Ships on a rough sea. Johannes Christiaan Schotel |Date=1827
New York Colony, Spring, 1774
When Katie was born, a wise woman of an Abenaki clan gave her a spirit-bracelet that would let her call the wind. At six years old, Katie heard the white owl cry one night, and it was still perched outside her window the next morning. The natives believe in the power of omens, but she didn't need the owl to tell her, she had felt it in her bones for days: Someone would die this day.
Her father is gone to sea much of the time, he's a captain on a merchant vessel. Her mother, a gifted healer, manages alone in the crossroads settlement with family and friends, as well as Katie's four older brothers. But there are rumors of unrest that come and go here—American colonists are not happy with the yoke of British rule. Others are still loyal to a distant country and king and distrust has settled in.
Katie saw the tragedy that day, sheltered safely up in her favorite tree. The same fate was meant for her too, but she was hidden by spirits, luck or magic. She saw it happen, but couldn't speak for months after, and now she can't remember that day at all.
She went to sea with her father after that: She grew up all over the world. Kate learned about people and customs, and she has her mother's way with herbal healing—almost. But put her in a High Society Tea, and she doesn't know quite what to do.
Europe, 1795
After her father's death, Kate slips into southern France to meet with her mother's relations. The French Republicans take her for a spy. She's tossed into prison with her mother's cousin, Louis, and a rap on her head for spite. Now she's dreaming of that fateful day when she was only a child. But what does her mother's death have to do with the international troubles now? She hasn't remembered that yet.
Cousin Louis was tortured to death as a Royalist traitor, but Kate made a promise before he died: She will to protect their family and friends by destroying evidence he has hidden. Released or escaped—she doesn't remember that either—she's now on a quest to a remote shrine in the Pyrenees, where isolated religious fanatics are still fond of the Spanish Inquisition. (They don't still burn witches, do they?)
Then there's the British, who also find her movements quite suspicious. Kate is caught between countries and accusations, but all she wants now is to get home. She takes to the sea once again, but it's a race of time and memory: She is not out there alone. But can she remember why her mother was murdered before she ends up the same way?
He like a rock in the sea unshaken stands his ground. - Virgil
Cargo Ashore
1795, Somewhere off the southern coast of Britain
The large row boat was straining with every pull of the oars. The man would not lend a hand to help them. He didn't trust them, no way would he turn his back. He took another pull from his flask instead. The sailors looked at him with resentment, and he slipped it inside his pocket.
One called, "We drop them here."
The others struggled with their cargo: a sealed barrel and a large wooden crate. There were still a good distance from the shoreline. The man said, "Are you sure this is right?"
The sailor said, "Of course, I have been here many times before. Both in the leaving and the taking."
Spoken like the experienced smuggler he was.
"But what if it sinks before land fall?"
The sailors all laughed. They had made their bets, some for and against. Such things were not their concern anyway. For them, this was a waste of time and not nearly as entertaining as "off with their heads."
But then, those were more entertaining times for such men, particularly at the start. Violence was encouraged, it was revolution in France, after all. Things were more uncertain now. Royalists were fighting back, though most were isolated, unorganized.
And for the Republicans in power, they were fighting amongst themselves. The newness of their freedom was wearing off like the shine off a new coin. No one liked the drudgery of the day to day acts of governing.
Still, this was not Paris, and they were more interested in the payment than the politics. That too could be in jeopardy, so the sailor reassured anyway, "I have seen this before, believe me. The currents are strong here this time of tide. We cannot get closer, it will pull us in also. One will sink, eventually, but the other will make it to shore."
"How can you be so sure?"
He spoke in his native language then. The man understood well enough, but they didn't have to know that. The sailors all laughed, it made his skin crawl. He was hoping they wouldn't decide to dump him as well.
He said, "Payment is waiting on the other side, I don't carry it with me now."
The men were frowning. Clearly they understood that well enough. It seems they had secrets of their own. As the crew rowed away from the shoreline and toward the ship waiting on the horizon, the man watched the barrel and crate now floating past.
The barrel didn't sink all the way. He hadn't meant for it to end that way, but that had not been his decision. They always got carried away in the heat of the interrogation. He had warned them that this could happen, and he couldn't watch them all of the time.
Still, it was a waste. Louis had more than one thing to hide, and the man was sure there was more to learn. It could have profited them all. But the secrets died with Louis, including where his riches were hidden.
But maybe she knew, and he knew it would come back to that. When his benefactors were done with her, then he had his own plans. If she survived this part of the journey, that is. The crate bobbed in the sea water, bouncing off the barrel a few times.
He asked again, "Are you sure it won't sink?"
The sailor spit into the wind, and the man ducked down to avoid the spray. The sailors all laughed, but their leader said only, "Cork."
They had put cork in the crate as well, so that it wouldn't also become a coffin. But there was another race too, and he was running out of time. His spies in the prison had told him of her nightmares, screaming, sometimes calling out at night. They wrote the words down, fragments and notions that made no sense to another. But he knew. How long before she remembered it all? He would have to make sure she didn't.
In their brutality, his French Republican allies may have also dug his own grave. Then his own position, his own work and true allegiance would be compromised. He didn't care what they thought now. He pulled the flask out again and took another long drink.
In the crate, a drugged woman was unaware of her fate and was now fitfully dreaming of another place and a time long before. . .
CHAPTER 01 - The Raid
Spring, 1774
Senlis Family Compound on the northwestern frontier
New York colony, British-held North America
Little Katie heard the owl last night and wasn't it still perched outside her window this morning? But she didn't need the owl to tell her, she had felt it in her bones for some time now: This would be the day, she was sure of it. Someone would die this day.
The bird had glared at her with huge yellow eyes before it silently drifted away on wide speckled wings. In the dim early light, Katie could see the shredded remains of last night's kill still hanging from the predator's fierce talons. Some other little girl might have felt sorry for the prey, but Katie knew this was the way of things—Mother Nature—and the owl had to kill to survive.
In the kitchen, her four brothers had already eaten and were now gone. Katie was glad, she didn't want to speak in front of them. They were ignorant about such things and would only make fun. Katie said, "Mama, I saw an owl outside my window this morning."
"I just swept in here not two days ago, you'd think we live in a pig sty," her mother said with her hands on her hips, not really paying attention.
"Mama, did you hear me, I—"
"There, take the last piece of gingerbread," her mother said, handing the cake to Katie and pushing her towards the door. "And don't go bothering your brothers. I have no time for squabbles."
Usually her mother loved to listen to the stories Katie learned from the natives who passed through on their way back and forth from trading. Her mother found the native remedies were often quite useful, but seldom took advice in these spiritual things.
"Not yet," Katie whispered as she walked onto the porch.
With Mary it was different, but her mother had already sent their house servant to the trading post. Katie suspected it was more because Mary was underfoot this morning than for any real need. Her mother was in a cleaning frenzy. Mary called nesting, that instinct of a woman soon to give birth to child number six.
