“Bloody hell,” Magnus muttered.
“Aye,” Matthew agreed. “Quite a nasty little habit of his, and no doubt quite lucrative.”
“But why here?” And how did Jones fit in? Was he a silent partner or did he perhaps provide the clients? The thought made Alex sick to her stomach. Poor girl – no, girls.
“Far enough from home – I dare say Mr Burley prefers not to advertise how he makes his ill-gotten gains.”
Chapter 17
“She looks awful, doesn’t she?” Alex said to Mrs Parson. Two weeks after her ordeal, Fiona’s bruises and scratches had healed but her face had acquired a strained look, the full mouth pinched into a discontented spout.
Mrs Parson looked up from her knitting, gave Fiona a fleeting glance and went back to her work. “An unwanted child, and a restless one at that.”
Alex let her sewing fall to her knees. “Poor her; all the dreams she ever had of making a new life for herself in a small town wiped away.”
“She should have thought of that before she spread her thighs for whoever came her way, no?” Mrs Parson said heartlessly, with Agnes murmuring an agreement from where she was hemming the new sheets.
Alex sat for a while longer watching Fiona. The dark hair was pulled back into a severe braid and when Jonah moved towards her she slumped, nodding at whatever Jonah said before trailing after him. Something about the way her shoulders rounded made Alex suspect Fiona was paying a heavy price for coming pregnant to the marriage bed.
“He’s punishing her,” Alex told Matthew later, stabbing the needle through the thick cloth of his new breeches. “That’s not very nice, is it? He knew she was with child – and potentially with someone else’s – when he married her.” Matthew pulled off his damp stockings and looked about for a pair of clean, dry ones. “Over there.” Alex jerked her head in the direction of the basket with the laundered clothes.
“He isn’t punishing her for that,” Matthew said. “He’s punishing her for making a cuckold out of him, sneaking off for secret trysts with her lover despite being married.”
“Oh, and that makes it okay?”
“Aye, it does. No man should be so badly treated by his wife.” He adjusted the stockings, retied the garters and stood up, dropping a quick kiss on her cheek. “I would know how it feels.”
“But you never hit Margaret,” Alex reminded him.
“Nay, that I did not. But I very much wanted to – her and that damned brother of mine.”
*
A week before Christmas, the Leslie brothers rode into their yard, and one look at their faces was enough to know that something bad had happened. Jacob hurried over to take the horses when Thomas and Peter dismounted, with a grim-faced Nathan and one of the indentured hands remaining in the saddle.
“Lizzie,” Thomas said. “That bastard has attacked my daughter.”
“When?” Matthew clapped his hat on his head, grabbed at his thick woollen cloak, and pulled on his worn boots.
“Yesterday afternoon,” Peter said in a weary voice. “We found her late last evening.”
“How is she?” Alex had found her cloak and was busy ignoring Matthew’s forbidding eyes. If he was going so was she.
“Alive,” Thomas whispered, “unfortunately alive.” He closed his eyes and emitted a cracked, low howl, the sound making the hairs stand up straight on Alex’s arms.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “What can I do to help?”
“I’ll go,” Mrs Parson said. “Mark here will ride me there.”
Mark nodded but looked at his father for confirmation.
“Take your gun, lad,” Matthew said. “And you?” he asked Peter. “Are you heading for the Waltons?”
“Oh yes, and this time Mrs Walton will find it difficult to protect her brother.”
Matthew hurried over to saddle Moses, with Alex a determined shadow at his heels.
“I don’t want you to come,” Matthew said.
“Tough, either you let me ride with you or I go on my own.”
“It won’t be pretty.”
“What? You think they’ll kill him as he stands?”
“Oh no,” Matthew said. “Lars Oleson will be taken down to Providence and there be handed over to the constable. But he may arrive very much the worse for wear. He should.”
“Kristin is going to be devastated.”
Matthew gave her a black look. “She knew – they knew. And still they protected him. He should have hanged the first time.”
“But he’s her brother!”
“You think Thomas cares? Or his wee lass, not yet sixteen?”
