Elizabeth landed beside her. Jassy tried to sit. She tried to help her sister. Some of the Indians were scaling the wall with ropes; three of them landed in the hay wagon too. Jassy desperately sought balance, but the vehicle suddenly jolted and started moving.
The wagon made it to the entrance of the forest, where the trails suddenly narrowed. The Indians had been prepared, Jassy realized. A group of horses waited in the clearing. She was lifted, struggling and fighting, from the wagon. She was thrown atop a horse, and a brave leapt up behind her. She tried to bite his hand. He slapped her across the cheek, a stinging blow.
Dimly she realized that she could no longer hear Elizabeth.
She did hear a soft whisper. It was Hope. “Don’t fight him. This is Pocanough, and he will hurt you.”
“Elizabeth,” she murmured, dazed.
“Your sister has fainted. It is best for her.”
Jassy swallowed and went silent. The Indian nudged the horse, and the animal leapt high and began a frantic race into the forest.
Jassy leaned back and felt the wind and the slick nakedness of the brave’s chest, and she wished with all her heart that she, too, could pass out.
Jamie would come for her. Jamie would come …
If he did not lay dead in a pool of his own blood.
No, she could not believe it. He could not be dead. He could not. She would not be able to bear it if he was.
Tears spilled again from her eyes to her cheeks, but they went unnoticed, for the wind dried them even as they fell. She never would be able to lay down her pride and tell him that she loved him. She had been given everything in the world, and she had cast her heart to Robert Maxwell instead. And now she had lost even the opportunity to reach with all her heart for the things that once had been given to her so very freely.…
She closed her eyes against the wind, and in misery she endured the long and wretched ride.
It was all over but the burying, Jamie thought at last.
His white shirt was soaked in blood; his knife was caked with it. Indians lay about his feet in huge heaps, and his own men lay there too. How many had died? he wondered. Ten, twenty, maybe more?
He looked up at the spring sky, and he swore with a sudden vehemence. He had known! He had known not to trust Opechancanough! The wily chief had sent men slowly to befriend them, and then to murder and decimate those friends.
“My God! You have slain them all!”
It was Sir Cedric talking to him. Allen came rushing up at his side, cleaning the blade of his sword. He was glad that the knights had been with him during the bloodbath. They were brave fighters, and trained to the challenge. The Indians had attacked so stealthily that many would not have stood a chance against them.
Jamie looked down at the ground again. How many men had he killed himself? Ten, twenty? He did not know. Somewhere in the fierce struggle he had lost all sense of humanity. He had fought blindly, and with a blood lust of his own. They had attacked his home. They had attacked his palisade, and God help them, they had attacked his wife.
Suddenly he smelled smoke. He pulled Cedric close to him. “There are more of them. More of them, in the complex!”
“Come on!” Allen cried.
Men—the last of the trained and armed soldiers, the artisans and laborers forced into being warriors—followed behind as they all raced through the streets. The place was alive once again with survivors crawling about the streets, wailing over their dead, seeking out the wounded. The blacksmith’s wife assured them that the Indians were gone from the compound. “There were but few who made it this deep, Lord Cameron.”
That encouraged Jamie. He wanted to see Jassy. He wanted to take her into his arms and shudder and tell her that it was terrible, that he had seen so much death, that he had killed so much himself. He wanted to assure her first. He wanted to swear that he would take her home. He wanted to beg her forgiveness and ask humbly if they might have a chance to start all over again. He would bring her back to the manor in England, and even when he felt the urge to come back to this land, he would never expect it of her. Mostly he just wanted to hold her, and he wanted to hold his son.
“Lord Cameron!” a man cried. “ ’Tis Sir William!”
“What?” Jamie cried. He hurried forward toward the man and knelt down upon one knee. His heart congealed. It was Sir William, slain. He had died fighting, for even as the blood had seeped from his great heart, he had brought down his opponent with him. A brave, with Sir William’s blade through his gut, lay atop him.