In any case, Mary never argued over a trip to the trading post. She very much liked the British officers who now passed this way more often than before. They stopped to have tea and port with Master Standish, the man who ran the place.
Mary claimed Master Standish had been one of their own, forced into business so close to the wilderness in order to avoid his creditors in the city. It wasn't a topic that ever came up with visitors of any importance or rank. They were gentlemen, the house maid claimed, and didn't discuss such ordinary things.
Mary's absence was probably for the best, Katie decided, as the maid was always spooked by talk of native ways. She would cross herself in the Catholic way and say "Hail Mary" and "Our Father in Heaven."
All the same, sometimes Katie's mother wrote of the native practices in her medicinal journal, the one with drawings and rhymes about flowers and herbs. However, magic and superstitions were noted in the traveling book, the one her mother kept about people she had seen all over the world.
But her mother would not be writing anything today, even though the owl had come to say it was both a good day to be born and a good day to die. The owl had told Katie, not her mother. There had to be some omen in that as well, but Katie wasn't sure who to ask.
Her mother started singing, one hand to the washing and one hand to her baby-wide belly. Maybe her mother didn't need the owl to tell her anything. Katie sat on the porch and took a bite of her gingerbread, but decided to keep the rest until she found her brothers. All four were older and given too much to teasing, so cake always tasted sweeter when they had no cake of their own.
No doubt they were off pestering some trapper bound for the deep frontier. Or they were making more work for the stableman or the carpenter or his wife. The folks around here were given to spoiling her brothers, in Katie's estimation. Didn't she know that well enough from six full years as their sister come early next week on her birthday.
Katie heard a whoop and headed for the noise. Over a small rise and down on clearing that served as the village green, the boys were playing a game with long sticks and a make-shift ball made of rolled-up hide and twine. A few native boys had joined in the game, and Katie knew the old native man watching from the edge of the clearing was their grandfather. The man wore buckskins and a trading-post blanket over his shoulder: a gift from her mother.
He looked unusually stern. He only nodded in response to Katie's wave. Had he seen the owl last night too? He was a wise man many winters old, her mother claimed, a man of spirits and native medicine. Mary called him a pagan witch who was clearly the Devil's spawn. But he was respected around here all the same. Even now, the carpenter was walking towards the old man with his hand held up in greeting.
Katie sighed and ate the rest of her gingerbread. It was one thing to tease her brothers, quite another to be rude to a guest. She licked her fingers to catch even the hint of spices still left, then yawned in the warming spring sunshine. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the sweet unexpected colors, and her smile widened in anticipation: The flowers were blooming!
She ran down into the little ravine and up the other side to the patch of ground the sun always found first in the morning. Southern exposure, her father called this side of the buildings, but she knew for a fact their family settlement was north of the river. They were in the northern part of the New York colony, and they were indeed in North America.
She knew because she had looked in her mother's traveling book. It said north time and again, so how could they be anything south? But her father wouldn't lie about a thing like that, her father didn't lie about anything. He said he'd be home from the sea in time for her birthday, and so she knew that he would be.
Katie spent some time gathering flowers, singing her little songs to coax them out. Her pinafore pockets soon overflowed, and when she had no room for more, she closed her eyes and put her face full into the blooms in her hands. It was like being touched everywhere by soft baby fingers, tiny and cool.
Suddenly something brushed angrily against her nose. It was the biggest bee she had ever seen, coming out double as her eyes crossed, it was so close. Katie squealed and dropped her flowers. As she fled toward the woods to escape, flowers fell from her pockets on the way. But of course the bee was long gone by then, and she felt a little foolish. Still, she rubbed at her nose, glad she was safe. Bee stings hurt like the touch of a hot coal, and the stinky plaster her mother put on only added insult to the swollen patch of red-burn.
She turned to head back, but nearby, the bushes started to shake. She froze like a fawn, waiting, wondering. It was a lesson from the wise old native man about how animals survive in the forest, but Katie didn't have the patience to stay still for long. She peered into the bushes.
A badger maybe? Perhaps only a deer?
I hope not a skunk, Katie thought with a hot rush of dread. Her forehead furrowed in concern as she took a deep, silent breath. No smell. She sighed in relief as the bushes parted just a little. It was only Ambrose, Master Standish's adolescent son. Playing games when he should be doing his chores, she decided. Her brothers did not let him play their games anymore, they would have nothing to do with him. He was a bit older and much larger than them, still he had to cheat to win.
"Why do you sulk there, Ambrose? Come, Mother will give you some tea. Real tea like a guest, I am sure, not the kind she gives to those who are ailing."
He didn't respond, and she had no patience. "No? Well, suit yourself. I will not play your silly games."
Katie walked back to where her flowers had fallen and started to gather them again. She would tie them together with a ribbon and hang them in the sun to dry, then put them among her linens. She said, more to herself than to Ambrose Standish nearby, "Wild flowers smell so much sweeter than those grown in a garden. Mama says wild flowers don't care where they grow, and Mama wouldn't lie about a thing like that."
She knew he was listening, but she couldn't tell if he was watching her for his eyes were very dark and hard to fathom. He wasn't really shy, he just watched things instead of participating. Like a snake watching a mouse, she thought, and he knew things too. Lots of things, and some were not so nice and should have been private.
But Katie already had enough of him. There was a pretty little rock. She bent over to examine it, then slipped it into her pocket. One never knew just what was magic and what was not. And what is that? Part of a shell, robin's egg blue. Very nice, but she left it there and looked overhead, trying to find the nest.
Suddenly, she heard a wolf-like wail not far in the distance. Sounds from the boys' play, she figured. Katie shook her head at their foolishness, for they were ruining the sunny laziness of the day with their noise. She walked up the side of the ravine until she saw the settlement's compound yard. A strange silence had spread over everything by then.
No boys, no birds, not even a bee.
"Why have you all gone quiet?" she whispered, puzzled.
She continued slowly up the rise, dreading what she would find. Then came a curdling scream, a man-scream, uncommon and horrible. It abruptly choked off into a sort of gurgling that cooled her blood in an instant. She stood there in place, unable to move, though her heart was beating fast.
The boys were no longer playing, she could not see her brothers at all. The old man was still standing, but the carpenter was now a grotesque heap on the ground. A warrior suddenly burst from the woods and put a foot to the carpenter's back to pry out the war-axe embedded in there. The warrior lifted the dripping weapon into the air and let out another primeval bellow.
The old man dropped to his knees and started keening. A death song, Katie knew, for the old man reluctantly sang it once for her mother for a bribe of peppermint candy. The song seemed to warm her own blood, making it rush even faster, though her limbs still moved rather slow. She had barely budged when two other warriors erupted from the edge of the woods, coming from shadows into the sun as if they had appeared out of thin air. Katie grasped the rock in her pocket, wondering if the warriors used magic too.
