Like Chaff in the Wind (The Graham Saga) Page 2

  Alex sipped her cider in silence. Joan and Simon doted on Mark, and they’d love him as if he were their own. And Mark would forget her, not recognise her when she returned, shrinking back to hide behind Joan’s skirts. It cut her just to think it. Mrs Gordon levelled her black eyes at her.

  “Your son has others, lass. Your man has only you.”

  “Mrs Gordon…” Joan protested.

  “I know.” Alex picked at the valuables in her lap and swept them back into their pouch. “I’m going after him. I have to.”

  Mrs Gordon nodded her agreement. “I’ll go with you. You can’t be travelling on your own.”

  Alex gave her a grateful smile and got to her feet. “We’d better start packing, right?”

  Chapter 2

  It was a glorious spring day, the day Alex rode out of Hillview in search of her abducted husband. The trees stood in bright new leaf, robins and blackbirds chirped loudly in the shrubs, and high against the pale blue sky hung a single lark. The tilled fields filled the air with the scent of warm moist earth, and in the kitchen garden pale shoots stood timid and fresh in their well-tended beds.

  Not that Alex noticed; all her attention was on her son. Fourteen months old, Mark sat in the arms of his aunt. He cooed and laughed, a high bubbling sound, when his mother first kissed him, then blew in his ear, and he jumped up and down in the restraining arms, hands extended towards Alex.

  “Love him for me as well,” Alex said, leaning forward to kiss Mark’s brow. “Love him for me and for Matthew.”

  Joan just nodded, eyes grey streaks in a red and bloated face. Alex gave her a wobbly smile and then she just had to hug her son one last time, bury her nose in his hair and draw in the scent of him, so uniquely his own she could find him in the dark. Mark chortled, but protested when Joan took him back, small starfish hands waving in the direction of his mother. He stretched himself towards Alex when she sat up on the horse. When she turned the horse and clucked it into a walk, Mark began to cry.

  By the time Alex, Mrs Gordon and Simon crested the hill, the air rang with Mark’s high voice. Alex could barely see through her tears.

  “What am I doing? How can I leave my son behind?”

  “You have to,” Mrs Gordon said from where she sat pillion behind Alex. “You know that, no?”

  *

  Simon held his silence. He was still not convinced that letting Alex loose on the world in a desperate attempt to find Matthew was the right thing to do. Mayhap he should have insisted that she stay at home, safe. Ever since the day he rode back heavyhearted from Edinburgh to tell Alex that Matthew was gone, he’d tried to make her see reason; there was nothing she could do, and Matthew wouldn’t expect it of her.

  “Well I expect it of myself,” she’d said, dark blue eyes narrowing. “What do you suggest I do? Sit here and ignore the fact that somewhere someone is harming the man I love, starving him and using him like a beast? Will I be able to live with myself, knowing he’s dying a slow death, if I don’t try?”

  Simon had not known what to say and had promised that he would help her as well as he could.

  He twisted in his saddle to study Alex. She rode Samson far more competently that he’d thought she would, remembering a day not quite three years ago when he’d seen her eye the huge roan with apprehension, all of her indicating that she’d never been this close to a horse before.

  He pursed his lips. The story of how Matthew had found her wandering the moors after a freak thunderstorm still sniffed of subterfuge, and he recalled the first time he saw her, hair a short cap of bright brown curls around her head, barefoot and with an air of strangeness around her. Mayhap because she was Swedish, aye, but he wasn’t entirely sure.

  A year ago, he’d come upon her in the woods, and she’d been dancing, swinging a burbling Mark around her while she sang a most peculiar song about heaven being on fire. No, there was more to Alex than met the eye… And what was this about a lost child? Joan had attempted to raise the subject of this unknown Isaac, but had been so rudely rebuffed she had confided to Simon that she would never, ever ask again.

  *

  “Six weeks,” Alex said, breaking almost an hour of silence. “We’ve lost six weeks!”

  Now that they were firmly on their way towards Edinburgh, she had managed to banish the thought of a distraught Mark from her mind, focusing instead on the task at hand – to find Matthew.

