Roanoke (The Keepers of the Ring) (58 page)

After a moment, the young children squirmed away and went about their playing. “What are you building?” Jocelyn asked, sitting nearby on the sand. She slipped out of her moccasins and lowered her feet into the water. Gilda pointed a stubby finger to a mud house she
’d built while four-year-old Noshi held up a tiny canoe he had fashioned from bark sewn with pine needles.

“You truly have the gift of your father,” Jocelyn exclaimed, eying the boat. “
‘Tis excellent work, Noshi.”

“And I,” Fallon said, moving timidly toward Jocelyn. “Have I the gift of my father, Mistress Colman?”

Jocelyn felt her heart break as she looked at the copper-haired boy. “You are most fortunate,” she whispered, reaching out for him. He took her hand and sat next to her, and Jocelyn leaned to whisper in his ear. “You are blessed because your first father, Roger Bailie, gave you life. He was a good man, and well respected. And now you have Rowtag, a father to teach you the things you must know to be a man. And, through it all, you have the love of your heavenly Father, who will watch over and protect you always.”

“Always?” he said, looking up to her with bright eyes.

“You will never be out of his hand,” she whispered, giving him a hug. “You and Noshi and Gilda. You are much loved.”

Satisfied, Fallon ran to join Noshi at the water
’s edge. A ray of sunlight broke through the overcast sky and caused the ring on Jocelyn’s finger to gleam. Absently, she twirled the ring ‘round her finger, and Gilda splashed through the muddy water and picked up Jocelyn’s hand.

“
‘Tis a pretty ring, Mama,” she said, pulling Jocelyn’s palm so close to her face that her eyes crossed. “Can I wear it?”

“My ring?” Jocelyn answered, laughing. “I think not, love.
‘Twas my mother’s, and ‘twill be Regina’s—”

Her words caught in her throat. Ofttimes
‘twas difficult to believe that Regina was no longer with them.

Gilda gave her a dimpled smile. “
Please
, can I wear it?”

Jocelyn paused only a moment. Why not let the child have it?
‘Twas rightfully hers, after all. “Here, dear one,” she said, slipping the ring from her wet finger. “‘Tis too big for you, but mayhap we can find another way for you to wear it.” She took a string of dried bear gut from the leather pouch at her waist and threaded it through the ring, then knotted it and slipped it over Gilda’s head. “‘Tis yours now. Promise me you’ll never lose it.”

“I promise,” Gilda replied solemnly, then in a thrice she turned to follow Noshi, who was chasing minnows in the waters further downstream.

“Fortiter, fideliter, feliciter,” Jocelyn murmured, recalling the ring’s inscription as she watched the children play. “Boldly, faithfully, successfully. Have I been bold, faithful, and successful here, Father God? With Gilda, yea. With Regina, mayhap I could have done better. But with Thomas . . . every day he is more of a stranger, Father God, and my efforts to love and serve him have come to nothing. If there is anything you can yet do . . .”

She sighed. If love between them was meant to be, it certainly would have blossomed long before this.

Rowtag’s hunting party returned to Ocanahonan the next week with ten deer, four wild hogs, and a captive Powhatan with a frightening story to tell. The young brave, little more than a child, had wandered away from his scouting party and panicked, rushing as mindlessly as a frightened animal into the midst of Rowtag’s warriors.

“For five days he had been without meat,” Rowtag explained to the council upon his return. “And when we shared our food, he opened his heart and his tongue began to loose a tale you should all hear.”

“What tale was this?” Thomas asked, a mild trace of amusement in his eye.

Rowtag did not smile in return. “He says that Powhatan is collecting a war party to destroy this city. He awaits a sign, then he will cover this forest. Like an avenging fire he will wipe the citizens of Ocanahonan from the earth.”

The minister frowned, and the other members of the council stirred uncomfortably. “How do we know this child speaks the truth?” John Sampson asked. “He is a Powhatan, and they are our enemy. If we take time to make weapons, we’ll never get our crops planted. We can’t hide in the palisade when the fields have to be tended. I think this savage chief is afraid of us, and he would like nothing better for us to starve next winter and die as a result of our own cowardice.”

