Page 72 of The Condemned (Echoes from the Past #6)

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Virginia Colony

Mary sat perfectly still, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes downcast. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the men who filled the cabin, their voices harsh and loud, and their stances aggressive and intimidating.

They were arguing, throwing out ugly accusations, and pointing the finger at her.

“Tell us again what happened, Mistress Forrester,” Marshal Craddock demanded, towering over her, his eyes as hard as flint.

“I’ve told you already,” Mary replied. Her thoughts were like threads that kept slipping away from her, her fingers not nimble enough to grab the ends and tie them together.

“Please, Marshal, she’s clearly distressed,” Secretary Hunt argued. “Just look at the state of her. Surely you believe her.”

His words reminded Mary that her gown was still covered in blood—Anselm’s blood, and Walker’s.

She laid a gentle hand over the dark brown stain on her skirt.

The blood from the wound in Walker’s stomach had leaked onto her skirt as she bent over him.

Walker! her mind screamed. All she wanted was to cower in some dark place where no one could see her.

She wanted to cry until she had no tears left, scream till she lost her voice, and rage at the cruel God who had taken away the man who’d saved her from a terrible fate. Walker had died so she could live.

“I believe Mistress Forrester was there when the attack took place. Whether she was physically molested is unclear. My men and I have examined the scene. There are butchered remains of three colonists. One has a split skull, one took an arrow to the throat, and the third was stabbed in the groin and had half his shoulder gouged out. This attack was perpetuated by an Indian—a blatant attack on Englishmen, on England itself.”

“Do you have any of the weapons?” Secretary Hunt asked. He wasn’t nearly as incensed as the marshal, his face thoughtful and calm.

“No. He made sure to remove any trace of his involvement.”

“Mistress Forrester claims the man who came to her aid was fatally wounded,” Secretary Hunt pointed out. “What became of him?”

“He was nowhere to be found,” the marshal replied. “Surely this proves he wasn’t acting alone.”

Mary breathed a small sigh of relief. The Powhatan must have removed Walker’s body, as well as his weapons and broken arrows.

They’d have wished to avoid an armed conflict with the colonists but had no way of knowing that there was a witness to what had taken place.

Marshal Craddock had been interrogating Mary for two hours, and he was baying for Indian blood, ready to declare war on the Powhatan nation.

It wasn’t in Mary’s power to prevent a war, but knowing that Walker’s remains would be treated with dignity and respect made his passing a little easier to bear.

“Did you know this Indian who came to your aid, Mistress Forrester?” Secretary Hunt asked softly. He made a pretense of being sympathetic, but Mary knew he only wanted to avoid bloodshed. The Virginia Company was interested in profit, not revenge.

“I’ve seen him in Jamestown.” Mary’s voice sounded flat, disinterested. She didn’t want anyone to think Walker had meant something to her. It was none of their business.

“Master Forrester, if you have no objection, Dr. Paulson will examine your wife,” Marshal Craddock said. “We must be certain that she was indeed attacked, as she claims. If this Indian slaughtered three men with no provocation, there will be retribution.”

Mary stared at the marshal, unable to believe what she was hearing. Not only did the men question her claim of being attacked on the road, they believed Walker had ambushed the men as they walked and had killed them savagely without any reason.

“Now, see here, Craddock. Those men had sacks filled with corn and grain. They’d been thieving, which is a crime punishable by death,” Hunt interjected.

“And we would have dealt with them in our own fashion. If this Indian killed our men, the crime will not go unpunished. Master Forrester?” The marshal turned to John, his tone indicating that asking John for his permission to examine his wife was a mere courtesy. John would be a fool to refuse.

“I have no objection,” John replied. No one had asked Mary if she objected to an examination. No one cared that she’d been attacked, frightened out of her wits, and forced to watch the man she loved butchered. Mary folded her hands in her lap and bowed her head in abject misery.

“Gentlemen, if you’d all step outside,” Dr. Paulson suggested as he took a step toward Mary.

Marshal Craddock opened his mouth to protest, but Dr. Paulson held up his hand to forestall him.

