The Pelican Bride (42 page)

Tonight, she was not bound to give counsel to these pigheaded Frenchmen. They were the enemies of her mother’s people, whatever their chief, Byah-Vee-Yah, liked to proclaim. She could refuse to go with them, return to the Apalachee village for her children, and wait for battle to seal her allegiances.

She laid the backs of her fingers against Mah-Kah-Twah’s forehead, as she did when her boys were ill. Was his skin perhaps a little cooler, or was that wishful thinking? His facial bones were prominent beneath his fine dark beard, his lips cracked. She poured a little water from her canteen onto her fingers and wet his mouth.

Her heart was drawn to this man. She had helped deliver him to his own people, despite her fear of Mitannu. And she did not want to leave him—as he had once left her. Revenge would bring only bitterness.

He claimed he had not taken a white woman to wife. But neither
was he likely to take an Indian woman for more than a mistress. And Nika would not share him.

She thought about her conversations with Ginette. She was ashamed now that she had not allowed her friend to pray with her about her deepest desire. Ginette had shyly told her about her marriage to Mah-Kah-Twah’s brother. Her respect and affection for Tree-Stah was clear, and he seemed to hold Ginette in equal regard.

Would that God had granted her such a mate.

But, as Ginette had said, sometimes God said
no
. Nika only wished that God would speak with an audible voice so that she could know his will.

She looked down at Mah-Kah-Twah and found his eyes open and clear.

He smiled at her. “I dreamed you were here.”

She felt her cheeks heat. “You are better. Your shoulder no longer bleeds.”

“Where’s my brother?”

“I will get him. He asked to see you when you awoke.”

He licked his dry lips. “Could I have a drink of water first?”

“Of course!” Angry with herself that she had become so flustered under the regard of a pair of black eyes, she uncorked the canteen and lifted his head to drink.

“Thank you. My brother. Hurry, Nika.”

She corked the canteen, rose and hurried into the other room. The French leaders were all seated around a long oaken table, Byah-Vee-Yah at one end and Tree-Stah at the other. To her relief, she did not see Du-Fren.

Tree-Stah looked up when she approached him. “How is my brother?”

“Awake and asking for you.”

He shoved his chair back. “I’ll be back.” He followed Nika into the side room.

Mah-Kah-Twah had pushed himself to a sitting position. He held his injured shoulder, panting a little.

Nika rushed to him. “No, you must not. You will make yourself black out again.”

“I’m better. I have to talk to my brother.” He looked annoyed, which was a good sign.

She nodded and stepped back, but she didn’t leave the room, and he didn’t ask her to. He seemed to accept that she was part of whatever he had to say to Tree-Stah.

Tree-Stah knelt near the bed and searched Mah-Kah-Twah’s face. “You’re looking better, my brother,” he said. “Your nurse has taken good care of that wound. You are very lucky.”

Mah-Kah-Twah met Nika’s eyes. “I know. I would have died if she hadn’t found me right away.” Then he looked at his brother. “She found Father Mah-Tu’s book. Have you seen it?”

Tree-Stah frowned. “No. Do you mean the one he had me draw pictures in?”

“Yes.” Mah-Kah-Twah caught Nika’s hand. “Where is it? Will you get it?”

“Of course.” She reached to the end of the bed for the priest’s satchel. Loosening the leather string that gathered it at the top, she reached inside for the journal and handed it to Tree-Stah.

He held it in his hands for a moment, his thumb rubbing its scarred leather cover. Pinching his lips together, Tree-Stah opened the book and fanned the pages. “What am I looking for?”

Mah-Kah-Twah’s expression was tense. “Father Mah-Tu told me early on in the journey that if anything happened to him, I was to give the book to you, and the painting of the Madonna over his bed to Jon-a-Vev.”

“Did he say why?”

Mah-Kah-Twah studied his brother for a long moment. “I assumed he told you.”

“That our mother was seduced by a selfish aristocrat when she
was just a young girl?” Tree-Stah gave him an odd smile. “You of all people should know that is not so unusual.”

Mah-Kah-Twah flushed and gave Nika a guilty glance. “I’m no aristocrat. And if I had known . . . well, if I had thought it possible, I would have stayed or brought her with me.”