One bashed in the old man's head with a war club and continued on without even breaking his stride. More warriors followed. Some came silent, crouching low as they moved, those were French, she knew. Some ran out with the sharp wolf-like yells that she knew were the calls to the kill. The few people around the settlement that Katie could now see cried out and scattered as the warriors headed their way. She soon heard the cries of alarm as the warriors ran inside the buildings. It seemed like it was happening very slowly, but Katie knew it must have been very fast, it's just that her senses couldn't tell the difference.
Then one of the raiders pointed to the largest house, and Katie heard someone say: "Mama."
The word came out in barely a whisper, and Katie didn't recognize the voice as her own. She was too far from the house to run there for shelter, too far to warn her mother. Katie heard a gun shot, and one of the natives staggered back from the barn door. Then came the frenzied cries of warriors avenging one of their own as they all rushed into the barn. She could not see them, but she knew the stableman must now be dead as well.
She said it again: "Mama."
Mama would do something, Katie was certain, but what? Hide in stillness, flight when that failed? That's what a deer would do when the wolves were too near. The fawn must hide until the mother told the fawn what to do. That's what she would do too.
Katie ran for the nearest shelter she knew. She ran for the tall evergreen tree that she had been climbing to escape her brothers for almost two years now. Two years, come early next week on her birthday. She ran for the tree that she had named Friendly Joe. He would hide her until Mama could tell her what to do.
Suddenly, there was silence again. The mayhem had died just as soon as it came, but it was only the lull in the storm. Soon, the warriors were touting their finds with whoops of pleasure and triumph. She jumped and shivered each time they cried out, each time they held up a mirror or necklace or scalp.
From the tree, Katie could now see her brothers again. They were all still alive, but huddled together and crying. From here, they looked very small. She hugged closer to the solid trunk of Friendly Joe as her vision blurred with tears. It all mixed into a strange sort of song: the sobbing of her brothers and the strange bumble-bee-like-buzzing in her head, accented with the shouts of triumph from the warriors as they found their worldly treasures.
She heard someone humming along to the morbid tune. It was a small voice, and she held her breath in horror when she realized it was her own. The rough bark was biting against her cheek. Katie blinked at the pain, but she dared not move again. Her chest hurt, and she forced herself to breathe. It was shaky, but strong as she took shallow breaths in order not to move too much.
Then somewhere, not so far off, Katie could hear . . . laughter.
Duckworth_off_San_Domingo_1806.jpg
CHAPTER 02 - Captain Sir Edward
Early Spring, 1795
Port of Plymouth, England
Captain Sir Edward Lindsay was rushing to dinner, but his haste didn't have much to do with conviction. It was too late in the day. He was too long at the quay. Time he was on his way. The words kept running through his brain like an old nursery rhyme, and it reflected in his pace.
It wasn't quite dark yet, but would be soon—a sign of his tardiness. He would miss pre-dinner cordials and chatter. The notion made him smile. He didn't like these affairs, but going was an order. Since he had joined the British navy over twenty-five years ago as a cabin boy, aged nine, he hadn't disobeyed an order. Not intentionally anyway.
He kept telling himself that it was the strain of the enforced social order that made him so tired this night. He had no other excuse. Long months at sea didn't bother him as it did some. He preferred life on his ship, the Stalwart, for there he knew what to expect: He had made sure of that since his first command.
"Not like these be-damned dinner parties and blasted balls."
The men there looked like peacocks, strutting around, preening for position. Men of shared duty turned into men he didn't care to even know. And the women looked like something out of a child's book of fairy tales. None of it was real. They put on their smiles and their sweetness like they put on their clothes and their jewels. Captain Sir Edward Lindsay learned long ago to beware of women bearing false promise.
He was not bitter, though some had called him so. They didn't understand that an officer in the Royal Navy had no business leaving a woman behind. Women didn't sit at home writing letters, taking tea, and fretting with their lace as they liked men to believe. They ran around behind a man's back, gambling and spending all his money. Or even worse. Then they'd pray in their churches, crying and feeling martyred for their devotion, expecting a man who was only doing his duty to feel some sort of guilt too. He would not be the cause of any woman's woes, and no woman would be the cause of his own. If that made him seem bitter to those who didn't know better, then so be it. It was none of their business anyway.
A few streets from the Vice-Admiral's Government House, Sir Edward entered a small park. It was quiet here, with few carriages at this time of evening. He needed some time to prepare himself mentally. These social gatherings required him to be politely superficial, but he had pressing things on his mind. The war had been smouldering for many long months. The French rebels—Republicans they liked to call themselves— killed their king and then declared war on England. He was surprised it had lasted this long. No man standing on the deck watching the cannons roar back and forth held much account for rebel discipline. There was none. When the battle got too real, with their new found love of freedom, the Republicans simply voted not to obey their officers. Life inside France was just as volatile, it was said.
Sir Edward found a stone bench and sat down. He had only been in port for a few days, but this was the first time he'd been to land. His legs were still used to the movement of the decks and ached for something more challenging than these mossy cobblestones. He closed his eyes, put his head back, and took a deep breath.
Something made his neck tingle, a familiar signal of warning.
There was danger nearby.
His hand went immediately to his sword out of habit. It wasn't there, he was in dress uniform for a dinner party. All he had was a dagger hidden discretely under his jacket. It was comfort enough. But when he heard it again, he relaxed. It was singing, he was sure of it now. The words came clearly:
"White willow bark for an aching head,
then take a long, quiet rest in bed.
The taste is quite bitter and terribly bad,
you must keep the patient happy, not mad.
Use white willow tea and a honey bun. . ."
There was a pause, then the voice continued in some confusion: "American elm, not the British one? No, that's not right. Elm is for sore throat. Willow is for aches and pains. Which is this? Tell me, Friendly Joe, which tree might you be?"
Sir Edward saw the movement, and his head tipped to one side then the other as he tried to see through the branches in the fading light. He heard the rustle of a petticoat, followed by a barely-audible swear word that could have come from a common sailor, though it came without the usual conviction.
It was a woman, standing on the low branches of a tree, but still a good eight feet up off the ground. He walked over and called up, "You there, what are you doing?"
She didn't answer at first. He couldn't make out her face, but her figure looked both trim and full in all the right places. Appealing, especially to a man who had just spent the last several months at sea. Probably some sort of trollop, he decided. No lady walked around without full rigging under her skirts. These were neither full, nor fancy, and definitely not something you would normally find in a tree.
She had yet to give a reply. He repeated, "I said, what are you doing up there?"
In a moment, she answered, "Does it matter?" Her voice was low and smooth, like the feel of velvet. She had an accent, colonial, probably West Indies or America, he decided. He took a step closer.
Her last syllable had lilted up higher and softer in pitch with a flare that wasn't there before in her words. He had heard the same in polite banter at tea parties and social receptions. He took it as mockery and laughed.
