A Rip in the Veil (The Graham Saga)

by Belfrage, Anna

  “I’m a man of God,” Hector gargled when he was let up for air.

  “A papist, I know,” the officer said.

  “No!” Hector reared back against the hands that were pushing him towards the scummy water. “I’m not a spy, I have no interests in the petty squabbles between king and commons.”

  “What?!”

  Once again, Hector was held below the surface, and at one point he actually thought that he might die, and then he remembered that he wouldn’t – he couldn’t – no matter that his lungs were burning, that his nose and mouth filled with this foul, oily water. This time he surfaced angry and desperate, and he wrenched himself upright, fixing burning eyes on the officer.

  “Beware, you’re tampering with things you don’t understand.” He planted his manacled hands on the rim of the barrel, coughed to clear his lungs. He was struck by inspiration and shaped his right hand into the age old sign for evil.

  “See?” He raised his hand as far as it went so that the lantern threw a shadow image of a horned head on the wall behind him. The officer took a step back, and Hector smirked; superstitious idiot. “I’m a witch hunter,” he said, inclining his head in a slight bow.

  “A witch hunter?”

  Hector nodded; well, it was the truth, no?

  “And you think there’s a witch at large in Cumnock?” It came out with a derisive edge.

  “As yet I don’t know. There are definitely witches here in Edinburgh though, I can smell them.” Hector sniffed theatrically before realising what he’d done, closing his eyes at his own stupidity.

  “Really?” the officer said, trying for an uninterested tone, but Hector could sense the excitement in him. He clapped his hand together and had Hector unchained. “Let’s see, shall we?”

  The officer led a soaked Hector down a badly lit passage to a small, dank hole. No light, the floor was damp as were the walls, and sitting in a corner was a girl. She shielded her face from the light with trembling hands, and at the officer’s curt command got to her feet.

  Dios mío! Hector was washed by an unfamiliar wave of compassion. The girl had been tortured, her face was a mass of bruises, her fingers hung twisted and deformed.

  “Who’s done this?”

  “Why would you care?” the officer said. “She stands accused of witchery.”

  “Amateurs,” Hector said. “Whoever has been in charge of her questioning has not known his trade.”

  “Then how fortunate that you’re here now.” The officer indicated with his head that the girl was all his. Hector resigned himself to the inevitable; he’d have to condemn an innocent woman or two before he was left to pursue his own business. He nearly laughed; full circle, right?

  “Bring me a brazier, two six inch nails, a marten hair brush and some heated oil,” Hector said. Two hours later the girl admitted to everything, words tripping over her tongue in her haste to condemn herself.

  “Well done,” the officer said with some admiration. “Welcome to Edinburgh. We have a lot of work for you to do here, Mr Olivares. Ample opportunity to prove your skills – and your rectitude of faith.”

  To that, all Hector could do was nod in acquiescence.

  To his surprise, it stuck in his craw. Age must have mellowed him, because how else to explain the disgust he felt over the coming months as one woman after the other was led before him. Old and ugly most of them, dirt poor and unprotected, and at least three of them feeble in the head – no great loss to humanity, in fact one could almost argue he was doing society a favour by getting rid of them.

  Impassively, he stood in a corner when they were questioned, on occasion he’d do the pinpricking just to prove himself capable, but in general he oversaw, now and then inclining his head, thereby committing the wretched female to more torture in the hope of wringing a confession from her.

  They generally succeeded – well, some things never change, and a red hot needle under your nails is most persuasive – the woman in question admitting to long lists of sins, from putting the evil eye on Janet Cameron to nights of debauchery with the devil himself.

  Hector was bored. No doubt some of these women had dabbled in dark arts, but witches? They fell well short of someone like Mercedes. She jeered at him; through his nights he dreamt of her, during the days he imagined her everywhere, a lithe elusive woman with dark hair. He heard her laughing whenever he caught a glimpse of his own reflection, a soft mocking sound that increased in volume as he studied his rapidly aging face, his hands.

  But sometimes it was Dolores who came to plague his nights, the bright girl with the burnished hair he’d seduced and bedded, even loved, in a far gone Seville before his whole life turned into an impossible nightmare, an everlasting quest to find his way home.

  Chapter 25

  The sound of galloping hooves disturbed the peace of the Saturday morning, and when a lathered horse with a rotund shape perched on top appeared, Alex knew exactly who it was and why he was coming.

  “Run!” Simon gasped as he fell off his horse. “Matthew, run!” Matthew didn’t wait, he flew, his shirt flapping in the breeze, towards the hill.

  “My wife,” he called. “Take care of my wife.”

  “I’m going with him,” Alex was already moving in the direction where he had disappeared, but Joan stopped her.

  “Nay, Alex, you’d hinder him. He’ll be fine up there on his own.”

