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THE FOLLOWING WEEK was a whirlwind of activity. Noah’s fellow traders were at the house for such long periods every day Catherine began to feel she’d married three men instead of one. The traders appeared in the early morn and did not depart until late at night. Even Lanneika’s sweet temper was tested as the men ordered her about as if she were a slave. More than once, when one or another of them, including Noah, issued a particularly stern order to the girl, Lanneika flung a helpless gaze at Catherine, who knew the girl didn’t understand exactly what had been asked of her.
“I’ll take care of it, Lanneika. You may go to the stream for more water.”
The trader’s loud talking as they argued over their itinerary also interfered with her attempt to hear the children recite their lessons. By mid-week, Catherine insisted the men take their rowdy discussions outdoors.
“Catherine, you are being rude to Sharpe and Tidwell,” Noah accused late one night after the men had finally taken their leave and he’d joined Catherine in their bedchamber where she was already tucked into bed.
“I don’t understand why you cannot meet at one of their homes. Neither are married and there would be no one to disturb.” She patted the bedclothes about her irritably. “It is quite disconcerting to have the children reciting verses from the Anglican Prayer Book while across the room three grown men are cursing at one another!”
“You could give up your school!” He removed his doublet and hung it on a peg. “You have a husband to take care of now.”
“Don’t be cross, Noah.”
“Truth is, I’m not that fond of children.”
In the dim light, Catherine stared at her husband with disbelief. “Mayhap that is why you did not bring little Livvy with you?”
“Livvy belongs to the Bensons. I hardly consider her my child.”
Catherine sniffed. “Well, I hope that will not be the case with our child.”
He crawled into bed beside her. “Of course not. I’ve always wanted to get a babe on you. Though when the time comes,” his tone grew stern, “I’m counting on you to give me a son.”
“I will do my best to please you, Noah,” she replied coolly.
He reached to pull her toward him, somewhat roughly, saying, “You may begin by pleasing me now, wench.”
She did not struggle as he tugged her night rail above her thighs, though a part of her recoiled at the moniker he used so frequently when addressing her. “I am not your wench,” she murmured crossly, “I am your wife.”
His mouth came down hard on hers. Drawing away, he muttered, “Yer all wenches to me.”
* * * *
AS THEY BROKE THEIR fast the next morning at the board table, he announced, “We leave in two days’ time.”
“Oh, Noah.” Catherine looked up from her trencher of corn pudding. “How long will you be away?”
“Hard to say with so many uncertainties. We’ll spend today and tomorrow gathering what we can from the planters in order to have something to trade.”
Later that morning, Noah was away when Ed Henley appeared at the door. The man looked as unkempt as ever, Catherine thought, as she hurried from where the children were reciting their lessons to speak to the man hovering on the threshold.
“I done brung what yer husband wonted.”
Looking past him into the street, Catherine saw his ox hitched to a flatbed wagon loaded with jugs of what she assumed was his home-brewed ale.
“I . . . suppose you can put it in the shed . . . or, perhaps, Noah needed the use of your ox and wagon to take the . . . it to the dugout.” Noah had not apprised her of his plans so she didn’t know how he meant to transport the firewater.
“I’ll jes tie ole Zeke up out back and yer husband can use m’ ox and wagon.” He turned to go.
A few minutes later, Ed surprised Catherine by actually entering the house. Again occupied with the children, she turned expectantly toward the man.
“Was there . . . something else?”
“You tell yer husband ta’ bring back m’ empty jugs! I tole him ta’ tell them Indians they had ta’ pour the ale in they own jars cuz I wont my containers back.”
Keeping her tone civil, Catherine replied, “I’ll tell him, Ed.” When he departed, her eyes rolled heavenward. Dear Lord, what would the children say to their parents about this?
* * * *
“IT WAS SIMPLY DREADFUL, Noah!” she exclaimed when he returned to the house that afternoon. “He was all but shouting in front of the children that he wanted his empty ale jugs back, and for me to remind you to tell the Indians they had to use their own containers!”
Noah, busy polishing his breastplate, didn’t look up. “I can’t tell the Indians that.”
“Did you tell Ed you would bring his empty ale jugs back?”