"I suppose it does not," he said. "Would you like some help to get down?"
She hesitated. It was so quiet here now that he could hear the far-off noises in the town. He opened his mouth to repeat himself, but she said, "Don't you have anything better to do?"
The captain said, "Nothing comes to mind at present." He meant to be stern, hoped that he'd sounded that way, but his smile came of its own accord.
"I would like some help," she said, as if talking to herself. Then louder, "As long as you understand that I could get down on my own if there was no one here to witness the deed. And only if you promise to keep your hands where they will do the most good."
He didn't think she really meant it the way it sounded. He moved closer to assist. The endeavor didn't go well, and she ended up close in his arms. She was a head's length shorter than himself. Even in the darkening evening light, he could see that her hair had all the colors that corn silk could be. It smelled like a meadow he had known in his youth.
"Thank you," she said and pulled away.
Or tried to.
The lace on the front of her simple French-cut gown was caught at the front of his uniform.
"Now look at that," she said, then quickly added, "Never mind after all. You mind your manners, sir, and I'll see to my own self as well."
Then she started laughing, which only made the tangle worse. She busied herself with the errant threads. He could feel her body pressing against him firmly, then softly with each breath. She was warmth in the cool evening, and he wished he didn't have to go. He studied her as she worked at the lace and the buttons on his jacket.
Her hair had been styled with a simple elegance that he found very pretty. That is to say, it had been styled. Not much of it remained intact. A breeze ruffled the tendrils at her forehead, but he realized it was his own breath. He tried to look away.
She said, "I do apologize. On occasion, a man may tolerate a woman who goes out on a limb, but he may not tolerate a silly woman at any other time."
He smiled, but said nothing.
She looked back to her lace and continued to work in silence. In a moment, she whispered, "You came from a ship."
"Madam?"
"You smell like the sea."
"I am sorry if that offends you, I should have—"
"No, no, I like it. It reminds me of home. Bother, now it seems to be fraying. My Duenna will be so annoyed, or would be if I ever had one. I'm not even sure what a Duenna could be, come to think. My Portuguese is appalling. Or is that Spanish? Either way, I should practice. Do you have a knife?"
He wasn't sure that he trusted her with something sharp, but with a wry smile, he handed her the small pen knife he always kept for trimming cigars and eating apples. A carriage passed nearby. They both flinched at the noise, stepping closer to the tree together as if from some shared protective instinct.
"There seems to be no hope," she said. "Well, I've kept you long enough. You have been more than patient."
She clumsily cut, then tore, at her lace.
"There was no need to do that, Madam. I am in no hurry."
"You looked like you were. Heavens, I seem to have given you a nasty stain. I do apologize, I have taken too full advantage of your kindness."
He looked down. There was a red smear on his white lapel. Blood, not his own.
"You are hurt," he said and reached for her.
"That I may be, but I will not be needing your help with that. Not there anyway."
Her arms wrapped around herself. She looked and sounded like a stubborn child. But still she blotted at his lapel with a lace handkerchief she seemed to pull out of nowhere. It was fine lace, expensive quality. He knew the look of such things. Even if he hadn't been born to them, his service to King and Country had made them part of his world now.
Then he saw the blood ooze through her dress in a soaking red streak at her breast. His smile faded. "You are hurt," he said again and grabbed at her arm.
It was bound under her dress sleeve. He knew the feel of a bandage well enough. She gasped, held her breath for an instant, then faded away into a faint. Her hair fell free, and at that moment, he wondered what people might think if they saw them: A man with a woman alone in the park— the woman bloodied, disheveled, unconscious.
He took off his uniform jacket and draped it around her as well as he could. Then he swept her into his arms and headed for a busier street in order to find help as fast as possible. The cabby didn't say anything, just opened the door and pushed the rest of her trailing skirts inside before he slammed it back up.
Captain Lindsay ordered the cabby to the quay.
Mindless chatter and dining room manners were things that he well understood. Danger he knew even better. But he had to admit that this particular situation was new to him, and he wasn't quite sure what to do. On his ship, he would have his bearings again. He would know what to do from there.
62-Dioscoride_A
CHAPTER 03 - The Map
On board the Stalwart, Plymouth harbor
Dr. Llewellyn, the ship's surgeon, said nothing as he looked at the unconscious woman now on the captain's bunk. Sir Edward tried to explain, but anything he said sounded made-up and strange. He shut up and just looked at her too.
She was pretty in a countrified sort of way. She wore no face paint or powder like women of the streets. Her clothes were well made, but not elaborate. He could see no other jewelry but a bracelet of smooth wood, highly polished, the color of honey barely mixed into molasses. The captain touched the bracelet. He had never seen wood like this before.
The design was simple: two thin bands that crossed once, but held parallel as they waved like water around her wrist. The bands were not any wider or thicker than the spine of a writing quill. They were solid, with no break, They were formed by a single piece of wood. He wondered how she had gotten the bracelet onto her wrist, for it clearly would not slip over her hand now.
An ivory comb was still caught in her hair, barely. The captain pulled it free, and as he set it aside, knocked over a stack of his books. The woman tossed restlessly. When he knelt to pick them up, his face was close to hers. She had faint freckles, and he decided that she was probably better suited to the sunlight than the smoky dim smolder of card-party candles and ballroom chandeliers.
She wasn't very young, though she was a younger than himself. But her face, even in this quiet, still dimness, held a weariness he recognized from looking in his own mirror. Maybe that was the reason she seemed so familiar.
"Yes, for that reason, I'm sure," he murmured.
"Captain?" the surgeon said.
Sir Edward shook his head to clear his mind. Then he cleared his throat and said, "Well, man, get on with it." He didn't mean to growl. He thought for a moment of apologizing.
The surgeon coughed slightly, then paused. The captain was still staring and didn't seem to notice. The surgeon added, "Begging your pardon, sir. Perhaps you should. . ."
"Yes, what?"
"Leave, sir. She looks to be a lady. I would not want it said—"
"Oh, right. Well, right. Carry on."
The surgeon opened the door. Sir Edward left, but paced around the deck nearby for what seemed a long time. Then he remembered the dinner party and flinched. He went to his cabin door, but paused. To the Marine on guard, he said, "Find me some paper, quill, and ink." The Marine stepped forward, but Sir Edward quickly added, "Not in there."
"Sir?"
"You heard me. I need to write something. Go ask one of the officers."
The Marine did as ordered, though it took him some time.
The captain wrote out his apologies. "Take this to Government House right away. Give it to Vice-Admiral Tobin," he said, handing the note to the Marine, who just stared at it for a second too long as the out-of-the-ordinary thing that it was. The Marine jumped as the captain barked, "Get away!"
In the captain's cabin, Dr. Llewellyn took a moment to find his courage.
"Too long at sea, old boy. Too long with nary a female in sight, and now here alone with such a female as this. Lord give me strength."