Jamie quickly crossed himself. Prayer eluded him, but he knew that God would welcome such a brave spirit as Sir William. He clenched his teeth together tightly in pain for his good friend, then he came quickly to his feet, a new anguish searing through him.
“My wife. My God, he was escorting my wife!”
He tore down the street, and then he realized from where the smell of fire came. His whole street had been set to the torch.
His stomach lurched, and he stared at the flaming buldings. Behind him, someone called out orders to squelch the fire.
Jamie started to run again. He raced through the heat and the smoke for the church. As he reached it the doors opened, and Father Steven led his flock out to greet him.
“Lord Cameron, have we come through our test in the wilderness?”
“It is over,” Jamie said curtly, staring into the crowd, into the smudged faces that met his. He saw Lenore and Robert. They were huddled together. There were many people there, many, many people. Jassy had saved them, he thought. She had remembered the alarm, and the people had surged into the church. The death toll would stand at twenty or thirty, he was certain, but most of the people had survived the attack, thanks to his wife’s quick thinking—and courage.
“Where is she?” he said aloud. He gripped Father Steven’s arms, and the man paled and did not answer him. He stepped forward into the church, reaching Lenore and Robert. “Where is she?” he repeated.
Then he heard the cry. Daniel’s cry. He turned around, hope filling his breast, and he was instantly grateful to see his son.
But it was not Jassy holding the boy. It was the servant girl, Charity.
“Where is Jassy?” he demanded in a rage.
Charity shuddered. Jamie pulled the child from the girl’s arms, holding him close. Daniel continued to cry, the sound echoing the howl in Jamie’s heart. “Where in God’s name is my wife!” he demanded.
It was Charity who answered him at last. She stumbled forward and sobbed out her story. They had come to the house, the Indians had, two men. They had come with gifts of pumpkin bread, and they had found Amy in the garden. Amy had brought them in, and one had taken the spade and killed her with it, and the other had taken the fire poker and slain Charity’s sister, and then they had gone up the stairs. Charity had hidden, and she had stayed beneath her bed until the girl, Hope, had come and pulled her out. And then she had seen Lady Cameron, all covered in blood, her hair tumbling around her in awful disarray, but still very calm, her chin high and her shoulders straight.
“She had me take the babe, and she ordered me to bring him out, and she warned me that she’d have my hide were he hurt. Oh, milord! I ran, I was so scared. She made me. She said that they were going to burn the house. She knew it. She was holding up her sister, for Lady Elizabeth, she was so scared.”
Lenore started crying softly. She fell into one of the pews. “They will slay them, they will kill them both! Oh, my God, Jamie, I have heard what they do with their captives—oh, dear God!”
Jamie stood very still, holding his screaming son. He cast back his head and let out a single cry of anguish, a sound more savage than any heard from the primitive tribes.
Then he clenched his teeth and drew his son to him tightly. He held him that way for a long moment, then he gave the child into Lenore’s arms. “Care for him with Charity.”
“As I would my own,” Lenore mumbled, cradling the baby. Daniel continued to cry. Jamie turned away, r
ipping open the pews and carefully arming himself.
Robert stepped forward. “Jamie, what are you doing?”
Jamie looked at him. “I am going after my wife.”
“Wait. Wait until help has come from Jamestown, or from the Bermuda Hundred, or—”
“We do not know that there is any help to come,” Jamie said.
Robert swallowed in fear. “I will come with you,” he managed to gasp out at last. Jamie looked at his friend and slowly shook his head. “No, stay here. And you, too, Cedric, Allen. We haven’t the power to fight the entire Powhatan Confederacy. If I am to get Jassy and Elizabeth back, it will be by stealth or negotiation. I am best off alone, and you are best off repairing our lives here, and mourning what we have lost.”
He gathered what weapons he wanted, then turned away. people followed him from the church as he left it.