He nodded. “He wouldn’t give me the ale unless I promised to return the empties to him. But I can’t very well tell the Indians they have to pour the ale into another container before they drink it!”
Despite the fact that she’d caught her husband in yet another lie, Catherine couldn’t help grinning over the silliness of this matter. Her grin soon became a giggle.
Noah looked up. “What do you find so amusing?”
“Do you ever tell the truth, Noah?”
His grin turned cocky. “When it suits me.”
That night, she snuggled against his strong chest, wanting to relish the comforting feel of his warm body next to hers. Despite the chaos that had ensued the past week readying him for his journey, she knew she’d sorely miss him the many long nights he was away.
And nights did prove the worst, for after she’d managed to get through the long days alone, at night she could not help wondering if Noah and the other traders were not bedded down somewhere in the forest with a pretty Indian maid to keep them warm. She would never ask Noah since she knew he’d most likely deny it. Or become angry. At some point, she meant to bring up the subject of Pamoac’s paternity, but for now she felt unsure how to talk to him about such a sensitive topic.
One day Lanneika boldly asked about it. “Trader-man not know Pamoac his boy?”
The two were outdoors spreading wet linens over the shrubbery to dry.
Catherine didn’t look up. “I don’t know, Lanneika.”
She had often wondered herself if Pamoac had been told his father was a light-skin. She had noticed the boy’s dark eyes following Noah’s tall form as he walked here and there about the house, most especially the day the men left. All three traders were finely turned out in their shiny breastplates, tall black leather boots and helmets with bright red plumes. Noah’s breastplate sported a fringe of mail that jingled when he walked. Catherine thought he’d looked especially handsome as well, so it may have merely been the tall Tassentasse’s striking appearance that arrested the Indian boy’s notice.
“I no tell brother you marry trader-man,” Lanneika said now.
Catherine’s head jerked up. “Why ever not?”
Lanneika pulled one of Noah’s white linen shirts from the pile. “Phyrahawque not like trader-man,” she said quietly.
“I . . . didn’t realize they knew one another.”
“Phyrahawque say trader-man sassacomuwah.”
Catherine smiled tightly. “I don’t know what that word means, Lanneika.” And she wasn’t certain she wanted to.
Her black eyes somber, the pretty Indian girl dropped to her knees and, with the edge of one brown hand, traced a wavy in-and-out pattern in the grass.
Her meaning was clear, and it pierced Catherine’s heart like a sword. And heightened her worry over her new husband’s safety. Although, she told herself, it shouldn’t surprise her that her charming, good-looking husband had made enemies amongst the Indians. No one liked a man who habitually misled them or told falsehoods. Here was yet one more thing to speak with Noah about . . . eventually.
* * * *
ONE EVENING BEFORE Lanneika left for the day, she told Catherine it was now time to plant corn, and she’d help with the task the following morning.
Catherine agreed, thinking that as it turned out, she’d had nothing to fear from Noah regarding who tilled up her cornfield. Since the night of the meeting with the governor and councilmen, Noah hadn’t said another word about land, or tobacco, or planting anything. And with all the confusion and chaos of getting ready for his expedition, Catherine had forgotten to mention that Ed had helped her weeks ago by tilling up the field. She doubted they’d ever see Ed Henley again once he learned he wouldn’t be getting his empty ale jugs back.
The next morning, Lanneika surprised Catherine by bringing a smelly, cloth-covered basket with her when she arrived for the day.
“What do you have in there?” Catherine asked, pinching her nostrils together.
Lanneika giggled. “Nammais. For plant corn.”
Catherine still didn’t know what the word meant, but by lifting the corner of the cloth she found out. Fish. For the nonce, she decided not to inquire why fish were necessary for planting corn.
By the time Lanneika was finished with her morning chores, it was also near time for the children to depart, so after they’d gone for the day, she and Lanneika hurriedly ate a bite, then headed toward the cleared plot of land that fronted the forest.
Lanneika seemed to enjoy being the authority in the matter and showing Catherine how to perform a new task. She placed the basket of fish on the ground beside Catherine’s container of corn kernels. Both fell to their knees, and Lanneika demonstrated how much soil to scoop into a mound, how to punch a hole in the top and drop in precisely five kernels of corn. Before covering the kernels with soil, she also laid one small fish alongside the corn.