“No,” she said, “I suppose she doesn’t.”
*
She sat in front of him, aware of the disapproving glances the Leslies kept on throwing in her direction. Alex couldn’t explain why she felt she had to be here, but somehow she hoped she’d be able to help Kristin; perhaps offer some comfort as her brother was dragged away to hang.
The boys were out playing in the yard, a wild game of hoops and high voices that was cut short at the appearance of the five horses and their riders. In less than a minute, the boys had melted back into the main cabin, and out of the corner of her eye Alex saw a cloaked shape appear from the back and duck into the surrounding trees. Kristin? She tried to focus on the receding shape. Yes, definitely Kristin, walking into the cover of the trees.
“You must be mistaken.” Henry Walton rested one hand on his eldest son. “Has the girl named Lars as her attacker?”
“Not as such,” Thomas said. “She’s in no fit state to talk.”
“Then it might be anyone,” Henry said. “An Indian or one of your black men. Everyone knows that black men are markedly lacking in self-control, and your daughter is a pretty girl.”
“Was a pretty girl.” Thomas’ voice broke. “Was, and never will be again.”
“I’m sorry,” Henry said, “so sorry.”
“She was clutching this in her hand when we found her.” Peter unfolded his handkerchief. A handful of blond hair lifted in the wind before he closed the cloth around it. “Not an Indian, I think, and definitely not one of my blacks.”
“But he was here! I swear, he was here.”
“Tread with care, Brother Henry,” Thomas said. “Perjury is a crime that carries its own punishment.”
Henry’s grip on little Per’s shoulder tightened. “What will you do to him?”
“Turn him over to the powers of the law and witness as he hangs,” Thomas spat.
The boy made a small sound and hid his face against his father’s leg.
Alex had kept her eyes on the fringe of trees throughout this little exchange, and now she gripped her husband’s thigh hard.
“Matthew! I think Kristin’s gone to warn him.” Matthew looked down at her and followed her arm to where she was pointing in the direction of Lars’ cabin, set a hundred yards or so further into the woods.
“Foolish woman,” he muttered, beckoning Nathan over to him. In a low voice he gave his directions, and with a slight nod Nathan and the indentured servant made for the back of the cabin, their horses urged into a swift canter. Matthew nudged Moses forward, with Peter and Thomas following him. Muskets were raised, swords loosened from their scabbards. If Lars didn’t come out of his own accord, he wouldn’t be moving much any time soon.
“Lars Oleson!” Peter called. “Come out and give yourself over into our hands.” There was no reply, and the men walked the horses closer, keeping a wary lookout.
“Lars!” Henry’s voice barely carried. “For God’s sake, Lars, come out peaceably. Don’t let the boys witness something they’re too young for.” Behind him, the youngest Walton boy began crying, calling repeatedly for his mother.
They were only a stone’s throw away when the door to the cabin burst open. A shot rang out. With
a squawk, Alex ducked, nearly falling off the horse as a result. Matthew deposited her on the ground and joined her a second or so later.
“There!” Peter motioned to where a large shape was hurtling across the yard, making for the woods on the further side. Thomas barrelled into him, was cast aside as if he were flotsam, but by now Matthew and Peter were closing in on Lars, cutting off his planned escape route. The rye-coloured hair stood like a messy haystack round his head as Lars swerved this way and that, for all the world like a cornered rat attempting to evade a couple of cats. He threw both his pursuers by doing an unexpected turn back towards the cabin and came bounding straight towards Alex, musket in one hand, knife in the other.
“Nay!” Matthew yelled. “Not my Alex!”
It took some time for her to react. At first she just stood there, watching this berserk come rushing at her, but then her survival instincts kicked in, and she turned and fled. A small part of her brain noted with detached surprise that it was impressive how fast she could move when she had to, running flat out with her hands holding her heavy belly to her. A hasty look over her shoulder, and she couldn’t breathe with panic. There was no way she’d get away from this madman, and God knows what he’d do to her once he’d caught her. The blade of his knife glittered in the sun, he no longer held the musket, one arm extended as if to grab her. Alex yelped, did a sharp turn to the left, rounded a tree and crashed through a screen of shrubs.
