“Those they chose to inform,” Duncan added.
“They have always been the church’s scholars.”
“Back in Rome sometimes they grow too zealous about their unorthodox ideas and their compulsion to alter the affairs of men. Some revert to quiet intrigue. Those who agitate too loudly are sometimes sent to the New World.”
“You’re suggesting Brother Xavier is in exile?” Conawago asked.
“He spoke about an early life at missions, but he is writing letters in Italian. I wager he has also lived in Rome. I think he is a man who would turn exile into opportunity. Some men pull puppet strings just for the delight of it.”
“Or because it serves a cause they fervently believe in. Jesuits have been helping the Christian Mohawks for generations now.” Conawago stirred the embers. “But I am not certain bringing the allies of your enemy into your last fortress falls into that category. And for a hundred years our sanctimonious friends have not tried to stop the butchery of the raids into English territory.”
“So it is a trap? If the French were to take the elders of the Iroquois Council, they could keep the Iroquois from fighting. We are surrounded by French troops. Why are we here?” Duncan asked again.
“What was it that Delaware said to you of the crossed boy?”
“He always cheated.”
Conawago nodded. “They needed you to bear witness that their beloved renegade has cheated.” After Duncan had shocked him with the coin, Xavier had sat with his head in his hands listening to the details of the murders and theft.
“Before I came in here,” Conawago explained, “Xavier and Tatamy were arguing about something, raising their voices. When I eased the door open after a long silence, Xavier was on his knees at that table,” Conawago said, indicating a small, low table along the tapestry wall bearing a brass cross and a small image in a simple wooden frame. “‘Forgive me father,’ he kept saying, like the sinner in a confessional.”
“Monks pray for forgiveness like everyone else.”
“For a monk like Xavier, sins are more complicated.” Conawago reached into his shirt and extended a slip of paper bearing two words.
“Fortress Island,” Duncan read.
“He gave it to me. He’s telling us where the half-king is, his camp on the river.”
“Why should we believe him?”
In reply Conawago pushed the candle toward Duncan. He lifted it and stepped to the little table. He assumed the framed image would be one of Christ, but it was instead an ink drawing of an older man with long curly hair, much like that of Xavier. Father Francis, read the caption on the bottom.
“His sins are as complicated as his schemes,” Duncan said as he returned to Conawago. “There is something more. Something he is not telling us.” He shook his head in frustration. “I don’t want to die in a French prison.”
“Since we accepted our mission from the Council we have had one foot on the other side, Duncan. The French will let the half-king play out his hand. And we know what he intends. If we don’t give him the alliance he wants then he will demand you, me, and the elders. Five of us for the children. It saves the children and gives him an even stronger hold on the Council.”
“I could not bear to see the elders tied to the half-king’s posts.”
“Do you possibly think we would let the half-king use us against the League?”
Duncan studied Conawago uneasily.
“Don’t lie to yourself, my friend. You and I are on that belt. When you hold a belt you must speak the truth. When you are woven into a belt you must live the truth.” Conawago stood and fixed Duncan with an intense stare. “That first night when the elders arrived at our camp, Custaloga asked if I had a good sharp knife, and he showed me his. He said they would never be pawns to the French or the Hurons, that to do so would disgrace the League. He said they had all agreed.”
Duncan did not speak for several heartbeats. “I don’t understand.” He did understand, but he could not admit the terrible truth.
“The warrior’s duty, Duncan. If the French or the half-king try to take us prisoner, Custaloga will cut Tushcona’s throat, and then I am to kill him. He made me promise. Then, he said, when you and I come across our army would be waiting.”
His last bit of hope seemed to die with the embers Duncan stared at. If they fled toward the British, or simply fled into the wilderness, they would have failed the Iroquois and would carry the dishonor for as long as they lived. If they stayed with the Jesuits and the Caughnawags, they would become two more puppets of the half-king. The elders might choose a quick death at the hand of a friend, but the half-king had promised Duncan a death of five days.
He looked to see that Conawago had retired, then rose and walked along the books again. He had at least expected Xavier to parlay to keep the tribes from destroying each other. Instead he had just brought them to see an injured Mohawk girl. Duncan looked toward the chamber where Hannah lay. Xavier had left the girl in their care for the night, and the Jesuits did nothing by chance. Had he wanted them to have an opportunity to speak with her in the quiet hours?
He paused at the end of the tapestry then pushed open the door. Ishmael sat on the stool beside the cot, speaking in hushed tones with the Iroquois girl. Duncan advanced slowly, making sure they heard his footsteps.
“I wanted to check your wound,” he said to Hannah, glancing at Ishmael, who looked into the shadows as if to avoid Duncan’s gaze. He bent to feel the girl’s pulse before lightly touching the flesh around the wound on her cheek then turning to the bucket to freshen the cloth on her forehead. When he turned back to her, she was staring at him.
“My mother used to say I was the prettiest girl in the village.” The girl’s voice was surprisingly strong. “No more.”
Duncan put the moist cloth on her head. “One side of your face will captivate all those who see you, the other will humble. The tribes of the forest wear their battle scars with great pride.”
The girl’s smile was hollow. “The rose loses its flower but never its thorn.” She cast an expectant glance toward Ishmael, who nodded his encouragement. “Ishmael says I should tell you something because you understand the secret ways of Europeans.” The girl lifted her blanket and produced a slip of paper on which an image had been drawn, a series of curves and lines running together.
“The kilted men who went north with us, wherever they went they made this symbol. Carved it on trees. Used charred sticks to mark rocks with it.”
Duncan turned the paper this way and that, trying to make sense of it, then went still as recognition finally reached him. He asked for her writing lead and drew it again, very carefully, first a letter J and a letter R with a space between, then he joined the letters by nestling a figure 8 between them.
“Yes!” the girl said, nodding, “that is it.”
Duncan had not seen the sign for years. Jacobus Rex, the cipher meant, or more particularly King James the Eighth, the last Scottish King. Although forgotten by many, it had always been a secret sign of Jacobites, a sign that got men arrested, and worse, during the last uprising.
Duncan saw now how both Hannah and Ishmael looked uneasily into the shadows past the big wine barrels. He lifted one of the candles and ventured toward them. In a small alcove beyond them he discovered another cot, on which an aged man lay propped against the stone wall. He appeared to be asleep but roused as Duncan approached with the light. A smile lit his craggy face.
“Ciamar a tha sibh?”
The face, and the Gaelic greeting, stopped Duncan. For a moment he was transported to another place, another time. He did not know the man, but he certainly knew his features and his accent. He had known a hundred such men in his boyhood, the old ones who bridged the generations, who piped and danced and led joyful gatherings on misty isles.