Catherine still wasn’t certain what part the fish played in the ritual, but rather than try to understand what she expected would be a lengthy explanation from Lanneika given, or acted out, in her own language, she simply went along. However, the mystery was cleared up when Goody Smithfield stopped by.
“Ye putting in five kernels, are ye?” The older woman peered over Catherine’s shoulder.
Catherine looked up and replied in a friendly manner. “Indeed, we are.”
“One for the blackbird, one for the crow, one for the cutworm, and two to grow,” the woman sang gaily.
“I confess I’m not certain what the fish is for,” Catherine admitted.
“Fertilizer. Makes the cornstalks grow tall and straight.” Goody Smithfield leaned over and inspected the remaining fish in the basket. “Herring.” She nodded approval. “Your girl has showed you a-right. Stalks should shoot up straight and tall in a fortnight. Now, when they get about this tall . . .” she marked a place in the air about three feet high, “it’ll be time to plant yer squash and yer beans. Cornstalks make good beanpoles, don’t ye know?”
“Ah.” Catherine turned back to her task.
“Yer husband gone, has he?”
“He and the other traders left some time ago.”
“Well, I wish ’em Godspeed. Important we get this Indian business sorted out.”
“Indeed. Thank you for stopping by, Goody Smithfield.”
With no more interruptions that long afternoon, by sundown the planting was nearly done. As the shadows lengthened, Catherine finally looked up and was startled to find that she and Lanneika were being watched. At precisely the same spot where she’d first seen him, Lanneika’s brother Phyrahawque was sitting astride his huge white stallion, neither horse nor rider moving, neither making a sound. Though she was some distance away from the handsome brave, Catherine could see the Indian’s piercing black eyes were aimed straight at her.
“Lanneika,” she said softly. “Your brother is here.”
“I know. I tell him sacani.”
Catherine blinked. “Sacani?”
“I tell him wait.”
Catherine looked back at Phyrahawque. She hadn’t heard the girl utter a single word. Were brother and sister able to communicate without speaking?
A few minutes later, Lanneika brushed the loose dirt from her hands and skirt, scooped up the empty fish basket and scampered toward her brother, who still sat unmoving atop his white horse. Catherine also rose, but made no move to return to the house. Instead, she stood watching the pair. When the pretty Indian girl turned to look back at her, she waved good-bye. The next thing that happened both surprised and amazed her.
After Phyrahawque had lifted his sister onto the horse and settled her in front of him, the Indian brave turned full around, looked straight at Catherine, and . . . nodded. Then, he dug his heels into the steed’s side, and the enormous white stallion sprang into action, disappearing like a streak of lightning into the woods.
As Catherine walked back toward the house, she marveled over what she’d witnessed. It was apparent Phyrahawque both loved and felt protective of his younger sister. Lanneika had a sweet temperament and was bright and playful. Catherine imagined her to be much like Pocahontas at that age, enjoying a simple, peaceful life with her family in the forest.
It worried her what Phyrahawque would do when he learned his enemy, the hated trader-man, now resided in the same house where his beloved little sister spent every day.
* * * *
ON ONE ESPECIALLY WARM May morning, Lanneika arrived wearing her shiny black hair in a single thick braid hanging down the middle of her back.
By noon, in an attempt to cool off, Catherine had untied and removed the sleeves of her bodice. She also twisted her own long hair up and tried to stuff it under the tidy white cap she wore. But, as she and Lanneika pulled weeds from the garden, her auburn tresses continued to escape the confines of her soft white cap. Which began to make Lanneika giggle.
Eventually, she said, “Come. I fix.”
Grinning mischievously, the Indian girl motioned for Catherine to follow her into the house. So, Catherine did.
Lanneika led the way into Catherine’s bedchamber and, positioning the one ladder-backed chair in the room before the opened window, indicated for Catherine to sit. They had left the front door open so any breeze that might waft through the house would drift toward the opened window in the bedchamber.
