Shadowbrook Part 20

She shook her head, impatient with his disbelief. "There is every joining. I was there. I saw it. No, don't look like that. I do not mean I was shown a vision. I saw it with my own eyes, just as I am looking at you now. I was ten and Maman and I were living in a little house near the barracks at Ruthven, in the Scottish Highlands. Many of the other wives and children had already been sent home to England. But Maman said we would not go because so many doubted the loyalty of my papa, since his wife was French and a Catholic. And the day after the battle we were taken to see the scene of the great English victory. The dead and the dying were everywhere. The king's soldiers, even Papa, walking among them, cutting the heads off the wounded. They scoured the countryside for any who might be hiding. When they were found, they were hacked apart and the place that had sheltered them burned to the ground. I saw everything and I made a vow that I would be a nun to save the soul of my beloved papa. Le bon Dieu is kind. After he was retired from the army, Papa renounced his Protestant heresy and was received into the True Church. I did not know what convent I was meant to enter until, by chance, I heard of the Poor Clares of Quebec, the smallest, humblest monastery of the order. Papa had business in Virginia, so he took me with him." She managed a smile, as if everything was now explained.

Quent stretched out his hand, but she backed away. Nothing he could do, nothing he could say, would alter her decision. All the same, he had to try. "Nicole ..."

"There is no more time for words, Quent. I must go to Quebec."

He had lost. He had only to look at her to know that. "Very well. If you insist this is what you want, I will take you to your convent."

Merci, mon Dieu. Since the terrible visions that had come to her in the cave behind the waterfall, the pain in her heart had been intense, a misery of sorrow and regret. Now her grief eased. "I will always pray for you. You will never-"

"I'll take you as soon as I've brought Solomon home. Meanwhile you have to go back to Shadowbrook."

"No! Quent, you cannot-"

He turned and walked back to the main trading hall.

Judith held out the parcel of food for him. He took it and stowed it in his haversack. Esther said nothing, but her glance darted between Quent and the girl who stood in the open doorway staring at him, looking as if her world were totally destroyed.

"Take her to the big house," Quent said as he strode toward the door. "Kindly tell my mother I'll return as soon as I can. Then I'll take Mademoiselle Crane wherever she wishes to go."

The doors of the trading post swung open before he reached them. The man who came in wore a blue jacket trimmed with an officer's gold braid, a ruffled s.h.i.+rt, and an officer's tricorne. Beneath it his long hair was pure white, tied at the back of his neck with a grosgrain ribbon. His face was marked by the ritual tattoos and scars of a Kahniankehaka chief. "They told me I would find you here, Uko Nyakwai. Skennenteron." Peace to this house.

"Skennenise," Peace to you. It had been many years since Quent had seen Thoyanoguin, the Mohawk chief the whites called King Hendrick. He had changed little, as wizened and wrinkled now as when Quent was a boy. But his eyes, usually pools of calm, were troubled. "Why does the great Lord of the Kahniankehaka look for Uko Nyakwai?" Quent asked.

"Teiononhkert, Red Bear." Things have gone wrong.

"What things?"

"There are five dead horses by Bright Fish Water. Killed not for food or for mercy, only for spite."

Bright Fish Water was the northernmost boundary of the Patent, but only half on Hale land. It took a long day to paddle a canoe from one end of Bright Fish Water to the other, and when you arrived at the far sh.o.r.e you were in Canada, in what the French claimed as New France, on what they called the Lac du St. Sacrament. "Does Thoyanoguin know if the horses belonged to my father?"

"They were stolen by Lantak in the raid."

No surprise there. Thoyanoguin had probably known that Lantak and his renegades were on their way well before the murdering b.a.s.t.a.r.ds appeared. But as long as they went after whites, not Mohawk, the old chief was content to let things take their course. He'd not have come to warn Ephraim Hale unless there was some immediate gain for him in it, and obviously he'd seen none. But why come to Quent with this news now? He didn't ask the question outright. No one put a higher value on negotiation and subtlety than a member of the Iroquois Federation, and no one was better at it then Thoyanoguin. "Did the Huron renegades slaughter their horses because they had a canoe? Since they are so far from their homelands, where would they get such a thing?"

