Shadowbrook (39 page)

The chanting of the Magnificat was finished. The voice of Mère 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 God 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 Mère.
With all my heart and soul.”

Mère 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 Mère,
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 attitudes 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 stitch sewn with one of my tears, ma chère petite, 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 fashions, 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 Québec. 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 circumstance 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.
Grâce àDieu!
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. Père Antoine was there. Another man as well. She spent only seconds examining the world beyond her cloister, but with more interest than necessary, Mère 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 God, 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 petite. 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 God granted them.

“Qu’ est-ce que tu désir, ma petite?”
This time the question—what do you wish?—carried a hint of doubt.

Half a moment more, the space 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 muffled titters. 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.

Père Antoine could not get over his wonder. Uko Nyakwai had brought them a blessing from Almighty God. 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 God.

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 bastard. I hope the devil’s waiting for you in hell. 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, passing a jug of rum back and forth. One stood a few feet away, bending over Solomon the Barrel Maker.

He’d been stripped to his breeches. Even at a distance of ten strides, Quent could see that Solomon’s bare back and shoulders were covered with the old scars of John’s whipping, and fresh wounds that looked like burns. His boots were gone and his feet were bloody, the flesh torn and lacerated. He lay on his belly, his big body twisted into a deep, unnatural arch. They had tied a leather thong around his neck and his ankles and pulled it tight enough to raise both his head and his feet. The Indian standing over Solomon was pouring water over the lashing. As it dried, the leather would shrink and the ties grow tighter, contorting him into an ever more torturous curve, slowly but constantly tearing muscles and snapping bones. Quent had seen it before. It took most men three or four days and repeated soakings before they died. Judging from his position Solomon had been tied up for only a few hours. With luck, no permanent damage was yet done.

Quent held the long gun in firing position; the musket was also loaded and lying beside him. He could finish off two of the three renegades in as long as it would take to draw three breaths. The one remaining would be too busy looking
for the source of the gunfire and a way to save his own skin to bother with the captive. His confusion would probably last the twenty or so seconds it would take Quent to reload, then he too would be dead. That left Lantak unaccounted for. He was by far the most dangerous. Not smart to move until he knew where Lantak was.

His gaze ranged over the campsite, always coming back to the thick stand of trees on the far side.

What had driven Lantak and his demented band to travel hundreds of leagues, much of it through the country of their enemies, to burn and murder and pillage the land of people they had never met and with whom they could have no conceivable quarrel? He’d seen Lantak once or twice, but they’d never tangled. The Huron could have no possible personal grudge against Uko Nyakwai. And as far as he knew, John had nothing to do with Québec, much less Hurons; it was the same for Ephraim and Lorene. Their world and that of Lantak were as far apart as America and the Japans.

None of it made any sense, but he had to find a way to make sense of it Otherwise how could he be sure that the Patent and everyone on it would be safe from future attacks? Damn! He needed more time to think. He needed to talk to Corm.

Solomon groaned. He’d obviously been trying not to, but the leather ties were shrinking, and tightening as the sun dried them. The barrel maker’s head and ankles had drawn closer together, increasing his agony. Quent could see his face clearly now. Solomon’s left eye had indeed been gouged out, just as Thoyanoguin said. The empty socket was caked with dried blood; the old man’s cheeks were sunken and his mouth drawn tight in a grimace of pain. He groaned again. The braves drinking in the shade beneath the trees laughed.

The one who had wet down the leather joined his companions. The jug passed to him and he upended it, taking a long drink of rum. Quent thought he saw some motion in the trees on the far side of the stream. Damn them all to hell. Lantak, where are you? Come out and fight like a man, curse your rotten hide.

He felt a prickling on the back of his neck and rolled swiftly onto his back, keeping the long gun in firing position and drawing a bead on the observer even before the motion was complete. A coal-black squirrel stood on its hind legs staring at him, swishing its bushy little tail and holding an acorn in its paws. Man and squirrel surveyed each other for a second or two, then the squirrel turned and ran away. Quent rolled back into his original position overlooking the camp in time to see one of the Indians get to his feet and stumble toward Solomon.

“Where are you going?” The words were slurred and uneven, as if the jug of rum had been circulating for some time.

“I have to piss.” The renegade walking across the field pulled aside his breechclout as he spoke. “If we water this one some more, he will sing louder.”

“Lantak said he wanted to be here at the end. He’ll cut out your heart if you send the darkface to his ancestors too quickly.”

“Lantak’s not here. Besides, I do not need his permission to piss.” The Huron stood above Solomon, holding his cock in his hand. A stream of urine played over Solomon’s back and the thongs that tied him. The other two laughed heartily, even the one who had warned against killing the captive too quickly. The brave who was relieving himself changed position and directed his flow at the barrel maker’s face. “You thirsty maybe? Here, drink this.”

The others laughed louder. Quent’s finger tightened on the trigger and he sighted down the five-foot barrel of the gun. The Huron didn’t have time to release his grip on his cock. It was still in his hand when his head cracked like an overripe watermelon, spewing blood and brains.

“Ayi!”
The brave who screamed reached for his tomahawk just as the ball of the dead lookout’s musket parted his chest into two halves.

Quent dropped the musket and sprang to his feet, loading the long gun as he ran down the hill. A single stride to yank the cork from the powder horn with his teeth, two more to pour the black powder down the barrel, three to ram a wad and prime the pan. The third Huron had managed to load his musket but he was moving it in a wide and unsteady arc, still seeming not to know the source of the danger. Then he spotted Quent pelting down the embankment.

The long gun was now fully loaded and ready to fire. Quent raised it to his shoulder, still running, presenting a moving target and taking only the blink of an eye to get the renegade in his sights. The barrel of the musket swung in Quent’s direction; Quent drew back the hammer of the long gun. The two weapons roared in the selfsame instant. This time Quent didn’t brace himself against the long gun’s mighty recoil, but allowed it to knock him to the ground. He continued rolling down the hill. The musket ball cut through the air over his head and landed some distance behind the place he’d been standing. The body of the renegade Huron crumpled headless to the earth.

Solomon’s face was still wet with urine as he turned it to Quent, his remaining eye fixed steadily on the younger man. “I knowed all I had to do was hold on long enough and you be coming to get me.”

“Absolutely, old man. I figured you knew that.” The dirk sliced through the leather thongs, releasing the barrel maker from the unnatural arch. “Take it slow.” Quent reached behind him and slipped the dirk into its sheath. He needed both hands free so he could support Solomon’s shoulders with one arm and grab his legs with the other. “Real easy now.” Gently, with infinite patience, he allowed Solomon’s tortured body to unfold.