He was close enough that she could hear his every breath, the squeaking sound his boots made when they hit the ground. Fingers brushed over her back. She redoubled her efforts, hands clasped around her unborn baby. Where was everybody? Quick, darting glances, and yes, there was Matthew and here came Nathan, charging towards them with his musket held like a bat over his head.
Something grabbed her cloak. She screamed, wrenched herself free, and the ground below her feet disappeared. She slid down the unexpected incline, landing with an “oof” at the bottom. Get up, get up, her overworked brain screeched. Alex was on her feet, clutching at a piece of rock. There; he came leaping down the slope and Alex snarled, brandishing her weapon.
“Alex? Shush, lass, it’s me, it’s Matthew.”
Alex blinked; once, twice, and yes, it wasn’t Lars, it was Matthew. Just like that her legs gave way and she plunked down on the ground, mouth wide open as she gasped and gasped for breath, both in an effort to reoxygenate her blood, but just as much to stop herself from crying.
“Are you hurt?” Matthew was conducting an efficient tactile inspection, his worried frown fading when the child kicked in response to his prodding.
“No, I’m fine.” She hugged him. “Lars?”
“Up there, being tied up.” He steadied her onto her feet, boosted her out of the little hollow, and took her hand, leading her in the direction of the yard.
“Alright, then?” Thomas raised a bruised face their way. Alex nodded, her eyes stuck on their captive, a struggling tower of a man that kept up a continuous cursing, trying to wrest himself free from the hands and ropes holding him. By the main cabin stood Henry Walton, hands on his eldest son; exiting from Lars’ cabin came Kristin, holding yet another musket. She was crying, loud sobs that carried across the yard.
“Kristin! Hjälp mig!” Lars twisted to see his sister. “Hjälp mig, syster, help me!” His voice was high and breathless, his eyes startling in the paleness of his face. “Skjut mig, Kristin, don’t let them hang me.”
“Nej! Don’t!” Alex took a couple of steps towards Kristin.
“Skjuta?” Kristin’s hands tightened on the stock of her musket.
“No, Kristin, don’t listen to him,” Alex said in Swedish. “Don’t, please don’t shoot him.”
Lars screamed, “Skjut, syster, skjut!”
“Nej!” Alex yelled at the same moment as Kristin raised the musket and blew a hole through her brother’s back.
For about half a minute, the silence was absolute. On the ground Lars jerked spasmodically. Kristin dropped the musket and ran clumsily towards him, and just like that sound came back on, the air full of Kristin’s keening, the wails of the Walton children.
“Dear Lord,” Peter Leslie said. “What have you done, woman?” He looked down at Lars, now quite still.
“Done? How done? You wanted him dead.” A hiccupped sob flew up Kristin’s throat.
“We wanted to bring him to justice,” Thomas said. “We wanted him publicly condemned for his ill deeds.”
Henry had by now joined them and stood a scant yard or so away from his wife, regarding her with an inscrutable look on his face. “Why, Kristin? You foolish woman, why?”
“My brother,” she said, “he’s my brother.”
Thomas spat to the side and took a limping step towards Kristin.
“You’ll be coming with us instead, Mrs Walton.”
“Me?” Kristin shrank back. “What do you mean? I’ve never done you any harm!” Her eyes flew to Alex. “Why would you take me?” she pleaded, her hands coming down to span her belly. From nowhere appeared her sons, clutching at her skirts.
“You’ve murdered,” Peter said, “and for that you must be tried.”
“No!” Alex tried to disengage herself from Matthew’s restraining arms with zero success. “Please don’t. What would be the point? After all, he’s dead.”
Thomas gave Alex a cold look. “She didn’t kill him to punish him; she killed him to spare him, and thereby she’s robbed me of my revenge on him for what he did to my daughter.”
“But how will it help to send her to hang? Look at her, Thomas. She has three young children and another soon to be born. You can’t mean to leave them motherless, can you?”