Thoyanoguin shrugged. "Canoes can be found, or even stolen."

You're lying, you clever old fox. Quent thought. You don't give a blacksmith's cuss for what Lantak and his men did on Shadowbrook. h.e.l.l, you sold them the b.l.o.o.d.y canoe to make sure they got away. And one of the things that's made you decide to come and tell me about it is that instead of turning the Hale horses loose and giving you a chance to round them up, they killed the poor animals just so you wouldn't have them. "The renegades took a captive from my father's lands, wise Chief. Only one. Did you see him?"

"I told you, I saw nothing. If I had been there I would have demanded an explanation of all their evil deeds and brought them to your respected father for justice. But two of my braves saw Lantak and they told me of the captive. A black man. One of the ones you call slaves." Thoyanoguin's disgust showed in his tone. "The black man's blood was on the ground near where the canoe set out on the water. My braves tell me that it was the same color red as yours or mine."

"I know that, wise Chief. Red or white or black, the same color blood." Quent suppressed the sense of urgency that was making his skin crawl. "The captive's name is Solomon. He is a good man. Is he near death... tehokonhentonsken?"

"He is not yet dead. Not even dying." Thoyanoguin's glance had fixed on Nicole, standing in the shadows by the storeroom. The Mohawk kept looking at her even as he spoke to Quent. "But now this Solomon, he sees singly." He raised his fist to his face and made a gesture indicating a knife gouging out an eye.

He'd hoped Lantak might wait till he was back on his own ground before... Sweet Jesus Christ. "The Huron, Thoyanoguin, to nihati?" How many did you see?

"I told you. These old eyes saw nothing. My braves tell me there were five pieces of Huron dung stinking up the place. Uko Nyakwai ... there is something ..."

It was coming at last. "I am listening with both my ears, wise Chief."

"Last night, before the horses were killed and before my braves saw these Huron dog t.u.r.ds, I had a dream. I saw a red bear."

Quent clenched his fists, but left his arms hanging loose at his sides. He mustn't in any way betray his impatience. But the total trust in dreams that Indians had escaped him. He never had felt the same. If my white son does not trust the spirits that come when he sleeps, soon they will not bother coming. Bishkek, his manhood father, had told him that long ago. And when Bishkek was teaching him to fas.h.i.+on his death song, Quent did indeed have one dream that helped him. He must have interpreted it correctly, because his song was good and powerful. That had been proven the day in the Shawnee camp when Pontiac could have killed him, but didn't. "I was the red bear in Thoyanoguin's dream?"

"Hanio! Who else could it be? But until now I did not know the ident.i.ty of the raon, the tiny bird that beats its wings so fast they cannot be seen, so it seems still when it is moving. Now I know."

The Mohawk continued to stare at Nicole. She was the hummingbird in Thoyanoguin's dream, Quent realized. "What happened to the raon?"

"A hawk came and tried to capture it, but the little bird escaped. Still the hawk flew after it, and when the little bird grew tired of beating its wings so fast, it landed on the back of a red bear and asked the bear to carry it to safety. But even though the bird was very tiny and the bear very big, the bear said it could not and rose up on its back legs and shook the little bird off its back. Then the hawk swooped down and killed the raon. And the blood from that one tiny bird covered the village of Thoyanoguin and many other villages. And all the Kahniankehaka were drowned in it."

Nicole was aware of the currents, if not the meaning of the words. "He told you something about me, didn't he?" she whispered to Quent. "What did he say?"

You tell me, my white son, that Christians believe in Shkotensi, the Great Spirit, that they know that all of us were put here to play our part in the Telling being told by the Great Spirit. But how can we know what Shkotensi says if we do not listen when he speaks? He'd had no answer for Bishkek then and he had none for Thoyanoguin now. A river of blood. Cormac had seen that, too. And many little birds protected by a bear. Here, now, there was only one little bird.

Quent found his voice and spoke to her, not to Thoyanoguin. "You said you expected me to take a horse when I left Shadowbrook, that the reason you took Pohantis's clothes was so you could ride. But there's no-"

Nicole interrupted him. "No sidesaddle fit for a lady in your stable. I know, Little George told me that weeks ago. It doesn't matter. When we lived in Ruthven, near the barracks, the soldiers amused themselves by teaching me. I can ride astride like a man, even bareback."