Then he saw the blood stain, and it wasn't as hard as he thought it would be: Instinct took over. He gently began removing her clothes, feet first, since that seemed the least revealing place to begin. She wore no lady slippers, but boots. Sturdy, but soft, and custom-made, he would guess. There was a hole in the heel of her fine hose that had been mended once, but had opened again. The fraying wasn't bad enough to make them useless. Her mending wasn't good enough to make him think that she did it very often.
"Maybe she didn't do it at all," he mused. Maybe she has servants. But there were also burrs stuck on the stockings around her ankles, like she had recently walked through a field. Ladies of servant-society didn't do things like that.
He hung the dress over the captain's cloak which was draped on a hook on the wall. Her lace and fine cotton lawn sprigged with tiny flowers made a stark contrast to the captain's dark wool. The surgeon chuckled, for he had known Edward Lindsay for fifteen years, and he knew that the contrast was more than the color and the cloth.
His captain did not approve of women in the most general terms. Dr. Llewellyn also knew that it was from deep-seated shyness that Edward Lindsay would not admit more than to a character flaw or the result of a long-lived hurt. True, the surgeon knew the stories of the captain's mother. The good madam didn't give a fig for social conventions. Sir Edward Lindsay didn't either. He just didn't have the brass to rub it in people's noses like she did. Still, that was no reason to avoid your own mother for years at a time.
Dr. Llewellyn started washing the woman. She seemed to relax, though she still was not lucid. He decided she was probably more tired than in a faint now. He gently touched her face. Her eyelashes fluttered. He took a deep breath, then busied himself with the examination.
Her wounds were healing: some cuts, mostly deep bruises. He'd had a few of those himself from living a troublesome youth of indenture in the West Indies. He had been lucky in life since then, luckier than her, it would seem. Dr. Llewellyn unwrapped the bandage on her arm, revealing a neatly-trimmed, vapor-thin gauze patch underneath. He could see through it to a wound that would leave a jagged scar a few inches long.
The gauze patch was sticky to the touch, and he had trouble peeling it away. He smelled the area, touched it, then did the same with the patch. Honey, used by some to treat inflammations, rashes, burns. To his relief, there was no smell of gangrene. He wondered if she had used the honey, or someone else had treated her with old-wives medicine.
The new slash on her breast was slight, but just moving her about had opened it up. Tiny droplets of blood were now forming. It must sting, he thought, for that was place was tender on a woman. Deeper than a scratch, the cut was narrow and regular. It didn't look like it would leave much trace once healed. He dabbed it clean with spirits and tried not to look at the patient as a woman. He moved her gently this way and that, lifting arms and legs. Last, he examined her head. There was a good-sized bruise near the forehead to one side, mostly hidden by her hair. He probed it lightly. A lump remained as well.
Must have hurt like hell, he thought, rubbing at his own head in absent-minded sympathy.
Then he frowned, turning her head back and forth. There were slight dark traces on the sides of her neck and the tops of her shoulders. It was evident that not only had someone held her hard, but had also tried to strangle her.
He swore under his breath, adding, "Who could do such a thing to a flower like you?"
She turned by herself, clutching the captain's pillow. Her face burrowed into the softness as she started murmuring. The surgeon grinned. He decided not to mention this part to Sir Edward. The captain might throw the pillow overboard to prove some kind of point.
The lantern caught the glimmer of gold on her hand. He gently tried to slip it off her finger. It didn't budge, so he used a bit of salve to make it slippery. The thick gold band gave way. He held it up to the lantern to check for an engraved inscription, a clue to her identity perhaps. Her husband might be looking for her.
"If he is the one who beat you like this, then he can very well wait a bit longer."
There were initials inside: "C St J" and "S M S", along with a date. Too long ago to be her wedding date. She didn't look almost fifty years old, though she might be feeling it at present. Probably her mother's, he decided. The surgeon slipped the ring back on her finger, not noticing that he put it on a different hand than where he got it.
Dr. Llewellyn draped a blanket over her, then started searching her clothes. He found a large pocket in her petticoat, a sturdy garment where many women preferred lace and plenty of it. He put his hand in and pulled out a sticky piece of licorice, encrusted with seeds and crumbling dried leaves. He also found a small rock and some rose hips, and something larger that seemed to be caught on some threads.
He turned the pocket upside-down and shook. Something heavy dropped to the floor and bounced under the table. He stooped to pick it up. It was a old piccolo, but it looked well tended. He put it in his pocket and began to examine the other contents. A half-a-thumb sized something covered in lint, perhaps a lozenge or candy. And such seeds and leaves, he understood, could make tea— but strips of bark? He smelled them and rubbed them between his fingers. Poplar or alder? Willow? He wasn't sure. He set them in a bowl and went back to the search.
Then he found the paper.
Suddenly, she started thrashing and murmuring loudly. He could only make out some of the words. He lifted her shoulders and forced brandy down her throat. She sputtered, then limply fell away. He studied her for a moment before he opened the cabin door. The captain was near at hand and entered without being called. The woman was still now, and her breathing was easy and deep.
"She is sleeping," the surgeon said quietly. "I should give you this, before I forget and keep it for my own."
He held out the piccolo. The captain eyed it a moment before he took it. He slipped it into his own pocket without a word.
Dr. Llewellyn said, "What happened to her, sir?"
"That would be hard to explain."
"Plain enough, I expect. You wonder what a woman would know that would make them want to treat her that way. But what would you expect from a people who would kill their own king?"
"What are you saying?" Sir Edward said. It came out too loud.
The woman moaned and rolled to the side. Her blanket slipped too far, and the surgeon reached to cover her. He then pointed to the door. They walked outside.
"She will be all right, I think. Most of the wounds are days old and healing well. She spoke a few words in delirium, something about a nunnery and the Bastille. And family papers, she spoke of family and papers, I could not quite make it all out. Some in French, some too muffled to tell. I found this in her things."
He held out the folded paper. She must have given it great care, but it had been folded and unfolded many times. The captain didn't take it.
"She is exhausted and should rest for now," the surgeon continued, "but I think we should get her to proper care on shore, sir."
The captain was thinking and didn't seem to hear.
"Sir?"
"Yes, of course, Dr. Llewellyn. Proper care, you say?"
"Perhaps she has a family nearby? Or some friends?"
"I really have no idea."
The surgeon said nothing more, but he studied his captain.
Eventually, Sir Edward said, "Leave her to sleep for now. We can deal with it in the morning. Say nothing to anyone."
"And this?"
The surgeon again held out the paper. The captain frowned.
"What is it?"
"I am no legal mind, sir, but it looks to be some sort of French deed-map or property tract. Perhaps even some sort of royal grant, I would wager."
"From King Louie? Well, it is not worth much now, is it? It is probably not even real if she was carrying it around like a launderer's list. Here, give it to me."
