Judith E. French (19 page)

“The council has decided not to declare war on the Mohawk,” Moonfeather said. “At least, not yet. I’m going north with trade goods to the Mohawk village. If Sterling is alive, it’s possible that we can ransom him. Your father insists on going with me.”

“You mean to try and buy Sterling back?” Cailin asked.

“Aye.” Moonfeather nodded.

“But you’re putting yourself in great danger.”

“She is,” Cameron agreed, “but not as much as you’d think. Moonfeather is a peace woman of the Shawnee.”

“Sterling told me that,” Cailin said. “But how—”

“Even the Mohawk respect her power. And ...” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I expect they’re a little afraid of her too.”

Cailin looked from one to the other. A sinking thought had just occurred to her. “I don’t know if Sterling had any silver left to use as ransom,” she said. “He put every penny into tools and supplies for the plantation. Unless he could raise money on the worth of the land ...”

“Ye must not think of the cost,” Moonfeather assured her. “Na-nata Ki-tehi is Shawnee. We do not abandon our own. We will bring him back peacefully, or we will paint our faces and take up the tomahawk. If he lives, we will find him.”

“And if he’s already dead?” Cailin asked.

“Then we will seek vengeance.”

Cailin nodded. This was the code of the Highlands, a way of life she understood all too well. “When do we leave?” she asked.

“You will stay here,” Cameron said. “You aren’t fully recovered from your injuries.”

“Sterling is my husband. I must go.”

“No,” Cameron said sharply. “That’s not possible. If you don’t want to stay here, I can arrange for you to be escorted back to my home.”

“I’m going,” Cailin insisted.

“If her heart tells her that she must come,” Moonfeather argued, “then she must.”

“Damn it,” he said. “You can’t take her into Iroquois territory. She has no concept of—”

“Aye, but I do,” Cailin said, remembering Jasper’s pale, cold face. “I ken men like Ohneya well enough. But I will come, with ye or on my own.”

Cameron folded his arms over his chest. “I say no and no again. This is bad business. I’ll not take the responsibility for endangering Cailin’s life.”

“I appreciate any help you can give to restore my husband’s freedom, sir,” Cailin retorted. “But what risks I choose to take are my own affair. May I remind ye that you have no authority over my actions, and if you wish our acquaintance to be more than passing, ye will cease from—”

“She survived the raid,” Moonfeather said. “If she travels with us, she will be under my protection and that of the Shawnee nation.”

“You’re two of a kind,” Cameron said. “Stubborn and willful women.”

Moonfeather laughed. “And when have you ever loved any other kind?”

 

B
ig Fergus hunkered down and splashed water on his face, then lifted the bucket and drank long and deep. Corey stood, arms akimbo, watching him and trying not to cry. Corey’s belly hurt; he couldn’t remember being so hungry. They’d dined on a chicken two days ago, but he’d had to share his portion of the skinny bird with his dog, Lance. All day, as they’d gotten closer to home and the countryside became more familiar, Corey had thought about home and all the good things cook would make to eat.
Glen Garth. Glen Garth.
The words had sounded over and over in his head. But now that he and Big Fergus were here, nothing was the same as he remembered.

The rambling stone house stood as black and empty as the rotten husk of last autumn’s walnut. No voices called from the courtyard, no horses whinnied, and no dogs barked to welcome Lance.

When they’d reached the home place, Corey had run and peered into the burned interior of the hall and shouted for Cailin. Her name had echoed spookily through the ruins, becoming fainter and fainter until it was only a whisper. He’d called again and again until Big Fergus got scared and began to mutter about ghosts.

Next, Corey had hurried to the stables. They stood vacant, without horse or cow or saddle. The pigsties were open and still. Not a single goose hissed or a pigeon fluttered in the yard.

“Where’s Cailin?” Corey had demanded of Big Fergus. “Where’s Jeanne and Grandda? Where’s your brother, Finley? Where are all the servants?”

Fergus hadn’t answered. Instead, he’d gone to the bell at the corner of the house. The rope had burned away, but the bronze bell hung where it had been since the days of the great Rob Roy. Still not saying anything, Fergus picked up a broken paving stone from the walk and handed it to Corey. Then he caught Corey around the waist and lifted him to his shoulders.

The bell had only been rung in time of trouble. This was trouble. Even Big Fergus could figure that out. Corey took the rock in both hands and struck the bell as hard as he could.

Twelve times he hit the metal, and twelve times the bell pealed out. Twelve for the twelve apostles of Christ, Big Fergus said. Then he set Corey back on the ground, and they sat down by the well and waited until the afternoon shadows cast patterns on the deserted compound.

Corey wanted to ask Big Fergus what they should do if no one came. He wanted to know where they’d sleep and what they’d find to eat, but he knew that thinking wasn’t Fergus’s duty. Corey himself was laird of Glen Garth, and head of the MacLeod clan. Fergus was more than a servant; he was a man-at-arms, sworn to follow the commands of the MacLeod laird as long as he lived. But no man-at-arms, especially Big Fergus or his twin brother, Finley, could be expected to make decisions.

