Lenobia's Vow

in greeting.

Martin followed her slowly. Not speaking to her or looking at her, he moved to the second of the two geldings and began working his way through the tangle of the horse’s mane. Thus he was hidden from the Bishop’s view when the priest entered the cargo hold.

“Grooming beasts—not a job for a lady. But then you are no lady are you, ma petite de bas?”

Lenobia felt sickness slick through her stomach, but she turned to face the priest whom she thought of as more monster than man.

“I told you not to call me that,” Lenobia said, proud that her voice did not shake.

“And I told you I like a fight.” His smile was reptilian. “But fight or no fight, when I am finished with you, you will be anything I desire you to be—bastard, whore, lover, daughter. Anything.” He moved forward, the light in the ruby cross on his chest glowing as if it were a living thing. “Who will protect you now that your shielding nun has been consumed?” He reached the edge of the stall, and Lenobia cringed, pressing herself against the gelding. “Time is short, ma petite de bas. I will claim you as mine today, before we get to New Orleans, and then there will be no reason for you to keep up this virginal charade and cower with the Ursulines in their convent.” The priest put his hand on the half door of the stall to open it.

Martin stepped from the shadow of the horses to stand between Lenobia and the Bishop. He spoke calmly, but he was brandishing a hoof pick in his hand. The lantern light caught it and it glistened, knifelike.

“I think you not be claiming this lady. She don’ want you, Loa. Go now, and leave her be.”

The Bishop’s eyes narrowed dangerously and his fingers began to stroke the ruby stones of his crucifix. “You dare speak to me, boy? You should understand who I am. I am not this loa you have mistaken me for. I am a Bishop—a man of God. Leave now and I will forget you ever attempted to question me.”

“Loa is spirit. I see you. I know you. The bakas has turned on you, man. You evil. You dark. And you not wanted here.”

“You dare stand against me!” the priest roared. As his anger grew, so too did the flames in the lanterns that hung around the stalls.

“Martin! The flames!” Lenobia whispered frantically to him.

The priest began to move forward, as if he would attack Martin with his bare hands, and two things happened very quickly. First, Martin lifted the hoof pick, but he didn’t strike the priest. Instead he wielded it against himself. Lenobia gasped as Martin slashed his own palm and then, as the priest was almost on him, he flung the handful of blood at him, striking him in the middle of his chest, covering the red jewels with living scarlet. And in a voice that was deep and filled with power, Martin intoned:

“She belong to me—and hers I be!

“Of loyalty and truth,

“This blood be my proof!

“What you do to her you do in vain.

“What you cast come back on you tenfold the pain!”

The priest staggered to the side, as if the blood had been a blow, and the geldings laid their ears back flat on their enormous heads and, with squeals of rage, struck out at him with their great, square teeth.

Charles de Beaumont lurched back, stumbling out of the stall, clutching his chest. He bent over and stared at Martin.

Martin raised his bloody hand and held it, palm out, like a shield.

“You asked who protect this girl? I answer you—I do. The spell is cast. I seal it with my blood. You don’ have no power here.”

The priest’s eyes were filled with hatred, his voice malicious. “Your blood spell may lend you power here, but you will not have power where we are going. There you are only a black man trying to stand against a white man. I will win … I will win … I will win…” The Bishop muttered the words over and over as he left the cargo hold, still clutching his chest.

As soon as he was gone, Martin pulled Lenobia into his arms and held her while she trembled. He stroked her hair and murmured small, wordless sounds to soothe her. When her fear had ebbed enough, Lenobia moved from his arms and ripped a strip of cotton from her chemise to bind his hand. She didn’t speak while she was bandaging him. It was only when she was finished that she clasped his wounded hand within both of hers and looked up into his eyes asking, “That thing you said—that spell you cast—is it true? Will it really work?”

“Oh, it work, cherie,” he said. “Work enough to keep him from you on this ship. But this man, he filled with great evil. You know he cause the fire that killed the holy woman?”

Lenobia nodded. “Yes, I know it.”

“His bakas—it strong; it evil. I bind him with tenfold pain, but come a time maybe when he think having you worth the pain. And he right. In the world we go to he have the power, not me.”

“But you stopped him!”

Martin nodded. “I can fight him with my maman’s magick, but I don’ fight white men and their law he can bring against me.”

“Then you have to leave New Orleans. Get far away, where he cannot hurt you.”

Martin smiled. “Oui, cherie, avec tu.”

“With me?” Lenobia stared at him for a moment, worry for him foremost in her mind. Then she realized what he had said and she felt as if the dawn had risen within her. “With me! We will be together.”

Martin pulled her into his arms again and held her close. “It is what made my magick so strong, cherie, this love I have for you. It fills my blood and makes my heart to beat. Now my vow you have in return. I will always love you—only you, Lenobia.”

Lenobia pressed her face to his chest and this time when she wept, her tears were of happiness.

CHAPTER EIGHT

It was that evening, March 21, 1788, as the sun was an orange globe settling into the water, that the Minerva sailed into the port of New Orleans.

It was also that evening that Lenobia began to cough.

She started feeling ill just after she returned to her quarters. At first she thought it was that she hated leaving Martin, and that the room that had seemed a sanctuary when Sister Marie Madeleine had been there now felt more like a prison. Lenobia could not make herself eat breakfast. By the time the excited shout of “Land! I see land!” was ringing across the ship and the girls were hesitantly emerging from their rooms to huddle together on the deck, staring at the growing mass of land before them, Lenobia was feeling flushed and had to muffle her coughs in her sleeve.

“Mademoiselles, I would not usually have you disembark in darkness, but because of the recent tragedy with Sister Marie Madeleine, I believe it is best that you are landed and safely within the Ursuline convent as soon as is possible.” The Commodore made the pronouncement to the girls on deck. “I know the Abbess. I will go to her immediately and tell her of the loss of the Sister, and announce to her that you will be coming ashore tonight. Please take only your small casquettes with you. I will have the rest of your things delivered to the convent.” He bowed and headed to the side of the deck from which the rowboat would be lowered.

In her feverish state, it seemed her mother’s voice returned to Lenobia, admonishing her not to call it a word that sounded so much like casket. Lenobia moved slowly belowdecks with the rest of the girls, feeling eerily like the voice from the past was an omen of the future.

No! She shook off the melancholy she was feeling. I have a slight ague. I will think of Martin. He is making plans for us to leave New Orleans and go west, where we will be