A Rip in the Veil (The Graham Saga)

by Belfrage, Anna

  “Didn’t you have it all wired a few months back?”

  “I don’t have the alarm on while I’m in the house, not after setting it off twice by mistake in one month.” Magnus handed John a cricket bat, armed himself with a golf club and jerked his head in the direction of the stairs. “Come on.”

  They tiptoed up the stairs, crossed the small landing and stood for a while outside the door.

  “Why in there?” John whispered.

  “No idea,” Magnus murmured. “Maybe it’s a crazy art collector.”

  “Very crazy and very persistent.”

  Magnus had been plagued by break-ins over the last few years, always directed at the studio.

  “This time he isn’t getting away, this time I’ll bash his knee in or something. Ready?” Magnus said, one hand on the doorknob. John gripped his bat and nodded. Magnus opened the door and threw himself inside.

  John had but the vaguest impressions of the man they surprised in the darkened studio. Black clothes, a black ski mask, and in his hand a heavy torch. The window stood wide open and the room smelled of rain. Magnus said something – in Swedish, John assumed – the man wheeled, and for a moment it was like a live tableau, all three frozen into position. And then the burglar vaulted over the table, making for the window, and behind him came Magnus, golf club raised high.

  Crash! The intruder sent one, two, three filing cabinets to the floor in his wake. Impressively strong, this guy, and John hesitated in his approach, his hold on the bat sweaty. What was he supposed to do? Swipe at the head? An arm? Magnus clambered over the remains of the cabinets and charged. There, he had him! The burglar heaved, twisted loose. A scuffle, a shove, and Magnus staggered back. John rushed to help. All he could properly make out was the square of light that was the window, and silhouetted against it, Magnus and the burglar. A stool caught him mid-shin, and John fell, landing hard on knees and hands.

  From across the landing came Isaac’s voice, raised in sobbing shrieks. Magnus grabbed hold of the burglar, grunting with the effort of restraining him. In one swift movement the black clad man turned, brought the torch down on Magnus’ head and jumped through the window, for all the world as if he’d been a cat. There was a loud clatter and a muted yelp, and by the window Magnus groaned and clapped a hand to his head.

  “Magnus!” John was torn between his crying son and his hurting father-in-law.

  “I’m okay,” Magnus said, “go and check on Isaac.”

  *

  Two hours later, Magnus sank down to sit in his chair, an impressive plaster covering the left side of his forehead.

  “Three stitches, and yet another bloody book of paper work to complete for the police and the insurance company.” He shook his head when John raised the whisky bottle. “Painkillers; they don’t mix well, do they?”

  “As far as I can see nothing was taken,” John said. “But he’s made a mess up there, small canvases scattered all over the place.”

  “Just like all the other times, although I wouldn’t notice, would I, if he made off with a couple.”

  “No, probably not,” John said. “I tried to clean up.” A hasty shoving together of the paintings no more, because even if he had no intention of ever admitting it, John drowned in nausea whenever he handled any of Mercedes’ pictures. “I couldn’t get the cabinets back up, though, and one is mostly matchwood anyway.”

  “I’ll do that later.” Magnus sighed and closed his eyes. “Herre djävlar ; what an awful day this turned out to be.” He opened one eye and nodded at the glass held in John’s hand. “I’ll have one of those after all. I bloody well deserve one, don’t you think?”

  Chapter 5

  They came from the east, two men that crested the hill, stopped for a moment, and began to make their way towards them. Matthew rose, eyes locked on the approaching men. One was carrying a sack, a brace of hens thrown over his shoulder, while the other was holding a staff of sorts – a long stout stick. They went barefoot the both of them, with mended, ragged breeches and dirty shirts.

  Alex scrambled to her feet. “More soldiers?”

  He shook his head. Nay, not soldiers, but fighting men none the less. Matthew frowned; armed, he’d warrant, and he had nothing but a dirk to defend them with. He stooped, closed his hand on a heavy branch and felt somewhat comforted. Not much of a defence against the staff, but he was not an inexperienced fighter – rather the reverse.

