Revenge and Retribution (The Graham Saga)

by Anna Belfrage

  “So when is he leaving?” Mrs Parson asked.

  Matthew’s brows pulled together into an impressive scowl. “He isn’t leaving. Not unless I let him. I decide, and he obeys.”

  “And inside he will shrivel and die, and the moment he is old enough, he’ll disappear anyway,” Alex said.

  Mrs Parson muttered an agreement. Her white head of hair glimmered eerily in the weak light of the single tallow candle, and she fiddled with her old-fashioned square lace collar, smoothing it down to lay straight and unwrinkled against her bodice.

  “You can compromise, no?” she said. “See it as an apprenticeship. The lad must be home for harvest, mayhap at spring planting or Hogmanay as well. That way, he will still retain his ties with you, with all of us.”

  “And for how long do you think he’d live by that?” Alex asked.

  “A long time, I reckon. The lad loves you both very much, of course he does. But if you force him to choose…” Mrs Parson left it hanging in the air, but Alex could see Samuel streaking off into the woods, never to return.

  “And his spiritual well-being?” Matthew’s voice was sharp. “What of living like a heathen, far from the word of God?”

  “Send along a Bible,” Mrs Parson said, “and you can catechise him every time you see him.”

  Alex laughed despite everything at the sudden, ludicrous image of an adult Samuel in Indian garb sitting patiently on a stool while his father sternly took him through the Bible.

  “And that way he keeps his reading skills, no?” Mrs Parson added in a very practical voice.

  *

  Samuel stood in silence and listened to the conditions laid down by his parents: Bible to be read regularly; at least twice a year, he was to come home to Graham’s Garden, once for harvest and once for New Year; he was to pray every night in English and remember them all in his prayers.

  “And if you don’t know your Bible, I’ll be mightily upset with you,” Da said. “I might in fact have you shipped off to school to learn it, aye?”

  Samuel smiled up at him, recognising his words as an idle threat.

  “I assume Qaachow will bide by this as well.”

  “Aye,” Samuel nodded, “he will.”

  Four weeks after he had come home, Samuel shed his white identity. White Bear – that was who he was, no longer a divided being hanging in between two worlds, but an Indian like his father and his brother. But in his hands he clutched the bundle that contained his Bible, and his eyes were misty with unshed tears as he studied Mama and Da, both of them standing shrunk and silent on the opposite shore.

  “I have run a knife into their hearts,” he said.

  Qaachow placed a comforting hand on his back. “They will live, White Bear. They have many sons and daughters, grandchildren that fill their lives with sound and laughter.”

  “But they had only one Samuel Isaac, and him they will mourn as long as they live.”

  “Do you regret your choice then?” Qaachow asked him.

  White Bear wiped at his eyes. “No, Father, I do not. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

  “No,” Qaachow said, “and that is yet another lesson learnt. All the important choices in life come at a price.”

  White Bear looked again at the two white people on the other side of the river, saw Da raise his hand in a wave while Mama hid her face against Da’s chest. She had not been capable of bidding him farewell, eyes swollen slits in a face so bloated by weeping that it had made his stomach contract with shame. All she’d done was hold him, fingers sinking so hard into his back White Bear suspected there were bruises decorating his skin.

  “I love you,” he whispered in their direction. “I will always love you.” And then he turned to pad silently behind his father.

  Chapter 44

  The days immediately after Samuel’s leaving were taken up by the last of the harvest work and the hectic preparations before sending Mark, Ian, Betty and John down to Providence for the Michaelmas markets. Even worse, David was to go as well, and this time Matthew refused to listen to Alex’s pleas that he be kept at home, telling her the boy needed his schooling.

  So Alex shoved all thoughts aside, submerging herself in pickles and packing and writing horribly long lists that made Ian groan, saying they would need to buy more mules to bring all this back home. Alex huffed, described in detail to Betty just what buttons she wanted for Matthew’s new breeches, before instructing Sarah how to fold the embroidered linens that were to be sold. She spent hours with David, bored him to tears with all her rules about vegetables and teeth cleaning, and embarrassed him more than once by hugging him far too publicly. The last night, she didn’t sleep at all, standing in the kitchen swearing over the big stone jars she was attempting to close.