Lanneika snatched up Catherine’s hairbrush and, after removing her cap, began to brush her long, red-gold hair. Enjoying the feel of having her hair brushed, Catherine lowered her head and closed her eyes.
“Phyrahawque say you beautiful. He say your hair like sun-flame.”
Catherine’s eyes sprang open. “Oh. That was . . . nice of him.” She wasn’t certain how to respond to a compliment from an Indian brave, especially considering she was now a married woman. “I did not realize your brother knew English words.” Perhaps Phyrahawque hadn’t conveyed exactly that sentiment.
“He know plenty words. He learn when boy. He now know numbers. I teach. He know you name Cat-e-wren. He say Cat-e-wren beautiful. Like flower.”
Catherine inhaled sharply. Were she to express her true feelings, she would have to say she thought Phyrahawque beautiful as well. Instead, she thought she and Lanneika should talk of other things. “Do you . . . have a garden at your home? With flowers? And corn?”
“Much corn.” Lanneika nodded. “When corn ripe, I show how make . . . ” Moving to stand in front of Catherine, she began to pound one fist into the palm of her other hand.
Watching, Catherine prompted, “How to pound the corn into meal?”
Lanneika nodded. “Pa-paund corn.”
Catherine grinned as Lanneika resumed brushing her hair. Soon, she felt the gentle touch of the Indian girl’s hands as she began to lift sections of Catherine’s long hair and fold it over and under into a single braid to hang down the middle of her back in the same fashion Lanneika’s hair was dressed. Relaxing, Catherine again closed her eyes.
The weight of her hair lifted from her neck did feel cooler. Believing Lanneika nearly finished, Catherine opened her eyes. Of a sudden, from the corner of one eye she spotted a long shadow fall across the floor. Perhaps Noah had returned home from his travels! Catherine spun around, but it was not Noah she saw standing there.
The tall Indian warrior Phyrahawque completely filled the doorway. Catherine sucked in her breath as fear and alarm raced through her. This close to him, the Indian looked far more muscular than she remembered. His chest, arms, and legs were bare; his only clothing was a doeskin breechcloth stretched across his loins. His shoulders were the broadest she’d ever seen.
Lanneika had also turned around. “Sacani!”
His piercing black gaze fixed on Catherine, Phyrahawque nodded, but didn’t move. Growing less frightened of the fierce warrior, she boldly held his gaze, then very slowly, the corners of her mouth lifted into a smile.
His penetrating gaze seemed to grow less guarded, and Catherine was certain she saw the hint of a smile soften the sharp angles of his face. The proud Indian brave was undeniably handsome, she thought, openly studying him as he, too, conducted an unabashed study of her. His forehead was high and smooth, his nose long and straight. His mouth was beautifully shaped with full sensuous lips. The sharp planes and angles of his face looked to have been carved from granite.
Her curious gaze dropped to his hairless chest. Fascinated, she watched the strong mounds rise and fall with each breath he drew. She thought the rich, golden bronze of his skin beautiful. Suddenly growing self-conscious for staring so openly at him, she blinked and lowered her gaze. A split-second later when she glanced back up, he was gone. She had not heard him leave.
Her task now complete, Lanneika reached for Catherine’s looking glass. “See?”
Catherine looked at her own image in the mirror but grew embarrassed at the sight of her glittering eyes and the flush of color on her cheeks. She thrust the mirror aside.
“Thank you for dressing my hair, Lanneika.” She stood up. “I believe your brother is waiting for you.”
A quarter hour later, Catherine was busy preparing her supper over the hearth, but her thoughts were fixed elsewhere. Suddenly the sound of men’s voices coming from outside roused her from her reverie. Noah! Her husband had been away far longer than she expected, and she’d begun to worry that something dreadful had happened to him.
She couldn’t hold back the joyful smile that lit up her face the moment she caught sight of him bidding the other traders good night.
“You’re home!” she cried, flinging herself into his arms before he’d even entered the house.
“I’m home and I’m hungry.” He thrust her aside and led the way into the house.
“I’ve a nice venison stew boiling in the pot.” She followed him inside.
“I need a mug of stout ale.”
Indoors, Catherine hurried to do his bidding. Long strides carried Noah across the common room. However, midway, he stopped abruptly.
