“But you must leave now. Follow the river to the fork. There will be canoes waiting. You can trust the sauvages to take you back to your territory. And those Mohawks—they will bring you no trouble, either.”
“If ever you are in New England, sir,” said Kit, grasping the priest’s hand, “you’ll be welcome at my home. Farewell and many thanks. ” The old Indian woman appeared, leading Mercy; who ran to Dianna as Kit urged them both out the door and into the night.
The snow had begun again, or maybe it had never stopped; fat, lazy, wet flakes that barely covered the grass and fallen leaves. Because of the snow, the night sky was pale with a yellowish tinge, and the trail was clear, black trees outlined against the white snow. Although the journey before them–days in an open canoe in winter snow—would not be easy, Dianna couldn’t help but feel elated, almost deliriously happy. They had escaped! Had Kit not ordered them to keep silent, she would have begun to sing, something triumphant, heroic perhaps, for Kit-“You could not believe I’d let you go so easily, eh?” demanded RobiUard, his voice booming in the cold air. His dark outline blocked the trail, and in the half-light of the snow, the pistols in his hands glinted ominously.
Instantly Kit determined his alternatives. He could stop one of the pistols, but not both, and he refused to risk the lives of Dianna and Mercy.
“Let the women go,” he said.
“You have no quarrel with them. Dianna stared up at Kit’s impassive profile, the snowflakes clumping on the brim of his hat and in his hair.
“I won’t go,” she said softly.
“Even if he says we can, I won’t leave you again.”
Robillard laughed harshly.
“Don’t worry, rna chore, I intend to keep you here to watch me regain my honor, and deal with this btard as he deserves!”
Kit didn’t move.
“You’re still drunk, aren’t you?”
he said mildly.
“Be thankful thatI am, Anglais, for it improves my mood. I won’t slaughter you at once, eh? Now throw your guns in those bushes, and the knife, too. I know your tricks. Go on, now?”
One by one, Kit tossed Dianna’s musket and his rifle and knife away, carelessly, as if they meant nothing to him.
“So is this how it will be, Robillard?
You will shoot me where I stand, without even pretending to make it fair?”
“That is what you wish to believe of me, isn’t it, Sparhawk?” asked Robillard almost forlornly.
“You and your father before you, you never would treat me like a gentilhomme, like yourselves. You have stolen from me and turned others against me, and with your smug anglais face alone you have shamed my king!”
“And to ease your pride, you’ve bullied and harassed my people for twenty years,” answered Kit warmly. He knew he had to control his anger, but when he thought of all the misery that had come from this one man, he felt the .lood pumping hot in his veins.
“You’ve had men murdered and families torn apart, houses and farms burned, and worst of all, you’ve always been too great a coward to do any of it yourself.”
“We will see who is the bigger coward, Sparhawk.”
Robillard stuck one pistol into his belt, reached into the bag he carried slung over his shoulder and pulled out a broadsword wrapped in an old blanket. To Kit’s surprise, Robillard tossed the sword to him, and then the Frenchman drew his own, leaving the pistols and the bag on a rock behind him.
“You see, Sparhawk, I will give you your fair fight,” crowed Robillard, already waving his sword in the air before him with excitement.
“I will give you the honor of dying like a genilhomme, and then your woman and your lands will be mine.”
Dianna laid her hand on Kit’s arm.
“You can’t mean to do this,” she said urgently.
“He could kill you!”
“And I could kill him,” said Kit almost cheerfully, testing the weight and feel of the sword in his hand. The hilt was wood, the guard as battered as an old pot, but the blade was well balanced. He’d never carried a sword himself, finding them cumbersome in the forest, but his grandfather’s long-ago lessons were still with him, as much in his ann as in his memory. He kissed Dianna on the forehead and gently disengaged her hand, feeling strangely calm.
“Go now, sweetheart, take Mercy and stand clear.
This should not, I think, take long.”
“Then you’re as mad as he is!” Dianna cried as she pulled Mercy back to the edge of the little clearing.
The girl was crying silently, the tears slipping down her cheeks, and Dianna bent to hug her.
“Kit will be fine, you know he will,” she whispered.
“He’s younger and bigger and—and, oh, he loves us too well to leave us like this!” And, she added to herself, she intended to help him win, manly honor be damned. She had watched where Kit had dropped their guns, and she meant to retrieve her musket. Slowly she began edging her way around the clearing.
She hadn’t expected the harsh, scraping sound as the blades struck each other and the grunts of exertion from the men. Panting and snorting like a bull, Robillard held his sword with two hands, slashing large arcs that Kit always met and deflected. Around and ‘round they circled, the blades swinging, as snowflakes drifted past them. Both men grew warm from the fight, and the steam rose from their bodies in the cold air.
