Cormaic and Eric erupted into laughter, with Cormaic staggering into Winn with the force of his guffaws. Winn scowled.
“Do ye not see the Norse in yer woman yet, ye bloody fool?” Erich asked, taking a gulp of his ale. “Our women fight, they doona hide. ‘Tis not in ‘er nature to do anything else.”
“Ah!” Winn growled, shaking his head. There were differences between how women behaved in Norse society and Powhatan, but Winn refused to consider that his wife might fight at his side.
“Go easy on my niece,” Erich said as his laughter dimmed. He placed a hand on Winn’s shoulder.
“I will not, and neither will you,” Winn replied. “There is more to this. I spoke with Pepamhu. Some of the Nansemond will join with the people at Basse’s Choice.”
Erich and Cormaic both quieted, the mood turning decidedly somber.
“So ye think we should as well, is that yer plan?” Erich asked.
Winn nodded.
“We know what the future brings if we stay here. We cannot stop it. Maggie says some of the Nansemond survive to her time, and they come from those who live at Basse’s Choice.” Winn turned to Cormaic. “And what do you want? What say you?”
Cormaic downed his ale and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth.
“To lay down my head at night without fear of being killed in my sleep? To have a woman and some weans, like ye? Aye, it’s nothing much, really. I just want to live. Just live,” Cormaic answered. He muttered something under his breath and walked away, shaking his head. As Erich shrugged and took the opportunity to refill his tankard, Winn followed Cormaic out of the Northern Hall.
Cormaic staggered into the courtyard, taking a seat on the edge of the well. At first Winn thought he engaged in drunken nonsense, but he quickly realized Cormaic’s mood was much more dangerous. The copper haired Norseman shouted a slew of oaths in his ancient tongue seeming directed at the sky, then idly sliced his own palm with his knife. As he reached for something inside his shirt and Winn came closer, he could see it was Cormaic’s Bloodstone pendant.
Winn watched, frozen, as Cormaic closed his bloody hand around the pendant.
“No!” Winn shouted.
Cormaic grinned. His eyes met Winn’s and he started to speak, but Winn could not hear what he meant to say before he faded away.
“So it was tonight. I thought ye had more time here, son.”
Winn turned to Erich, who had come up beside him.
“What do you mean?” Winn demanded, his head spinning at the realization that Cormaic had just disappeared in front of him. Eric seemed exceedingly calm for a man who had just watched his drunken son fade into time.
“He’s not meant fer this time. He ne’er was,” Erich replied. Winn was shocked to see him take a long swig of his drink, as if neither of them should be concerned with Cormaic’s leaving.
“Where will he go?”
“Oh, to the past,” Erich replied. “How do ye think I knew what to name him?”
Erich muttered something about speaking to Gwen and made his way across the courtyard, leaving Winn standing alone. Winn stared for a long time at the well where Cormaic last sat, until finally he thought he might have the words to explain it to his wife.
CHAPTER 13
Makedewa
It was dusk when Makedewa reached the village. He hunted alone, unwilling to walk among the Powhatan men who hunted in groups. Although he took shelter at night with his uncle’s family, he rarely remained near them, choosing instead to spend his time away from the others. He could see they feared him from the way the children stared, and the way the women stepped back when he passed.
It mattered not. He had never been well liked, in the Norse village or with the Powhatan.
Through the cover of swamp Cyprus he sat for a moment to watch, crouched amongst trailing Spanish moss with his feet burrowed in the mud. His toes ached with the numbness of the cold, and in another time he might have asked his wife to bring him a dry set of moccasins. Ever attentive, always his partner, Rebecca had known his needs before he even knew them himself.
Yet his wife was cold in the ground. Gone.
That tightness in his chest returned, sending his heart racing into a frantic tempo until the pain exploded between his ears. It tore through him, a scream of all his tears unshed, until he gasped for a breath and gripped his head in his hands.
