The Blooded Ones

by Elizabeth Brown

  John sighed, shaking his head.

  “Ye canna go there with such malice in yer heart. A good Christian –”

  Winn turned abruptly and stalked toward John, who backed up against the wall.

  “I once was Paspahegh. I once was Norse. Will I be a Christian? I cannot say,” Winn growled. “Yet no matter what God I speak to, I know this to be true: I will kill any man who harms my wife. I tell this to you so you have no doubt. That is the man I am. That is the truth I know.”

  The Englishman’s neck contracted as he gulped.

  “Then I imagine I must accompany ye,” John stammered.

  Winn scowled. He looked into John’s eyes for a long moment before he gave the Englishman a curt nod.

  “A good plan, Englishman,” Winn replied.

  It was years since Winn attended any sort of English gathering. When he was a young man, he lived with the Dixon family for a time, and with Benjamin, he learned how to behave in gentle company. The women valued their silk dresses and fancy petticoats. The men enjoyed the luxury of pipe tobacco and imported spirits. As Winn looked at the plantation house before him, he was reminded of yet another possession the English valued – their homes on the land they believed they owned.

  The house was bright beneath the light of a crescent moon. Music and laughter hummed from inside the house, and Winn could see several couples touring the garden. He recalled how they destroyed the land and then planted beautiful flowers to look at in their leisure time.

  Chetan nudged Winn with his elbow.

  “She must be in the garden,” Chetan said. Winn’s eyes narrowed.

  “I know this.”

  “You stare as if they may bite you. Go. I am at your side.”

  Winn grunted an oath at his brother. He tapped the knife on his belt, and then ran his fingers over his father’s bryntroll harnessed to his back. Erich muttered something foul in Norse about Englishmen and swiving goats, and Winn shot him a glare.

  “Carry on,” Erich muttered.

  “Weapons, gentlemen,” John Basse called out. Standing at Winn’s side, the Christian had a newly confident air about him. Wearing his good church clothes and a fine wool cloak, John lifted his chin and straightened his back as he spoke at the men. Perhaps the man would not be a liability after all.

  They sheathed their weapons as they approached. Chetan and Keke said little, while the Norse filled the silence with playful banter. It was the first time Tyr joined them in battle and the Norse youth reveled in the camaraderie. Iain, the young half-English, half-Chesapeake man seemed thoughtful, his eyes searching the others as if he needed guidance. Winn felt Cormaic’s absence, just as he was certain Erich did. Never had they engaged an enemy without the massive berserker.

  Winn’s fur mantle streamed behind him in the brisk night air, the sword at his side banging lightly on his leather-clad thigh. Under his grey vest his chest was bare, the winding tattoo upon his abdomen visible to all.

  He was proud of who he was. All of it. Every moment, every death, every memory of happiness – it all belonged to him. He would wear it with honor as he led his men one last time.

  There was an arch decorated with flowers stretching over the garden entrance. When Winn stepped through it with his men flanking his sides, he heard panicked whispers from the English guests as he passed. Men moved their wives from his path; others retreated into small groups to stare.

  Erich liberated a piece of fresh venison from a woman’s plate, bowing to her with a grin on his lips as he shoved the dripping morsel in his mouth. Chetan scanned the garden for threats, as was his usual task, and when he grunted Winn paused. At least a half dozen armed soldiers populated the spacious lawn, enjoying the celebration amidst the guests.

  Ahead of them under a raised wood awning stood Benjamin and Agnarr. Winn noted the warning in Benjamin’s stare and the way his brother’s eyes flickered to the soldiers. Winn nodded his acknowledgement, hoping to ease his brother, but it did not matter. The soldiers would not stop him.

  At Agnarr’s side with her hand tucked in his arm was Winn’s wife. Wearing a silk ruffled gown that dipped low over her full breasts, she seemed the perfect image of a pampered English lady. Yet the bruises on her face beneath the white powder told a different story.

  “Master Basse,” Sturlsson said. The crowd parted for Agnarr and the music faded, all eyes turned to the new arrivals. The trickle of a nearby fountain punctuated the silence, covering the gasps and whispers.

  “Master Sturlsson,” John replied, stepping forward.

  Winn focused on Agnarr, knowing if he looked at his wife’s face for one more moment he would explode.

