The Lost Duchess (27 page)

‘Is it yours?’ she asked Kit.

‘Yes,’ he said, strapping on his helmet and handing her a similar morion. ‘Put this on too.’

She obliged and immediately felt as if the weight of the pieces was crushing her. It was difficult to breathe and her head was cooking, but the garb also gave her pride. She was one with the men, almost indistinguishable at a distance. Even her skirts had been split and sewn so they resembled a sailor’s galligaskins – to help her run if needed, as Kit had advised. Most importantly, by wearing the armour she knew she would not be left on the pinnace as she had feared at first. She would land on Croatoan with Captain Stafford and Kit, and she would be with them to meet the Indians who had been trailing them for miles, too far distant to hail as they followed in their canoes. Though the armour was only a precaution, since Manteo’s people were their friends, she still felt glad of its protection, as if Kit was all around her, with his steel-clad hands cradling her head, and his leather-coated body shielding her front and back. The smell of him was in the fabric: strong and raw, hot and salty. She was tired but not afraid.

‘We’ll soon be ashore,’ he said. ‘Stay with me.’

Of course she would. She could not wait to move after more than twelve hours on a hard bench, with only a sheet of canvas to screen her from the sun, and rationed water to drink, and little privacy at the heads. They had left before dawn and were arriving with dusk, but the breeze and calm water had helped the pinnace over the sound, and they had covered the vast distance in less than a day and a night. Now the strongest men were rowing, Kit amongst them, leading the stroke, and the sands of Croatoan were clearly visible above the reeds, rising up to a low line of trees. They had passed the inlet that separated the island from the long sand banks of Hatarask and the channel leading to the open sea.

‘Bring in your oars!’ Kit called, giving the last order to the rowers before the pinnace slid ashore, and Emme made ready to disembark along with the seventeen men who had been selected for the parley. She watched them stand unsteadily after the pinnace bumped aground. Stafford made his way to the bows, and Ananias Dare picked up the standard of their city which he liked to flaunt wherever he went. Manteo followed, holding his bow and quiver, with nothing covering him but his breechclout and paint.

‘Bring all your weapons,’ Kit called again. ‘Leave nothing behind.’

He jumped down before her with his caliver roped to his back; then he held up his arms for her. But she looked down at the water, only a few inches deep, and waved him aside. She didn’t mind getting her feet wet, and she’d rather he watched the Indians who were emerging from the trees at the top of the slope from the beach, standing in line along the crest of the bluff. The Indians following in canoes were also drawing close.

Kit looked round and unslung his caliver, ushering everyone onto the sand, apart from the three who had elected to keep guard
over the craft. She was glad not to be with them; their wait would probably be long and tedious.

Stafford formed the men into a square, four wide and four deep, pikes in the centre rows, firearms forward and rear. He placed himself in the vanguard, with Dare behind him, and positioned her in the middle, though she had no pike, only a sharpened knife. Kit moved behind her and scanned the Indians all around; they were increasing in number. They drew their bows and waved their spears and made a strange ululation that grew louder and louder. It set the hairs prickling at the back of her neck. What was happening? The Croatans were their friends – so why the show of hostility?

She glanced at Manteo and saw that he was calling, hands circling his mouth, though none of the Indians seemed to hear him amidst their whooping.

‘Ready arms!’ Stafford called, and the men at the front and back of the square brought their firearms into position.

‘Fix matches!’ Kit shouted, and the smouldering lengths of match-cord that every caliverman carried were fastened into the locks of their weapons and cocked ready to fire.

‘Open your firing pans,’ he ordered.

She heard clicking as the pans were opened, already charged with priming powder.

‘Guard them!’

Fingers were placed over the powder. A spark from the burning match-cord and the weapons would discharge. They were already loaded and ready to fire at any moment.

She could not believe it; this encounter was supposed to be peaceful. Why were the Indians showing aggression? There would be a bloodbath if the guns fired.

‘No!’ she murmured, ducking her head on instinct and putting her hands to her helmet. She prayed everyone would stop.

The ululation intensified, rising in pitch. She shrank under her armour and her scalp shivered cold.

