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TOO MANY YEARS had passed since my family fell apart thanks to Percy Weaver and his hellish family. So many years since he’d raped me for the final time. Excruciating years since I secured our lineage and ensured my son’s heritage was passed to another.
My daughter was dead, drowned for lies of witchcraft. My son was dead, raped and mentally broken. And my husband was dead, leaving me to defend our legacy on my own.
The hate toward the family who’d taken my everything never ceased—bubbling, billowing, wanting so much to deliver revenge.
And now, I had a way to extract that revenge.
In the days before we worked for the Weavers, I’d been a hopeful girl looking for love. I’d met Frank young and fell pregnant within months. For years, I thought our troubles of living on the streets, of begging and stealing, would be the lowest point in our lives.
However, we hadn’t met the Weavers yet. We hadn’t entered into their employment. We didn’t know how bad things could get.
I wanted to rest. I needed to rest. But I couldn’t.
For a time, things had been good with the Earl of Wavinghurst, but then I ran out of energy to perform and beguile. He had an issue with his fists, and although I willingly paid for my freedom from the Weavers with a little pain, I’d reached my threshold.
It was mutual—the day he asked me to leave.
I had nothing of my own, only my precious grandson, and traded the staff quarters of his manor for the slums of the London poor.
The Weavers were dead.
Sonya gave birth to a boy followed by twins—a boy and a girl—a year and a half later. The firstborn girl had been delivered, and in order to claim the Debt Inheritance and finally balance the karma scales, I had to find more power and immeasurable wealth so William was in a position to claim his birthright.
In the meantime, I had to find a way to put food in my grandson’s belly. I didn’t want to, but I had no choice—I returned to what I’d become with the earl. I sold my body; willingly giving the only asset I had left to stay alive.
William’s mother—the whore I’d interviewed, given to my son, and bought her child—helped me gain employment with her current madam. And I was grateful. William was growing well. He wasn’t sickly and grew strong. He would make a fine Hawk someday. All I had to do was provide for him at his youngest, so in turn, he would provide for me at my oldest.
We moved around a lot that first year, living up to the last name Hawk given to us by the court. Hawks were scavengers, predators, always ready to swoop and steal. I’d never liked the name, until now. Now, I embraced it and nurtured my grandson. All his life, I’d told him bedtime stories of what the Weavers did. I took him to the neighbourhood park where Sonya would walk her children and show him the daughter who would soon belong to him.
He watched that little girl with untold interest, begging me to introduce them, to play with her. It took a lot to ignore his requests. I didn’t know what would be better. For them to meet as children or as adults. What would be easier to carry out the terms?
More years passed and I picked up work in sculleries and markets. Along with the occasional trick in a dark alley, we had enough to get by. We made do. William continued to grow, his interest in our history and what the Weavers had done increasing as the years rolled on.
However, he took matters into his own hands when it came to meeting Sonya’s daughter. On his fourteenth birthday, I gave him a few coins and told him to head to the local market to pick up whatever he wanted for his birthday treat.
Only, he came back with the money and a story of meeting a Weaver girl who asked to be called Cotton, even though her name was Marion.
Time had sped up and soon both firstborn children would be of age to begin the Inheritance. However, I often caught William doing strange things. He was strong, oh yes. He was well-spoken, kind-hearted, and hard-working, but there was an oddity about him I couldn’t explain.
I would lay in bed at night pondering why he was so different. Why he was so aware of others’ plights, why he would often give our hard-earned money to those deserving, or soothe random acquaintances in the street.
As he grew older, he couldn’t handle crowds as well as other young men. He’d shake and sweat, striking fear into my heart that he would fall ill with the sweating-sickness like his father.
I did everything I could to shelter him. I saved every penny and prepared for a better life.
And finally, that better life arrived.
Our new existence began one evening at the local brothel, where a share of my nightly profits provided a mouldy bed. After work, I headed back to the temporary home I’d found thanks to a local baker’s kindness.
William looked up, covered in flour—as usual—working all hours of the day for the baker and his customers. He preferred this job—away from people, hidden in a kitchen with only his thoughts for company. He’d bloomed into a delightful, handsome man.
I couldn’t believe he would turn twenty-one next month.
I was proud of him. Proud of myself for never quitting, even when life became so hard.
Dropping my shawl on a flour-dusted chair, I said, “I heard something, Will. Something that will get us far away from here and somewhere better.”