Not in a Quaker frock she couldn't. "Then go change. Hurry." Then, to Esther: "I need two horses." There was a wide and decent path between here and Bright Fish Water, and much as he would like the feel of her mounted behind him, two horses carrying single loads would make far better time. "I did not bring money, but I will pay when I return."

"Thee can have whatever thee needs from this place and welcome, Quentin Hale."

He turned to Thoyanoguin. "When I get to Bright Fish Water I will need a canoe."

"It is waiting for you already. Ahkwesahsne." In the place where the partridge drums. "Tyientaneken kanehsatake" Two logs side by side on the crusty sands. "Follow in the direction they point. The canoe is well hidden, but because you know it is there, you will find it. And there are two paddles," Thoyanoguin added, nodding toward Nicole with satisfaction.

Chapter Thirteen.

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 1754.

MONASTERY OF THE POOR CLARES, QUeBEC.

TO PAD ALONG a rough stone floor in your bare feet was not much of a penance in September, even in New France. When she was a child, a little girl in the great chateau on the banks of the Loire, Mere Marie Rose used to get up in the middle of a winter's night and test her fort.i.tude by walking barefoot through the icy corridors and halls, always careful to avoid the rugs. Once, in February, she went outside and challenged herself to do the same along the frozen riverbank. Peti, her beloved bonne d'enfant, caught her that time, and there was no gouter for a week Mere Rose smiled slightly remembering Peti, who always smelled of powder and cloves, and the afternoon snacks of childhood, warm milk with honey and buns topped with fresh b.u.t.ter or sweet preserves.

It was twenty-two years since she had tasted such things, since she was fifteen and the cloister door of the Poor Clares of Montargis was closed and locked behind her. At least the Ursulines, her mother had begged. Or the Benedictines. If you insist on pursuing this madness, choose a convent where you need not endure so much. But her mother would surely have agreed that the stone floor of the tiny monastery in Quebec Lower Town presented no hards.h.i.+p in the middle of a September night. Besides, there was never very far to walk in this hovel of a monastery.

Summer and winter alike, moments after every midnight of the year, after they had slept for three hours, the abbess of the Poor Clare Colettines of Quebec woke her daughters and led them to prayer. They reached the door of the chapel, wheree Mere Marie Rose paused and dipped her right forefinger in the holy water stoup and made the sign of the cross. In winter when the holy water froze and not a drop adhered to her finger she made the gesture anyway, and each of the four nuns behind her did the same.

The nuns entered the chapel in single file, each pausing to bow deeply from the waist in front of the tabernacle before taking her place in the facing rows of wooden boxes called choir stalls. Since they were five altogether, there were two nuns on one side, three on the other. The asymmetry disturbed Mere Marie Rose.

Le bon Dieu had promised her a postulant. He had spoken to her as plainly as anyone could wish. I am sending you another daughter to be consumed in the flames of my love. She had even shared the joyous news with the community and with Pere Antoine. Where was she, this sixth offering of prayer and penance?

"O Lord, open my lips and my mouth shall declare Your praise." Soeur Marie Joseph, the cantor, had a lovely voice. She intoned the great antiphon of Matins, the First Hour of the new day, and the a.s.sembled nuns answered with the opening psalm, "Confitebor tibi quia terribiliter magnificatus es ..." I will praise You for You are terrible and magnificent ...

Their chant was tremulous in the candlelit dark Only Joseph could truly sing, and Mere Rose and her nuns did not spend hours in practice, like the proud Benedictines for whom the perfection of each note was a sacred duty. But all of them knew their chant rose from their hearts to heaven on a direct course. "Nonne qui oderunt te Domine oderam?" Have I not hated them that hated You?

Midway through the third psalm of the Matins office a red haze obscured the words on the page of Mere Rose's Psalter. The abbess closed her eyes and continued to chant from memory. She plunged into the haze, offering herself to appease G.o.d's wrath. Flames. A river of blood. What did they signify? Tell me, my good G.o.d. Tell me what I must know. There was no answer, only the chants of Matins: Taste and see that the Lord is sweet. Magnify His name with me.

