Not in our time, you don’t, Magnus thought, but in this day and age… But he chose not to say anything, concerned by her apparent exhaustion, and propelled her in the direction of the door.
“Sleep. I’ll sit with Daniel.”
“Promise?” Her voice wobbled.
“Cross my heart. I won’t move until you’re back.”
“Not good,” Mrs Parson said a few hours later, lifting Daniel’s shirt out of the way. The boy was unresponsive, burning with fever, and every time he swallowed he grimaced in his sleep.
“What do we do?” Magnus felt helpless; no medicine, no doctors.
“Garlic for the throat, willow bark tea for the fever, bee balm for his skin, and then it is best we pray.”
Magnus shook his head at these futile measures.
“Pray?” Matthew sounded horribly hoarse, but waved away Mrs Parson’s concerned exclamations along the lines that he was too ill to be up and about. “Why pray?” He shuffled across the room and sank down on the stool Magnus had vacated. “Measles?” he frowned, squinting down at the bright patches of rash.
“No,” Alex said from the doorway. “They’ve had the measles – all of them.” She coughed, muffling the sound against her sleeve, and shook her head at Magnus when he started towards her. She sank down on Daniel’s bed, one hand resting on the narrow little back.
“You should be in bed,” she said to Matthew. He ignored her, eyes on his fidgeting, burning son.
“How long? How many days has he been this ill?”
“A week?” Magnus said, looking at Mrs Parson for confirmation.
“Something like that,” Mrs Parson said. “It’ll have to break soon,” she added, and Alex uttered a strangled sound that tore at Magnus’ heart.
For all that both Magnus and Mrs Parson tried to wheedle Matthew and Alex to bed, neither of them budged, sitting beside their son through the afternoon and evening. Finally, Magnus gave up and, after a mumbled goodnight, went in search of his bed.
*
“Go to bed, lass,” Matthew said. It was midnight or thereabouts, he reckoned.
“I can’t. How can I, if he suddenly calls for me?” They were sitting close together on the floor, leaning back against the wall.
“You’ve been on your feet constantly for the last weeks, minding us.” Matthew raised his hand to caress her cheek. So wan, he noted, so totally bleached of colour.
“What if he dies,” she groaned, turning to hide her face against his shirt.
“There’s not much we can do,” Matthew said, pressing her head to him. “All we can do is put our trust in God.”
She began to cry. “Please don’t let him die, God, please don’t! He’s going to be a minister when he grows up, and you must like that.”
Aye, Matthew prayed silently, please let him live – dear Lord, please accept him as yours and spare my lad.
Somewhere in the wee hours they must have fallen asleep, because Matthew woke with a start when Mrs Parson entered the room, bringing bright daylight in her wake. Alex was reclining against his chest, a damp, heavy warmth that grumbled when he shifted under her. Matthew coughed, tried to pull in some air through his congested nose, and coughed some more. By the bed, Mrs Parson had folded back the sheet and was studying Daniel who, to Matthew’s worried eyes, lay very still.
“Is he…?” A wave of ice washed through him.
Mrs Parson threw him an encouraging smile. “The fever is down, and the rash is fading. The laddie will be fine.”
Matthew slumped against the wall, closed his eyes and silently thanked the Lord.
Mrs Parson nodded in the direction of Alex. “But you must get her to bed and stay there with her.” She put the back of her hand against his cheek and nodded. “You’re still feverish.”
“So is she,” Matthew croaked, trying to lubricate his dry mouth.
Mrs Parson moved her hand and frowned. “Aye, she is. Let us hope the wean stays where it is for now.”
“Where he is,” Matthew corrected, caressing Alex’s belly. “And he will; he’s a good lad.” The responding kick was impressive.
“Sure he is,” Alex mumbled without opening her eyes. “If you ask me it’s a mule in there, not a child.” She struggled to her knees. “Daniel?”
“Asleep.” Mrs Parson smiled. Alex clasped her hands together and uttered a string of thank yous.
“Bed.” Matthew heaved Alex off her knees.