Cool mud smeared over his face from his fingers, the heady scent of earth a temporary distraction from everything that was her. It did not soothe him, but it reminded him of when he was a boy and played in the woods with Winn and Chetan.
Winn, the brother who controlled the power of time travel. The brother who could wield that power to save Rebecca.
Winn – the brother who would do no such thing.
A rumble of laughter surfaced, followed by gleeful shouts. The hum of a rhythmic beat called to him. So it was a celebration in the village, he thought as he rose to his feet. The Powhatan village was well-attended, especially around the yehakin where his uncle slept. Makedewa recognized the men standing guard and was relieved; he knew them well, and he was sure they would permit him access.
He stepped away from the wood line and made his way to the yehakin. Weapons were drawn as he approached, and he was not surprised to hear the rustle of footsteps following him from behind. It eased him to know his uncle had so many warriors guard his people, unlike other tribes who had abandoned the old ways and opened their homes to the English.
“Tawnor nehiegh Opechancanough?” Makedewa asked, keeping his tone respectful as he spoke with the guard to inquire of the Weroance. Although he knew his uncle must be inside, he dared not assume, especially when he had been gone from his Powhatan kin for so long. He must be forthright with his requests, leaving no cause for distrust.
If they suspected he was an assassin, he would be dead before he passed through the door.
The warrior smiled when Makedewa lifted up two hares tied together by the feet. With a nod, the guard let him pass, and Makedewa entered the yehakin.
Opechancanough sat by the fire, tended by only one of his wives. When Makedewa approached, the old Weroance waved the woman away.
“Son of my sister,” Opechancanough said.
Makedewa obeyed the flick of his uncle’s hand and sat down before him. Although it was well known the Weroance preferred his solitude in the evening, Makedewa wondered if he was suffering from some malady. The Great Creator had favored Opechancanough for many years, but even the grace of the Gods was not enough to hide the evidence of his decline. Opechancanough was not well. His eyes were mere slits hidden beneath drooping lids, his skin a yellow pallor despite his brown color. When the Weroance raised a shaking hand to reach for a cup, Makedewa quickly fetched it for him.
Opechancanough sighed but did not thank him.
“You hunt alone again.” The words from his uncle held the tone of accusation, and Makedewa responded by placing the dead hares in front of him.
“I need only my two hands, uncle,” Makedewa replied.
“So I see. And when I have need of your two hands, what kind of man will serve me?”
Makedewa frowned.
“One who is loyal. One who honors you with the death of many Englishmen.”
The Weroance uttered a snort.
“My warriors say your brother will not send men. They say he is a woman who will not fight.”
At the mention of Winn, Makedewa felt his throat go dry. Although he was aware Opechancanough sent men to Winn’s village, it had not occurred to him that Winn might refuse a request for aid. Surely, Winn had lost all sense. Was his blind devotion to his Norse kin worth more than the Powhatan people who raised him? Was his vow to protect the magic bloodlines the only vow he would honor?
“His Blooded One tells him what must be done. She claims the Powhatans will not win this battle. She says our end is near, and it cannot be changed,” Makedewa said, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. He refused to speak her name,
refused to feel any remorse for his words. Maggie had deserted him, just as Winn had.
Yet the image of Rebecca burst through his hatred and he could almost smell the scent of her hair as it lay across his skin. The memory of that morning burned bright.
“It is her birthday today,” Rebecca said as she snuggled closer against his chest. He absently twisted one of her golden curls between his fingers, enjoying the feel of her palm placed flat over his heart.
“So? Why must I care?” he muttered. She immediately pinched her fingers together and squeezed his chest.
“Because she is my sister, and we shall give her a marvelous gift!” she shot back. With a grin, her deflected her outraged blows and tossed her onto her back, dropping kisses along her neck and breasts until she screamed with laughter.
“Fine,” he growled through his smile. “A gift for your sister then.”
Rebecca loved Maggie. Yet Maggie stood by and let his wife die. Had Rebecca meant nothing to Maggie?
“Tell me more of what the Red Woman speaks. Tell me about the end,” Opechancanough demanded.