  Whatever the man had done to her, he thought, I will repay him tenfold.

  “I was unaware ye keep the company of savages,” Agnarr quipped. “And ye invite them here, to sit among English folk?”

  “I fear ‘tis a most serious matter. My friend –”

  Winn interrupted him, his patience ended with the pleasantries.

  “I am here for my wife,” he said. His low voice rumbled in his chest, the threat beneath his statement evident to all those with ears. He noted the flick of Agnarr’s wrist and the way the English soldiers moved slowly toward them, the crowd dispersing to safety.

  The small band of Norseman was surrounded. It did not matter to Winn. Agnarr was within his reach, and if he only had time to kill Maggie’s father before the soldiers descended, then he would consider that a victory.

  “Your wife?” Agnarr asked. At first, the man appeared confused, but his disposition quickly turned incredulous. Agnarr glanced at Maggie, who was trying to yank her hand free, and then back to Winn, eyes wide. “I know ye, savage. I recall the day. So that girl indeed was yer blood – my own daughter’s spawn.”

  “I told you my husband would kill you!” Maggie muttered.

  Erich moved to Winn’s side and Agnarr suddenly grabbed Maggie around the throat. As she tried to pry her father’s hand away Winn noticed the bandage on her palm, which only served to enrage him further. Eyes darting wildly about, Agnarr pressed a blade beneath her chin.

  “Do ye think ye can come to my home and take my daughter?” Agnarr hissed. “Ye filthy MacMhaolians, so haughty and proud! This is how ye raise yer precious Blooded Ones, Erich? Letting her breed with a savage?”

  Winn surged forward when Maggie cried out, and Erich held him back. Agnarr shuddered as he shouted, his voice shrill as if he lost his wits. His green eyes bulged as he screamed at them, his coiffed hair falling around his face as he pulled Maggie away.

  “Let ‘er go, boy. Act like a man, fer once in yer miserable life,” Erich demanded.

  Agnarr pointed the knife at Erich, then quickly back at Maggie.

  “Yer sister pleased me quite well, MacMhaolian,” Agnarr taunted. “And it seems she was useful to me after all.”

  The soldiers moved in as Agnarr dragged Maggie away. The Norsemen roared an ancient battle cry as the two groups collided, the scream of swords piercing the air. Winn shouldered the burly soldier who charged him, running his blade through the man’s belly as he dropped him to the earth. He stepped over the body, looking over the heads of fighting men for his wife.

  Flailing and screaming, Maggie kicked at her father as he dragged her toward the riverbank. When they reached the top of the shallow hill and disappeared beyond, Winn shoved yet another Englishman from his path so that he could follow her.

  “Not tonight, lad!” Erich bellowed. The old Norseman swung his sword, clipping the knees of a soldier who tried to flee. Blood and sweat splattered his face, mixing with the red-gold hair in his beard as he grinned. “Go on – we’ll settle this here!”

  One of Agnarr’s less fortunate men slumped to the ground ahead, felled by Benjamin’s sword. The blade flashed in the moonlight as Benjamin yanked it from the dead man’s back, his eyes meeting Winn’s across the yard.

  “The river. He has a ship,” Benjamin shouted.

  Winn broke into a sprint. He cou
ld feel Benjamin keep pace with him, and for that he was grateful, but he would have raced to meet them without the assurance of his brother at his side. His lungs burned to bursting as he raced across the meadow, drawing his bryntroll from his back as he met the first Englishman. His gait did not falter as the man turned, and the man had no time to utter a sound before Winn slammed the axe across the man’s chest. Winn flung all his weight into the blow, flinging the man onto his back with a thud before he reached the next man. They were stragglers of the bunch, only a few, and as the other soldiers turned to the sound of a man hitting earth Winn felt Benjamin reach his side. Winn and Benjamin stood still for a moment as a dozen more soldiers advanced on them.

  Benjamin cut one man down with one blow of his sword, nearly severing the man’s arm as he sliced through his sternum.

  “Find her,” Benjamin growled, and Winn nodded. Benjamin raised his blade, swinging it wildly above his head. The soldiers jumped back, giving Winn the chance to reach the hill.