The visions had begun when she was a little girl. She had only to dose her eyes to see twisting, writhing souls in torment surrounded by slavering demons. And holding back the demons, a circle of women wearing black veils that fell in soft folds to their shoulders, and rough gray robes tied with knotted white cords, and nothing on their feet. But the women could not join hands to close the circle and release the souls from their agony. They stretched as far toward each other as they could, but one person was missing. The little girl who would grow up to be Mere Rose had always known the brown-clad nuns were waiting for her.

These days she saw other things. Red men, savages who did not know Jesus Christ and His Church and who were therefore unable to enter heaven, who must remain in emptiness and nothingness for all eternity. Their sadness and loss overwhelmed her. Their ignorance appeared to her as a great boulder blocking the mouth of a cave, preventing the light from entering. Oh my G.o.d ... only one more. One more. To roll back the great stone of unbelief, just one more woman was needed. Preferably young and beautiful and pure, and willing to offer herself in total sacrifice.

Half an hour later the prayers of Matins ended. The nuns knelt in their stalls, waiting for the abbess to give the signal for them to rise. It did not come. Soeur Marie Celeste was vicaress, Mere Rose's second in command. She glanced at the abbess and saw that her eyes were still tightly shut, as they had been for much of the Office. Celeste waited a few moments more. It was the abbess who should lead them from the chapel back to their cells, to the three hours' sleep that comprised the second part of the night's rest for Poor Clares of the strict observance. The abbess did not move. Eh bien, such things were common with la bonne Mere. She was a chosen soul. Celeste stepped out of her choir stall and Marie Angelique, Marie Francoise, and Marie Joseph followed her. The four processed from the chapel and, as happened so often, left the abbess motionless and entranced.

The front door of the monastery was made of brawny planks of oak bound with hammered iron. It was locked and barred, and however many times Quent beat his fist against it there was no response. "Here," Nicole said. "We must try here. It is called the turn."

He did not answer her-they had barely spoken for days-but he looked at what appeared to be a small barrel set into the wall next to the door. A heavy bra.s.s bell hung beside the barrel's rounded bulge. Nicole took hold of the leather pull and shook it vigorously. A few moments later, though they could see no one, they heard a voice. "Laudate Jesum Christum." Praised be Jesus Christ.

"Per omnia saecula saeculorum," Nicole said. World without end.

"Qu' est-ce que vous voudrais, madame?" Angelique's heart was thudding against her chest. The accent of this visitor was not that of the locals. And she was young. Mere Rose had been saying for months that a postulant would come to join them. Perhaps today- "I wish to be one of you," Nicole said. "To become a Poor Clare."

Angelique clasped her hands in excitement, then pressed them to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Praised be Jesus Christ indeed! "Un moment, ma pet.i.te. Ne quittez pas." The words tumbled out of Marie Angelique in an urgent rush. "One moment only. Do not go. Un moment!"

The little nun hurried from the turn and ran toward the chapel. It was early dawn and the high windows of the small choir let in a few beams of pink-tinged light. One seemed to be resting directly on the abbess, kneeling exactly as she had been when Matins and then the first Office of the day, Lauds, had finished. Angelique was not surprised. When ma mere was taken in this manner she could not control the length of what she called the wound of love. But for this ... she would wish to be told this at once.

Angelique paused just long enough for a deep bow before the tabernacle, then turned and walked quickly to Mere Rose's stall. Her bare feet made no sound on the uneven stones. "Ma Mere," she whispered. "I humbly beg you to forgive this interruption, ma Mere, but-"

"So she has come at last," Marie Rose said, opening her eyes. "Thanks be to G.o.d."

Quent lingered in the shadows at the rear of the chapel.

"Magnificat anima mea Dominum." My soul doth magnify the Lord. The chant rose from behind the closely placed and heavily curtained iron bars that backed the altar. "He who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is His name."

The disembodied voice behind the turn had given Nicole a worn old prayer book. All her responses were written there, the nun said. Nicole held the prayer book now, but as fer as Quent could tell she wasn't looking at it.