“I will examine Mistress Forrester most carefully and report back to you in a few minutes. Now, please, step outside, Marshal.”

He waited until the men left, then turned to Mary. “Will you please lie down for me, Mary? I won’t hurt you. You have my word.”

Mary nodded and reclined on the bed, lying as still as an effigy while Dr. Paulson examined her. He was gentle and kind, and his sympathy nearly undid her. She bit her lip hard, so as not to howl with grief .

The men trooped back in after the doctor completed his examination.

“It’s as she says. Mistress Forrester has bruises on her wrists and thighs.

Her cheek is swollen where she was struck, and one of her teeth is loose.

The blood on her bodice corroborates her story of the man being struck with a tomahawk while he was atop her. ”

“There’s no proof she was assaulted by an Englishman,” Marshal Craddock argued. “She might have just as easily been attacked by the Indian. For all we know, the men came to her aid, instead of the other way around.”

“That’s not consistent with the wounds inflicted on the men,” the doctor pointed out. “If the Indian had Mistress Forrester pinned down, he could hardly loose an arrow or split someone’s skull. Besides, the handle was pointed away from the face. The tomahawk had been thrown from behind.”

“There you have it, Craddock,” the secretary chimed in. “It’s as she says. There’s no call for retaliation.”

“And why did this Indian feel the need to come to your aid?” Marshal Craddock asked. “Why should this savage care if you were attacked?”

Mary slowly raised her head and looked up at Marshal Craddock. Hatred for this belligerent and ignorant man pulsed through her veins. “He came to my aid because he was a man of honor.”

“That’s preposterous!” the marshal exclaimed. “The Indians have no honor. He saw an opportunity to give in to his savagery and availed himself of it.”

“Secretary, may I have a word outside?” Travesty asked, surprising everyone into silence. She’d been sent up to her loft while the men questioned Mary, but she’d come back down unnoticed.

“If you have something to say, say it, woman,” Marshal Craddock barked .

“Secretary?” Travesty continued, as if Craddock hadn’t spoken.

“Very well.”

While Secretary Hunt spoke to Travesty outside, Craddock’s men helped themselves to ale.

They were restless, their blood up, and their good sense overpowered by the desire to act and inflict the maximum amount of damage.

Mary shrank against the wall, wishing she could disappear.

She looked at John, but he kept his face averted, his eyes fixed on something beyond the window.

Simon leaned against the wall by the hearth, his eyes warm with sympathy when his gaze met hers.

He gave Mary a watery smile, but she didn’t return it.

At long last, Secretary Hunt and Travesty returned to the cabin. Travesty’s eyes burned with something akin to satisfaction, while Secretary Hunt was white to the roots of his hair.

“Marshal, arrest Master Forrester, his wife, and his servant.”

“On what charge?” Marshal Craddock asked, clearly taken aback by this turn of events.

“On the charge of adultery and sodomy. Have your men spread the word throughout the colony. The trial will be held tomorrow at noon, and I want every plantation owner present.”

Mary was too overcome with shock to protest as a soldier grabbed her arm and led her outside.

The corpses of the three men who had assaulted her had been piled in the wagon, their sightless eyes staring up at the sky.

John and Simon had to share the wagon with the dead, while Mary was permitted to sit on the bench next to the driver, on account of her condition.

Travesty stood in the doorway, watching as the men mounted their horses and cantered out of the yard.

Once in Jamestown, Mary and John were locked in a shed that was hardly big enough for the two of them to stand in side by side.

Simon was taken to a different location.

At least they hadn’t been put in irons. Mary sank to the ground, too weary to stand.

She hadn’t eaten since breaking her fast that morning and she was lightheaded.

She leaned her head against the rough wood, wishing she could go to sleep and never wake up.

John sat down beside her. He was as stiff as a board, his breathing shallow and rapid.

“Mary, do you know what Travesty said to Secretary Hunt?” he asked at last.

“I do not.”

John sighed. “Mary, I—” He hung his head in despair, unable to go on.

“Don’t, John,” Mary replied, too overwrought to talk. She closed her eyes and tried to distance herself from the tiny, dark space and the sharp smell of John’s fear.