The Prodigal Son Page 2

  “You don’t need to worry.” Simon flopped down in the shade beside Alex, his light blue eyes intent on her.

  “Worry about what?” Alex held up the boy’s shirt she was sewing against the light. The hemline was uneven, but she decided it would do. She was sick of sewing and mending, sometimes she longed for a shopping centre with one shop after the other; GAP, H&M, M&S. She sighed and picked up the next garment in her basket. An impossible dream, given that this was 1665.

  “About her, Margaret.”

  “I know I don’t,” she said. “But as to Ian… he eats him with his eyes!”

  Simon hemmed in agreement.

  “And it must be difficult for him – for Ian. I wonder what they’ve told him to explain that sorry mess two years ago. It’s not as if they can wave a paternity test at him.”

  Simon sat up, eyes bright with curiosity. Of a need he knew her background, and he was always pestering her for details about life in the future.

  “Paternity tests?”

  “They take blood from the baby, the mother and the father and then they can see if it all matches.” She smiled and beckoned him closer. “They say that on average one child in four is a cuckoo,” she confided, grinning at his horrified expression. “I dare say it’s more or less the same now.”

  “No!” Simon shook his head. “You can’t think that married women would do something like that!”

  “Have sex? Or have sex with someone other than their husband?” She laughed, her sewing forgotten in her lap.

  “Hmph!” Simon lay back and stared up at the sky through the rustling leaves of the tree. “A man never knows, he never knows for sure if it’s his child or not.”

  “No, and that’s the starting point of all this sorry mess with Ian, isn’t it?”

  “Did he tell you?” she asked a bit later.

  “No,” Simon said. “But it doesn’t take a genius to work out where he’s been.”

  Alex hugged her knees. “I don’t like it. From being the occasional meal, the odd night’s lodging, now it’s Matthew guiding them across the moor, helping them find other hideouts.” She leaned her cheek against her skirts.

  “I’m sure he’s careful.”

  “Of course he is,” Alex agreed, mainly to convince herself. She smiled down at Simon and poked him in the gut. “That wasn’t very nice of you, to leave poor Joan all alone with your Aunt Judith.” She’d only met Judith Melville once, a quarrelsome, nosy woman with no similarities whatsoever to Simon. Matthew’s sister Joan on the other hand, was one of the sweetest people she knew.

  “Joan doesn’t mind, I think she even likes the old bat, aye? Anyway, she’ll be here tomorrow.”

  Someone called for the mistress, and Alex got to her feet.

  “Now what?”

  She slowed her steps halfway across the yard. “Who are they?” she asked Simon.

  “Dragoons,” he said, frowning. He buttoned up his coat as he walked and brushed his collar into place. By the time they were at the door, Simon Melville was all lawyer, joviality wiped from his face. He expanded his considerable girth, nodded at the officer and placed a hand at Alex’ waist.

  “Mistress,” the officer said.

  “Captain,” Alex curtsied.

  “We will not importune you for long,” the officer continued, jerking his head in the direction of the stables. Alex’ heart nosedived at the sight of her man being marched across the yard. He was struggling, his arms held in a tight grip by the two soldiers flanking him.

  “What on Earth…” Alex gasped, wheeling to face the officer. Behind her Matthew cursed, his voice loud in anger. Oh God; someone had seen him on the moor last night, and now they’d cart him off and flog him for it.

  “We are taking him in for questioning,” the officer said.

  “Questioning? About what?” She turned, eyes flying until they found Matthew’s. He was not only angry, he was afraid, she could see that. Calm down, she tried to tell him telepathically, furrowing her brow in concentration. Okay, so she seriously doubted she was a new Mr Spock, but he did stop struggling, informing the soldiers he wasn’t about to run anywhere so they could unhand him.

  “Now, now, Mistress Graham. Surely you’ve heard. Fugitive preachers abound all around, and to aid them…” the officer’s voice tailed off.

  She widened her eyes. “Matthew? When? How?”

  “Last night. We had them surrounded, three of them, and out of nowhere appeared a man.” He glared in the direction of Matthew. “A capable swordsman at that, leaving one of my men badly wounded.”