  “If I see another jellied trotter, I think I’ll throw up.” Alex relinquished the obstructive lids to Matthew.

  “You’ve never liked them,” he said, smiling at her.

  She sat down at the table, pulling the plate of half-eaten cake towards her.

  “God, I’m tired.” She pillowed her head in her arms and looked at him. “Spices,” she murmured, “I have to add that to the list. That and vinegar and oils and…” She yawned and closed her eyes against the first rays of eastern sun. “Once they’re on their way, I think I’ll have a bath. I bloody well deserve one.”

  *

  “I thought you were leaving,” Sarah said to Carlos when they took their customary walk down to the river and back.

  “I’m supposed to, but I find myself struck down by a most serious affliction, making it impossible to travel.”

  “Oh?” She laughed. “And what illness is this? Is it contagious?”

  He looked at her and smiled. It’s called love, he thought. An illicit love I shouldn’t be feeling.

  “Severe fungus in my stump,” he said instead, and at her disgusted expression laughed. “No, hija, I have no mushrooms growing out of my leg, but who is to know that but me? And your mother,” he added, grimacing in recollection of her last inspection. She had been very angry with him, going on about hygiene while she rather roughly cleaned his leg. “Do you want me to go?” he asked, breaking a comfortable silence between them.

  “What?” Sarah looked startled. “No, of course I don’t. I’m glad you’re staying. Very glad.” She looked at him from beneath lowered lashes, and Carlos felt himself beginning to flush. “As a good friend, of course,” she hastened to add. “My best friend, actually.”

  He was very pleased, and impulsively took her hand.

  *

  “Does he know, do you think, that he’s in love with her?” Matthew asked Alex, watching their daughter let go of the priest’s hand as if it were red-hot when they stepped into sight.

  “He does, and it plagues him. Poor man, he doesn’t stand a chance in hell the moment she decides to set her sights on him.”

  “She could do worse,” Mrs Parson piped up.

  Alex threw her an irritated look. “You’re supposed to be half-deaf with age. Instead, you have the hearing of a watchdog.”

  “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t find out half of what is going on, would I?” Mrs Parson replied, unperturbed.

  “Hmph,” Alex said, before reverting to the original subject. “He’s a Catholic priest. His ordination is a sacrament that can never be reversed, he can never marry her, at least not under Catholic rites, and how is he to support them should he leave the Church?”

  “He can’t very well remain a priest and have carnal knowledge of Sarah on the side, can he?” Mrs Parson asked.

  “Nay,” Matthew said, “not unless he wishes to lose yet another part of his anatomy.”

  Mrs Parson studied her knitting and nodded in satisfaction at the perfect rows of knits and purls. “You don’t need to worry. The wee man is honourable, aye? And your lass is not about to let a man fondle her intimately, is she?”

  “Unfortunately,” Alex said in a sad undertone.

  After days of intense work came
a strange couple of weeks, days filled with mushroom picking and berrying, evenings long stretches of silence between her and Matthew as they sat numbed by this their latest loss. The absence of her boys was a permanent ache in Alex’s heart, and while one she could openly grieve, sitting often by his grave, the other was still alive but lost nonetheless. Where David had begun carving in Samuel’s name a year ago in the nearby tree, Alex now added his middle name and his birth date.

  “He isn’t dead,” Matthew remonstrated when he saw what she had done.

  “He might as well be. We should have kept him here, with us.”

  “That isn’t what you said at the time,” Matthew said with something of an edge.

  “I know, and I’m not blaming you. If anything, I’m blaming myself for giving up too soon. But it was so awful to watch, wasn’t it? How he rose each day and squared himself, made this huge effort to try and be like he used to be. But it was all pretence, his heart wasn’t in it, and it was as if there was no light in him. And when you told him he could go, he began to glow again.” She dragged her hand across her eyes. “He’s happy now, I think, and maybe that should be enough. After all, that’s what any mother wants – that her child be happy.” She caught his eyes with her own and gave him a wobbly smile. “But it isn’t, Matthew, and I just hurt.”