Thankfully the stables had not been burned: The house, and all the fine riches that Jassy had so cherished, were nothing but ashes. He stepped past the burning refuse and entered the stable and chose his own horse, Windwalker. He leapt upon the nervous stallion and started out of the complex.
“Jamie!”
As he urged his mount forward Sir Allen caught up with him, offering him a clean shirt and an unstained leather jerkin. He paused, taking them, and changed. When he was done, he smiled to his friend. “Thank you.”
The people followed in turn. They offered him a water flask, and dried beef, and whatever else they could find that he might need. Sir Allen brought him a strong bow and a quiver of arrows.
At the gate to the palisade he turned and looked upon the smudged, bloodied, and anxious faces. They were all his friends, he thought. His people, his friends, and even before assessing their own losses, they were eager to minimize his. He looked over the tired and weary faces, and in them he saw strength. They would build again, they would build anew. They would bury their dead, but they would stay, and they would make the land theirs, make it good.
He lifted a hand to them all in acknowledgment, then turned Windwalker around and nudged the stallion into a gallop, westward, toward the forest, toward the Indian nations of the Powhatan Confederacy.
XVIII
They traveled all through the day and into the darkness, and when the rugged journey ended at last, Jassy was close to unconsciousness. She could not stand when the brave dismounted from his horse, and despite herself, she fell into his arms. She was lifted and carried along, until they came to the largest of their curious, long, arched-roof houses. There were many, many Indians there. They followed along behind her, laughing and making derisive noises. Thankfully she was oblivious of them. They spat toward the ground, but they did not touch her. The brave pushed them away, and she was brought into the house, and Elizabeth was carried in behind her. There was a sudden and curious silence. Someone spoke, and she was laid down. She heard a rustle of movement, and then an Indian was staring down at her. She tried very hard to focus upon him. He was nearly naked, dressed like the others in a breechclout, and wearing a strand of beads and shells about his neck. Dark hair fell to his shoulders and was parted neatly in the center of his head. His eyes were incredibly dark, and the very strength of his features was arresting. Startled, Jassy dampened her lips and tried to speak. “Powan!” she whispered.
“Cameron’s woman,” he said in acknowledgment. His face wavered before her, then disappeared. He came back to her, shoving a water bowl into her hands. Gratefully she tried to drink, having little strength left. He lifted her head for her. The water was good. He let her sink back to the floor.
He rose then, walked to the entrance to his house, and spoke sternly to his people. Jassy was then dimly aware that he was arguing fiercely with the brave who had brought her in, the Indian Pocanough.
While the argument went on, Jassy heard a rustling, and then someone came close to her. She opened her eyes again. It was Hope.
“Pocanough says that you are his hostage. He took you. It is for him to decide if you should be tortured and killed, and if not, you should be his captive, his slave.”
Jassy shivered uncontrollably. She was miserable and exhausted, and her breasts pained her mercilessly, swollen terribly because she had not nursed Daniel since early morning. Her head hurt and her thighs hurt, and her body seemed alive with agony, and still she didn’t want to die.
And certainly not the way that the Pamunkees brought about death. Bashing their victim’s skulls in upon their sacrificial rocks or altars. Or dismembering them and roasting their limbs one by one, disemboweling them while they lived …
“Oh, God!” she whispered. She tried to sit up. Hope helped her. Elizabeth was on a pallet, not far away. She inched over toward her sister. Elizabeth was still pale, her eyes closed. Jassy felt for her wrist and found that her heart was still beating. It was better this way. Elizabeth was being spared the awful agony of not knowing their plight.
“Powan comes back!” Hope whispered. “They will do nothing to you tonight. They will let you sleep.”
Jassy came back to where they had lain her. She stretched out and closed her eyes. She sensed the presence of the Pamunkee chief as he came over to her, staring down at her. He said something to Hope, and Hope answered him softly in return. He made a sniffling sound and turned away from her. He sat before the open fire with the smoke hole above it in the center of his house. He snapped out some order—a command for Hope to come forward, for that was what she did. Something was cooking, and Jassy thought that he ordered Hope to prepare him a dish of food, for she did that too.