My grandson, my darling grandson, looked up. His golden eyes, courtesy of his father glowed in his icing-smeared face. His hands kneaded the fresh dough, and his smile warmed my soul.
Every time I looked at him, my heart broke remembering my daughter and son. Despair and fury never left me alone—they fed me better than any other substance, and until I got back at those who’d wronged me, I would remain alive and deliver vengeance.
William wiped his hands on a tea towel, sitting on the roughly-sawn stool by the oven. Moving to the bucket of water, I rinsed my arms and neck wishing I could cleanse my body from the foul stench of men who’d used it.
I might have a grandson, but I maintained myself. I looked better than most of the whores downtown.
“What did you hear, Grandmamma?”
I smiled. “The street criers said the man from Genoa—the explorer, Christophorus Columbus—has set out on his second journey. They say not since the Vikings has anyone been so brave to risk the dangerous seas and commit a voyage to new worlds.” My voice rose with eagerness. “His successful first journey has inspired many ship merchants to follow in his stead. Exploration is the new wealth, William. Those who risk will come back with untold treasure and knowledge.”
My heart raced as I recounted what I’d heard on the streets this morning. News from Europe travelled fast, spreading like a disease to infect those who listened. “He took three ships last time. Seventeen this time. Can you imagine, William? Seventeen brave boats to find out what’s yonder over the horizon. He left this morning.” I wished I could’ve seen the departure of such a fleet. To have travelled to Spain and waved a white handkerchief in good luck.
William smiled indulgently, his cheekbones slicing through his short beard. “Grandmamma, you need to give up these fantasies of leaving. We live here.” He stood, using the tea towel to pull out handmade bread from the crackling fireplace. “I know you don’t like it here. I know you and your family didn’t find happiness. But it’s all I know.”
William took after his father. And just like Bennett, he was a quiet soul. He preferred to be gentle and kind, rather than battle and wage war on what was rightfully his.
“We might live here, but I refuse to die here.” I crossed my arms. “I’m leaving this country one way or another, and you’re coming with me.”
He shook his head, smiling softly. He was used to my rambling of finding a better life, a better world. I would give anything to move. To seek what we were owed after such tragedy.
“It’s a nice idea. But this is our life.” He winced as he sat back down—his body already overused even at such a tender age. I didn’t want him labouring to an early grave when I had the gumption to find a way to deliver a splendid upper-class life.
Standing, I fumbled in my skirts for my one saving grace. I’d worked for decades to acquire such a sum. I never went anywhere without it and hid it within my petticoats.
Money.
Enough for two passages on the next boat leaving port.
Moving around the table, I handed him the meagre purse that offered so much. “We’re leaving this place, William. There won’t be any arguments. We’re going to make our fortune and only then will we ever come back.”
* * * * *
Eight weeks and counting.
Almost half of those passengers who’d boarded and paid for a hammock in the rat-infested bowels of the ship, Courtesan Queen, had died. My gums bled. My stomach wouldn’t hold food. And my eyes only saw blurs and shadows rather than vibrant pictures.
But England was far, far away from us.
The ship had no final destination. No advice on where they would deposit us. But I hadn’t cared. I believed in fate, and would rather die chasing my dreams than sitting at home never brave enough to try.
True to my word, I’d bought us passage on the next departing boat. The seafarers had seen Christophorus Columbus’ triumphs and raced to chase him. When I offered money and my body in exchange for a safe journey, the captain had agreed.
We’d left the very next day. No belongings. Nothing but hope in our hearts.
I’d either condemned us to die at sea, forever lost beneath the waves, or set us free for a better future.
I just wished seasickness hadn’t made my new life such a misery.
Groaning, I grabbed the pail again, retching as another swell rocked the creaking vessel.
* * * * *
Twelve weeks.
Even more of us had died. Storms had come and battered the crew and ship. But still we bobbed and travelled.
Sunshine broke through the clouds, granting nutrition in the form of its heated rays. William lost weight. He looked like a walking skeleton, but I was no better. My ribs had become so sharp, my skin bruised where they stretched my sides. I’d lost teeth due to rotting gums and my vision sputtered with useless blurs.
But hope still blazed.
We were owed happiness. I had no doubt we would be paid.
* * * * *
Fourteen weeks after leaving mother England, my hope was justified.
Land.
Sweet, life-giving land.
