Jamestown (The Keepers of the Ring) (27 page)

“Edith is a grown woman, she doesn’t need you,” Pocahontas answered, her voice light. “Come and go with us, Numees. You can help me with the baby—”

“You want me to hold him while other people gawk?” A flood of pent-up frustration burst forth from her, emotions she had just begun to understand. She turned the baby so he couldn’t see the storm that darkened her face. “You want me to stand by while they say his eyes are English and his skin is Indian? While they poke and prod him and wonder if his blood is red like theirs? I won’t do it, Pocahontas. I’ll stay here.”

Pocahontas stopped ironing and folded her arms in a defiant gesture. “Is that my thanks, then? For keeping you with us, for offering you the best England hath to give?”

“Who said I wanted England’s best?” Numees asked, lifting her head. “I have never asked to go with you, Pocahontas, ‘tis you who always want company. You wanted me to go with you to Aranck’s village, to Captain Argall’s ship, to Jamestown. You are brave, you love the English, but you won’t go anywhere alone. And now you want to go see England itself, you would pinch their king and see if he’s real, but I have no such desire. Go without me. And do not ask me to go again.”

Numees waited for Pocahontas’s response, but the older girl seemed preoccupied, as if a premonition or memory had surfaced and overshadowed her awareness of the conversation they were having. “Sister?” Numees called softly, her anger fading at the sight of Pocahontas’s stricken face. The young woman jerked, startled, and rearranged her troubled expression into a pensive smile.

“‘Tis a long way, isn’t it?” she whispered, arching her brows into triangles. “Of course I’ll have John, but—” her voice faded, then she threw Numees an anxious glance. “What
if I never come home again, little sister?”

Numees pressed her lips to the soft hair on the baby’s head as the question hung between them, unanswered.

Twenty-one

I
n the halcyon days of late spring, John and Rebecca Rolfe sailed with their infant son and Governor Thomas Dale to England. After their arrival in London, John Rolfe wrote a treatise for the king entitled
A True Relation of the State of Virginia, Left by Sir Thomas Dale, Knight, in May last, 1616
. Some months later, a copy of this report fell into the hands of Delbert Crompton, headmaster of the Royal Academy for Homeless Orphans. As soon as his bleary eyes fell closed on the evening in which he had received the narrative, his servant, Fallon Bailie, fell upon its pages and did not look up until the candle sputtered out and he was forced to search for another.

Fallon’s brows lifted in pleasure as he recognized the rivers and landmarks of his memory. Though a different cast of characters moved through the landscape, Fallon could see the beloved land stretching before him in wild and terrible majesty.

In October 1616 talk at Master Crompton’s monthly meeting of learned intellectuals soon turned to the king’s court and the presentation of the Indian princess. Though Fallon had been wont to hide in his corner as soon as ‘twas obvious the master had no further need of him, at the mention of Powhatan’s daughter he lost all custody of his eyes and ears. He bent his lanky form into a darkened corner of the great hall and listened intently as the men smoked the fashionable new tobacco and told of the charming princess who spoke English fluently and carried herself as the daughter of a king.

“I hear she was highly respected,” one portly gentleman muttered around his pipe, “not only by the king’s company, but by particular clergymen in their hopeful zeal that she will advance Christianity. The lady is a true Christian, no doubt,
and in her lies our best hope to win the continent to the Savior.”

“May it be so,” Master Crompton muttered, doubtless missing his quart of ale, for by now he was usually asleep.

“I heard that certain of the King’s court reintroduced the lady to Captain John Smith,” another man offered. “He could not believe that the child who saved his life before Powhatan had grown into an affable and beautiful young woman.”

A young woman.
Fallon felt a curious, tingling shock. His mind had often formed questions to ask John Smith about the children Gilda and Noshi, but surely they had grown now to be—

He figured quickly. If they still lived, Gilda had to be thirteen, and Noshi was only a few months older. Name of a name! Noshi would soon be undergoing tests of manhood, and Gilda was not far from marriage. The next few months would bring the greatest trials of their lives, and he was powerless to help them!