  What? Alex forced herself not to look at Matthew. To wound a soldier… they might hang him! Her throat tightened and it took considerable effort to turn to the officer and give him a little smile.

  “Well, I can assure you it wasn’t him,” Alex said. “He was snoring his head off in bed, with me.”

  “If so a spot of questioning will do no harm, will it?” the officer shrugged, clearly not believing her.

  “I’m going with him,” Simon said.

  The officer raised a brow. “I think not.”

  “I think aye. I’m his lawyer.”

  That didn’t please the officer, narrow face pinching together into a frown. But he acquiesced, muttering something under his breath. Simon scurried off to see to his horse and Alex moved close enough to touch Matthew’s hand, a light graze no more.

  “It’ll be alright,” Matthew said, swinging himself up into the saddle. She heard it in his voice, how he was struggling to sound matter-of-fact. Alex wanted to say something reassuring, but her vocal cords had somehow gone numb, leaving her mute. Instead she stood beside his horse, holding on to his leg. Matthew leaned towards her, eyes lightening into a greyish green.

  “I love you,” he said in an undertone, which only increased her anxiety because he rarely said such things to her. Alex managed a wobbly smile and stood on her toes to caress his cheek.

  “And I you,” she said.

  Her husband nodded and at the officer’s command followed him up the lane with Simon in his wake. Not once did he look back, but Alex stood rooted to the ground for as long as she could see him.

  Chapter 2

  They manhandled Matthew into an unfurnished room, with Simon trotting behind him. The commanding officer was sitting in the single chair, to his right stood a troop of soldiers, tired, grimy men that looked as if they’d gone far too long without sleep. Mayhap they had, because it came to Matthew that these must in fact be the soldiers he’d so neatly evaded last night. He hunched together somewhat, legs bending ever so slightly in an attempt to reduce his height.

  The seated officer – a chit of a lad, with fair curling hair down to his shoulders and a most impressive jaw – looked him up and down and twisted in his seat to stare at Simon, who just stared back.

  “Stand up straight!” the officer barked, motioning at Matthew.

  “I already am,” Matthew retorted, glad of the wide breeches. He was made to turn to face the troop of soldiers.

  “Is it him?” the officer asked. One of the men tilted his head to the side, frowning.

  “It could be,” he said, “although…”

  “Could be?” Simon pounced. “Well, it could be anyone.”

  The soldier shuffled on his feet. “There is a likeness.”

  “A likeness?” Simon laughed out loud. “How?”

  One of the younger soldiers took a step forward. “He’s tall and the man we saw was tall – that we know for sure.”

  “Ah,” Simon nodded. “And did he have dark hair?”

  “I don’t know,” the young man said.

  “No? Why not?”

  ‘“He was wearing a cloak.”

  Simon rolled his eyes, smoothed at his coat. “Not much to go on,” he said to the officer, who shifted on his seat.

  “Tall, a competent swordsman – and we know Mr Graham has a past as a soldier – who else could it be?” the officer said.

  “You?” Simon said.

/>   The officer flew to his feet. “What?”

  “Well why not? You’re of a size, and in a cloak, well…”

  “What is it you’re implying?” the officer barked.

  “I am but making the point that it does not suffice, does it? Mr Graham insists he was at home last night, and this is corroborated by his wife, who…”

  “His wife? And what else would she say?”

  “Well no; there you have me,” Simon conceded with a little bow. “But it is still a fact that if all your men saw was a hooded, tall man on the moor, it is not enough to place Matthew Graham there, is it?”

  The officer wheeled, glared at his men, at Matthew and at his toes. “This is a serious matter,” he said. “We are no longer talking of the occasional meal, are we?” He came close enough that his nose brushed against Matthew’s. “This time someone has taken steel to my men, even wounded one of them.”

  A wee gash, Matthew was on the point of saying, but bit his tongue at the last moment. Instead he blinked, attempting to look as dense as possible.