The next few days gave new energy to the ship and its remaining inhabitants. Celebration ran rife and excitement levels gave us the final push to reach salvation.
The first steps on terra firma lifted my heart like nothing else could. I’d made it. I’d left hell and found heaven. Here, my grandson would find a better life. I owed him that.
Only, I didn’t know how hard this new world would be.
* * * * *
For three long years, we lived in squalor and hardship. Our newfound existence turned out to be no better than England. Instead of buildings, we lived in huts. Instead of food, we had to hunt and kill. And instead of streets, there were dirt tracks and violence.
However, every day William thrived. He shed the shy baker from England and transformed into a warrior matching the courage of the black-skinned neighbours of our new home. They taught him how to track and trap. They taught him their language, and eventually, adopted us into their tribe.
Once accepted, we made the choice to return with them to their home. We had nothing holding us in the port town and agreed to make the pilgrimage to their village. It took weeks of travelling by foot. My old age slowly caught up with me and eating had become a chore with very few teeth from bad nutrition on the boat over. My body was failing, but I hadn’t achieved what I’d promised.
Not yet.
I had to provide for William. He had to go back and claim the Debt Inheritance before he was too old. My to-do list was still too long to succumb to elderly fatigue.
William was a godsend, helping me every step. He held my hand. He carried me when I collapsed. He helped the shamans break my fever when I was sick. He never stopped believing with me that one of these days we would find what we were owed.
And then one day, five years and four months after leaving England, we finally found it.
My eyesight had deteriorated further but every night at twilight, William would take me for a walk around our adopted village. He’d guide me to the riverbed and guard me from local predators while I washed and relaxed.
However, that night was different. A hyena appeared, laughing and hungry, and William chased it off with his spear. I stood in the middle of the water, not daring to leave but unable to see my brave grandson.
He wouldn’t respond to my calls. No sound gave a hint that he’d won. Tears started to fall at the thought of losing him. If he’d died, I couldn’t keep going anymore. Why should I? My stupid hope and blind belief that something good would happen would no longer be enough to sustain me.
However, my worry was for nothing because he returned. Blood smeared his bare chest as he dragged a hyena carcass behind him. He looked as wild and savage as our ebony-skinned saviours. He dropped the carcass and waded into the water directly to me. My animal hide skirt danced on the surface, lapping around my thighs as he held out something large and glossy and black. Black like a nightmare but an ultimate dream come true.
“What is it?” I whispered, my heart rate climbing. I didn’t know what I held, but it felt right. It felt true. It felt like redemption.
“I don’t know, but the stories they tell us around the fires might be based on truth. Remember they sing of a magical black rock? I think this might be it.” He kissed my cheek, hefting the weight of the suddenly warm stone. “I think this is worth something, Grandmamma. I think this might be the start of something good.”
I’d like to say I lived to see the good arrive, but I’d done all I could for my grandson. A few months later, I fell sick and remained bed-ridden as he found more black stones, digging with spears and hipbones of lions, slowly sifting through soil and rock. Black stones gave way to white stones, clear stones, glittering beautiful stones.
Our tribe gathered and hoarded, filling bushels and burying them safely so other clans didn’t rob us. William gathered a hunting party to return to the bustling port and trade his magical stones.
I remained behind, clinging to life as hard as I could.
My body had done its task, but I didn’t want to leave...not yet.
We’d heard tales of a gold trader who made a fortune in saffron and bullion. That same trader took William aside and whispered in his ear that he might’ve found a rare diamond.
Diamond.
I’d never seen one up close. I’d heard of them on the king’s finery but never been lucky enough to witness.
The night William returned from port, he told me he’d traded enough clear stones for passage back to England. And that was when I knew the tides had finally turned. The Weavers had ruled for long enough.
It was our turn.
By candle-light, we negotiated his plan upon returning to the United Kingdom. I gave him my elderly wisdom and what I’d learned the hard way. In order to become untouchable, he had to buy those who would protect him. He had to give the king everything to purchase his trust. He had to spend money to make his fortune last longer than fleeting.
I hoped he’d heed my advice.
Unfortunately, I never knew.
I died two weeks before William named a handful of trusted warriors the Black Diamonds and booked passage on the first boat back to England.
I never got to see him strip and destroy those who’d ruined us.
I never got to see the fruition of my sacrifice.
But it didn’t matter.
I loved him with all my heart.
I’d given him everything.
I’d finally set him free.