"Even so, it looks legal to me, sir, if written in dire straits. A last will and testament. Those are often the most binding, it seems. And something else. You better have a closer look, captain."
Sir Edward unfolded the paper. It was like parchment, thick and expensive. He glanced through the writing and studied the drawing. Then he turned it over to the printed side. It was a flyer, like those published in mass quantities with little care for quality or source. He had seen the like on French ships they had taken. The Republicans took great pride in using expensive Royalist belongings for common purpose. He had heard tales of great paintings being burned in cooking stoves.
The printing on the parchment proclaimed the greatness of the revolution of the French Republic and their latest round of trials and executions. The Royalists had been fighting back, but the recent counter-revolutionary insurgencies had been unorganized and unproductive other than to lend to more unrest in the country. He grunted in disgust and turned the flyer over again. He didn't read French very well, and this writing was ornate and faded, as if old. He looked more closely.
Not French, Latin. He read a little Latin, but not much since his days on the long seas between continents early in his career. What he read here didn't seem to make sense. He put it down to his own lack of remembering. He stepped toward a lantern to see more detail. The letters were not faded, but written with a brownish stain rather than with regular ink.
"Is this old and obscure or just French and confusing?"
He let the page drop onto the table.
The surgeon's mouth went tight as he shook his head. "I only saw the like once before when I was a boy in the West Indies. It was evil business then, but the last of its kind, praise the Lord and the ships of the good Kings of England."
"What are you rambling about?"
"It was when they made the sailors sign on or die. The pirates, I mean."
The captain could see the surgeon's brow furrow, though the man tried to hide it as he rubbed at his forehead. Sir Edward knew the look of nervous remembrance well enough. Fear came and went, but the memory of such things stayed in your mind and were harder to shake free.
"Come now, man, tell me what you mean."
He put a hand to the surgeon's shoulder in encouragement. Dr. Llewellyn swallowed hard before he spoke. "When pirates took a ship, they gave the crew a choice to sign the articles or die."
"The articles for the ship, do you mean? Join the crew, become a pirate too?"
"Right, sir, but the ink that was used to make their mark. . . Well, it is the same as then, I am sure."
"Not of quality, you mean. Some plant extract probably and used when no other—"
"It was not ink they used to seal the bargain, sir, it was blood. You had to sign onto the shp in your own blood."
The captain stared at him a moment. "Are you saying this was drawn up in blood."
The surgeon was grinding his teeth. A bead of sweat formed at his temple. He said lowly, "I have a bad feeling about this, sir. She must have come from the French. That is part of the French coast there, near Spain, I will wager. And look at this. It may be a password, a code perhaps. I will wager that even more and then I will be a rich man."
"A password, as in spies, you mean. That word, ‘Charlemagne,' he was a French king, of sorts. This looks like France, true, but in the park she spoke in proper English, colonial, but clear."
"But the words do not make sense, even given that my Latin is not as good as it used to be," the surgeon continued. "It may be a code or maybe not, but you mark my words, it is trouble."
"You are suggesting we turn her over to the Admiralty? Maybe the civil authorities?"
"No, sir, I didn't mean that, I don't know what I meant, I just. . ."
The captain rubbed his chin in thought. Finally, he said, "His Majesty's Navy will not sink or swim due to the papers found in the underpinnings of a woman, Dr. Llewellyn. Not my ship, at least. Go now, get some rest, and say nothing of this."
Sir Edward went back into his cabin. The air smelled of flowers and brandy. He used to enjoy nights like this. The calm air meant you could hear any enemy approach, even the softest rowing splash. You could hear the wings of gulls as they flew by, the fish jumping, the creak of the ship's timbers. It was all comforting and the only time he could sleep well at night, for he knew he could hear danger coming.
He could swear he heard her heart beat in the quiet of this evening. She turned in the bunk and muttered something. He stepped closer. Her legs started thrashing, then her arms. Her eyes flew open, and she started up stiffly from the bunk.
She cried out, "Mama must run! They come with the French!"
The words sounded small and far away, like the voice of a child. The next words were in French, which he barely understood on a good day. She spoke with urgency, and he could tell by the wild look in her unseeing eyes that she was both terrified and still sleeping.
In an instant, she collapsed and did not move again. He knew, because he watched her for a long time. Eventually, he put the paper on the table and stretched out his hammock from one hook to the other. He had been a captain for years and was supposed to relax in more comfort. But he never gave up sleeping on a hammock on occasion. Sometimes it was necessary in stormy seas. King Neptune could toss you from your bunk whenever he pleased, and the only good rest was in a hammock.
He rolled in with a blanket, it was all that he needed. Time enough until the morning, he thought, and then he could get a proper look at her. He fell asleep with a smile on his face.
Frigate_Toivo_by_Yorke_1872
CHAPTER 04 - Kate Wakes
The first things she noticed when she woke were the smells: the sea, lingering tobacco, the mustiness of old books and wet woolen blankets. It was like being home again with her father, and it had her near tears. Kate opened her eyes. She was in a ship's cabin, the captain was sleeping soundly in the hammock. He didn't stir as she rose and slipped into her clothes. Obviously he was a gentleman, and she didn't worry about him taking liberties, but she didn't put it past him to ask her more foolish questions. Men always did things like that.
Something wasn't right. She felt her head, it still ached, but not so bad as before. Then Kate noticed that her mother's ring was on the wrong hand. She pulled and twisted to take it off. For a moment, she stared at it in the palm of her hand, wondering at how insignificant it seemed, yet how strangely naked she felt without it.
The captain had called her Madam, she recalled. Madam, not Miss, as one called a single lady. Perhaps he called her that because he saw the wedding ring, if not that it was on the wrong hand. She whispered, "Perhaps that's why you acted properly. You thought I was some other man's wife?"
It might have advantages, being a Madam instead of a Miss, she decided. Kate put the ring back on her left hand, as she found it. Men might be more accommodating if they assumed there was a husband to answer to.
As she brushed the hair from her face, she glanced around the captain's cabin, which was dimly lit from a candle sputtering down to its last breaths. Finely furnished, polished woods and tapestries. There were piles of books scattered about. One sideboard was lined with wide-bottom bottles of liquor. The rest of the cabin was cluttered with a myriad of souvenirs from a life obviously long spent at sea. It was not unlike her own cabin aboard the Wilde.
She smiled, but it faded when she saw her map. Instinctively, she felt the pocket in her petticoat. It was empty, her goodies were gone too. She pressed her mouth shut tight to pinch back the swear word that threatened to come. She had spent the better part of the afternoon in that park trying to discretely collect some items she needed for her medicine pouch. And now they had probably just tossed them over the side like they were just a bunch of weeds.
It was difficult to forage like an Iroquois while local society conducted itself nearby. The leaves of a particularly lush ornamental plant just happened to make a calming tea. And there were a few rose hips scattered on the ground under the soon-to-be budding rose bushes. It took real skill to pick rose hips quickly without getting scratched. Her mother's rhyme came to mind:
"Make tea and jam, and jelly with quince.