  The officer frowned, dashing a long strand of fair hair from his face. “Take him away, lock him up for the night. Who knows, it might jog his memory.” He smiled – a small, cold smile that made Matthew shiver inside. They were going to hurt him.

  Simon protested loudly. The officer stood his ground, repeating that he had to ascertain once and for all that Mr Graham was no threat to law and order. A shove, yet another shove, and Matthew was dragged from the room.

  Merciful Lord! He gasped as yet another bucket of ice cold water was poured over him. Hands pulled him to stand, he tried to see through his swollen eye. A fist drove into his gut, another in his kidneys. Small bursts of pain all over his upper body, a fist in his face, and Matthew was unable to defend himself, could not do anything to deflect the blows, what with the two men holding him upright.

  “Admit it, man,” the lieutenant in charge said, leaning in to stare Matthew in his one good eye. “Admit it was you and this will stop.”

  Matthew just shook his head. The responding clap to his head had his brain ringing, a high pitched sound that made it difficult to hear what the wee man was saying, although he assumed it was yet another repeated ‘admit it’.

  After hours of this physical interrogation, Matthew was weaving on his feet. He pretended to faint time and time again, gaining himself a few minutes of precious reprieve while the soldiers set to reviving him. He let his head loll back and groaned. The lieutenant made a disgusted snort.

  “For all his size he’s quite the weakling,” the wee officer said.

  Matthew almost smiled; he could beat the lieutenant one handed should he need to.

  “No,” the lieutenant decided, clapping himself on his thighs. “We’re done with him.” A booted toe prodded at Matthew. He slumped, an unconscious mollusc on the floor.

  Except that he wasn’t, and the moment the door grated shut behind his tormentors he moved over to sit with his back against the furthest wall. No broken bones, no serious damage, just one bruised, aching body, a split lip, a swollen eye and a burst eyebrow. Very much on purpose, he concluded. This was merely the soldiers giving him a warning, a gentle reminder of what was in store for men who flaunted the law. He laughed hollowly; not all that gentle.

  Simon must have been up with the sun. Even in his shivering, dozing state Matthew recognised his friend’s voice, a loud constant haranguing as he followed whoever was guiding him across the garrison yard. The door swung open, a shaft of light made Matthew squint and Simon rounded on the lieutenant, near on spitting with anger.

  “Simon,” Matthew croaked, wincing when his lip split open. “It’s no great matter. Just get me out of here.” From the way the lieutenant was eyeing Simon, he was considering whether to lock him up as well rather than releasing Matthew.

  “No great matter? Have you any notion…” Simon rushed over to steady him. “Sweetest Lord, what will Alex say?”

  Matthew attempted a shrug. “Mayhap I should clean up some.”

  “Aye, that would be wise,” Simon said. “I’ll have the innkeeper heat you some water. A few hours’ sleep, I think, before we ride back home.” Matthew stifled a gasp when Simon’s arm came round his middle but he walked as straight as he could through the yard.

  A mere half-hour later he felt much better; hot food in his belly, his bruised body washed and inspected by the innkeeper’s wife, a pretty lass with a gentle touch and an endless supply of herbal ointments. He was in a hurry to get back home, knowing that Alex would be worried by his continued absence, but at the mulish look on Simon’s face he crawled into bed. A wee nap, no more. He yawned, closed his eyes and dropped off.

  Alex was too distraught to give Joan much of a welcome when she arrived around noon. In fact, she was so immersed in her worries for Matthew, that it wasn’t until Joan took off her cloak that Alex noticed her sister-in-law was pregnant.

  “Why haven’t you told me?”

  “I wanted you to see for yourself,” Joan said. “But I dare say today is not the best of days to impart such news, is it?”

  Alex shook her head, eyes flying to the lane. “Not really.” She made a huge effort and turned to face Joan. “But I’m so very glad for you.”

  Joan smiled down at her. At almost six feet she was uncommonly tall, and in general so thin as to look fragile. Now, there was a sizeable bump on her and her normally flat chest had upgraded itself to something resembling a timid B-cup.