  “So do I, lass,” he said, helping her to stand. Golden green, his eyes were in the low autumn sun, eyes shadowed by far too much loss and pain in far too short a time. She wondered if the same dark lived in the bottom of her own eyes, if it stood as easily to read. From the way his fingers came up to graze her cheek, her brows, she suspected it did.

  She stood on tiptoe to brush his hair off his brow. “We’ll just have to cope,” she said.

  “Aye,” he sighed, sliding his arms round her waist. She rested her head on his chest, just above his heart, and they stood like that for some time, oblivious to the rising wind.

  *

  “Sarah?” Alex found her sitting slumped by the parlour fire, the mending in her lap forgotten. In her hand was a rosary, and from the way she flicked her fingers over the beads, this was something she’d been doing for quite some time. Alex suppressed a sigh. Matthew wouldn’t be pleased by this overt papist praying.

  Sarah started at the sound of her name, turning wary eyes in her direction.

  “Are you alright?” Alex did a quick, instinctive inspection. Apart from the by now obvious swell, Sarah looked very well.

  “I was thinking of Carlos.” Sarah tucked the rosary out of sight.

  “Oh.” Alex sat down to do some needlework of her own. She didn’t push, assuming Sarah would tell her in her own good time.

  “He loves me,” Sarah blurted.

  “I know, and that puts him in something of a quandary, doesn’t it? Caught between his heart and his religious obligations.” Alex squinted to thread her needle, cursed when she missed the first few times, and looked up at Sarah. “Has he told you that he loves you?”

  Sarah shook her head, her lower lip curving into a smile. “But I know.”

  “And you? Do you love him?” Alex thought this must be the most surreal conversation she had ever had, discussing with her pregnant daughter if she loved a Catholic priest. She heard the rustle of cloth as Sarah moved on her stool, but kept her eyes on the fabric in her hands.

  “I’m not sure.” Sarah made a small sound at the back of her throat and went back to her sewing. “I think I need him now, but I don’t know if I will need him afterwards.”

  “He’s a man struggling with his vows,” Alex said, “and, if you’re not sure, you’d better back away – for his sake. It’s a life-altering crisis for him to fall in love, and he’s twisting with guilt.”

  “But how am I to know if I don’t…”

  “If you don’t what?” Alex asked.

  “Try,” Sarah said.

  Alex dropped Matthew’s half-finished shirt into her lap. “You can’t try, for his sake, you can’t. Either you decide that he is the man you want, and whatever the complications – and by the way, they are enormous – we will try to help you, or you decide he isn’t, and he can still be your friend. A friend you talk to, share secrets with, but don’t hold hands with.”

  Sarah flushed at this. “But how do I know?”

  Alex shrugged. “I can’t help you with that, honey. You just do – or you don’t.” She returned her attention to the shirt, and as Sarah apparently had nothing more to say, they spent the coming hour in companionable silence.

  “…and in my opinion, she isn’t really in love with him. It’s just that he’s safe, a man she trusts because he’s held in check by vows.” Alex rubbed her hands with her latest concoction, a quite pleasing salve that smelled of roses and lemon, and as she was anyway at it, continued with her elbows and her knees. She bit back a smile at the way Matthew’s shoulders slumped in relief. “So it’s better that she’s unwed and pregnant than that she marries a disgraced Catholic priest?”

  He gave her a black look. “Out of two ills, it’s the lesser.”

  Alex nodded in agreement. “It would mean spiritual chaos for him, and, even worse, he’d be repeating the transgression of his father.” She frowned slightly. “But I suppose he’ll have to do that, someday. Otherwise, how will that future Ángel Muñoz ever be?”

  “He has cousins,” Matthew said.

  Alex wasn’t entirely convinced. The physical similarities between Carlos and that future man were far too many. “Anyway, if she really loves him, we have a major conundrum on our hands. He can never marry her as a Catholic, and I doubt he’ll want to convert, so I suppose that means they’ll have to live in sin.” From behind her, she heard a strangled sound, two eyes nailed into hers through the looking glass.