“Ifs are useless, little brother. And as I told Father Mah-Tu, I don’t need an empty French title when my life is here.”

“The title might not be as empty as you think—especially since a fortune comes along with it. That’s what the journal outlines.” Mah-Kah-Twah leaned forward, eyes intent on his brother’s face. “The King’s support of this colony hinges on decisions he makes in other theaters of war, and our survival hinges on when and to what extent the royal coffers open to support us. As Mah-Tu said, Louis is capricious about who he listens to—and the right man in the right place of influence could make all the difference in the direction France goes as a nation—Louisiane being only one small part of it.”

Tree-Stah looked away. “My unwanted father already has a legitimate heir.”

“Who is by all accounts a lazy, spoiled spendthrift. He’s run through his allowance regularly since he gained his majority.” Mah-Kah-Twah leveled a finger at his brother. “Which is why the Comte sent Father Mah-Tu. He knew, if you were the man he hoped, then you would have to be persuaded.”

“I will read the journal,” Tree-Stah said reluctantly. “But what is the significance of the painting? My wife is a Reformist, and they’re not fond of artistic representations of the saints.”

“The document legitimizing you is inside the Madonna’s frame.” Mah-Kah-Twah lay back with a weary sigh. “Tristan, you must take this opportunity seriously.”

Nika stood up then. “Tree-Stah, your brother is very ill. He should rest before you move him.”

“You are right.” Tree-Stah stood as well. “Will you walk with me to the door, Nika?”

She looked down. Mah-Kah-Twah had closed his eyes and was already breathing deeply.

Tree-Stah stopped just inside the door, blocking her way. “I’m going to ask you again. Why were you following our contingent into Alabama territory?”

She looked at her hands, clasped loosely at her waist. “I was not following you.” That was the truth.

“Then why were you there?”

“I was going to visit my family in the Kaskaskian village.”

“Without your children.” It was not a question. “I don’t believe you.”

“I left them with my friend. Chazeh had been ill.” Also true. She glanced back at Mah-Kah-Twah’s sleeping form. She had braved considerable danger to keep him alive. If she did not tell everything she knew, the risk she had endured would be all for nothing, because the French would be overcome by the British—Mah-Kah-Twah and his brother included.

Her fingers twisted. If she told, she might never see her children again.

She looked up into Tree-Stah’s eyes, marveling that a countenance could be so hard and so compassionate all at once. He said nothing, only waited for her to decide—
truth
or
lie
. This was a good man, a strong man like Mah-Kah-Twah. A man who considered the safety and well-being of others above his own.

She was tired of being a pawn of cruel and selfish tyrants. “I have Jon-a-Vev’s letter. You are right not to trust Du-Fren.
He
is the British spy, not your wife.”

“But she wrote—”

She waved an impatient hand. “She wrote a message to the man who saved her life—this Kah-Vah-Yeh—and gave it to me for the
father in Carolina. But I also have a letter from Du-Fren to the English commander at Charles Towne.” She slipped the priest’s satchel off her shoulder, took out both letters and handed them to Tree-Stah. “See for yourself.”

She watched him read Du-Fren’s letter first, his expression darkening.

At the end of the letter, he looked up. “He tells them that we are short of food, that the powder magazine is depleted and likely to flood in the first hard rain. That the settlement is divided into factions for and against Bienville, and the Crown is losing interest in the colony.”

“Yes. So you see what this man is capable of. He thinks to be safely away before the British muster an attack. But not with the Koasati as your commander thinks. They are arming Kaskaskians in the northeast—my own mother’s people. When the southern Indian peoples and the French are divided and weakened, the British and their allies will come in and crush you all.”

“How do you know this?” he demanded. “Can you prove it?”

“One of my agents at the Apalachee village informed me.” She spread her hands. “But do you really need me to prove it? Haven’t you known for some time that the English have been working to split and stir up the Indian tribes against one another and against France? Du-Fren thinks to control me by threatening my family. But my children are where he cannot touch them. I will no longer live in fear of cowards and traitors.”

Tree-Stah stared at her, his tired, bearded face grim. “How old is this information?”

“As of yesterday.”

He absently crumpled the letter in his hand. “Bienville must know,” he muttered and wheeled to stride into the main room. But he caught his hand on the doorframe and looked back at her. “Thank you. I’ll make sure you and your family are protected.”