Thomas just shook his head. “My Lizzie will never know the joy of motherhood, so why should I care about her? It’s all her fault, isn’t it? If she hadn’t lied after he’d attacked Fiona then he wouldn’t have been free to do what he did yesterday.” The men around him murmured in agreement, closing in on the Waltons.
“No,” Kristin moaned, hands on her sons.
“Have mercy on her,” Henry begged. “I ask you, Thomas, please. How am I to cope without her by my side? How will our sons thrive unless she’s here to care for them?”
“You should have thought about that before you chose to protect a madman from justice,” Peter said. “As I hear it, he should have hanged well over a year ago.”
“He was her brother,” Henry cried out. “All the family she has left! And that girl brought it on herself.” That comment killed any sympathy he might have hoped for, and the men advanced on them. “No,” he groaned, wrapping his arms around his wife. “No!”
“Oh God.” Alex twisted in Matthew’s arms. “Please stop this, Matthew.”
The air was full of the shrill cries of the Walton children, small hands grabbing for their mother, small booted feet kicking at the men who were dragging Kristin towards the horses.
“I can’t,” he whispered in her hair. “They have the right of it.”
“Please,” she sobbed, “don’t let them take her. What will happen to her family without her? Look at him! He’s incapable, entirely dependent on her.”
“She killed a man, lass. And, even worse, it is because of her perjury that Lizzie Leslie lies permanently damaged. I don’t want to intercede, because all I can think of is what if it had been our Ruth? Or you?”
“But her boys – and the baby!”
“She won’t hang until the baby is born,” Peter said. “And maybe she won’t hang at all.”
“Don’t lie to me, Peter Leslie,” Alex snivelled. “We both know how this will end.”
*
“What will you do?” Alex asked the stunned Henry Walton once the Leslie brothers had ridden off with a screaming Kristin. The air still reverberated with her panicked cries for Per, Erik, Johan.
“Do?” He laughed hollowly.
“I have no idea.” He was holding his youngest boy in his arms and brushed his lips over the sweaty little head. “I’ll never survive here.” Henry threw a look of pure desperation at the surrounding forest. “I have no homesteading skills.” He set his son down on his feet and collapsed to sit on the door stoop.
“So what are your skills?” Alex asked.
“I’m a glazier, not a profession much in demand here.”
“No, not here, but maybe if you go to Boston or to Jamestown?”
“And how am I to get there, Mrs Graham? Beg passage on a ship?” He attempted a slight smile, failing miserably, and instead began to cry, hiding his face in his hands. “Jesus,” he wept, “my Kristin! My sweetest wife...”
Alex had no idea what to do. She placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
“I buried him some way into the woods,” Matthew said to Henry, setting the shovel against the cabin wall. Henry nodded a thank you and went back to studying his hands. Alex tugged at Matthew’s sleeve and pulled him out of earshot.
“We can’t leave him here. I don’t think he’d even manage feeding them tonight.”
Matthew looked over to where Henry was sitting, his three boys hovering around him.
“I suppose they can stay with us until he gets his feet back under him.” He exhaled loudly, sending a plume of steam into the cold December air. “I’ll go and saddle up the horses and feed the other beasts.”
Chapter 18
It had been a strange Christmas, Alex mused as she took a long walk a couple of days before New Year’s Eve, wandering in the woods that surrounded her home. The Waltons had moved in and lived like silent wraiths in the midst of the loud Graham family, both husband and sons numbed by the loss of Kristin.
On Christmas Day itself, Matthew, herself and their family had ridden over to the Leslies, leaving a stubborn Henry and his sons behind. He refused to set foot on Leslie land, and in retrospect that had probably been wise, because the Leslie household was still reeling after the attack on Lizzie. And Lizzie herself... Alex’s heart twisted into a bundle of pain when she recalled the blank look in the young girl’s eyes. According to Mrs Parson, the damage was so severe it was doubtful if she’d ever be able to walk without pain, let alone take a husband to bed.
A Newfound Land (The Graham Saga) Page 16
