eldest brother tried to stop Joseph from entering, but Joseph pushed past him. “I gots business wi’ the king!” he stated. “Outta me way, lad!”
The king's okyeame rushed forward to approach the king on Joseph's behalf. “Only talk through the speaker,” Lingongo had instructed her husband. “Do not approach my father directly. The speaker knows the way to put words together so they cause no offense.”
But Joseph would have none of it. If he had something to say to the king, he would just out and say it. And if the king had something to say to him, then his majesty could say his piece too.
So Joseph stood before the king with no mediator and announced, “I will be gatherin’ up all the muskets and gunpowder. No one will have firepower ’ceptin’ fer me.”
“You must have much gold to pay for all this,” the king answered.
“Gold,” Joseph said. “Well, see, that's an inter'stin’ thing, King. There isn’t too much gold available to me jist now. But soon enough I’ll have plenty, I will. The important thing fer ye to know is that ye’ll git no firepower ’ceptin’ through me.”
“Certainly you will make the price agreeable—”
“I will make the price wot I wants it to be. An’ ye has no choice but to pay the price I says ye’ll pay.”
“You and I have a long-standing agreement, sealed with the marriage of my daughter.”
“Yes, yes,” Joseph said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “We still be partners. That's why I be ’ere makin’ the offer to ye and not to yer enemies. But business is business, and it's time we made us a new deal.”
“Deals made and sealed are not thrown aside,” the king said.
Joseph laughed. “Ye isn’t left wi’ much choice now, is ye?”
Because Joseph Winslow had pushed the okyeame aside, no one stood between him and the king to add sweetness and eloquence to his words. No one was there to carefully wipe out the insults that crept in to his talk and to replace them with words gentle and wise. No one made certain that what Joseph meant to say was what the king actually heard.
Which was most unfortunate. Because after Joseph finished speaking, after he said, “So, does we ’ave us a deal ’ere, mate?” and after the king nodded his agreement, Joseph bid farewell to his father-in-law and headed home in triumphant ignorance. He never noticed the anger that flashed across the royal face.
14
T he shaft of sunlight that glinted down from the opening at the top of the wall was the only way for Grace to judge time. She had long since given up banging and kicking on the door and slumped into a corner where she lay in hopeless despair. Hours had passed … maybe an entire day … when the grate of the iron bolt jolted her to attention. The door scraped open, and the same African man stepped back through the doorway. This time, however, he was not alone. A second African followed close behind. Short and wiry, this one didn’t seem much older than Grace. Ropes of muscle stood out on his arms and legs, and his wildly twisted hair gave him a fierce look.
“This is the one, Cabeto?” the second man asked in a harshly clipped voice. “This is the slave trader's girl?”
“Yes,” Cabeto answered in his low rumble.
The wiry African stepped up to Grace. He grabbed a handful of her thick hair and roughly jerked her head back. “Copper,” he growled. “Who is her mother?”
“The lioness,” Cabeto answered.
Grace opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it.
The wiry man barked a mirthless laugh, harsh and clipped like his speech. Grace's heart sank. This man was not like the first one, not like the one he called Cabeto. Cabeto burned with passion, yes. And he was strong and determined. Without a doubt, Cabeto was a man to fear. But if he were cruel or ruthless, something much worse would have happened to her by now.
This new
The king's okyeame rushed forward to approach the king on Joseph's behalf. “Only talk through the speaker,” Lingongo had instructed her husband. “Do not approach my father directly. The speaker knows the way to put words together so they cause no offense.”
But Joseph would have none of it. If he had something to say to the king, he would just out and say it. And if the king had something to say to him, then his majesty could say his piece too.
So Joseph stood before the king with no mediator and announced, “I will be gatherin’ up all the muskets and gunpowder. No one will have firepower ’ceptin’ fer me.”
“You must have much gold to pay for all this,” the king answered.
“Gold,” Joseph said. “Well, see, that's an inter'stin’ thing, King. There isn’t too much gold available to me jist now. But soon enough I’ll have plenty, I will. The important thing fer ye to know is that ye’ll git no firepower ’ceptin’ through me.”
“Certainly you will make the price agreeable—”
“I will make the price wot I wants it to be. An’ ye has no choice but to pay the price I says ye’ll pay.”
“You and I have a long-standing agreement, sealed with the marriage of my daughter.”
“Yes, yes,” Joseph said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “We still be partners. That's why I be ’ere makin’ the offer to ye and not to yer enemies. But business is business, and it's time we made us a new deal.”
“Deals made and sealed are not thrown aside,” the king said.
Joseph laughed. “Ye isn’t left wi’ much choice now, is ye?”
Because Joseph Winslow had pushed the okyeame aside, no one stood between him and the king to add sweetness and eloquence to his words. No one was there to carefully wipe out the insults that crept in to his talk and to replace them with words gentle and wise. No one made certain that what Joseph meant to say was what the king actually heard.
Which was most unfortunate. Because after Joseph finished speaking, after he said, “So, does we ’ave us a deal ’ere, mate?” and after the king nodded his agreement, Joseph bid farewell to his father-in-law and headed home in triumphant ignorance. He never noticed the anger that flashed across the royal face.
14
T he shaft of sunlight that glinted down from the opening at the top of the wall was the only way for Grace to judge time. She had long since given up banging and kicking on the door and slumped into a corner where she lay in hopeless despair. Hours had passed … maybe an entire day … when the grate of the iron bolt jolted her to attention. The door scraped open, and the same African man stepped back through the doorway. This time, however, he was not alone. A second African followed close behind. Short and wiry, this one didn’t seem much older than Grace. Ropes of muscle stood out on his arms and legs, and his wildly twisted hair gave him a fierce look.
“This is the one, Cabeto?” the second man asked in a harshly clipped voice. “This is the slave trader's girl?”
“Yes,” Cabeto answered in his low rumble.
The wiry African stepped up to Grace. He grabbed a handful of her thick hair and roughly jerked her head back. “Copper,” he growled. “Who is her mother?”
“The lioness,” Cabeto answered.
Grace opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it.
The wiry man barked a mirthless laugh, harsh and clipped like his speech. Grace's heart sank. This man was not like the first one, not like the one he called Cabeto. Cabeto burned with passion, yes. And he was strong and determined. Without a doubt, Cabeto was a man to fear. But if he were cruel or ruthless, something much worse would have happened to her by now.
This new
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