“I believe the story,” Colman said, his eyes deadly serious. “The face of Opechancanough is hatred distilled to its essence. He is Powhatan
’s brother.” His eyes met Rowtag’s. “I believe the boy. What can we do to prepare?”

Rowtag closed his eyes. “We men must make weapons. The women must make ready. And every citizen of Ocanahonan must pray.”

John Prat’s hand slammed upon the table. “Sampson is right, I daresay. How can we risk our entire crop on the word of a frightened boy? You have been tricked, Rowtag, but we will not fall for this charade. Life must go on, and we will not risk a panic. Our children cannot fear to walk in the forest, our women must be able to go to the fields for planting, and we must continue to hunt as usual. We are the clothed people, and Powhatan fears us.”

“Say nothing of this to the others,” John Sampson warned, his eyes boring into Rowtag
’s. “For twenty years we have been unafraid, and we must continue as always.”

Rowtag said nothing, but looked at the minister. In Thomas Colman
’s eyes he saw fear . . . and regret.

Jocelyn stood at the fire when Thomas came home, and stared in surprise when he ignored his usual ritual of greeting and fell onto the bench at the board. Without meeting her eyes, he told her everything Rowtag had said to the council.

“Did the other council members believe the boy’s story?” she asked, not taking her eyes from the pot she stirred over the fire. There was no sense in upsetting the entire city if the boy was exaggerating—

“I believed him,” Thomas answered. “We are doomed, Jocelyn. If Powhatan attacks, there is nothing we can do to defend ourselves against so many.”

“Shhh, don’t talk of it now,” she said, tapping the spoon on the rim of the pot. “We’ll eat first, then talk when Gilda is asleep.”

The dinner was a quiet one for the adults, though Gilda babbled and crowed and told a never-ending story about the adventure she
’d had in the woods with Fallon and Noshi. When the supper dishes had at last been put away, Jocelyn washed Gilda’s grubby hands and face, rocked her for a while, then placed the girl in her little bed and turned to light the lamp. When the glow filled the room, she was startled by the mindlessly blank look upon Thomas’ face.

“Thomas,” she whispered, tucking Gilda
’s blanket under her chin, “if this incredible story is true, we will pray tonight for a miracle. Surely God would not have brought us here if we are all to die. Since the will of God brought us here, he will sustain us. There is nothing to fear—”

“God
’s will?” Thomas spat the words as if they were distasteful, and the blankness of his expression mutated into a look of intense hatred.

She left Gilda and turned to face him. “Surely. Everything that happens comes to us through the hand of God.”

“How, woman, can you say this is
God’s will
? I could not tell the others the truth, but this is my fault, and mine alone; God has nothing to do with it.”

“Your fault?” A sharp pang of compassion pierced her heart. “Thomas, surely you can
’t blame yourself for this—”

“Have you forgotten, Jocelyn? Our daughter was the bride of Powhatan
’s son. He will bring his armies to bear upon us in retaliation for her escape.”

“That was four years ago! And Powhatan did not know Regina found her way home. Even most of the villagers did not know she returned to us.”

“Then God alone will bring this to pass.” Thomas rested his head upon his hands as he sat at the board. “He will punish me yet again, because I have borne bitterness in my heart against him for allowing Regina to die. God could have spared her. He could have taken the life of this half-breed child instead—”

Instinctively, Jocelyn moved to shelter Gilda from the torrent of hate in his words, and Thomas turned in his chair so suddenly that she jumped. “Do not fear for the child; I do not blame God for Gilda. The fate of our city was sealed on the day I stood before Opechancanough, and for that I blame myself.”

“You must not.” Jocelyn put her hand to her head; her temples had begun to pound. “Thomas, you cannot blame yourself. I saw you try to give yourself to that savage, it was not your fault that he chose Regina instead.”