Corey rubbed his eyes with the backs of grimy fists. Since they’d left Artair Cameron by the unfinished stone wall, he, Fergus, and Lance had had a purpose. They were coming home. But now that they’d reached Glen Garth, it wasn’t home. Corey knew he was too big to cry, but the thought of sleeping another night on the road without supper was enough—

Suddenly, Lance’s ears went up and his tail began to wag. He let out one sharp bark, then tore off around the house.

“Lance! Lance!” Corey leaped up and ran after the dog. Big Fergus thundered after him, claymore drawn and ready. As Corey rounded the corner, he saw a familiar figure walking toward him with a gnarled hickory staff in his hand.

The old man came slowly but steadily on, tapping the ground in front of him as he walked. Lance whined with excitement and ran circles around him.

“Grandda!” Corey said. “Grandda!” He hurled himself against his grandfather’s knees, nearly knocking him off his feet.

“Corey? Be that my Corey?”

Corey cried and laughed and tried to talk, all at the same time. Big Fergus was so relieved to see his old master that he folded his arms over his broad chest and did a Highland jig without benefit of a piper.

“Ah, laddie, who brought ye home to me?” Grandda asked, when the excitement had died down enough for them to talk again.

“’Twas me,” Big Fergus declared, beaming with pride. “Big Fergus. Watch over the wee laird, the lady bid me. And I did.”

“He did,” Corey agreed. “We slept in hedges and hid from the English soldiers in the daytime and walked by night. When I was hungry, Fergus caught a chicken and cooked it over a fire.”

“Artair Cameron was a bad man. He was mean to the young laird, so I hit him,” Big Fergus explained. “We come home to Glen Garth. We shouted. We didna find a soul. We thought maybe they were all dead.”

“Nay, not all dead,” Grandda said.

Corey thought his grandfather’s voice sounded tired. “Cailin promised she’d come for me,” he said. “She lied.”

“’Twas nay her fault, lad,” Grandda said gruffly.

“I watched the road. Every day, I watched, but she never came.” Corey squeezed his grandfather’s seamed hand.

“There’s much to tell ye of what happened. The soldiers came and burned us out. But that can wait,” Grandda said. “I imagine you two could use a bowl of good oat porridge.”

“Aye, sir,” Big Fergus said. Then he tugged at his ear. “Did I do right? Bringin’ the wee laird home, Master James?”

Grandda ruffled Corey’s hair. “You did good, Fergus. And you, Corey. ’Tis proud I be of ye both.”

Fergus’s chest swelled. “I want to tell Finley. Have ye seen Finley?”

“There’s no easy way to tell ye, man. Your brother’s dead. He died defending Glen Garth, struck down by the dragoons.”

The big servant looked stricken. “Dead? My Finley dead?”

“Aye, dead and buried. But Father John said the words over his grave.”

Fergus shook his head. “Finley be my twin. Borned together, die together, Mam always said.”

“Nay,” Grandda said. “Finley did his duty, and so shall you. Cailin told ye to watch over the young master, and so ye must. Ye must be the eyes and strength for me, Fergus. I’m old and I’m blind, but I’m all Corey has left.”

Corey’s belly got a hollow feeling, worse than the hunger. “Is Cailin dead like my father?” he asked. “Did the soldiers kill her and Jeanne too?”

“Nay, nay,” Grandda said. He cleared his throat, and Corey looked up to see he was crying too. He’d never known his grandfather to cry; he didn’t know the blind could cry.

“The same English dragoons who burned Glen Garth and murdered Finley took Cailin away. I thought she might be dead, but just last week, Robert Gunn came by the cottage—I’m living in the shepherd’s hut back of the hollow—Robert Gunn came by to bring me a bag of oat flour. I pay him—it’s not charity, Corey. Your sister had the sense to bury a bit of silver before the thieving British came. Anyway, Robert told me that his cousin, Tormod Gunn—the short one who never grew right—was in Edinburgh. The English meant to hang Cailin, ”but they didn’t. Instead, they made her marry an Englishman, Sterling Gray. Remember that name, boy. Sterling Gray.“

“Is she coming home?” He wanted to ask about Jeanne and the baby, and about Glynis and the others, but he was awfully hungry and tired.

“I know Robert Gunn,” Fergus said, “but I don’t know Tormod. How little is he?”

“Not much taller than Corey here. He’s a dwarf,” Grandda explained patiently. He always took time to answer questions. It was the thing Corey liked best about his grandsire.

“I saw a little man one time. He was a Gypsy,” Fergus said. “Is Tormod Gunn a Gypsy?”

“No,” Corey said. He didn’t want Fergus to start asking about Gypsies. Once Fergus started on Gypsies, he would keep on till dark. “I’m hungry, Grandda.”

“Me too,” Fergus chimed in. “I could eat a horse trough of porridge.”

“A washtub is all ye’ll get from me,” Grandda replied. “We’d best get back to the cottage. We’ve a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

“Doing what?” Corey asked.

“We’re going to England to find your sister,” he said.

“To England?” Corey looked up at the old man in surprise. “Cailin or Jeanne?”