  “That they will not,” Matthew hissed, and when Alex burst out laughing, he heaved himself with surprising ease out of the bed and chased her into a corner before carrying her squealing back to bed.

  *

  Thomas Leslie had fallen into the habit of riding over on a regular basis for some hours of conversation and a chess game or two with Matthew.

  “I don’t understand why I persevere,” he sighed, regarding the devastation that was his side of the chess board. “He can beat me blindfolded.”

  “Probably,” Alex agreed, sharing an amused smile with Matthew. “Maybe you should try something else instead?”

  Thomas gave her a resigned look. “He wins at that as well.” He stretched himself for the pewter mug of brandy and sipped, patting the front of his coat for his pipe. The conversation turned to other things, mainly the news from England regarding the fate of the Duke of Monmouth.

  “…the poor man, however much a royal bastard he might be, was dragged out for execution on Tower Hill,” Thomas said. “It took five blows with the axe before they got his head off.”

  “Eeuuw!” Alex wrinkled her nose. “How terrible.”

  “He could have been hung, drawn and quartered, so just having his head chopped off was something of a reprieve.” Matthew shook her head. “And the Dutchman sat on his hands.”

  “This being William?” Alex asked.

  Thomas nodded. “Waiting in the wings, he is. Wed to James’ eldest daughter, it’s but a matter of time before England falls to him.”

  “Yon James might still have a son, no?” Mrs Parson said. “His wife is young, isn’t she?”

  “He might,” Matthew said, “but I fear that wouldn’t endear him to the English parliament. No, Alex is right in her earlier assessment: one Catholic king they can tolerate, a Catholic dynasty…no, I fear not.” He looked away. “Not that it will help all those young deluded wretches presently held in gaol all over England, all of them guilty of treason on account of following the duke into the battlefield. They can expect no mercy, no leniency. It will be a bloodbath, I fear.”

  *

  Halfway through December, Alex woke to a world of silent white. Using the sleeve of her chemise, she cleared a spyhole in the windowpane and l
ooked out on a transformed world. Trees sparkled like jewels in the sun, the conifers standing like a dark background to better display the frost that decorated the latticed branches of the maples and the oaks, the plane trees and the odd birch. A few feet over the ground hovered veils of snow mist, tendrils of white that floated and undulated before dissipating with the rising sun.

  “Oh!” She had never seen this much snow here before. Windblown drifts lay against the grey of the buildings, and when a couple of minutes later she opened the kitchen door, a small avalanche of dislodged snow flowed in to cover her floor.

  “Holy Matilda!” she said, ignoring Carlos’ displeased frown. “This is two, almost three feet of snow.” She turned to the priest. “Mala suerte, too bad, it seems you’ll have to stay on some more days.”

  Carlos came to look outside. “I can’t walk in that.”

  “You generally ride, don’t you?” Alex said. “But even your mule would find this hard going.”

  Adults as well as children spent most of the morning outdoors, building snow lanterns, competing in making the best snow angels, and, of course, taking part in a ferocious snowball fight where it was suddenly women against men, and Betty, Naomi, Sarah and Alex retreated behind one of the sheds to rearm and discuss strategy.

  “Agnes is no bloody use,” Alex grumbled. “She has the aim of a drunken chicken.” She was expertly moulding snowballs, filling her apron with as many projectiles as possible.

  “They’re behind the stables,” Sarah hissed. “They plan on coming at us from the side.” She was big with child by now, but this was a fact Sarah preferred to ignore, her eyes narrowing dangerously whenever someone suggested she should take into consideration her delicate state. In fact, sometimes Alex worried that Sarah very much on purpose exerted herself well beyond what she should, hoping no doubt to rid herself of the baby. Not that Alex intended raising the subject with her, at least not now, when her youngest daughter was flushed and bright-eyed, looking young and carefree.

  “So we go the other way,” Alex said, and led her whole team into an elegant ambush that resulted in her running like a hare with Matthew bounding after her.