  “Nay we haven’t,” Mrs Gordon replied. “You know there are no crossings during winter. And the boat with the master will still be in Plymouth, no?”

  Alex gave Simon a dark look. She’d repeatedly argued that they should ride down to Plymouth and there get Matthew freed, but Simon had told her that he didn’t think it possible, that the captain would make it difficult for anyone to come on board, and that anyway he could wave a very formal document of indenture in their faces.

  “But it’s false!” she’d said.

  “Aye, but it’s up to us to prove it is. Besides,” he’d added darkly, “what’s to stop yon captain from heaving Matthew overboard should he feel threatened?”

  Samson took a sudden step to the right, forcing Alex’s attention back to the present.

  “Do you think he’s still alive?” she said. For weeks, she’d had a recurring nightmare of Matthew dying due to the wounds he’d received when he was abducted, courtesy of his evil, nose-less brother.

  Mrs Gordon slapped her hard on her thigh. “Silent, lass! Do you not feel him still?”

  Every night she felt him, rolling in the direction of where he should be lying only to discover his half of the bed empty and cold. And now, when she turned inward she was sure; a flutter in the pit of her stomach told her that yes, he was still alive.

  “They’ll keep them alive on the crossing,” Simon put in. “There’s no value to a dead man, is there?”

  Alex threw yet another black look in his direction. To be kept alive to be sold off as a slave, what would that do to him?

  “Bend,” she whispered to the wind. “Don’t let them break you.” Not like they had done in prison, where he’d not known how to submit, fighting in rage at the injustice of it all.

  “He’ll live lass,” Mrs Gordon said. “He’ll do what he must to stay alive. He owes it to you and your wee lad.”

  *

  Four days later they rode into Edinburgh. The wind blew from the firth, carrying the unappetizing stench of the Nor Loch before it. Actually, even without that open cesspit perfuming the air, Edinburgh was a palette of nasty smells, far too many people, stray dogs and the occasional gaggle of fowl. It took them ages to thread their way up past Greyfriars’ to the small inn off Cowgate, and for all that it was neither particularly clean nor particularly light, the room they were to share seemed a haven of peace after the ruckus of the city outside.

  Alex opened the window to let in some air, called for the maid to come and change the sheets – no way was she sleeping in linen grey with use – and after a quick wash she took Samson’s reins in a firm grip and led him off to Grassmarket to sell him. What was she to do? She needed every penny she could get and Samson was a magnificent horse, eliciting interested looks from a number of men. Still, she felt as if she was selling off a family member. Alex sniffed and blew her nose before giving Samson one last parting pat.

  “You’re not ugly,” she told the broad-backed stallion. “And you’re a very nice horse. I hope you’ll find a good home and someone who’ll love you as much as Matthew has.”

  “It’s just a horse,” Mrs Gordon said, sounding somewhere between amused and worried. “No point in weeping over a beast, is there?”

  “I’ll cry if I want to, okay? I didn’t cry when I kissed Mark good bye, I didn’t cry when I saw Hillview disappear behind me – well, not much – and as God is my witness I haven’t cried for Matthew except for that first day. So if I feel like crying my eyes out over Samson, I’ll do it and you can just stuff it.” Alex felt somewhat ashamed at venting all this on Mrs Gordon, but she s
eemed quite unperturbed.

  “Stuff it,” Mrs Gordon repeated with a faint smile. “Stuff it. I like that, aye?” She slipped her hand in under Alex’s arm and squeezed. “You do cry for the master, every night, no?”

  “Yes, but never when I’m awake.”

  “Why not?”

  Alex hitched her shoulders and pushed a strand of hair off her face. “I’ve promised myself I won’t. Not until I find him.” She kept on glancing at the men that surrounded them. It was market day and Grassmarket was heaving with people come in to town from the outlying farms.

  “Who are you looking for?” Mrs Gordon raised her stout frame on tiptoe and scanned the crowds.

  “Luke.” Should she see him… Her hands fisted when in the distance she saw a tall man. Was that him? She half ran in the direction of the man, Mrs Gordon puffing in her wake. The man turned, Alex came to a halt. Not her damned brother-in-law.