She tottered against him. “Yes,” she yawned, “I’m so tired, and…” She gasped, clutching at her belly. “Not yet. Be a good lad and mind your father, okay?”
*
“All of them have biblical names.” Magnus drew the blanket up around his latest grandson’s head and handed him back to his mother. “David...”He rolled the name over his tongue. “David Andrew Graham, born on the last day of February in Our Lord’s year 1673.” Three hundred years before his mother was born, Magnus shuddered inside. He saw the same thought flash through Alex’s eyes and smiled slightly. “So why all these Bible names?”
“Ask their father,” Alex replied, nuzzling her baby boy. “He names them.”
She coughed and grimaced. She was still not fully recovered from her own bout of whatever it was they’d had, and to Magnus’ amusement, Matthew was like a protective hawk, flying in her direction if she as much as cleared her throat.
“They’re fortunate in each other,” Mrs Parson said to Magnus as they watched Matthew crouch by Alex’s chair.
“Yes.” Magnus batted down the spikes of jealousy he always felt when he watched his daughter with her husband. Instead, he beckoned Daniel over and lifted the boy onto his lap. “How’s my Viking today?”
“Tired.” Daniel yawned. “And my head hurts something frightful.”
So does mine, Magnus thought, God help me, so does mine. He clutched the skinny boy to his chest and buried his nose in the thick, dark hair. It was back: deep in the labyrinth swirls of his brain, the cancer was back. For now it was just flexing itself, sending splinters of pain from behind his left ear towards his frontal lobes, but soon... Magnus swallowed and closed his eyes.
Chapter 20
The shriek froze Matthew to the spot, and after a quick look at Ian, he plunged towards it, musket already at hand. Yet another scream, the unmistakable sound of a woman in fear or pain, and Matthew extended his stride with Ian running beside him.
Now there were other sounds: men laughing, the jangling of a harness. Matthew held up his hand, dropping down to squat behind a thicket. Ian crawled over to join him, and in silence they studied the scene before them.
Indians, several Indians, three men tied up so tightly they could barely shuffle, seven women tied at the wrists. Standing before them, inspecting his catch, was a man Matthew recognised as having been part of the posse that had ridden in pursuit of Qaachow – the man Alex and Magnus had seen late last year: Mr Burley himself.
He dragged at his black hair, said something over his shoulder to one of the other men, received laughter in reply, and approached the woman – no, lass – who had apparently screamed, at least to judge from her bruised face. Like a snake he pounced, hand closing on the long braid to pull her towards him.
Matthew muttered a curse, shifting on his feet. Beside him, Ian groaned when the man pushed the lass to the ground. Burley said something to his companions and undid his breeches.
“Da!” Ian whispered, “He’s going to—”
“Aye, I can see that,” Matthew whispered back. By now, he’d recognised one of the Indian men, the knotted scar that ran up his side identifying him as the man Alex had sliced open last autumn.
“But we can’t let him!” Ian hissed, staring at where Burley was kneeling between the girl’s spread legs. “Da, we have to do something!”
A wail from the lass and one of the other women leapt towards her
, tied hands gripping a branch. It was bound to fail, one of Burley’s companions wresting the branch from her before cuffing her. The lass screamed; Burley’s bared arse bobbed up and down while his companions cheered him on. Matthew swore under his breath, gripping the stock of his musket. Bastard! The lass whimpered and cried; Burley laughed. Ian growled, rising out of his crouch only to be arrested by Matthew’s hand.
“Think, lad,” Matthew whispered. “They’re four, we’re only two. To rush out will only get you killed. We need a strategy.”
For a few seconds, he sat deep in thought before giving Ian some hasty instructions and sending him off to the opposite side of the clearing. He took a deep breath and stood up; he was laying his life in the hands of his son. Yet another breath and he strode out into the open.
“What are you doing?” he demanded, musket held high.
“Doing?” Burley scrambled to his feet, turning eyes the colour of old ice on Matthew. “Nothing that concerns you, Mr Graham.” He adjusted his clothes, smirking down at the weeping lass.
