John nodded obediently and fell into file at the rear.
No one knew the age of the great warlord Opechancanough. He had inherited his power from his brother the great Powhatan, father of Princess Pocahontas, the Indian heroine whom John had visited when he had been only a little boy and she had been a celebrity visiting London. There was no trace of her beauty in the ravaged face of her uncle. He sat on a great bench at the end of his luxurious long house, his cape of office shining in the gloom with the round discs of abalone shells. He barely glanced at John and his companions as they shuffled up, bowed, deposited their tribute on the growing pile before him, and stepped back.
When everyone had come and bowed to the lord he made a brief gesture with his hand and the priest stepped forward, cast some dust into the fire and watched the scented smoke spiralling upward. John, weary from many days’ walking, watched the smoke too and thought that it made strange and tempting shapes, almost as if one could read the future from it, just as he sometimes lay on his back beside Suckahanna’s son when they detected shapes and images in the clouds that sailed overhead.
There was a deep mutter from the massed men packed tight into the big house. The priest walked around the fire, people leaning away from the sweep of his cape as he circled, staring into the embers. Finally he stepped back and bowed to Opechancanough.
“Yes,” he said.
Suddenly the old man sharpened into life. He leaned forward. “You are sure? We will conquer?”
The priest nodded simply. “We will.”
“And they will be pushed back into the sea where they came from, and the waves will foam red with their blood and their women and children will hoe our fields and serve us where we have served them?”
The priest nodded. “I have seen it,” he said.
Opechancanough looked past the priest at the men, waiting in silence, drinking in the assurance that they were unbeatable. “You have heard,” he said. “We will win. Now tell me how this victory is to be won.”
John had been dizzy with the scent of the smoke and the sudden warmth and darkness of the hut but suddenly he snapped awake, wide awake, as if someone had slapped his face. He strained his ears and his comprehension to grasp the quick exchange of advice, argument and information: the news of an isolated farmhouse here, a newly built fort with cannon further down the river. He realized with a sinking heart what he had known all along but had continually pushed to the back of his mind: that Opechancanough and the army of the Powhatan were going to fall upon the people of Jamestown, and upon every white settler everywhere in this country which they had called empty and then proceeded to fill. That if the Powhatan won there would not be a white man, woman or child left alive or out of slavery in Virginia. And if the Powhatan lost there would be a dreadful reckoning to pay.
“And what does our brother, the Eagle, say?” Opechancanough suddenly asked. His beaked harsh face turned toward John, where he sat at the back. The men before him melted away as if Opechancanough’s gaze was a spear thrust pointed at his heart.
“Nothing…” John stammered, the Powhatan language sticking on his tongue. “Nothing… sir.”
“Will they be ready for us? Do they know we have been waiting and planning?”
Miserably John shook his head.
“Did they think us defeated and driven back, forced out of our forests and away from our game trails?”
“I think so,” John said. “But I have not been with the white men for a long time.”
“You will advise us,” Opechancanough ruled. “You will tell us how to avoid the guns and at what time of day we should attack. We will use your knowledge of them to come against them. You agree?”
John opened his mouth but no sound came. He was aware of Attone rising to his feet at his side.
“He is struck dumb by the honor,” Attone said smoothly. Out of sight he trod hard on John’s toes.
“Indeed I am,” John said numbly.
“Your hands will be red with English blood,” Opechancanough promised him. His face was serious enough but there was a spark of mischief, that irresistible Powhatan mischief, at the back of his eyes. “That will make you happy, Eagle.”
Spring 1644, England
Alexander Norman did not speak again of marriage to Frances, but he visited the Ark at Lambeth every week. He took Frances out on the river, he bought her a pony and took her riding in the lanes away from Lambeth and out into the country. Frances came back from these expeditions unusually quiet and thoughtful but she never said more to Hester than that her uncle had been very kind and they had talked about everything under the sun, but nothing that she could remember. Hester felt torn. On one hand she felt she should warn Frances against deepening her relationship with her uncle, which could only bring him pain and disappointment; but on the other hand she did not want to prevent her daughter from enjoying a trusting, loving relationship with a good man old enough to be her father.
It must be Alexander who was principally at risk from heartbreak. Frances enjoyed his company, and learned much from him – from horsemanship to politics. Hester trusted Alexander to spend every day with her without one word of courtship, but she wondered how much pleasure he took when Frances looked up at him and said trustingly: “You’ll know about King Henry, won’t you, Uncle Norman? You were a boy when he was on the throne, weren’t you?”
He gave Hester a wry smile over his niece’s brown head. “That would be true if I was a hundred years old now. Do you know nothing of history, Frances?”
She made a face. “Not much. So how old are you, Uncle?”
Hester thought he had to brace himself to answer.
“I am fifty-four,” he said honestly. “And I have seen three monarchs reign; but never times like these.”
Frances looked at him consideringly, her head on one side. “Well you don’t look very old,” she said bluntly. “I never think of you as that old.”
“I am that old,” he said.
Hester thought that the assertion must be costing him dear.
“I am old enough to be your father.”
Frances’s surprised ripple of laughter made him smile. “I think of you as my friend!” she exclaimed.
“Well, I was your grandfather’s friend before you were born. I bounced you on my knee when you were a dribbling little baby.”
She nodded. “I don’t see that makes any difference at all,” she said, and Hester wondered, but did not ask: “Difference to what?”
Alexander did not neglect Johnnie or Hester on his visits. He brought Johnnie pamphlets and ballads about his hero Prince Rupert, and he brought Hester welcome news of the progress of the war. He spoke of a new commander, Colonel Cromwell, who had come from nowhere and was said to be little more than a working man, but who had a regiment of soldiers that could withstand a royalist cavalry charge and who had been trained and drilled until they could turn and stand and march forward on one shouted command.
“I think this Cromwell knows his business as well as Prince Rupert,” Alexander said.
Johnnie shook his head. “Prince Rupert has fought all around Europe,” he said certainly. “And he was riding horses, great cavalry chargers, when he was my age. No one from East Anglia could say the same.”
The news from the king’s court at Oxford was of riotous loose living, of scholars and courtiers drunk in the gutters every morning, and of the king celebrating victory after victory, however small the skirmish and insignificant the campaign. It looked as if the kingdom was opening up to him and he would be in London within a year. And then he started his march on his rebellious capital city itself. Alexander Norman sent a message to the Ark at Lambeth.
Dear Cousin Hester,
I suggest that you hide your most precious treasures in your safe place and pack necessary clothes and goods for yourself. The king is marching on London from the north and the City is preparing for a siege. However, if the king should circle London to besiege it, then I should think it most likely that Lambeth will fall and the Parliamentary forces stand back and hold their ground north of the river. If the fighting is prolonged then you may well be caught between two armies. Therefore, be ready to leave the moment I give you the word and I will take you back to Oatlands.