  “And what would you do if you found him?” Mrs Gordon panted, holding a hand to her side.

  Alex let her eyes travel the crowd, looking for Luke’s distinctive red hair. “Brain him, or even better, tear his balls off and have him eat them.”

  “Sounds like a very good idea,” Mrs Gordon nodded. “I can sit on him, aye?” Her eyes shone jet black as she took Alex’s hand. “First things first, lass; you need to find your husband and bring him home. But then you and I can do some ball-cutting. With a very blunt knife…”

  Despite her misery, Alex burst out laughing and hugged Mrs Gordon hard.

  *

  On their last night in Edinburgh there was a discreet knock on the door of their room and Simon strode over to open it, dirk in hand. He fell back in surprise.

  “Margaret! What are you doing here?”

  A hooded shape glided into the room, and with one person more the cramped space became positively crowded, what with Simon’s pallet bed, the four-poster Alex shared with Mrs Graham, the table and the few stools.

  “Come to gloat?” Alex very much wanted to throw something in the face of this woman, once Matthew’s wife, but first and foremost Luke’s lover and now spouse. “Happy now that your bastard husband has succeeded in his attempt to have Matthew disappear from Scotland?”

  “I swear I didn’t know,” Margaret said. “I swear…” Her voice shook, eyes huge in the pale oval of her face.

  Yeah; right. “Just like you didn’t know when Luke falsely accused Matthew of treason, huh?” To Alex’s satisfaction, Margaret looked very ashamed – but then she should, shouldn’t she? Alex cleared her throat of a wad of rage. “This is all your fault, if you hadn’t told Luke all those terrible lies about Matthew, then none of this would have happened.”

  “Lies? What lies?”

  “Come off it! We both know, don’t we? How you let Luke believe Matthew had forced you into marriage, while it was you – yes, you, goddamn it – who seduced him.”

  “Well, he didn’t say no, did he?” Margaret flashed back, straightening up to glare at Alex. “In fact,” she added with a smirk, “he was most eager, he was.”

  If Simon hadn’t stepped between them, Alex would have hit her. Instead she retreated and drew in a couple of breaths, eyes never leaving Margaret. Bloody woman! Alex hated it that they were so alike, and even more did she hate the fact that the drop-dead gorgeous one was Margaret, not her.

  In deep red silk that shimmered in the candle light, a daring neckline edged with lace and linen of the highest quality, Margaret looked every inch the courtier’s wife, all the way from the peeping toes of her silk slippers to the fashionable black ringlets that adorned her head. Alex twitched at her simple green bodice and fiddled with her lace cap; all home made by yours truly, well sewn and neat, but with none of the flair of Margaret’s clothes.

  “I did not come to discuss the past,” Margaret said with some dignity, placing a velvet pouch on the table. “Here.”

  Simon nudged it with a finger, making the contents clink. “What’s this?”

  “Thirty silver pieces,” Margaret replied with a wry smile. “It should be enough to buy him free if you find him.”

  “Not if, when,” Alex corrected sharply.

  Margaret looked at her and ducked her head. “I hope you do. He didn’t deserve this.” She pulled the hood of her cloak back up, her features swallowed into shadow. “You have to make haste. Luke says the indentures die like flies.”

  “All part of his nasty little plan,” Alex said.

  Margaret shrugged, gloved hands fidgeting with the decorated clasps of her cloak.

  “Aye, it most likely is.”

  “If he dies, I’ll…” Alex choked on a bitter combination of fear and rage.

  Margaret just nodded and left.

  Alex waited until the door had closed before moving over to pick up the pouch. It weighed heavily in her hand, and she opened it to see that not only did it contain several coins, but also a collection of small valuables; earrings, a ring set with a dark red stone, one huge baroque pearl in a silver pendant…

  “Generous,” Simon said. “Margaret’s raided her own little chest, hasn’t she?”

  Mrs Gordon picked up a golden bracelet and weighed it in her hand.

  “This is a right fortune, it is. Yon Luke will be enraged when he hears what she’s done.”

  “He won’t,” Alex said, “she isn’t about to tell him, is she?”

  “You think not?” Mrs Gordon touched the large pearl. “And when he asks her to put this on, what will she say?”