"Quia respexit humilitatem ancillae suae," the voices behind the bars chanted. He has looked on the lowliness of his handmaiden.

"Ecce enim ex hoc beatam me dicent omens generationes," Nicole replied. She spoke the words clearly, without hesitation. All generations will call me blessed.

Sweet G.o.d Almighty, what kind of religion was this that locked women up behind iron bars and called it virtue? He couldn't bear the thought of leaving her in this place. It was dim. Nicole was meant for sunlight and laughter. For Shadowbrook. Not to be locked up forever a virgin. Was their world filled only with women? Perhaps not. A tall gaunt man dressed in a brown robe was kneeling in the tiny chapel. He seemed unaware of Quent's presence, but he hadn't taken his eyes off Nicole.

She was wearing the gray Quaker dress that Esther s...o...b..rry had given her and she'd entirely hidden her hair under the plain white mobcap. She was nonetheless so beautiful she took his breath away. Maybe more beautiful than he'd ever seen her, glowing with happiness. She knelt in front of the small altar, gazing intently at a golden box.

Quent clenched his fists to stop himself from striding forward and carrying her away from this superst.i.tion and Catholic deviltry. There was no point. She was doing what she wanted to do. d.a.m.n you, Nicole. The devil take you. I'll not beg you to change your mind.

Still, he couldn't leave while he could yet look at her, kneeling with her head bowed in prayer so he could see the tender place at the back of her neck. A bird or birds, a hawk, a bear, a river of blood. Two almost identical dreams told to him by two entirely different men. What did it all mean? In spite of his distaste for popery, Quent found himself gazing at the altar and praying for an answer.

Pere Antoine was conscious of the man behind him, but he did not need to look again to know the man was Uko Nyakwai, the legendary Red Bear. So Quentin Hale had come here, to Quebec, to the place of the French enemy. In itself perhaps not so extraordinary. The trappers and scouts, all the coureurs de bois, moved freely over the land; like the red men, they had little use for legal borders. But that it should be Quentin Hale who brought the Franciscans the treasure they had all been waiting for was extraordinary. Pere Antoine signed himself with the cross. The ways of G.o.d were truly remarkable ... Lantak had sent word that the raid had been successful. He was claiming the two hundred livres he was owed.

The chanting of the Magnificat was finished. The voice of Mere Marie Rose came from behind the grille. "What do you wish, my child?"

"To follow Christ and live the life of the gospel," Nicole replied.

"Are you prepared to give your heart to Lady Poverty and follow Francis and Clare, to be hidden with G.o.d in the cloister?"

Oh yes, she burned to do exactly that. Accept me, mon Dieu. She did not look at the formal words of response. Her reply came from deep within her. "I am truly prepared, ma Mere. With all my heart and soul."

Mere Marie Rose smiled. Enthusiasm was natural in the young. And this one had spirit, she could tell simply from the sound of her voice. The black woolen curtains on their side of the grille made it impossible to see into the public chapel, and the turn permitted no glimpse of a visitor, but Angelique had been beside herself with delight when she announced the girl's arrival. "Her voice, ma Mere, it is lovely. I am sure she is a beautiful bride of Christ."

"We are concerned with a beautiful soul, ma Soeur, only that." It was her sacred duty as abbess to curb the remains of worldly att.i.tudes in her daughters, but from the first day she had herself stepped inside the cloister, wearing the exquisite frock her darling maman had ordered made specially for the occasion ("Each st.i.tch sewn with one of my tears, ma chere pet.i.te, my tears ..."), Marie Rose had known how eagerly the nuns devoured the sight of a new postulant. A young woman coming to join them was, for the few moments before she was absorbed into the community, a glimpse of the world they had left behind. The latest fas.h.i.+ons, the way women outside were dressing their hair ... Oh yes, a tinge of it, the tiniest remnant, continued even in the heart of the holy abbess of the Monastery of Poor Clares of Quebec. She would deny herself the evening collation in penance.