  “Stay in the cave,” he said.

  “Why? I can —”

  “Do as I say, aye? Those two have their sights set on something, and I warrant it’s you.”

  “But —”

  “Go! I don’t want them looking too closely at you.”

  Alex hobbled off, ducking into the small opening just as the two men reached them. The older of the two nodded a greeting, and gestured for his companion to set down his burden.

  “Nay,” Matthew said, “I’m in no mood for company.” Father and son? Brothers? Related at any rate, both men sharing dark, coarse hair, lumpy noses and receding chins. After a quick inspection, Matthew dismissed the younger of the two as essentially harmless. No; it was the elder, the man with the staff, that was the one to watch out for.

  “Oh aye? Is it the lass you’re worried about then?” the older man said. “Don’t worry man, we won’t touch her – not unless you invite us to.” His dark eyes leapt from Matthew to the cave opening, to the branch in Matthew’s hand, small mouth curling into a contemptuous smile. He handled the staff with assurance, and now that there was only a yard or two between them, Matthew could see the top end had been sharpened. A stake then, not a staff, and from the matter that clung to its tip well used. Matthew shifted on his feet, ostentatiously weighed the branch in his hand.

  “I won’t. She’s not for the likes of you.”

  The younger man snickered, keeping his eyes on Matthew’s hands.

  “Strange looking lass,” the older man said. “We saw her as we came over the moor, before she hid away in yon cave.”

  “Strange? How strange?”

  “Odd clothes,” the younger man piped up, pointing at the bright red jacket, left behind by Alex in her haste. He made as if to set down the sack and the fowl.

  “Go,” Matthew said. “I already said, I don’t want company.”

  The older man laughed. “I think not.”

  Out of a capacious pouch he produced a flintlock pistol which he aimed at Matthew. Matthew took a step back. Pistols were fickle things, even at close range, and from what Matthew could see, this particular weapon was not well maintained. But a loaded muzzle was always a danger, and Matthew was not quite sure what to do. The ruffian grinned, hefted the pistol higher. His stave fell to the ground beside him.

  “Get the lass,” he said to his younger companion. “She’ll be worth a pretty penny or two.”

  The young man dumped his load on the ground, took a few steps in the direction of the cave. Matthew sidled away, putting a further yard or two between himself and the pistol. The younger man ducked into the cave. Matthew tightened his grip on his dagger. Should he throw it? The muzzle wavered, the man’s interest distracted by the loud yells that emanated from the cave.

  “Incompetent,” the man muttered. “What is taking him so long? A few slaps and she’ll come along nicely – they all do.” Matthew took the opportunity to launch himself at him, moving like an enraged viper over the ground.

  “Stand! I’ll shoot, aye?” The man swung the pistol back, squeezed the trigger and…nothing. Wet powder? Worn flint? Matthew didn’t care. The pistol was thrown to the side, the man lunged for his staff, and Matthew flew the last few feet, tackling the man to the ground.

  He was screaming now, the brigand, and even more when Matthew flipped him over, dagger raised. Something glinted. Matthew cursed, retracted his head; a knife, a wee blade that narrowly missed his neck. Matthew brought the dagger down. Once, twice and the man shrieked, raising a hand to defend his face. Matthew changed his grip and brought the dirk
’s handle down so hard the man flopped and went still, subsiding mid-scream.

  From the cave came the younger man, dragging a struggling Alex with him. She did something; her free hand flashed down and with a howl the man let her go, cradling his arm. Not entirely defenceless then, this strange lass.

  Matthew pushed himself off the ground, strode over to the younger man and collared him, dragging him choking and gargling to join his companion, sprawled on the grass.

  “I told you,” Matthew said. “We have no wish for company. Now go, before I do you more harm.”

  A few minutes later they were gone, the younger supporting the elder who was bleeding profusely from his face – as he well deserved. Matthew picked up the staff, worn shiny after years of use, and with a grunt swung it at a nearby boulder. The stave bounced off. Again, and it splintered. Matthew threw it to the side.

  “Will they be back?” Alex said, appearing by his side.