Kit’s face was a mask: eyes narrowed, mouth rigid.

‘Present!’ Stafford called.

All the calivermen brought their firearms to their chests, just under the right shoulder.

‘Aim!’

They took aim. Kit fixed on one of the Indians coming up from behind.

Suddenly she heard a shriek above the blood-chilling noise. The ululation stopped and, as one, the Indians fled. Those at the top of the slope disappeared into the trees; those on the beach ran and ducked down into the reeds.

‘Hold fire and advance!’

Stafford led the company in formation up the rise of white sand, pikes waving as boots slid, but they all arrived at the brow intact and with nothing fired.

The landscape before them was as pretty and peaceful as one of the Islands of the Blessed.

Manteo darted forwards, crying out.

‘Ahoy!
Wingapo! Pyas!
Come here, it is I, Manteo!’

He stood alone with his arms held wide as if inviting anyone who could see to shoot him in the chest, but none did. Then a solitary savage ran out to seize him, and others followed all crowding together, until she could see nothing of Manteo for men who were pummelling one another and jumping up and down.

Was Manteo being beaten or were they embracing? She could not
tell until Manteo emerged with a group in procession and they all beckoned for Stafford’s company to follow. Others came nearer to usher them on, smiling and waving, and Stafford gave the order for the calivers to be put up.

‘Tell them we come in peace,’ he called out to Manteo. ‘We wish to affirm our friendship and ask for news. We will hurt no one.’

Manteo spoke earnestly to those around him, and nodded as they answered.

‘My people welcome you with glad hearts,’ he said. ‘They ask only that you do not take their corn for they have very little.’

‘We are here to give, not take,’ Stafford replied, gesturing for Manteo to interpret. ‘We have presents for our friends of Croatoan. We have English flour and beans. We also have tools of metal: hoes and billhooks, hatchets and axes, knives and fish hooks. We have glass beads and brass bells, looking glasses for the ladies and dolls for the children. We would like to show these gifts to your leaders.’

He spoke more quietly, for Manteo alone. ‘I would like to talk with your mother, Manteo.’

Manteo spoke with his people to a chorus of whoops and shouting.

‘Come,’ he said, beckoning Stafford on. ‘You must come to the place of council.’

He led them through open groves of low tress through which the breeze carried the clean smell of pine sap and ocean, and in every bright clearing there were small plots of peas and Indian corn in various stages of growth, and patches of ground where vines and pumpkins grew, and deep pink briar roses bloomed in the brush, and blushing convolvulus twined under small fruiting plum trees. Before they had gone very far she saw her first Indian house, like
a little longbarn covered over in hides, with rolled rush matting above an open side revealing the wooden laths of its simple framework, and an arched barrel roof that was curved at both ends. The house nestled amongst trees behind the shelter of higher ground and around it threaded paths worn to silver laces in the sand. Then she saw other houses as she looked further, so much part of the woodland that she barely noticed them at first, not close together but scattered wherever there was space between the tree trunks. She saw a shining pool of water and skins stretched on frames, mats being woven and a dugout hollowed by burning. The deeper they advanced, the closer the dwellings stood, until they assumed some semblance of a village with a cleared space between them and a log fire in the centre. Drying racks and storerooms lay between larger longhouses with sleeping platforms. Posts were arranged in lines, with large-leaved tobacco plants growing between them, and others in a circle, their tops carved with the faces of men, as if at rest but open eyed.

Kit kept by her side, and stooped to ruffle the ears of a little dog that barked at him then scampered near, tail wagging furiously. A small girl tugged at Emme’s pantaloons, and Emme picked her up and placed the girl on her hip, laughing with her as she did. The girl was almost naked, but for a pad of moss at her crotch held in place with long leather cords, and a necklace of pearls which she pushed against Emme’s mouth, giggling as she tried to force a pearl between her lips. For her efforts Emme kissed her stubby fingers and then her smile-dimpled cheek.