Makedewa raised his eyes, staring at his uncle yet not truly seeing him. Instead he saw his despair, swirling as a haze in front of his eyes as the thud of his heart slammed against his ribs.
Rebecca was gone. Why should he hide their secrets any longer?
It was a tale that would take some time to tell, but his uncle was a patient man. Makedewa started the only way he knew how.
“She says that Tsenacommacah will be no more…”
PART TWO
CHAPTER 14
Norse Village 1638
Maggie
THE DAY WINN made his decision was fresh in her thoughts. Four years prior, her husband sealed a pact with John Basse. Since that time, those in the Norse village blended with the Christian people at Basse’s Choice, visiting freely and sharing resources as they gradually found trust in each other. She understood why Winn wished to form an alliance, especially knowing what she did of the future. Yet using their daughter to seal that alliance by marriage was not something she agreed with at all.
“Ouch, Mama!” Kyra cried as Maggie tried to mend her torn sleeve and pricked her with a needle. Kyra seemed a bundle of nerves, either unwilling or unable to stay still for the few moments it would take to fix her dress.
“Be still,” Maggie replied. “It’s not easy to do.”
“I can mend it myself,” Kyra said.
Maggie sighed. “No, I’m almost done. See? All fixed.”
She watched her daughter glance down at the sleeve and raise an eyebrow, but the girl shrugged and made no comment. Maggie knew it was not the most impressive line of stitches.
“Perhaps we should find you something more fitting for hunting,” she commented. Maggie knew Kyra hunted most days, despite Winn forbidding her from doing so alone. Maggie recognized the flame of independence in her child, one she readily identified with, her heart sinking at the knowledge of what was to come. How would her brave daughter react to the news of her betrothal?
Kyra stared warily back at her.
“What I have will suffice,” Kyra said quietly.
“I suppose it will,” Maggie said. “Do you at least take one of the boys with you? It’s the being alone that worries your father, especially when you’re too far from the village.”
“I do not go alone.”
Kyra focused her attention on her loose shirt, fiddling with the tie as Maggie watched.
“Good,” Maggie said. “You know there will be many people here during the gathering, and we’ll all be very busy. I want you to stay in the village – no hunting.”
“Will Morgan White join us? Da said there shall be Englishmen ‘ere, and Nansemonds, too. Surely Da willna mind it?”
Maggie smiled. Kyra kept her feelings about Morgan to herself, but Maggie had seen her watching the boy often enough to know her daughter’s heart. It only made things more difficult, however, since it was Maggie’s job to tell Kyra of her betrothal. Although Winn offered, Maggie felt it should be a conversation between mother and daughter.
“Yes, I’m sure all our friends will be here. John Basse will visit with his brother. Do you remember him?” Maggie prodded, trying to feel the situation out. She was not comforted to see Kyra’s face scrunch up in a most displeasing manner.
“Of course. Ye always make me sit beside him. I shall not this time, Mama. I’m no longer a child, ye canna make me sit with an old man,” she said. Kyra pushed her dark hair away from her face, tucking a wayward strand behind her ear. Her blue eyes, so much like her father’s, darkened with her display of disobedience.
“Kyra, you will have to –”
“Good day, Mistress!” John Bass interrupted, leaning his head inside the door. “How fare thee?”
When Kyra uttered a heavy sigh Maggie shot her a glare, which immediately served to stifle her daughter’s behavior. After speaking initial pleasantries with John, Kyra sat down on a bench and folded her arms while Maggie served their guest a spot of drink.
She supposed he was not an unattractive man for his time, with a swatch of muddy brown hair that seemed to be forever in disarray. He always wore a wide brimmed hat that hid his dark eyes, with a light homespun shirt buttoned neatly at his neck. Maggie glanced at Kyra, then back to John.
It could be a good match. Winn was right; they needed the alliance, and marriage was part of the bargain. Fathers had every right to arrange marriages for their daughters. It was the way of the time.