  “I’m sure she’ll lie convincingly,” Alex said. “After all, we all know Margaret is good at lying.” Well she was, wasn’t she? To her great irritation, Alex felt herself blushing under their reproving looks.

  “Alex,” Simon admonished, “that was unkind. And no matter that Luke loves her, she’ll pay dearly when he finds out, you know that.”

  Alex squirmed; it went against the grain of her to concede any good qualities to Margaret, but reluctantly she agreed it must have taken courage to do this.

  *

  After a last restless night on land, they made their way down to Leith and the wharves early next morning. Alex took in the wooden, insubstantial vessel with scepticism. Cross the Atlantic in that? She laughed at her disappointment. What had she been expecting, a twentieth century cruise ship? Actually; yes. She paced up and down, calculating that at most it was thirty metres from stern to bow. One major storm and the whole thing would probably capsize, she concluded, knotting her hands into the woollen material of her skirts.

  “She’s crossed several times,” Simon said in a reassuring tone. “The captain’s an experienced man.” Alex nodded and went back to studying the line of people making their way up the gangway, small bundles pressed to their chest.

  “They’re all women,” Alex said.

  “Aye, wives for the colonists. They go in the hold, I reckon.”

  “Wives? They have husbands waiting for them?”

  “Well…” Simon looked uncomfortable. “Not as such. They’ll meet them there, and their future husband will reimburse the captain for the passage.”

  “Ah,” Alex nodded.

  Mrs Gordon held Alex’s arm in a tight grip all the way up the gangway, and once on board they tread with caution over the wooden deck, having to negotiate coils of ropes, several barrels, and a small pen with goats. Alex followed Simon into the little cabin below quarterdeck that would be her home for the coming months, and allowed him to make a thorough inspection of the closet size space, grunting when he found things to be as promised.

  Together they took a turn around the deck and then it was time for Simon to leave. She didn’t want him to; she wanted to grab hold of his coat and beg him to come with her. But she didn’t, of course. Instead, she cleared her throat and tried to smile.

  “My son is in your keeping, my son and my home.”

  “They’ll be there when you come for them. I swear to you I’ll keep them safe.”

  “I know,” Alex said, “otherwise how co
uld I have left?”

  Simon swept her into an embrace. “Find him, lass. Find our Matthew and bring him back. You can do it. You will do it.”

  “Of course I will,” she said, injecting her voice with as much conviction as she could muster. She kissed him, watched him make his way back down to land, and went to stand by the railings, waving for as long as she could see the shrinking point of brown that she knew to be Simon.

  *

  Simon stood rooted until the ship disappeared from sight. He rubbed a hand through his sparse hair, produced a handkerchief from his sleeve, blew his nose and wiped his face. Such a little thing on all that water, totally in the hands of our Lord, blown hither and thither like a chaff in the wind. He sighed and pressed his hat down on his head.

  “Dear Lord, hold Your hand over them and keep them safe,” he prayed. “Turn the light of Your countenance unto them and guide them back home.”

  Chapter 3

  Matthew woke to hammering pain and the unwelcome realisation that the floor below him was moving, rolling from side to side. He tried to sit up and knew himself to be in irons, fettered like a beast. He groaned as he levered himself upright.

  “So you’re awake then?” a voice said by his ear. Matthew jerked and the voice laughed. “I don’t mean you any harm, lad, none of us do.”

  “Where am I?” Matthew asked, trying to make out his surroundings.

  “On the Henriette Marie – we sailed at daybreak, bound for the colonies.”

  “The colonies!” Matthew attempted to stand, only to fall at the next rolling of the ship. “I have to get off! I have a family to get back to.”

  “We all do,” the voice beside him said. “But unless you’re planning on swimming, chains and all, you won’t be getting off this ship until we arrive at Jamestown.”

  Matthew struggled back to sit. In the light that filtered down from the barred hatches, he saw several men, grey shapes that sat or lay in silence all around. The air stank of vomit and excrement, and from himself came the distinct smell of dried piss. He studied his soiled breeches with disgust. Alex wouldn’t be glad to see the state of them. Alex!