“Concern me? Aye, it does. You’re on my land, Mr Burley.”
Philip Burley shrugged, keeping those strange eyes on Matthew. The look in them made the fine hairs along Matthew’s nape rise in alarm. This was a man without a whit of compassion or warmth.
“Not for long. We’ll be well on our way to Virginia before nightfall.”
“Without them,” Matthew said, indicating the Indians.
“I think not. They go with us. A small compensation for the man who died in last year’s raid – and our friend, who died last night.”
Matthew just shook his head.
One of the men, still on his horse, laughed and raised a musket. “And how will you stop us?” Without warning he fired. Matthew threw himself to the side and came back up, his muzzle now aimed at Burley.
“Try something like that again, and I blow his brains out,” he warned.
“It must somehow have slipped your notice that we’re four and you’re only one,” Philip Burley sneered. “One shot is all you get, and then...” He mimed a slicing motion over his neck. He yanked the Indian girl to stand and, using her as a shield, advanced towards Matthew. “Go on then,” he jeered. “Shoot, Mr Graham. Shoot before I get close enough to disarm you.”
One of the men laughed and approached Matthew from the other side. Matthew retreated step by step, luring the two men with him.
“Now!” he called out, and the next moment the mounted man screamed. The handle of a knife protruded from his shoulder, and Matthew congratulated Ian on his aim. Cursing, the man dismounted, yelling at his companion to come and help him. Burley came to a halt, scanning the surrounding woods.
“Not alone, then,” he said.
“I’m no fool. Go!” Matthew jerked his musket in a rough south-westerly direction. “Get off my land before we do you bodily harm – and don’t return.”
“Indian lover!” Burley spat.
“I don’t hold with abduction, nor do I wish to have an Indian situation on my hands. We live peaceably with our heathen neighbours and want to continue doing so.” He advanced; Burley fell back.
The man on Matthew’s right lunged. Matthew whirled and fired. The man collapsed. Burley pounced, as graceful as a giant cat in his movements. God’s truth, but the man was strong – and angered! Those ice-cold eyes swam far too close, and Matthew’s musket was wrenched from him and thrown to the side. Matthew kicked and heard Burley yelp. He landed a punch, was pushed, shoved back and ducked hastily when Burley’s blade swiped by his ear. Matthew backed away. Burley screamed like a banshee and came at him again. Matthew stumbled. Burley screamed again, jumped, and Matthew fell, landing on his back with Burley on top. The knife came down. Matthew grabbed hold of Burley’s wrist, thereby arresting the blade a scant inch or so from his exposed throat.
Yet another shot rang out. Burley threw all his weight onto his knife arm, and the blade sank lower. The metal was near on scraping Matthew’s skin when the Indian lass kicked Burley in the side – hard enough for the man to grunt, giving Matthew the opportunity to clap Burley over the ear, heave him off, and get back on his feet.
“Da?” Ian materialised beside him. “Are you alright?” He handed Matthew his musket.
“Aye,” Matthew replied, watching Burley as he regained his feet.
“You killed him.” Burley pointed at the unmoving body a few yards away.
“No loss to mankind,” Matthew said.
“He was my friend.” Burley grabbed at the Indian lass, backed towards the horses and his two live companions, one clutching at his bleeding shoulder, the other cradling his head. “I avenge my friends, Graham. An eye for an eye, a life for a life.” He spat in the direction of Matthew.
“You can try,” Matthew said, trying to sound unconcerned. This was not a man he wanted as an enemy, but it was too late to do anything about that.
The man holding his head cursed and tried to get to his feet, but collapsed to sit.
“I couldn’t kill him,” Ian muttered, “so I just clapped him over the head.”
“You did fine, lad.” Matthew approached Burley and the lass. “Let her go.”
“I think not; she rides with me.” Burley cursed when the lass bit him, sinking her teeth into his arm. “Ah!” He hit her over the head with the hand holding his dagger and still she wouldn’t let go. “So be it!” he snarled, and just like that slashed his knife across her throat. It was all Matthew could do to hold Ian back.