A harrowing headache pounded his forehead as he slumped to the floor. Bowing his head, Fallon rested his hands on his knees and lifted his heart to heaven. “Father God,” he prayed, not caring if the men in the room beyond heard his frantic whispers, “be where I cannot be. Remain close to the side of my Gilda and my Noshi, and bring our paths together. Guide me so that I may find them, and keep them safe until we meet again.”

He opened his eyes and stared at the dancing shadows in the rushlight. The baritone voices of Master Crompton’s guests rose and fell as they congratulated each other on their collective wisdom, and rain blasted against the leaded panes of the windows. He was so far from Virginia! ‘Twas of certain that only the power of God could reunite him with the children again.

Hope came in the form of a severe ague that afflicted Master Crompton and forced the headmaster to send his servant on an errand to the apothecary. Fallon stepped into the busy London street and went straightway to the druggist, who promised to bring the prescribed herbs to the school as soon as ‘twas possible. With a reassuring pat upon the crinkled parchment in his doublet pocket, Fallon walked toward the smithy, stopping to ask for directions several times along the way.

The narrow cobblestone street was encumbered with traffic and clogged with pedestrians, but Fallon finally found the barn-like structure that housed the smithy. A full moment passed before he recognized Brody McRyan, for the boy of his schooldays had grown into a handsome man. The softness of youth had completely left his face, and the slender arms had hardened with muscle and sinew from the demanding work of a blacksmith.

Brody stood with his forehead buried in the sweaty side of a mare, her hoof balanced betwixt his knees. He glanced toward Fallon for a moment, sweat dripping into his eyes, and muttered, “Be with you in a moment, sir.”

“Brody.”

The smith’s apprentice abruptly dropped the hoof and the mare snorted in disapproval. “Fallon?” Brody’s eyes widened in delight. “Fallon Bailie!”

The friends embraced, then parted to look at one another again. “Ah, no, I never would a’knowed you,” Brody said, his eyes snapping at the sight of Fallon. “How goes it at Master Crompton’s? Are ye counting the days?”

“Aye, and you?” Fallon answered, taking a seat on a bench beside the mare.

“My term will be done soon enough,” Brody answered, tossing a searching glance over his shoulder. He winked at Fallon. “The master doesn’t like me talking too much. Docks my dinner a bite for every word I say, he does.”

“I won’t keep you. I have to get back myself, for Crompton still believes in working from dawn till dusk,” Fallon answered, grinning. He fell silent, and studied the ground. “But I can’t leave the house, you see, and I wondered if you could do a favor for me. I wouldn’t put you out, but I’ve a letter that needs to be delivered.”

Brody’s eyes glinted with mischief. “I see. Can it be that our Fallon has fallen in love?”

“Nay.” Fallon felt his cheeks burning. “I haven’t even seen a girl in ten years, not up close anyway. My letter is to John Smith.”

“Sure, and don’t I know ‘tis,” Brody answered, laughing. He scrubbed his close-cropped head with his knuckles. “I don’t know how I could help you, Fallon, because gentlemen of John Smith’s caliber doesn’t usually come to the smithy themselves—”

“But gentlemen
do
come,” Fallon persisted. “They have horses, they send their grooms. I have absolutely
no
chance of sending the letter, Brody, and I haven’t another friend in all of London.”

“And why is it so urgent that you be seein’ Captain Smith now? In a year or so you’ll be free and able to do as you like—”

“Powhatan’s daughter is in London, Brody, and she knows John Smith. Don’t you see? The Lady Rebecca Rolfe has to know what happened to Gilda! I don’t know how to reach her, and Master Crompton would beat me even for asking him such a question, but if John Smith knows I need to see her—”

“I cry you mercy, enough!” Brody said, a wry smile curling on his lips as he extended his hand for the letter. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” Fallon answered, relieved. He gave his friend the sealed parchment and Brody stuffed the letter into his jerkin.

