever return, and the simple fact was that they needed to carry on.
After rising for the day, Maggie took Kyra and the boys to the Northern Hall to join the other women for the morning meal. Malcolm followed his sister, seeming happy to go wherever she might lead him. Gwen was eager to get her hands on the newborn so Maggie handed him over after teasing her aunt a bit. With the hearth fire warming the Longhouse and the women bustling about preparing food, it was a morning like any other.
“Mama, I’ll eat later. I’m gonna go hunt rabbits like Da showed me,” Kyra said. Busy peeling carrots, Maggie glanced at her oldest child. The eleven-year old had been subdued since her adventure into town. Shortly after her dramatic return to the village Rebecca had died, and Maggie felt like Kyra had retreated inside herself somewhat. Normally outspoken and bold, the girl hung back in the shadows more often than not. She stopped playing with the older boys as her father had demanded, but she did not try to socialize with the girls, either. Instead, Kyra stayed close to home and her brothers and moped about as much as a girl her age could muster. The only thing that had caused her to perk up in the last few weeks was Winn talking about taking the boys on a hunting day, but of course, Kyra was crushed when Winn left her behind.
“Why not help me with the cooking, Kwetii?” Maggie called. She wiped her hand on her apron and watched her daughter shrug. Her tangled mane of dark hair fell like a cloak around her face, hiding her eyes, but Maggie could still see her heart shaped lips pursed into a frown.
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