“Cailin, of course. Jeanne’s gone away with her man. She’ll not be back. She’s left us to our own devices. Not that I’ll have ye blame her, lad. Times are wicked, and each must do as his or her heart bids.”

“We’re going to England?” Fergus asked. “To see King George?”

“To find Cailin,” Corey corrected. “Can we, sir? Can we find her?”

“I’ll not die until I put ye into her arms. Rest assured on that,” Grandda said. “She’s wed the son of an English lord, Baron Oxley by name. The parson who performed the marriage will have the name and place of Sterling’s home parish. We go first to Edinburgh and then to England.”

“All the way to England?” Corey murmured. “’Tis far and far, be it not?”

“Be it so far as hell, it matters little.” Grandda’s fingers stroked Corey’s hair. “Till ye rang the bell, I thought to sit in that hut until I died. But I see now that God has work for me yet. Glen Garth is finished, but you’re just beginning, Corey MacLeod. Wherever your sister is and whatever her future brings, she’ll make a place for ye. She’ll see ye get the proper learning and make ye into a fine man that your father, rest his soul, would be proud of.”

Corey sighed with relief and smiled. If Cailin was alive, everything would be all right. She liked to make decisions. All they had to do was find her, and the three of them could do that. Grandda had said so, and he was old enough to know everything. “Come on, Lance,” he called to his dog. And he held on as tight as he could to his grandfather’s hand as they turned and walked slowly back to a hot supper.

 

In Penn’s Colony, an ocean and a world away, Sterling put his head back and opened his mouth in an attempt to quench his thirst with rainwater. It was long past midnight, and he was tied upright to a tree trunk on the edge of the Mohawks’ night camp.

The rain had started a short while ago, and so far, he’d not gotten enough water to moisten the inside of his mouth. His fever had passed; the snakebite had left him weak and disoriented, but the swelling in his arm had gone down.

When the Mohawks had found that Cailin had escaped, they’d been as angry as a nest of ground wasps. Sterling had feared that the Indians would track her to the cabin, but another rainstorm just before dawn had covered any trace of her passing. The loss had spoiled the war party’s morning so much that they’d decided not to burn him right away, but to hold off until they reached the safety of their own land. Since he couldn’t walk, they’d thrown him on a horse. Last night they’d cut the horse’s throat and grilled choice portions over the fire.

No one had thought to feed the prisoner. And no one had brought him water. He’d not had a drink since the horse had swum a river and had lost its footing on the rocks, nearly drowning both of them. The horse had been a fine-blooded animal, but he’d have eaten its flesh gladly, had he been given the opportunity.

By his count, he’d been traveling with the Mohawks for three days. During that time, he’d been beaten, stripped naked, and burned with the muzzle of a red-hot gun barrel, all for his captors’ amusement. And somewhere along the trail, the English dragoon, Captain Sterling Gray had gotten lost, leaving a Shawnee brave named Na-nata Ki-tehi in his place.

He wasn’t certain how or where the transformation had taken place; he only knew that he was thinking in Algonquian and he was reasoning like an Indian. Na-nata Ki-tehi—Warrior Heart—blood enemy to the Iroquois. How Snow Ghost had gained a new name was a mystery, but Moonfeather, the greatest peace woman in his tribe’s history, had the right and the authority to give it to him. He wondered briefly if she’d known that capture and death by torture lay ahead of him. A Shawnee brave with such a future needed a powerful spirit protector and a strong name if he was not to shame his ancestors under the Mohawk knife.

The Iroquois were highly skilled in the art of bringing a man pain. Death after such exquisitely delivered agony would be welcome. Sterling did not expect to live—his hope was to die well with a death song on his lips and triumph in his heart.

Cailin had escaped. Bound to the cart wheel, snakebitten, and wounded, he’d managed to save the woman he loved ... the woman who’d become his whole world. His wife ... his lover ... his spirit guide ...

Strange that a Scottish woman with red-gold hair could come to him in his youth vision, but the years had proved the truth of his seeing. He had found Cailin again on the field of battle in a far-off land, and she’d led him back to the country of his birth, where he’d found a peace and happiness he’d forgotten existed.

He’d spent a lifetime trying to become an Englishman. He’d rejected his mother’s blood and tried to forget the tongue that had taught him the wisdom of an ancient people. His mother had sung him to sleep at night, had encouraged his first steps, and had praised his first hunting success. He could still remember her shouts of pride when he’d snared his first rabbit. She had cooked the animal into a stew. Adding spices, vegetables, and other meat, she’d created the center dish for a feast in his honor. Even the chief of the tribe had eaten a little of his rabbit, and a boy’s heart had swelled with joy.

His mother had not been as small a woman as Cailin, and she had been pleasantly rounded. Her eyes had been as bright as ripe blackberries, and her hands had never ceased their constant motion. And her singing ... How she could sing. He remembered the words to one such lullaby now ...

His early memories of his father were not as clear. Once, he’d come to the village with a man in black—a cleric of the Church of England, Sterling had realized years later. The strange white man had sprinkled water on his head and declared that the child was now a Christian. It was the first time that Sterling had heard his English name spoken.