Fallon felt a lump rise in his throat as he briefly embraced Brody. “As soon as y’are released, you come find me, you hear? And I’ll do the same if I’m free afore you.”

“Aye,” Brody answered, tipping an imaginary cap before bending again into the side of the mare. “That’s a promise, me friend.”

Delbert Crompton recovered from his illness in time to watch his well-ordered and profitable world turn on its head. Reverend Paul Stacey, the old cleric who had hitherto given Master Crompton free reign in administrating the Royal Academy for Homeless Orphans, had the audacity to die of old age. The new rector of St. Paul’s, the Reverend Stephen Archer, took an unconscionable interest in the school’s administration and appeared at the academy one afternoon for an unannounced visit.

Archer stood tall and straight as he entered the dining hall. Though his skin bore the pallor of desk work, his face was serious and dedicated.

Master Crompton ushered the new clergyman to the seat of honor at the center table in the dining hall. Even seated Reverend Archer looked taller than anyone else in the room. He did not concentrate on the headmaster, but peered around, comparing his sumptuous dinner with the meager, meatless meals of the boys. After an observant evaluation, Archer promptly announced that he would not eat a morsel until the boys had meat, too, and plenty of it, because from the looks of
their thin faces they had been severely deprived.

After Crompton sent the cooks scurrying to the kitchen to find meat for the boys’ bowls, the Reverend Archer fixed the headmaster with an unblinking eye and ordered that henceforth the boys would have a generous meat pottage every day. A crown of gloom settled upon Delbert Crompton as he saw the profits of years past slip through his fingers. This foolishly tender-hearted minister would insist upon proper clothing for the boys, clean linens, mayhap even more classes and better instruction. He would have to employ another teacher, mayhap two, and give a careful accounting of the church funds that had purchased so many fine clothes and books and lovely quarts of ale over the years . . .

“Have you aught to say to me, Master Crompton?” the minister asked, a look of intense, clear light pouring through his eyes from across the table.

Crompton cleared his throat and shifted his weight in his chair. ‘Twould be useless to protest, for ‘twould take only a vote by the board of overseers to toss Crompton out of his position. And he was too old, too tired, too
settled
to find another avenue of employment.

“I was just about to suggest that we vary our menu a bit,” Crompton replied, folding his hands in surrender. “And I wondered if you might like to meet the young man who serves as my apprentice. He’s a product of the academy himself, a fine boy who carries himself well. If you feel we should expand our curriculum, we could use him as a tutor immediately and spare the cost of hiring another—”

“His name?” the clergyman asked, eyeing Crompton steadily over the rim of his silver goblet.

“Fallon Bailie,” Crompton replied, sighing.

Fallon did not know why he was promoted to a position of authority, nor did he understand why the students around him had decorated themselves with smiles. ‘Twas almost as if the academy had turned itself from a prison into a real school, for the boys moved easily and noisily through the halls to their classes and actually conversed at dinner with satisfied expressions on their faces. Fallon was invited to eat in the school’s society, as were the other teachers. From the center table, adorned now in plain linen like the boys’ tables, Master Crompton and the new rector of St. Paul’s surveyed the new and improved situation. Reverend Archer, at least, saw what he had created and pronounced it good.

Crompton assigned Fallon to a class of twelve-year-olds and directed him to teach Bible catechism. Fallon had not realized how starved he was for the society of human companionship until he found it restored to him. In his small classroom he was surrounded by eager boys who looked at him with more than the grudging respect they had henceforth shown their teachers. He realized one day that their admiration sprang from the fact that he was
one of them
. Of all the authority figures at the school, only he had slept in the creaky rope bunks of the dormitory and squirmed under the hot gaze of headmaster Crompton.