*
“I must say your life has very few dull moments,” Magnus commented to Alex when Matthew ushered a group of Indians out of the surrounding forests. “Since I’ve been here, we’ve had Indians, posses, sex stalkers, aggravated bears and now Indians again.”
“The bear was pretty scary.” Alex grinned.
“Scary? It wasn’t you sitting in the privy; it was me!”
Alex laughed. In retrospect it was very funny, with Magnus shooting out of the privy as if his arse was on fire, holding his unlaced breeches with one hand while he kept on hollering there was a bear in the privy.
Magnus gave her an aggrieved look. “It could’ve eaten me; it was probably starved after months of hibernation.”
“No, no,” Alex assured him between gusts of laughter. “We wouldn’t have let him.” And it had been a small black bear, rooting about below the privy holes.
“Huh!” He crossed his arms across his chest and went back to studying their approaching guests.
“Alex?” Matthew motioned for her to come, and she hastened towards him, alerted by the grim look on his face. Curiously, she studied the Indian women, dressed in buckskin skirts and shirts, the hems embroidered with quills and beads. One of them wore a necklace, an impressive work of art that decorated her chest with several multi-coloured strands. She was kneeling by a primitive stretcher, talking in a low, reassuring voice to whoever it was that was lying on it: a girl, a thin little thing who lay wide-eyed but sightless, blood staining the primitive bandage round her throat.
“Oh God,” Alex said, and there was Mrs Parson, peering over her shoulder.
“She’s dead,” Mrs Parson stated. “Fortunately, as there was nothing we could do for her.”
“Dead?” The Indian man with the scar approached them. “She dead?”
“I’m afraid so,” Alex said. “What happened?”
“As far as I can understand, they were attacked last night,” Matthew said.
The Indian nodded and haltingly described how five white men had snuck in on them as they made camp for the night.
“One dead,” he said, miming a knife in the gut. He pointed with pride at the woman with the necklace.
“His sister,” Ian said. “Pretty, isn’t she?”
Alex studied the young Indian woman, who was still on her knees in the mud. Pretty? She was beautiful, with dark,
gleaming hair, skin a soft bronze and eyes the colour of sloes. Eyes that at present were riveted on the dead girl.
“Yet another sister.” Matthew kneeled and closed the staring eyes.
*
“I wasn’t planning on burying a renegade as the first in my graveyard,” Matthew said a few hours later. The Indians had already left, taking their dead girl with them.
“If we’re going to be correct, you’re not. You’re burying him just outside.” Alex nudged at the shrouded body with her toe. “You shot him?”
“Aye, I had to. If only she hadn’t bitten him,” he sighed.
“If she hadn’t, she’d have been on a horse with him, and God knows what he’d have done to her.” Alex helped him hoist the body into the hole and watched as he refilled the grave.
She studied the view, smiling at the sight of their home, their fields and, further away, the glittering waters of the river.
“You chose well; to lie here must be very peaceful.”
“Aye, and yet close enough to home to not feel entirely abandoned by the living.” He drew her into his arms and they stood looking down at their land.
“You said home.” Alex rested back against his chest.
“Aye, I did.” He looked around at the small enclosed space. “But I don’t plan to lie here for very many years yet.”
“Me neither.” She snuck her hand into his as they made their way back down. “You think they’ll be back?”
“Not likely,” he said in a light tone that didn’t comfort Alex in the least – not when he’d insisted that his sons keep their loaded muskets at hand.
*
“I should have one too, you know,” Magnus said to Alex as they made their way down to the river. The March evening was bright but nippy, and Magnus regretted not having brought his cloak.
“Have what?”
“A gun.” Magnus felt distinctly defenceless – and useless – when surrounded by his musket-toting son-in-law and grandsons.
“Can you shoot?” Alex asked, a ghost of a smile on her lips.
A Newfound Land (The Graham Saga) Page 18