“What’s this?” he demanded, bending to pick up something at his feet.
Catherine spun about, her face a question. Spotting what he held in his hand, a wave of fear shot through her. The long, black-tipped white feather her husband held in his hand belonged to Phyrahawque. She had seen several of them hanging here and there in his silky black hair.
“It’s . . . a feather,” she said.
“I can see it’s a feather. Where did it come from?”
She turned palms up. “I suppose it belongs to Lanneika. She brought a basket of fish the other day. It may have been attached to the basket.”
“Fish?” He looked skeptical.
She shrugged. “Perhaps it belongs to Pamoac. The boy often brings things to show the other children. He once brought a toy drum. He looked so adora . . . ”
“A child would not play with this.” He turned it over in his hand. “This came from the headdress of a high-ranking warrior.”
Alarm rose within Catherine, and her heart began to pound like a drum. She forced her voice to remain calm. “Surely it belongs to Lanneika.”
Noah was still studying the feather. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
Shaking off her fear, Catherine lost patience. “It’s only a feather, Noah.”
“It’s more than that. Look.” He strode toward her pointing to a small circular emblem fashioned from tiny red and white beads stitched onto a round piece of leather. The emblem was attached to the base of the feather with thin leather thongs dangling from it like ribbons.
Noah’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s been here, Catherine? And don’t lie to me!”
His accusing words made her temper flare. “How dare you accuse me of lying!” She walked back to the hearth. She would not let him intimidate her. Snatching up a piece of cloth, she folded it over and over to protect her hands as she lifted the lid of the pot hanging over the flames.
Noah followed her to the hearth, the mail around the edge of his breastplate jingling. “What tribe is Lanneika from?”
Catherine lifted her chin stubbornly. “You know very well I am not proficient in remembering those complicated Indian names. If Lanneika has told me the name of her tribe, I cannot recall it, and even if I did, I could not pronounce it.”
Noah continued to study the emblem.
Catherine flung an impatient look at him. “Put the feather on the shelf by the door, Noah. I will give it to Lanneika when she arrives tomorrow.”
His lips tight, he reluctantly moved to do as she bid.
Catherine worked to lighten her tone. “I shall have your dinner ready soon, sweetheart. I am anxious to hear all about your journey.” She hated that she’d picked up her husband’s habit of fabricating lies to cover the truth, but this was one instance where deceiving him seemed the wisest course. After hearing how the men talked about Phyrahawque, she didn’t want to reveal that she knew him. She feared for both him and Lanneika, who had shown her nothing but kindness. She began to slowly stir the contents of the pot and was glad when she heard Noah’s footfalls heading toward the second bedchamber where he stored his bulky things: breastplate, boots, helmet, musket.
Over their dinner that night, Noah told her that Powhatan’s brother Opitchapan, instead of Opechancanough as everyone thought, had assumed the position of supreme power amongst the tribes of Powhatan’s federation.
“So, unless some renegade warrior like Nantaquas or Wochinchopunck, or even Phyrahawque . . . ”
At the mention of Phyrahawque’s name, fear again shot through Catherine. She drew in long, deliberate breaths to calm herself. Though she was genuinely interested in what her husband had to say, she had to force herself to ask question after question in order to divert his attention from the black-and-white feather that lay like a smoking gun on the shelf by the door.
She noticed that during the meal he often flung sharp looks at it before returning to the tale he was telling. She also noticed that he drank several more mugs of ale than was his usual custom.
While she stood cleaning the soiled trenchers, he even left the house only to return minutes later with a fresh jug, which she recognized as belonging to Ed Henley. She flung perturbed glances at him as he lounged at the table gulping down mug after mug of the stout brew. But she chose not to remark on the matter, as it was apparent her husband was in an ill frame tonight, and she did not wish to provoke him further.
Once in bed, Noah wasted no time pulling her to him. He took her roughly and quickly. Which Catherine realized sadly was becoming the norm. When the uncomfortable ordeal was over, he wordlessly rolled off her. Sighing, she turned over, looking ahead to the welcome relief sleep would bring. Until she heard him growl, “I mean to have a word with Lanneika on the morrow.”