“Not much, another couple of hundred acres or so.”

Ned shook his head, rubbed earth from his hands like a man brushing off sin. “I’m not the man for you. I left the old country to get away from all the moneymaking and grabbing from each other. When the king came back it was like rats in a malthouse. I don’t want to start all over again here.” He turned to go back to the garden behind his house.

The man looked at him, uncomprehending. “You talk like a Leveler!” He climbed up the little embankment to stand beside Ned.

Ned flinched a little at the memory of old battles, lost long ago. “Maybe I do. But I’d rather be left in peace, on my own plantation, than make a fortune.”

“But why?” the selectman demanded. “Everyone’s come here to make their fortune. God rewards his disciples. I came to make a better living than I could in the old country. Same as everyone. This is a new world. More and more people arriving, more and more being born. We want a better life! For ourselves and our families. It’s God’s will that we prosper here, His will that we came here and live according to His laws.”

“Aye, but some people hoped for a new world without greed,” Ned pointed out. “Me among them. Maybe it’s God’s will that we make a land without masters and men, sharing the garden like Eden.” He turned and made his way down the rough steps back to his garden.

“We do share it!” the man insisted. “Share it among the godly. You have your own share here by the minister’s goodwill.”

“The elders’d do better to ask one of the native people.” Ned undid the twine at his garden gate and went in. “Dozens of ’em speak good-enough English. Some of them Christian. What about John Sassamon? The schoolteacher? Him that’s preaching to King Philip? He’s in town, I brought him over this morning. He’ll translate for you, as he does for the Council. He’s been educated, he’s been to Harvard College! I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

Ned fastened the little handmade gate behind him, and ordered his dog to sit. “Don’t come any farther,” he said firmly to the unwelcome visitor. “I’ve got seedlings in here that don’t need treading.”

“We don’t want a native. Truth be told: we don’t trust one to translate a deed to buy land. We don’t want to find out in ten years’ time that they called it a loan rather than a sale. We want one of our own.”

“He is one of our own,” Ned insisted. “Raised as an Englishman, at college with Englishmen. Crossed on my ferry this morning, wearing boots and breeches, with a hat on his head.”

The man leaned over the garden fence, as if he feared the deep river might be listening to them, or the long grassy banks might overhear. “Nay, we don’t trust any of ’em,” he said. “It’s not like it was. They’re not like they were. They’ve gone sour. They’re not like they were in their old king’s time, welcoming us and wanting to trade, when they were simple savages.”

“Simple? Was it truly all so sweethearted then?”

“My father said it was so,” the man said. “They gave us land, wanted our trade. Welcomed us, wanted help against their enemies—against the Mohawks. Everyone knows that they invited us in. So here we are! They gave us land then, and now they have to give us more. And we’d pay a fair price.”

“In what?” Ned asked skeptically.

“What?”

“What would you pay your fair price in?”

“Oh! Whatever they asked. Wampum. Or hats, or coats, whatever they wanted.”

Ned shook his head at the exchange of acres of land for shell beads. “Wampum’s lost its value,” he pointed out. “And coats? You’d pay a couple of coats for a hundred acres of fields that they’ve planted and cleared and forest that they’ve managed for their hunting, and call it fair?” He hawked and spat on the ground, as if to get the taste of fraud from his mouth.

“They like coats,” the man said sulkily.

Ned turned from the gate to end the argument, dropped to his knees, and picked up his hoeing stick, to weed around his vines of golden squash.

“What’s that stink you’re spreading there?”

“Fish guts,” Ned said, ignoring the smell. “Shad. I plant one in each hillock.”

“That’s what natives do!”

“Aye, it was one of them taught me.”

“And what’s that you’re using?”

Ned glanced at the old hoeing stick which had been rubbed with fat and roasted in ashes till it was hard, sharpened till it was as good as hammered iron. “This? What’s wrong with it?”

“Native work,” the man said contemptuously.

“It was traded to me for fair payment, and it does the job. I don’t mind who made it, as long as it’s good work.”

“You use native tricks and tools, you’ll become like them.” He spoke as if it was a curse. “You be careful, or you’ll be a savage yourself, and you’ll answer for it. You know what happened to Edward Ashley?”

“Forty years ago,” Ned said wearily.

“Sent back to England for living like a native,” the selectman said triumphantly. “You start like this, with a hoeing stick, and next you’re in moccasins and you’re lost.”

“I’m English, born and bred, and I’ll die English.” Ned reined in his irritation. “But I don’t have to despise anyone else.” He sat back on his heels. “I didn’t come here to be a king looking down on subjects, forcing my ways on them in blood. I came here to live at peace, with my neighbors. All my neighbors: English and Indian.”

The man glanced to the east, upriver where low-lying water meadows on the other side of the river became deep thick forest. “Even the ones you can’t see? The ones that howl like wolves in the night and watch you from the swamp all the day?”

“Them too,” Ned said equably. “The godly and ungodly, and those whose gods I don’t know.” He bent over his plants to show that the conversation was over; but still the messenger did not leave.

“We’ll send for you again, you know.” The man turned away from Ned’s garden gate and headed back to the town. “Everyone has to serve. Even if you don’t come now, you’ll have to come to militia training. You can’t just be English sitting on the riverside. You have to prove yourself English. You have to be English against our enemies. That’s how we know you’re English. That’s how you know yourself. We’re going to have to teach them a lesson!”

“I should think we’ve already taught them a lesson,” Ned remarked to the earth beneath his knees. “Better not invite us in, better not welcome us.”

JUNE 1670, LONDON

The Italian lady had to take off her hat and the dark veil, her black lace mittens, and wash her face and hands in the little attic bedroom before she could visit her mother-in-law. The baby was still sleeping but she took him in her arms and came into the room, strikingly beautiful, like a sorrowful Madonna. Alinor took in the dark gown cut low over her breasts, the creamy skin veiled by black lace, the pile of dark curling hair under the black trimmed cap, and the wide tragic eyes; but her attention was on the sleeping baby.