Many more Indians surrounded them, drawing them to mats that were being spread around the central fire, inviting them to sit beside large bowls that were filled with food. Berries and pottage
were set out, stewed meat, fish and nuts, along with gourds of water and small piles of fresh fruit. Everyone was thirsty, tired and hungry, exhausted after the tension of their initial encounter. She watched hopefully as Ananias Dare strode forward and planted the city standard firmly in the ground. She was ready to sink down with Kit onto one of those mats.

‘Good,’ Manteo said, squatting down and grinning broadly. He spread his arms in welcome. ‘Now please sit and accept the hospitality of my people.’

Stafford set down his caliver and helmet, crouched beside Manteo, and gestured for the rest of the company to do the same.

‘But your people are short of corn,’ he said, raising his brows to Manteo. ‘It is not right that we should eat much. Let us offer our gifts first.’

Stafford opened a bag he had with him and began to display some of the things he had brought, as did Kit and several of the other men. The tools and adornments were arrayed in shining rows, along with small sacks of flour, bread and pulses. Stafford spread his palms.

‘These are for the Croatans, given in friendship.’

Manteo swept his hand towards an elderly woman who advanced with dignity, speaking quietly as she did.

‘My mother says we accept in friendship and give to you in return.’

The lady sat down opposite Stafford, slowly and with genteel caution that suggested some stiffness in limbs that must have once moved gracefully. Her face was kind, marked by blue tattoos across her cheeks that followed the upward sweep of an open smile. Around her long, greying hair was a circlet of leather, and about her body was
a deerskin mantle, fringed and finished with dainty polished shells. The garment was gathered at the shoulder so it covered most of her breast. Her skin was deep brown and wrinkled, banded with markings around the upper arms and neck. She wore a necklace as well, one made of glass beads similar to those which Stafford had brought. When she smiled, to Emme’s surprise, she showed a full set of teeth.

Stafford rose up on one knee and bowed to her respectfully.

‘I am honoured, once again, to meet the mother of my friend, Manteo. Alsoomse, great lady of the Croatans, my
weroanca
, Queen Elizabeth, sends you greetings from England across the ocean.’

Emme’s eyes widened. So this lady was a leader; that shouldn’t have astounded her, but it did, even more than the sight of the bare-breasted maidens who gathered near, and the deerskin aprons they wore which covered their pudenda but not their buttocks, or the actions of the man behind Alsoomse who danced around as if possessed, wearing only a breechclout with a pouch swinging at his side from which he took herbs that he threw into the air. Stranger still, a small black bird flew close by his ear throughout all his leaping, and the puzzle was why it did, until she realised that the bird was dead and fixed to his hair by a network of threads.

On either side of Alsoomse squatted men of great age with the aura of priests, and their arms solemnly folded under rabbit-skin capes. They conversed in low voices, then the lady spoke and Manteo translated.

‘We are sorry that we did not receive you properly. Your kinsmen have attacked us when they have mistaken us for enemies, therefore we are cautious.’

Stafford frowned.

‘That should not have happened.’

Alsoomse raised an arm across her breast and touched her shoulder lightly, a gesture that seemed placating.

‘It is forgiven,’ the lady said through Manteo. ‘The attack took place on the mainland where your kinsmen did not expect us.’

One of the elderly men leant over to her, his arms still under his cape. They spoke together, heads bowed, then Alsoomse looked up.

‘We will show you what they did.’

She summoned a young man with feathers in his hair and he left at speed, dodging around the crowd. When he returned it was with a woman, and between them they carried an older man on a hide-and-wicker frame. The frame was lowered in front of Stafford so he could see the man’s withered legs. Emme saw them as well, and the scar of a bullet wound when the man was turned and uncovered: the neat round entry hole in his back, and the pale puckered skin over the wide tear of its exit. He must have been shot from behind.

‘When did this happen?’ Kit asked.

There was more consultation, then the answer came.

‘Over a year ago, in the time of new growth.’

Stafford leant forwards and cupped his chin, one elbow on his knee. ‘Some recompense should be made.’

‘It must have been Lane,’ Kit whispered to Emme.

Stafford spoke again to Manteo’s mother.

‘Let this wronged man have first choice of our gifts.’

‘That is fitting,’ she said, as her son translated with a nod of approval. ‘We ask you, please, for a token so that a mistake of this kind will not happen again.’