Once Kyra warmed up to John, they engaged in a lively discussion. Despite her opposition to sharing a meal with the older man, Kyra had been privy to many conversations involving religion. John was a devout Christian who spent much of his time spreading the Good Word, which he explained was his duty as a servant of the Lord. Part of his arrangement with Winn was that those in the village would consider converting to Christianity. Unlike many of the English, John did not demand immediate conversion. He believed that by continued interaction and tolerance between men, those in the Norse village would eventually accept Christ.
As John preached to Kyra, Maggie questioned if Winn meant to consider Christianity. If ever there was a man who respected all beliefs, it was her husband. The product of a Paspahegh upbringing and adult blood ties to Old Norse religion, Winn somehow navigated the delicate task of leading a widely diverse group of people. He fought to maintain good relations with his Powhatan family, just as he did with the Norse. Now, as the Christian Englishman sat in front of them, Maggie wondered how it would all fit together.
“Did ye know, Mama, that they eat the body of the White Christ? So that He may live in ye forever?” Kyra asked.
“’Tis not his actual body, my dear,” John chastised her, bringing a wry grin to Kyra’s face.
“Of course not!” she laughed.
“I am glad to hear it,” Maggie added with a smile.
Perhaps the path would make more sense as time wore on. As she watched her daughter debate religion with her future husband, she decided to let her news abide. She could discuss Kyra’s betrothal another day, leaving the two of them to learn a little more about each other in the meantime.
CHAPTER 15
Kyra
Kyra watched from behind the brush, laying on her belly on the flat rock. It jutted out over a waterfall, the perfect spot to jump from to make a splash in the pool below. There was a rope hanging from a tree limb just in reach swinging idly in the humid breeze, and she considered grabbing it. Instead, she dismissed the childish desire as a different sort of playful longing washed through her. Morgan stood waist deep in the water below, his back turned away from her. He shook the dampness from his blond hair and sank down to his shoulders so that only his head remained above.
She rose slowly to her feet, shedding her gunna dress but leaving on her thin cotton shift. Instead of using the rope, she drew back a few feet and then took a running leap from the ledge as she uttered a gleeful scream. She crashed into the wat
er with a squeal next to Morgan, who jumped away in a fright in the wake of her splash. As she came to the surface, she felt two strong hands close over her shoulders and she was unceremoniously hauled upward.
“Jesus, Kyra! Yer too old to play these games!” he snapped. He pulled her onto a shallow shelf where they could both gain their footing, and although he looked fighting mad, she suspected it was more bluster than ire.
“We used to jump all the time, did ye forget that?” she shot back with a mischievous grin. He shook her gently as if to chastise her, and suddenly she was aware of the heat of his damp skin against hers. Her shift clung to her body, her cheeks flushed when she followed his gaze. His soft brown eyes were focused between them where she was pressed up against his chest.
“We’re not children anymore,” he said quietly.
“We’re still friends,” she whispered. His eyes met hers, and she had never seen him so affected. This thing between them caused an ache in her belly, her pulse throbbing madly as suddenly the distance of their years felt like nothingness. His eyes no longer held the curiosity of a boy, but the shadow of a twenty-year-old man, and she hoped with all her being that he no longer viewed her as a simple child.
“It’s not a proper game for a lady to play, Kyra,” he murmured.
“I’m no lady,” she shot back.
“Oh, are ye not, now?” he said. She could feel her heart thudding through the wet cloth of her shift.
“No! Well, yes, I suppose I am, but – oh!” One of his hands twisted up into her hair, and he tilted her head back as he gazed into her eyes. Her lips parted with a tiny gasp as his mouth covered hers, seeking an answer she knew not how to give. Slow and sweet at first, then with budding urgency, she lost herself in his arms.
So kissing was a pleasant thing, she thought.
This was no nervous boy who held her, nor was his body that of a youth. He was firm and broad, his muscles tensed, his fingers pressing firmly into her skin. A surge of happiness clutched her heart at the thought that he finally saw her as a woman.
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