He heard movement above and saw that the door to the narrow winding stairway to the top floor was open. Stealthily climbing the stairs, he followed the sound to the little makeshift chapel. The great brown dog was on its haunches, staring out the low window.
It took Duncan only a few minutes to find what he was looking for among the wooden boxes that lined the wall. The writing on the pasted lable was faded but still readable. Father Francis, it said, 1673. Strangely, it had two dates for his demise. The inked inscription indicated he had died in 1722, but above it someone had used a lead to inscribe 1734.
Inside the box was a worn rosary, a small carved bird, a braid of long black hair tied with a red ribbon, and two cheap copper rings, the kind bartered by traders, bound together with a strip of white fur.
No one among our missions showed more courage and faith than Father Francis when he ventured as the first of us among the Mingoes, began the note at the bottom of the box. It went on to explain that Francis was a natural leader who soon attracted a settlement of natives around his little chapel on the banks of the Ohio and then opened the first school in the western lands. But he had gone too far in adopting the native ways, and in 1722, when his abbot discovered he had sired a son with a Mingo maid, they had taken his robe away. Francis did not stop his mission work, however, and was famous for preaching about the purity of the savage soul. He insisted on keeping European technology from his flock and fervently condemned those who tried to introduce European currency, saying gold and silver represented false wealth. It was the scourge of Europe and would corrupt the souls of his people. He had buried his beloved wife in an epidemic and a year later had been killed by drunken warriors trying to burn his chapel. His son Xavier continued the mission work and was consecrated as a monk at an early age.
Duncan closed the box and reverently replaced it, recalling how Xavier had begged his father’s forgiveness when he had discovered the half-king had committed murder for an army payroll. The Jesuit’s passion for the natives had made him a perfect lieutenant for Graham but in the end he too had become a pawn. Duncan gazed out over the broad river and the chain of islands that extended to the horizon. They could have been Scottish islands, and he could have built himself a croft, even a boat, and taught the old ways to a new generation. But the price had been too high.
A movement on the field below caught his eye. Conawago was walking toward two long bundles lying by the rock-strewn bluff. He had almost forgotten the last of their sacred duties.
They worked in silence, Ishmael and Duncan cutting and trimming sturdy maple saplings while Conawago and Kass erected the two scaffolds. When they unwrapped the blankets around the bodies, Duncan insisted on binding the many gaping wounds. Kass washed the bodies with water and sweetfern while he knelt with needle and thread. The elders arrived to light a small spirit fire. With cupped hands Conawago directed the fragrant smoke over the bodies, reciting a low gravelly chant that the others soon joined in. Duncan did not bother to wipe the moisture in his eyes.
Hetty joined in the chants, the hell dog watching her vigilantly from the cliff’s edge, but as the others quieted, she continued with her own low, mournful song, in the Welsh tongue. When she was finished, Conawago spoke to the dead men in his Nipmuc language, and though only Ishmael understood what he said, the tone was unmistakable. There was mourning in his voice, but also apology and even guilt. With slow, painful realization, Duncan understood. His friend too needed to find a death with honor, and had expected it, had promised it, had been bound to it by the Iroquois Council. But he had failed to die.
Tushcona seemed to sense the depth of his pain. When Conawago finished, she spoke to him in a somber, worried tone. The Nipmuc hesitantly pulled out the belt she had woven at Onondaga Castle. The weaver seemed strangely unsteady as she lowered herself onto a boulder and stretched the belt across her lap. Her brow furrowed as she ran her fingers over it, as if unfamiliar with the beads she herself had woven. Then she touched the central figures and began an urgent, whispered chant. Conawago touched Duncan, and he saw that all the others had retreated several steps, leaving the weaver in the center of their circle. As Duncan stepped back, Tuchcona lifted the belt over her head and spoke toward a huge bird that had appeared overhead.
It was the first eagle Duncan had seen since the fateful day on Lake Champlain, and as she spoke the bird dropped closer. She kept speaking, sometimes pausing and cocking her head as if in conversation, then with a few powerful thrusts the bird changed course and began climbing. They all watched it until it was a speck high in the sky, then Tushcona sighed and looked apologetically at Duncan and Conawago, gesturing them toward her.
“It was fated to be two companions, one old and one young, who crossed over to save us,” Tushcona explained. “The belt weaves itself. We only thought it was a Nipmuc and a Scot because you were the ones who came.”
Conawago lowered his head. Disappointment showed through his sorrow. Finally he nodded his acceptance of her words. “The honor of dying was not ours this time.”
Relief flooded Tushcona’s face. She carried the belt to Sagatchie’s scaffold and laid it across his chest, then spoke in a low voice in Custaloga’s ear, as if to give him final assurance. The spirits could be at peace again. Their two protectors had made it across.
They had finished the rituals, finished the farewells to the lost warriors, and were lingering in silent contemplation of the two dead Iroquois when the hell dog bared its teeth and growled toward the abbey yard. Duncan saw no sign of intruders, but Hetty suddenly hitched up her skirt and ran, Ishmael and Conawago only a few steps behind. They had not expected their visitors so soon.
Duncan lingered, watching the dozen warriors who emerged from around the ruined barns, and turned to Sagatchie’s body with a new fierceness in his eyes. “We will make an end to this,” he vowed to his dead friend, then he turned to find Kass and Adanahoe standing behind him with fire in their eyes. They conferred quickly, then descended in a wide circle around the abbey.
When he and Adanahoe finally stepped past the ruined outbuildings into the old barnyard, Ishmael was lying on the ground. Hetty and Tushcona knelt at his side trying to protect him from the angry Mingo warrior who hovered over him, dangling a string of scalps in his face. Duncan’s hand went to his knife as two men filed out of the abbey, carrying the elders’ packs. Scar glared at Duncan, who had left him unconscious and shamed at the end of the gauntlet. The man behind Scar, wearing the lynx pelt at his waist, paused, and a cruel, hungry grin rose on his face. The half-king still wore his war paint.
Chapter Seventeen
The renegade leader dropped the pack in his hand and stepped in front of his men, gesturing for them to get on with their work. They began dumping out the contents of the packs onto the ground.
“Surely, Regis, you can tell by their weight that the packs don’t have what you seek,” Duncan declared in a loud voice.
Hatred flared in the half-king’s eyes, then he shrugged. “There will be time enough for me to become the Revelator again. Next year, perhaps the year after. The western tribes will not be quieted. We will yet soak the land in blood. Blood will have blood.”
“Shakespeare?” Duncan replied. “You’ve learned well from your poet.”
Sounds of struggle came from inside the building. Another pack flew out of an upstairs window. A child cried out in fear.
“If those children are harmed, it will be your men flying out the windows,” Duncan growled.