Roanoke: The Price of Power

The Son

Arnold Archard stirred his frumenty with total absence of thought. The thick corn porridge held no appeal beyond its ability to keep a man's stomach from mutiny.

"More honey," he mumbled, bringing another spoonful to his mouth.

"What was that, dear?" asked his wife from across the cottage.

Arnold shook his head dismissively and swallowed his mush.

"He said we need more honey."

Arnold looked up from his bowl and frowned.

That had been Payne, on the opposite side of the table. The brawny carpenter was seated between two other men, Tayler and Bishop. All three were daily visitors at sunup, assembling at the Archard's thatch and rough-plank cottage to break their fast with a bowl of Joyce's frumenty.

Such was the way of colony life. If you had a wife, as Arnold had Joyce, you fed the men who didn't. Unfortunately, you didn't always care for the men who relied on your household for meals.

"I mean no offense," continued Payne, "but we all grow tired of porridge. At least when the blasted natives brought honey it carried some flavor."

"You're welcome to break your fast at the Powell house, Henry Payne," said Joyce flatly. "I hear they have honey. Pots of it, just waiting for you."

Payne chuckled through his untrimmed beard, "if there's honey in the Powell house, I say it isn't in the crockery."

He leaned over the table, "it's betwixt Wenefrid Powell's . . ."

"That's quite alright," Arnold cut in. "There's really no need to continue on that line."

Payne threw up his hands, but the smile never left his face.

"Apologies all around, Archards!" he said. "I fear the rough land has drained all the civility from me. Forgive me, that I might continue to dine with you, my dearest friend."

"Not up to me," said Arnold, returning to his porridge.

"My lovely Lady Archard? What say you?" asked Payne. "Am I to be forgiven for my savage tongue?"

Arnold finished his bowl and stood. The exchange unfolding before him was nothing but false humility and a dullard's sour attempt at humor. Such occurrences had become a weekly event with Payne, and Arnold had long ago chosen to ignore them.

"Finish your meal and get to work, Henry," said Joyce. "And I'll beg you not to speak of your 'savage tongue' in my presence. Such a combination of words is beyond offensive when applied to your likeness."

Payne chuckled and the men seated at his flanks split with laughter. Arnold even afforded a laugh of his own, then he shot Joyce a wink. His wife bore precision of wit that any surgeon would trade a fortune to possess in his hands. Only one of the many reasons he'd been honored to take her for a wife in London.