The abbess rose from her knees and bowed low before the tabernacle. As soon as she straightened she flicked forward the part of her veil that covered her face, which was to be used in any circ.u.mstance where a nun in solemn vows might be seen by one who was not a member of her community. The daughters of Marie Rose covered their faces as well. Then, hidden from the world they had left behind, the five nuns processed to the tiny door in the corner of the grille.

The keys at Marie Rose's waist were one of the marks of her authority, and her hand trembled slightly when she detached them from the cord that secured her gray habit and chose the one that unlocked the door. It swung wide on silent, well-oiled hinges. Grace aDieu! The girl was truly lovely. A fitting sacrifice of praise. Marie Rose's glance roamed beyond the new entrant, sweeping quickly over the poor little chapel. Pere Antoine was there. Another man as well. She spent only seconds examining the world beyond her cloister, but with more interest than necessary, Mere Rose decided. She would discipline herself with greater than usual fervor this night. And skip the evening collation all week. Meanwhile, the postulant was waiting. "We welcome you, my child. Enter into the joy the world cannot understand."

Nicole drew a deep breath. She knew the black-veiled nuns must be intently curious about her, but mostly she was conscious of the eyes watching her from behind. Oh, yes. She had almost drowned in those extraordinary blue eyes. Forgive me, my good G.o.d, if loving him is a sin, I will do penance for it all the days of my life, but I will never forget.

The nun stretched out both her hands. "Entre, ma pet.i.te. Je tu invite."

Nicole knew if she waited only a few seconds more, if she turned even her head, Quent would come for her. He would close the distance between them in two or three of his long strides and claim her and they would be together for whatever life G.o.d granted them.

"Qu' est-ce que tu desir, ma pet.i.te?" This time the question-what do you wish?-carried a hint of doubt.

Half a moment more, the s.p.a.ce of one drawn breath. Quent behind her, and in front of her, a call that few heard and to which even fewer responded. Nicole's heart surged with unexpected joy. She had been chosen. "I wish to give myself to le bon Dieu as a Poor Clare." Her voice was firm and clear. She put her hands in the hands of the abbess and stepped into the cloister.

Quent glimpsed robust women with black veils over their faces. The creatures drew Nicole into their midst and the door closed. He heard a few m.u.f.fled t.i.tters. It sounded like-good Christ, it was hard to believe-like a group of young girls giggling.

His fists were clenched and his jaws clamped together to keep him from howling with outrage. Those iron bars are the only substantial thing in the place, he told himself. The rest is little more than a few stones piled atop each other. I could knock the whole thing down with my bare hands. But it might as well be a fortress. I'm never going to get her out of here.

Quent's huge body sagged with the weight of what he knew to be true. He didn't notice that now that Nicole was out of sight, the priest had turned and was staring at him.

Pere Antoine could not get over his wonder. Uko Nyakwai had brought them a blessing from Almighty G.o.d. Holy Virgin, You have sent me a sign. I am unworthy but I am truly your humble and loving son and son of the blessed Francis, and you have sent me a sign that I've done the right thing. Sending Lantak to attack Shadowbrook. It will save many souls and lead to the glory of the Order.

And see how this Protestant heretic who is also many parts heathen gazes at the tabernacle as if he were truly praying. Perhaps he too can be saved. Oui, but that is in your gentle hands, Mother of G.o.d.

He could hear the voice of the Holy Virgin warning him: Be cautious, my son, be jealous of my honor and the honor of the Church and your Order. Antoine signed himself with the cross once more and slipped out of the chapel, leaving the Red Bear staring at the place he had last seen the young woman.

There was only one lookout lying on his belly at the crest of a hillock thick with pine trees. Quent crept up behind him and slit the brave's throat with one stroke of the dirk. The only sound was the gurgling of escaping blood.

That's for Lilac and Sugar Willie you murdering b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I hope the devil's waiting for you in h.e.l.l. He wiped the dagger on the Huron's own breechclout and slipped it into the holster at the small of his back, then took the Indian's musket. Still making no sound, he moved closer to the camp.

The sun was directly overhead and the heat was brutal. The renegades hadn't made a fire. Two were sprawled underneath a tree, pa.s.sing a jug of rum back and forth. One stood a few feet away, bending over Solomon the Barrel Maker.