  “I reckon not.”

  “You’re bleeding.” She pointed at his hand.

  “No lass, not me. Them.”

  “Oh. How hurt are they?”

  “They won’t be coming back in a hurry.” He looked over to the two hens left behind by the two rogues. “You like chicken?”

  *

  Matthew was surprised by her reluctance to help with the birds, her face going pale under her tan when he suggested she gut them now that he’d plucked them. After watching her clumsy attempts he sighed and took over, and a few minutes later the air filled with the scent of roasting meat. Alex didn’t look overly impressed.

  “Bread would be nice, and some vegetables, you know, tomatoes.”

  Nay, he didn’t know, and he gave her a long look. She stared right back, and to his irritation Matthew broke eye contact first, thinking he’d never seen eyes of that particular shade of dark blue before.

  “So,” she said, once they’d finished eating. “Tell me.” He studied his hands, his fingers tracing his wrists.

  “I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I escaped and here I am, almost home.”

  She huffed and shook her head. “Oh, no you don’t. You tell me the whole story, from the beginning.”

  He didn’t want to. Margaret, Luke, they’d betrayed him, allowing him to be condemned for something he hadn’t done.

  “Start from the beginning,” she said. “You know, once upon a time…”

  He gave her a crooked smile. “This isn’t a fairy tale, this is my life.”

  “It’s still a good beginning. That’s what Magnus says.” She sounded sad, eyes on her hands rather than on him. He watched her for some moments, inclined his head and began to talk.

  “I’m the eldest of three brothers and one sister,” he said. “Matthew, Mark, Luke and Joan.”

  “Very evangelical.”

  “Aye, but that’s how it is with my family.”

  “So, no Roberts or Richards?”

  “Nay, good, biblical names, aye? John, Peter, Martha and the like.”

  “Salome?” she teased, but he just shook his head, irritated by her interruption.

  “Do you want me to tell you?”

  Alex dragged a finger across her lips and nodded for him to go on.

  “Mark died when he was ten, of the measles.” He fell quiet and rubbed at his thumb.

  “The measles?” Alex echoed. “You die of the measles?”

  Was she daft? Everyone knew people – and in particular bairns – were carried off regularly by the measles.

  “Aye; it’s a nasty disease.”

  “Oh. Not very common where I’m from.”

  “Really?” he leaned towards her, noting that she’d shoved her hair back behind her ear, exposing the slightly pointed tip.

  “Later,” she said, “we talk about me later. So, go on.”

  “There was only a year between Mark and me, and now that he’s dead, Joan is closest to me in age, and then there’s Luke, bastard that he is.” He snuck her a look, distracted from his story by the way a few tendrils of her curling hair lifted in the evening breeze. “I found them in bed,” he abbreviated, deciding he didn’t want to tell this strange woman everything. “I rode in late an April afternoon meaning to surprise Margaret, my wife, and I did, but she surprised me even more.”

  He gave her a very brief description of events, from the moment he threw his gloves and hat on the kitchen bench to when he entered his bedchamber to find his wife naked with his own brother.

  “I swear, had I had my sword at hand I would have gutted him there and then. Instead I just stood there, like a gaping fool, and she…well, she…” he broke off. Margaret had laughed, told him she no longer needed or wanted him – not now that her Luke was back.

  “So what did you do?”

  He gave her a black look; what did she think he’d done? “I dragged my brother naked from my bed and I didn’t let her get properly dressed before I threw them out in the yard. And when she stood there in the dusk, with her body shamelessly exposed, she asked me to bring down her son, telling me he wasn’t mine, because Luke had fathered Ian, not me.”

  Alex moved close enough to pat him on his arm. He flinched and scooted away, uncomfortable with the compassion he saw in her eyes.

  “Four weeks later a company of soldiers rode into my yard, and I was arrested for treason and tied like a common criminal before they threw me onto my horse.”

  “Had you? Committed treason, I mean.”

  He chewed the inside of his cheek, considering how much to tell her.

  “I’m for the Commonwealth,” he said. “I don’t hold with kings and the like, but believe all men to be equal in the eyes of our Lord.”