For the longest time Jassy lay awake, listening. She thought about escaping, but she knew that she hadn’t the strength, and that she could bring Powan’s wrath down upon her when he seemed to be her only chance of survival.
Finally Powan stretched out.
Soon she heard even breathing. He slept.
Looking back over the day, Jassy longed to rise, find his knife, and slit his throat. She trembled with the thought, aching to do so. But someone would come and slay her in turn. And they would slay Elizabeth, too, and maybe even Hope for good measure.
She didn’t want to die. She wanted to live to return to her son, and to Jamie. If he lived.
If he lived.
She rolled over in a horrible agony. She had never wanted him so badly in her life. She wanted to pray, but she wasn’t even able to do so.
Finally, restlessly, tears damp upon her cheeks, she slept.
The morning began with pure terror.
She awakened to the sound of raucous screaming. Opening her eyes, she saw a dozen Indian women staring down at her. They laughed at her, pulled at her hair, and spit at her dress. They were doing the same to Elizabeth. She heard her sister cry out in distress.
Her temper flared and exploded. Jassy leapt to her feet, snarling, and hurtled herself at the young woman who attempted to remove her hair from her head. She managed to bring the Indian maid down to the ground before Powan returned to the tent, and the women all fell silent. Powan came to her, dragging her off the maiden.
“Cameron’s woman, you will behave,” he told her.
“Tell her to behave!” Jassy snapped. Then she remembered that her life hung in the balance, and she locked her jaw. She still met his eyes. He smiled and shoved her back at the women.
“They will not hurt you. You wear the blood of our warriors, and that offends them. You will be bathed and cleansed, and that is all.”
“That is all?” she whispered hopefully.
“For now,” he said forebodingly. But she was to get no more from him. He left his house, and the women latched on to her arms. Elizabeth, too, was escorted from the house on the arms of the women.
They were taken past a village center. There was an interesting circle of poles and ashes there, and a large rock. The rock was red, bloodstained. Jassy paled, knowing what the rock was—the “altar” where men’s heads were caved in. The sickening smell of fire and ash was still on the air.
Sh
e almost fell, buckling over with such strength that the women had to jerk her back to her feet. They had not been the only prisoners of the Pamunkee the previous night. Some captives had already met their fates upon the rock, and in the tortuous flames.
“Oh, God!” Elizabeth gasped.
“Come on, quickly, move, don’t look!” Jassy urged her. She screwed up her own eyes until they entered into a trail of trees, and from there they came to a brook. Jassy shook herself free from the woman who held her, anxious to reach Elizabeth. She was too late. Elizabeth was violently sick, right into the bushes. Jassy held her up, smoothing back her hair, waiting for the spasm to die.
“It’s all right, it’s all right—” Jassy said.
“No, no, it’s not. It is what they’re going to do to us! I read John Smith’s reports of the murder of John Calvin. They were in your house. I read them … I read about the Indians. They are going to torture and kill us just the same—”
“No, no, they’re not. Powan won’t let them.”
“Powan will light the fires,” Elizabeth said.
“Jamie will come,” Jassy said.
She was wrenched away from Elizabeth. The women set upon them both, tearing and ripping at their clothing until they were both left shivering and naked and panting from the fight they had waged. They were shoved into the water then. The cold was shocking. Jassy rose, gasping for air. They were quickly joined by the women, who did not seem to feel the cold of the brook. Then they were set upon again, and scrubbed thoroughly with handfuls of sand and stones. Jassy hated every touch. Her breasts were in agony that morning, overflowing. No matter how she screamed and fought, they, too, were viciously scrubbed.
Finally, exhausted and panting, she and Elizabeth were left upon rocks to dry beneath the sun. Then they were given short, leather, apronlike dresses to wear, like the other women. They were not given shoes. Jassy thought that they were kept barefoot to hinder escape attempts, since most of the women did wear soft leather moccasins.