  He breached the hill with one shallow jump, and when he landed with two feet braced apart he slid all the way down the hillside toward the river. His hand trailed behind him, keeping him upright as he scaled the decline, and he could hear Benjamin shout behind him. Winn did not need the warning because he could see them as well. Englishmen swarmed over the hill and below them at the river, as Agnarr tried to drag Maggie onto a boat.

  “Surrender, savage!”

  Winn turned to the shout, weapon poised by his shoulder. His breathing was shallow, his hands slippery and warm.

  Benjamin staggered to the top of the hill surrounded by soldiers. They slowly walked him down the hill, three guns aimed to ensure his cooperation. One man snatched Benjamin’s sword; another hit him with the butt of a rifle and sent him to his knees.

  Winn wiped the blood from his brow with the back of his forearm. A guard leveled his musket at Winn, aimed squarely at his chest.

  Agnarr cocked his head slightly, his wild eyes fixed on Winn.

  “Why do ye fight for this woman? She is not yer kind.”

  “She is mine,” Winn replied.

  With a lopsided grin, Agnarr motioned to the man at his side. “Kill him,” he said simply.

  “No!” Maggie shouted. “I’ll do what you ask. I’ll take you where you want. Just let him go – let them all go. I won’t fight you.”

  Winn shook his head sadly. It would hurt his wife to see him fall, but she would carry on. Two paces ahead to kill Agnarr. He could make it before they shot him.

  “No,” Winn answered, his voice coarse. “You will not.”

  As Agnarr uttered a disjointed laugh, his gleeful face slowly turned into a frown.

  “No. You will not,” a voice echoed from behind him.

  Winn followed Agnarr’s gaze and turned back toward the hill. Surrounding the now outnumbered English, a line of Nansemond appeared. Draped in full war attire with bright colored grease streaking his face, Pepamhu descended the hill. The warrior pointed a spear at Agnarr as he came to Winn’s side.

  “This will be a fair fight. End it now. A life,” Pepamhu announced, “for her life.”

  Agnarr glanced at the Nansemond who surrounded them. Standing straight as they waited for his answer, the decorated warriors looked down upon the scene, their readiness evident.

  “So it is,” Agnarr murmured.

  Winn wiped his hand on his braies, which did not help much to get rid of the sticky blood. Agnarr thrust Maggie aside while drawing his sword, the motion sending her to the ground. Blood rushed to Winn’s head as he raised his father’s bryntroll and launched himself at Agnarr.

  The blow radiated through his bones as his weapon met Agnarr’s, his hands aching with the impact yet his aim was true. The older man was strong, but not enough.

  Winn’s gaze clouded into a haze of scarlet thunder. If it was the blood that he spilled or the rage in his heart, he had no answer. It seemed he watched from above as if he hovered in spirit, guiding the hand of his bryntroll with some unearthly presence. Perhaps it was his father’s hand, or the aid of his ancestors, those valiant warriors both Norse and Powhatan. He found the mark. Bones shattered beneath his blows. His fingers were slippery with warmth as he gripped the long-handled axe, but his aim remained true.

  Thank Odin. Thank the Creator. Guide my weapon. Let it be steady. A spreading stain erupted across Agnarr’s chest. He lay before Winn on the ground, his shaking hand reaching for the wound. The old Norseman stared at the blood on his fingers for a moment, as if he had never seen such a sight before.

  “Who are ye,” he breathed.

  Winn kneeled down beside the fallen Time Walker, bending his head to ensure Agnarr had his answer.

  “I am only a man,” Winn said, “And she is my wife.”

  Agnarr’s lips parted with a sigh. It was his last breath.

  Those who remained put down their weapons.

  A crisp breeze graced the air as they placed Makedewa in the ground beside his wife. Winn wrapped his brother in linen, taken from a dress Rebecca once wore, and Chetan covered him with earth as Pepamhu looked on. There was no kwiocosuk to send Makedewa to the Creator, as all of the sacred shaman were long since scattered into hiding. It saddened him knowing what had become of those old rituals, and he wondered if the English would return Opechancanough’s body to his people for proper ceremony. At least Winn was able to give that to Makedewa. He found Makedewa’s body where he had fallen, undisturbed, as were many of the dead.