  Alex frowned. “You don’t look too well.” That was an understatement. Joan was pale to the point of looking ashen, with her beautiful grey eyes sunk into deep purple hollows.

  “I’m tired, that’s all. You shouldn’t mind me,” Joan said, “not all bloom like you do with the bairns.”

  “Have you been eating?”

  Joan looked away. “I’m greensick all the time.”

  “No wonder you’re the colour of a sheet,” Alex said. “I’ll fix you something with plenty of honey and eggs in it.” With that she propelled Joan in the direction of the house.

  “No word?” Joan sipped at the posset Alex set before her.

  “No. But there wouldn’t be, right? It was afternoon when they rode off.”

  “Mayhap.” Joan drank, wiped at her mouth. “Was he? Out on the moors?”

  Alex threw a wary look round the kitchen; neither Sarah nor Janey were in sight. She nodded, irritated by the admiring look in Joan’s face.

  “It’s dangerous! What if they…” she broke off when Mark came rushing through the door.

  “They’re back! Da’s back!”

  “Well, thank heavens for that,” Alex said, leaping to her feet.

  Joan grabbed at her hand, met her eyes. “He does as he has to, Alex. Remember that, aye?”

  “It’s a risk, an unnecessary risk.”

  “To you, mayhap. To Matthew it’s a matter of conscience and faith.”

  Alex came to a stop at the sight of Matthew. He gave her a rueful smile, fingers flying to his swollen face. Dear God! She moved closer, all of her itching with the need to drag him off to a secluded corner for a detailed inspection.

  “They couldn’t identify him,” Simon said. “All they could say was that the man had been tall and shrouded in a long cloak.”

  “Ah. So that was it?” Obviously not, judging from Matthew’s face.

  “Nay,” Matthew said, looking grim. “They locked me up overnight and…” He winced when he moved his arms.

  “It could have been worse,” Simon said. “Much, much worse.”

  “Oh, well; that’s a comfort,” Alex said. But Simon was right. Matthew might look as if he’d been trampled by the cows, but he’d suffered no serious damage – made very apparent by the fact that the first thing he did once he was off the horse was scan the skies.

  “Tomorrow. We start the harvest tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure? Shouldn’t you take it easy for some…” Her hands flew down his arms, his back. There were bruises everywhe
re; peeking from the neckline of his shirt, all over his face, on what she could see of his arms, and when she touched his lower back he inhaled, twisting out of reach.

  “Tomorrow; and I’m perfectly hale.”

  “Well, sorry for asking.”

  “I’m fine, lass; truly.” He smiled, a somewhat strained smile, and raised his hand to her cheek. “I dare not wait any longer, because if it rains now…”He shook his head.

  Alex nodded her agreement, raising her eyes to the unclouded summer sky. All summer the sun had blazed down on them and the barley looked starved for rain, as did the rye and the oats. But it was ripe, however puny, standing man-high in the elongated fields.

  “So, tomorrow.” Without any further comments as to the events in Cumnock, Matthew set off towards the barn. Alex sighed. Sometimes this silent male thing was bloody enervating.

  A fortnight or so later, Alex was so tired she considered hiding in the hayloft for the day. Instead, she was up at dawn to feed the men and then extended before her yet another stretch of never ending work.

  “You must work in the field today,” Matthew told her over breakfast, “you and all the lasses.” He threw his head in the direction of the skies. “It’ll break. I can smell it.”

  So could Alex; a heavy smell of brine. It made her mouth dry up and she studied the darkening horizon repeatedly during the day, lifting her face from the sheaves before going back to her work.

  Sweat formed like dewdrops along her hairline, ran down her face and into her eyes. It trickled down her back and dampened the insides of her thighs, making every single piece of clothing she had on stick to her skin.

  The clouds sank even closer to the ground and Matthew yelled at them to hurry up, they had to get as many of the half-dried sheaves as possible inside. Alex’ back screeched in protest, her arms trembled, and still she lifted, throwing sheaves into the flat carts. Men picked up sheaves and ran towards the barn and Alex tried to do the same, but the stupid thing kept slipping through her arms, the drying stalks scratching at her face.