  “Oh my, a Founding Father.”

  “A what?”

  “Never mind,” she said, waving for him to continue.

  He looked up at the darkening August sky and sighed. “In this specific case I was tried for treason against the Commonwealth, for supporting the king and partaking in the Glencairn rising. I did no such thing, but Luke did, and yet he stood in the witness stand, a solemn look on his face as he damned me to hell with his detailed descriptions of what I’d done. They called me a spy, a turncoat, and I was none of those, for I have only ever fought for the one side, the side of free men ranged against a despot king.”

  “But…” she gasped. “How could he do that to you? First your wife, then your freedom; this Luke character needs someone to give him a big fat kick up his arse!”

  “Oh, aye,” Matthew said. “I wouldn’t mind doing it myself – or worse.”

  “And anyway, why did they believe him? You wouldn’t have told him about your treasonous activities, would you? Not unless he was on your side.”

  “They believed him because they wanted to. And I was sentenced to five years in gaol because the judges decided to be lenient and not hang me – on account of my years in the army.” And thanks to wee Simon, his lawyer and brother-in-law, his manor was still his, safe from Luke’s grasping hands.

  She stared at him. “And you escaped after three, which makes you a fugitive, an outlaw.”

  Matthew shrugged and looked away, disturbed by her blunt statement. “I’ll be safe, here in Scotland.”

  “How? Scotland’s part of the Commonwealth too. Didn’t Cromwell make it a Protectorate, under him?”

  ”Aye, but he’s ailing, we heard it in prison, how he’s been ill with the ague most summer.” He stared off at nothing for a while. “There’s no one to replace him. He’s a great man, is Oliver Cromwell, but men that are strong leaders cull out their potential successors as they go. And that son of his…no, he won’t last, and the Protectorate will be no more.”

  “Still,” she said, “wouldn’t it have been better to sit through two more years and then be truly free?”

  He looked at her for a long time. “You’ve never been in gaol, I take.”

  No, she agreed, she hadn’t, and she wasn’t planning on going there either.

  “Nor was I.” He sighed and sat up
straighter, extending his arms to her. Round both wrists ran a bracelet of chafed, irritated skin, half-healed gashes that had abscessed and been lanced, leaving ugly pox-like scars behind.

  “Imagine doing everything with a weight of iron between your hands and down your legs. When you turn in your sleep, you wake of the chains, when you want to scratch your head you have to raise both hands, because otherwise you won’t be able to reach. And with every movement you make, the chains clink.”

  She encircled his wrists, her thumbs caressing the soft inner skin. It made his blood thud and he retook his hands.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled.

  “For what?” he said with a faint smile. “Don’t mind me. I’m not much used to company.” Especially not that of an attractive woman with a gentle touch. “It’s very lonesome, you know, being in prison.” His eyes fixed on the moon that hung like a golden cheese just above the horizon. Lonely in the midst of so many people, but that was how it was, a constant shrieking solitude. All of them, every single one of his companions, as lonely as he was, staring up at the minute patch of sky they could see through the ventilation hole, dreaming themselves elsewhere – anywhere but where they were.

  It had been pure chance, him being in the yard when the men dead from the fever were to be carted away for burial. It hadn’t been a conscious decision; he’d just lain himself flat in the bottom of the cart, gritting his teeth at the proximity of all those dead bodies, a silent prayer ringing round his head as the cart creaked to a stop for a final inspection before starting up again.

  “Euuw! You hid under the corpses?”

  “As far down as I could get, I didn’t want to be prodded by a sword, did I?”

  The drover had squeaked with fear, eyes bulging with incredulity, when Matthew rose to his knees a few miles down the road.

  “I stole his clothes.” And his horse, riding the broken backed nag as hard as he could all that night. “He went lame on me, so I left him in on a village green and continued on foot, stealing what I could.”

  “And now I’m almost home,” he finished. What home? A house, aye, and his lands, but no wife, no son, and towards his only brother a deep and burning hate. Alex leaned forward, one warm hand coming up to cup his cheek.