Suddenly Kit lunged forward, his blade slashing deep into Robillard’s shoulder. The man howled in pain and clutched at the wound, the blood rushing through his fingers and dripping crimson to the snow as his right arm now hung uselessly at his side.
Kit paused and wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve, expecting the Frenchman to surrender, but instead Robillard lunged forward with the sword in his left hand, his thrusts now wildly uncontrolled, his feet staggering. Kit realized the fight’s end was near, and he raised his ann to finish it.
Robillard’s face stared up at him for the last time, his features distorted by hatred, pain and fear.
“Your father fought like this, too, damn his soul,” he gasped, “yet he could not save his women either, not even the jeune fine who ed to run.”
Paralyzed, Kit felt the old nightmare wash over him again. Robillard watched his family die.
Robillard had done it, and all these years Kit had let him go unpunished. Kit didn’t feel the pain as the Frenchman’s sword sliced across his arm or hear the gunshot that jerked Robillard’s body like a puppet.
All his consciousness narrowed to the faint whistle of his sword through the air and through the snow and deep into Robillard’s chest.
Then Dianna was running toward him, awkwardly, sliding on the snow with the musket still in her hand.
There were others coming through the trees, Englishmen, soldiers from the fort at Nortlffield, and there was Attawan with them, and Mercy hopping up and down with excitement.
Dianna’s arms were tight around him now, and when Kit slipped his hands about her shoulders, he realized she was covered with blood, his blood, but she didn’t seem to care, and neither did he. She was all he wanted, and she was here.
“It’s over, my love,” he said hoarsely as he stroked her head against his chest.
“It’s finally over.” ‘
AfterWord
Plumstead July 1705 / before I cleared Nw London last November, I kissed your bride farewell, and now when I return, I’m to kiss your babe, too,” declared Jonathan as he peered down at the baby in Kit’s arms.
“You’ve wasted no time getting an heir, dear brother.”
Kit only laughed, glancing across the room at how pink Dianna’s cheeks had grown, while Jonathan bent dutifully to kiss his new nephew. Propped up on a mountain of pillows in the bed, Dianna happily watched the two brothers, one fair, one dark, admiring three-day, old Joshua John Sparhawk. At the foot of the bed perched Mercy, with Lily beside her, the little cat, too, basking in maternal splendor with five kittens tumbling across the coverlet.
Wincing, Dianna eased herself up farther on the pillows. The birth hadn’t been easy—Joshua already seemed destined to equal his father’s size–but she’d forgotten it all the moment the midwife had handed him to her. And Kit—Lord, she’d never seen a man so proud!
Jonathan presented his finger to be squeezed by Joshua’s tiny fist as the baby squinted seriously up at his uncle.
“Don’t let them land lock you, boy. You come to sea with me, and I’ll show you the world.”
Kit snorted.
“Ha, Jon, more likely he’ll be leading you a merry chase for the wenches!” he scoffed.
“Mark that hair! You can tell already he’s a golden Sparhawk, and there’s not a woman alive that can resist us.”
“Mind I was a towheaded lad, Kit, and look how I turned out. Nor do the ladies complain, either.”
Jonathan bent closer to the baby.
“Ain’t that so, young master?”
The young master’s face crumpled, and he began to yowl with a surprising volume for so small a bun-die.
Quickly Jonathan stepped back, and Kit responded with all the experience of three days of fatherhood:
he promptly returned the wailing child to Dianna.
“It’s nothing you did, Uncle Jonathan,” explained Mercy philosophically.
“He be hungry, that’s all.”
“Then it’s best we left him to his supper, poppet,” said Jonathan heartily, relieved to have an excuse to flee.
“Come, let’s see if Hester’s finished with those plum tarts.” Eagerly Mercy hopped off the bed to join him, followed by Lily, her ears flattened at the baby’s crying, and her kittens.
Clicking her tongue with sympathy, Dianna unlaced her gown, and soon the only sound from Joshua was a satisfied cooing. Kit sat on the bed behind her, and with her own sigh of contentment, Dianna settled back against his chest.
“Don’t listen to Jonathan, Kit,” she said softly, still in awe of her son’s perfection.
“Joshua’s exactly in your image. He’s got your hair and your eyes—or will have, once they change from blue to green—and even his ears look like yours. Though I believe the chin is mine,” she added, touching a finger to the tiny cleft, now puddled with milk, that so mirrored her own, “and perhaps his brows.”
Lightly Kit kissed the top of her hair, his arms encircling her as she embraced their child.
“He’s quite welcome to your chin and your brows and whatever else he pleases, as long as your heart belongs to me.”
Dianna lifted her lips to his.
“Forever,” she whispered, “forever and always, my heart will be yours.”