He slammed his hand on the table with such force that a stoneware platter jumped to the floor and shattered. “Tis all my fault!” he roared, standing. He clenched his fists as if he would pound an invisible foe. “How can I make you see? I
’ve been telling you since the day we married that I am cursed, I cannot love, I should not have had a child. I knew something dreadful would happen, for the hand of God is intent upon my chastisement and correction. All that I love, everything I place before God is destroyed.”

Stunned by the sound of honest emotion in his voice, Jocelyn stood in a paralysis of astonishment as Thomas lowered his head. “I loved you,” he said, tears rolling down his sculpted face, “On the ship, I fell in love with your spirit, your intellect, and your beauty. I knew then that God would command me to marry you, because the most rigorous test in life I could
endure would be to have you as my wife and yet not love you, not touch you . . .”

“Why should God demand such restraint?” Jocelyn whispered, trembling at his confession. She took a hesitant step toward him. “Thomas, I wanted nothing more than for you to love me, but I thought you resisted me because you mourned for your first wife. I had hope that love would grow, but . . .”

Thomas raised his hands as if to shield himself from her words, then backed away to the wall behind him and slid to the floor. He drew his knees to his chest. “I loved you always,” he said in a husky whisper, “but I dared to hold you in my arms only twice. The first time begat Regina, and I resisted loving her because I knew God would take her away. His harsh hand of judgment waited until I grew to love her, then waited longer until I relaxed. I grew overconfident in my work; I prided myself as a missionary. But God unmasked my vainglory when he took my daughter and made her a harlot to the savages I had thought to win.”

“No, Thomas, you can
’t believe that,” Jocelyn whispered. Her heart stirred with sympathy as she knelt on the ground beside him. The walls that had forever separated them were tumbling down, but why had he resisted so long and through so much pain?

Thomas covered his eyes with his hand. “Everything I touch, God destroys. I left my son Robert in England because he had come to fear and despise me. For twenty years I have prayed for him, but God has kept me in exile, unable to write a letter or send word. Before I left, I sent a letter inviting him to join me here in Virginia, but not a word has come from England . . . and in my innermost heart, I knew it would not.”

“Surely your son does not hate you, Thomas,” Jocelyn said, placing her hand upon his. “Why shouldn’t he love you even though you are far away?”

“He cannot love me because I am guilty. I could not love you because I am guilty. Regina was taken—
because God has not ceased to punish me.
”

“For what?” she asked, alarmed by the desperate note in his voice.

Thomas closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. “For we are consumed by thine anger, and by thy wrath are we destroyed,” he quoted. “Thou has set our iniquities before thee, our secret sins in the light of thy countenance.”

“What do you mean, Thomas?” Would he never stop speaking in riddles?

He opened his eyes and looked at her, and his eyes shone with an honesty she’d never seen before. “My secret sin. God has punished me because I killed my first wife.” The words slipped away like steam from a kettle, and he laughed, a broken, hollow sound that reverberated throughout the house. For a moment Jocelyn was certain his mind had snapped.

“
‘Twas in a fit of anger,” he went on, his voice calm and quiet in the room. “My wife had put on a red dress and I protested, knowing that certain folk of my parish would object to a clergyman’s wife dressing in unsuitable silks and colors. I told her to change the dress, and she refused. I attempted to force her, and we struggled.”

The light vanished from his eyes and his face stiffened with the horror of the memory. “I pushed her and she fell, hitting her head on a brick of the hearth. The sheriff said the death was an accident, but my son saw everything and told the story to my wife
’s sister, who came and took the boy away. Naturally, being the murderer of his mother, I did not protest.”

“You are not a murderer,” Jocelyn said, taking his hand. The wounded look in his eyes eased somewhat, and Jocelyn remembered her father
’s belief that confession was good for the soul. She cast about for a new avenue of conversation. “Is that why you left England?”

He nodded slowly. “In part. In time, the people of my parish heard the rumors that I had killed my own wife, and though nothing was ever proved against me, I knew I was guilty. If a man is angry in his heart, he is guilty of murder.”