  Winn closed his eyes. For a moment, as the air rushed over him, he could see the past. It was so clear he might touch it, lose himself in what once was, laughing with his brothers as they raced through the village to the beach.

  One of the women said there was a canoe on the shore, filled with men of fair skin who spoke a strange tongue. She thought they might be Spaniards, but she said they did not speak Spaniard words. As the boys hid in the trees and watched the Paspahegh warriors greet the strangers, Makedewa looked up at Winn.

  “Are they lost?” Makedewa asked, his dark eyes wide. Winn was only eleven, but he was the oldest of the three and usually knew the answers. This time, however, he did not. It had been a long time since Spaniards visited and these men were no Spaniards. They came to shore in a small boat, one that looked like the dugout canoes the Paspahegh used. Yet out on the water was a massive ship, and Winn felt with a certainty these men were anything but lost.

  “I know not,” Winn replied.

  “Look at their weapons!” Makedewa exclaimed.

  Chetan snorted and shoved their youngest brother.

  “Ah, stay here and talk like women. That will make more food for me!”

  Chetan took off back to the village, his laughter trailing behind him. As Makedewa uttered a slew of curses and followed, Winn glanced back at the beach.

  Only a few men. What trouble could they bring?

  He watched the English arrive as a boy with his brothers. Even if he had known, he could not have stopped it. Old magic and new magic, from the Great Creator or not, none of it could stop the story meant to be written. Winn knew that well, if he knew nothing else.

  As they left Makedewa to rest and descended the hill, Winn could see the sadness in Maggie’s face. Her throat was tight and her mouth tightly closed, a touch of dampness on her cheeks as they looked at the deserted village. He felt the ache as well, and he knew what thoughts played in her mind.

  “Do you remember when Dagr was born?” she asked. He stood beside her as the other men prepared. She needed to speak, to somehow release those spirits, just as they had done for Makedewa upon the hill.

  “His cry was so loud, I knew he was your son,” Winn said. “Then little Malcolm came, and he was lucky to have a strong brother to watch over him.”

  Her mouth quivered as tears slipped over her cheeks, but she stared straight ahead. Erich lit a torch, the flames licking the air as he raised it, and Chetan peered into the Northern Hall one last time.

  “I know this is w
hat must be. But I don’t want to leave them,” she whispered.

  Marcus. Finola. Makedewa. Rebecca.

  “They will never leave us, ntehem,” he replied.

  Winn reached for the torch Erich held out to him.

  The fire spread quickly, the thatched roofs of the longhouses perfect kindling. The smaller dwellings did not take long, nor did the bath house over the hot spring. Rune carvings in the trees smoldered into ash, and the well was dismantled and filled with rubbish. As the Northern Hall finally succumbed and the roof caved in, all evidence of their home was extinguished. Soon, the forest floor would rise up, new trees would grow, and the earth would take back the place the Norse had borrowed from it. Men could never truly own the land. It was no possession, it could not be bought. One might share it for a bit, but in the end, the earth would claim it once more.

  The Norse would be erased from history, just as those at Roanoke. Just as the Spaniards who came before the English and the Dutchmen before them. God willing, the knowledge of Time Walkers would lay buried as well, only a legend that children might whisper of someday.

  The Norse bid the Nansemond farewell. Winn and Pepamhu clasped hands but did not linger; they had already made their peace and Winn knew the Nansemond had stayed longer than was safe. Pepamhu’s men claimed responsibility for the English deaths at Wakehill and it would not be long before the King’s men attempted to bring them to justice. Pepamhu never meant to join the other Nansemond at Basse’s Choice, and he considered it a final gift to Winn’s family.

  The Northern Hall finally collapsed, and Maggie twisted her hand into his.

  “No one will ever know we were here,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “As it should be,” he replied.

  CHAPTER 33

  Maggie

  THE CRYING OF THE BANNS commenced on three Sundays, and a wedding occurred on the fourth. In the light from the tall glass window of the chapel, Kyra clasped hands with Morgan and said her vows. Her dark hair streamed down her back, decorated with delicate boughs of baby’s breath Maggie twined carefully in her daughter’s locks that morning. To Maggie’s surprise, Kyra insisted on wearing a new gown for the occasion. Kyra sewed it herself, and Maggie could not be more proud of the lovely young woman she had become.