She nodded as he left, at last feeling some measure of peace.
Whether she lived or died, she had cleared her conscience. God would be pleased with this obedience. She turned to take up her vigil beside Mah-Kah-Twah, seating herself cross-legged at his feet. Bending her head, she closed her eyes. The most painful part would be leaving him when the time came. She had already paid a harsh price for giving herself to him, and her heart could not bear to pay it again. Slow tears escaped to drip upon her hands.

God have
mercy on me.

23

I
’m not convinced this woman is telling the truth about a British attack.” Bienville pushed his hands into his disordered hair. His eyes were opaque with worry, permanent lines of anxiety etched beside his nose and between his brows.

Tristan thought his old friend seemed to have aged ten years in the last twenty-four hours. Indeed he could feel his own weariness pressing like a hundred-pound weight upon his shoulders. Leaving Geneviève curled in an exhausted sleep on an improvised pallet in a corner of Bienville’s office, he had slogged across the settlement through the mud and the rain to the priests’ quarters. There he found Father Henri and Father Albert occupied in the futile activity of bailing water from their common room. It didn’t take much to convince them to abandon their task and retreat to higher ground. Tristan had found Father Mathieu’s painting of the Madonna above his bed, escorted the seminary priests to the tavern, and then reported back to headquarters. After nearly forty-eight hours without sleep, he was literally swaying on his feet.

But one glance into the officers’ quarters—where his brother sat
up eating a little broth from the spoon Nika held to his lips—filled him with fresh courage and determination.

“You have Dufresne’s letter, and Nika has no reason to lie,” he said. “In fact, every reason to say nothing at all.”

Bienville stood, pushing his hands against his knees. “We’re settled in this bog because I didn’t listen to you four years ago. But if we take no action and the Koasati find us holed up here like sheep in a pen . . .” He grimaced. “I don’t have to tell you the massacre upriver will be nothing compared to the bloodbath we can—”

The outer door burst open, and Raindrop, the little Indian slave girl who used to follow Geneviève about, catapulted into the room.

“Monsieur L-Lanier!” Raindrop stood dripping, shivering just inside the door. “Mademoiselle Aimée told me to stay home, s-sir, and I’m sorry to be a disobedient slave—but, but she wouldn’t b-believe me!”

Bienville gave the little girl an impatient look. “Why are you out and about at this time of night, girl? Does your mistress know where you are?”

Raindrop shook her wet head. “No sir, but it is an emergency! I had to come before he does something terrible to her!”

Tristan stooped to one knee and beckoned the child. “Come here, Raindrop. Slow down and begin at the beginning. Who is in danger?”

“Mademoiselle Aimée!” Raindrop rushed to Tristan. “She was dressed in men’s clothes, so I knew something funny was going on. She finally told me she planned to meet Monsieur Dufresne—” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, I wasn’t supposed to tell that either!”

Tristan covered a smile. “Never mind, you did the right thing to come to me. Continue, please.”

Raindrop glanced at Bienville. “You won’t put me in the guardhouse, will you, sir?”

The commander’s eyes twinkled in spite of his obvious irritation. “Not unless you killed someone.”

“Not me—Monsieur Dufresne!”

Bienville’s expression darkened. “You had best explain.”

“Yes, sir. Mademoiselle sent me to tell Monsieur Dufresne that she would be there soon, though I think she was just trying to get rid of me. When I got there, I saw him arguing with that big Mobile Indian—I hear him called Mitannu—over money.”

Bienville made a chopping motion with his hand. “Dufresne is a supply officer. His job is trading with the Indians.”

Raindrop looked confused, but Tristan caught her face to make her look at him. “Never mind, what happened next?”

Her big dark eyes filled with anguish. “Mitannu said he killed Lanier and the priest! Oh, Monsieur—I’m so very sorry. I know he meant your brother—”

“But as you can see, I’m very much alive.” Marc-Antoine leaned in the doorway, looking more like Lazarus come from the grave than a decorated officer of His Majesty’s marine.

“Marc! Go lie down before you fall down!”

Marc-Antoine gave Tristan a wan grin. “I’m finding it rather difficult to sleep when reports of my demise are being so grievously exaggerated.”