Use the rose petals, and chop the rose hips.
Roses smell sweet, but the thorns make you flinch.
Nice on the nose, but better on lips."
The rose hips were from last season, but still good, she figured. They worked as well as lemons for keeping scurvy at bay. Once you got them down a sailor's throat, that is. Jam with sugar or honey worked best that way. The hips were also useful to fend off fevers and colds. They were smaller and lasted longer on the voyage than fresh lemons and limes. When preserved properly, anyway, which was hard to do on a ship with sea gulls diving down to steal them when they were drying on the deck in the sun.
Kate preferred white pine needles, which gulls did not like and were easier to store, though they tended to poke just a bit. She had used them to stuff a mattress or two. It was a fine experiment, though all concerned had convinced her that it had failed badly, and that she should have first asked. But she felt that the philosophy still held.
"Pine needle tea is really quite foul,
but the biting-clean taste makes a lazy wolf howl.
Lemon, not honey, to flavor the tongue,
which is best to go down in the ailing one."
Most crewmen didn't like the taste of white pine needle tea, and those who did she suspected were just trying to spare her feelings. Still, in a pinch, with a pinch, just a pinch, as her mother used to say. Kate regretted the loss of the seeds and old flower heads too, but it was the strips of bark that she would be missing the most. She was aching still, and if you boiled the bark and drank the foul brew, it could ease headaches and muscle pains. Of course, a good dose of honey or brandy was needed to help force it down.
"Good bark though," she whispered.
The tree was an American variety, planted a good many years ago, she figured, probably as some kind of souvenir. Some of the first settlement ships to America from England had left from Plymouth. And there was the tree, come back from the New World, here to remind her of home. That is, if it was the kind of tree she thought it should be.
Kate blew out her breath in frustration, but that turned into a thankful grin as she saw the goodies in a small bowl on the table. She poured them back into her pocket, shaking her petticoat to carry them down to the bottom. The bark strips looked shriveled, but she knew they were fresh and would still be potent, even if not dried as instructed in her mother's journal.
The idea of the taste made her shudder, and she couldn't help the sound of disgust. She looked quickly to the captain. He didn't move, so she crept over to his sideboard and grabbed a bottle of liquor. He stirred at the clinking of glass and said something in his sleep. She slowly walked over to the hammock, the bottle still in her hand.
His face didn't look so haggard now. He wasn't handsome, exactly. She thought he could be, by normal standards, if he tried. If he would only smile or laugh a bit more. She reached to touch the strand of brown hair that fell across his forehead, but her stomach lurched at the recognition. Her hand stayed, and she just watched for a moment.
He rolled slightly, with his arms wrapped across his chest.
She knew for sure then, she had seen him before today.
When? Where? Friend or foe?
The ship's bell sounded, one, then two bells. Middle watch, an hour past midnight. But he didn't move again. She didn't either, she couldn't at first. Her hand hovered above him until a gull called from outside. It was a lonely sound in the peaceful night. She felt so tired suddenly, and her hand dropped heavily to her side.
It was peaceful here, but it now it felt somehow . . . disturbed.
She took the stopper from the bottle and pulled a long swallow. It was wine. She flinched, but gagged it down. Too sweet, she didn't like wine. You had to work too hard to get drunk on wine. She had only been drunk a couple of times: once when her father died, and once just recently in honor of Cousin Louie. But then she had a definite goal in mind, and wine just didn't live up to the task.
She took the bottle back to the sideboard, and began lifting stoppers on the others to sniff. After a few tries, she found the Scotch whiskey. She closed her eyes and took a sip. The liquor was smooth, but it burned going down, like drinking warm, fine ash. Nothing like single malt, it got the best price, and rightly so. Kate wiped her nose, then went back to look at the captain.
He didn't move, but his eyes opened.. Kate couldn't help it, she smiled, then she gave a little curtsy just to be polite. He was still more asleep than awake and probably thought she was a dream. His eyes closed, and he started breathing deeply again. Kate leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
"No, don't get up, I'll find my own way," she said very low.
She opened the cabin door and looked out. There was a Marine on guard. He was looking to the starboard, but he was incredibly still. Kate suspected he was dozing, which was often done, even though the penalty was severe. She was able to sidle over the rail on the port side of the ship and down the rope net ladder to a jolly boat that was waiting below.
Kate glanced back at the Stalwart, fighting to steer the boat as well as she could, which wasn't that well at all, given the boat was usually meant for four to six men. There were several ships anchored in the harbor, but she was the only jolly boat at this time of night. Sailors out and about with no orders or officers would be taken as deserters and flogged or possibly hanged, she knew. She'd never be taken for His Majesty's sailors, but in truth, she was now a thief.
It was calm and a half moon gave her some light. She heard the ships' bells gently pealing another bell in a rapid chorus as she made her way through the mulling crowd of huge dark hulls. It might have been luck on her part or carelessness on theirs, but Kate was glad to get away from the ship without difficulty. She was now closer to the quay than the ships.
If only I could see where I'm going, she thought. Kate stopped for a moment to turn around and study the shore. Finally she got her bearings again and headed for the familiar shape. The warehouse near her ship was the best she could do for tonight. It was too late to go anywhere else without too many eyebrows raised. Besides, she didn't have any money with her.
And she didn't feel like answering any more foolish questions just now. Mostly because she didn't have anything but foolish answers.
"What are you doing there?" she said gruffly. It was a remarkably close rendition of the British captain's own deep Cornish accent.
Her nose wrinkled at the sour smell of the harbor water as the boat gently collided with the pier. Kate tied up and climbed out, then chewed on her bottom lip as she tried to decide what to do with the boat. Tie it and leave a clue? Would he come looking or send someone else? For her or the boat? Kate had to admit that it mattered to her.
She decided to tie it and let one of his crew find it in the morning with the help of a waterfront brat in need of a few pocket pennies from her. There were many of those about, she knew. Most knew the ways of the quay and its sordid souls well enough to keep their mouths shut.
Kate pushed at the warehouse door. It creaked open without much effort. She caught the animal smell like the brush of an unfriendly hand. Inside, livestock waited to be hauled to the ships soon sailing out.
An old man sat in the corner, supposedly guarding the lot. He was upright, but sleeping soundly with very little shame. His hat had slipped to the side, and his mouth was lagging open. The snoring sound blended in with the rest of the beasts, and Kate thought that maybe they didn't have much trouble with theft around here.
The penalty for stealing from the Royal Navy was steep. Impressment or hanging wasn't much of a choice. Kate glanced down at her own item of plunder, the liquor bottle, then back towards the boat. She couldn't help the boat, but maybe she shouldn't have taken the bottle. But it was too late now.
"Just have to drink it and toss the bottle over the side some other time."
With her hems held high, she walked carefully through the muck to the far end nearest the carriage horses. One horse was standing with his head over the half-door of his stall. She didn't know his name, but she called him Dandy for his gentlemanly ways.
She lifted her skirt, and rummaged in her petticoat pocket to get a handful. She picked out her own choice bits. What remained were some tasty seeds and dried-up berries leftover from the autumn before. And one last piece of honey and horehound candy, good for coughs, but she knew that Dandy had a sweet tooth.
The horse sniffed, then nuzzled hungrily at the palm of her hand. He sighed as he chewed on the goodies. Kate rubbed his ears.
"Some men are easy to please."
He bobbed his head up and down, as if agreeing. It made her laugh. The old man in the corner snorted and shifted, but started snoring again without missing another round. The movement made his musket slip away. Kate was afraid it would clatter to the floor and wake him. But his broad hand reached out to grab it out of habit, or instinct, or some primal urge to preserve the calmness in the animals and his own sleep.
Kate studied him a moment. He didn't move again. She grabbed the back hem of her dress and pulled it between her legs, twisting it around until it made a sort of rope. She did the same to the front, then tied the two together to make rough pantaloons. She was then able to climb the ladder to the loft with one hand free for climbing and one to hold her new bottle of Scotch.
Up there, her things were still undisturbed. A couple of crates, several small barrels, and a well-worn trunk held most of her worldly possessions. They didn't look impressive, but these things meant something to her. Almost the world.
She opened the trunk and pulled out a quilt that her grandmother made when Kate was a child. It used to be colorful. Now it was faded but flaunting colorful patches. The quilt had traveled the world with her, and the patches were made of cloth from exotic places. She hadn't actually been to land in many of the ports, but was made to stay on the ship in the harbor to watch life on the shore from the distance.
A safe distance, her father used to say. But he always brought her back something: cloth, dried flowers and herbs, sweet oils, little pictures, or books. Many times, work would be done on the ship in those places. Kate talked to the locals who came on board to help out. Sometimes the carpenters or sail makers brought their family to see the ships from the new world: a world that had always been there and was only new to the Europeans. It was something the locals always found very funny, if ever she got the chance to talk with them.
As she unfolded the quilt, three old scrap books slid free and thumped to the floor. Some chickens below were disturbed by the noise. Kate listened for them to calm, but there was nothing more, the old man still slept.
The books had been her mother's journals. Kate stooped to pick them up.
One was a medicinal diary of things her mother had learned from frontier women and shaman from various native clans. The journal was thick, and the pages were stained with edges tattered from use. There were drawings of plants and little maps of areas long forgotten or changed by the growing American expansion. You could find nothing there now, she knew, as some were fields where there used to be meadows. Some streams were dammed and some were diverted.
Often her mother had written little rhymes to help remember the ingredients or the concoctions to brew or salve or swallow. Or how to get them down a reluctant patient:
"Honey in tea, or on a skinned knee,
honey in the bitter is better for thee.
But too much sweet in a smiling mouth,
and the pearly white teeth may all fall out.
So brush with a bristle, or an apple will do,
then people will smile right back at you."
Kate could still hear her mother singing in the kitchen. Or as they walked together in the woods, gathering mushrooms, berries, and bark strips. The birds would sing too, and the squirrels rustled in the bushes nearby. Sometimes they climbed up to sunny mountain ridges where copious sunflowers with silvery green leaves flowed like waves in the wind. They were smaller than the sunflowers grown in the garden, but they smelled twice as sweet in the hot sun.
When they went fishing, the boys had their poles, but Katie and her mother took their baskets. Katie ended up with wild flowers and pretty rocks, but her mother had gems of her own. But sometimes they were not so different.
At least, Kate thought she remembered those moments. Perhaps they were dreams. Perhaps it had not happened like that at all, and she was only wishing it so. Some things she remembered so clearly, and some she remembered not at all. She set the book aside, but brushed its cover with a loving hand.
Another book was of cultural remembrances from days in the company of so many different types of people. Her mother had come from a well-to-do family in New England with old roots in Europe. She had traveled before she married, and then with Kate's father until the boys got too old. They had to stay on land to go to a proper school, it was said. Not that they stayed in civilization very long.
This book was filled with customs, drawings of modes of dress, how men and women talked and walked and ate. Words of songs and measures of music, festivals and rituals, religious commentary, quotes from sermons, and even some notes and drawings on pagan rites. It was all written with loving detail, and sometimes philosophical insight. Her mother said that people were like flowers: Some were pretty and some were poison, but all were interesting in some sort of way. You only needed to take some care when you're picking.
The third book was a family history, a listing of the blood lines that defined her mother's family from an early time unimaginable before there were countries and castles. Kate thought of the stories as fairy tales as much as history now. She turned a few random pages.
A distant lord from long ago rode the waves in open ships to conquest in sunnier lands. They were not nice men, they stole things, raped and killed, Kate imagined. She glanced to the bottle and told herself raiding was in her blood.
One man was a noble who died in battle at some bridge whose name was not obscured by grease or candle wax. The battle was long over, and Kate sometimes wondered if the bridge was still there.
This was a baron who had served his king until they both reached a wise old age. Long friends it would seem, but who was left to remember them now?
Here was a woman who fell in battle defending the keep while the master was far away dying in the Holy Land on Crusade. They had died on the same day.
Fate took a hand even then, Kate always thought. She was a big believer in fate.
There were maps and sketches of houses and castles and keeps. There were colored drawings of heralds and banners and things Kate did not understand anymore. They were all meaningless to her now as far as family was concerned. Maybe because they were so familiar. Maybe because she had no family left. Uncles and aunts, and plenty of cousins, but those in her immediate family were all dead or long disappeared.
She closed her eyes and felt the hot rush of tears. She blinked them back and wiped at her nose. Kate set the books aside and draped the quilt on the hay. She stood for a moment in thought, then pulled up the quilt, pushing and poking at the grass and alfalfa hay. She curled up on one side of the quilt and pulled the other side up over her head.
The peace didn't last long. She sat up, scratching with a fury. Kate pulled off her boots and started picking at the burrs in her stockings.
"Damn, another hole. You should take more care when you torment—"
Then she remembered the words. They were not her own.
She had never known his name. She hadn't seen him in years. He was only slightly more than a child himself when she last saw him. He was a youngster in the Royal Navy, as green as the sea himself, she'd wager. And if the British captain hadn't been in such a peaceful slumber there on his ship just now, she might not have recognized him now.
"What with that scowl he wore there in the park."
But he had saved her then, and he saved her now. She smiled and suddenly felt rather warm. You never really forget your first love. Not someone like that. She wrapped her arms around herself for a moment, then pulled off her hose.
That's better, she thought, no more burrs to bother her now. Kate punched at the lumpy hay one more time, then slumped back and quickly fell asleep. Downstairs in the stalls, the old man looked around at the animals in curiosity. He could have sworn he heard snoring.