  “No he won’t! He needs me, and I…” She broke off and stood silent as a company of soldiers rode down towards the house. She recognised one of them as Watson, the man with the hangman’s rope, and just the thought of seeing Matthew die like that had her throat constricting.

  “We’re looking for Matthew Graham,” the officer said once he’d halted his horse. He took off his hat and bowed in the direction of Joan and Alex. “Ladies, Captain Leslie, at your service.” Alex had an overriding impression of a very grey man; grey hair, grey clothes, rather grey skin – unfortunately – and intelligent, grey eyes.

  “Sir,” Joan curtseyed, indicating with her eyes that Alex should do the same. “I’m afraid Mr Graham is presently not at home, in fact he hasn’t been home for quite some time.”

  “No? And here I have a copy of a wedding contract made on the last September twelve between said Matthew Graham and Alexandra Lind. Would you say it was a marriage by proxy?” The officer looked with interest at Alex’s hands, spread over an as yet relatively flat belly.

  “But that was quite long ago,” Alex said, “more than two months. And since then, well, I’m sorry to say we haven’t seen much of him.” She suppressed an urge to raise her skirts and take off, run until she found Matthew. Instead she smiled at the officer.

  The officer let his eyes linger on Alex. She shifted on her feet.

  “Ah well, it only takes the once,” he said with a shrug and swung off his horse. “You’ll not mind us looking, will you?”

  “Of course not; go ahead, be my guest.”

  The officer looked slightly puzzled, but bowed and gave Alex a pleasant smile, sending his men off to search the buildings, trudge up the wooded slopes, swords in hand that they used to prod thickets and heaped leaves. Please don’t let this be happening, Alex prayed, don’t let these soldiers find him and cut him down, or even worse cart him off to languish in jail and then hang.

  In the end, all they carted off was an indignant Simon, his voice squeaking as he protested this high handed treatment. His fine, reddish hair stood all ways, making him look like a Cabbage Patch doll. A pale Joan watched him ride off, her lower lip held between her teeth.

  “I’m sorry,” Alex said. “Will he…will they hurt him?”

  Joan hitched her shoulders. “Nay, they won’t. But they’ll make him sweat a bit.”

  *

  They sat waiting for Matthew until late, but finally Joan stood up, extinguishing the candle on the table.

  “He won’t come back tonight. We may as well get to bed.” They stopped halfway to the stairs, both of them alerted by a s
udden movement down the lane.

  “It’s the soldiers!” Joan said. “Oh my God, it’s the soldiers come back to search for him again.” Alex peeked out. Several dark shapes were moving towards the house. No horses, no lanterns, and from what little she could see, no attempt at formation.

  “Those are no soldiers.”

  Joan squinted, and then she whimpered. “Moss-troopers!”

  Alex gave her a confused look. “Here? Aren’t they more like highwaymen?”

  “Mostly,” Joan shrank back against the wall. “Shh, perhaps they’ll think the house is empty.”

  “No,” an amused voice replied, “we know it isn’t.”

  Joan made a dash for the stairs. Useless, and she was dragged off in the direction of the kitchen. When one of the men made as if to grab Alex by the arm, she shrugged him off.

  “I can walk on my own.” The passage was too narrow and too dark to allow her much room for manoeuvring, and once in the kitchen she and Joan were backed into a corner while the men tore through the house in their search for valuables. Six, no, seven men, making it all very crowded when they returned to the kitchen. Alex rose on her toes; could she? No, the odds were overwhelmingly against her. Too many men, too little space, and she doubted Joan would be much help. She glanced in Joan’s direction. What was the matter with her anyway? Ever since they’d entered the kitchen, Joan had been mute, eyes never leaving the men.

  “I thought you said there was gold,” one of the men whined to the apparent leader. “But all we found are some silver spoons.”

  “There is gold, have you checked the master’s desk? He has a box there.” The speaker was leaning against the further wall, his face and upper body in shadow. Alex frowned; there was something vaguely familiar about the voice.

  In reply, the first man held up the little strongbox, shaking it to show just how empty it was. Thank heavens he moved it, Alex thought, forcing her eyes to keep on staring straight ahead, not at the loose stone at the back of the hearth.

  “Where is it?” There was a thread of steel in the dark voice and Alex felt a snaking fear run down her legs, making her want to sit down.

  “It’s gone.” She repeated that stubbornly for the coming half-hour, even when one of the men put the point of his dagger to the tender skin under her eye.

  “Give us your baubles then,” one of them said.

  Joan pulled off her rings and handed them to him.

  “You too,” he said, nodding in the direction of Alex. She had no intention of giving this arsehole the only thing she had left of her father, so she just shook her head.

  “No.”

  “Alex!” Joan hissed. “Do as he says.”

  The man waved his knife in Alex’s direction, and she brought her hand down in a swift motion, sending the knife spinning across the floor.

  “Make me; try, you stinking son of a bitch and you might just find you’ve taken on more than you can handle.” Why, oh why couldn’t she just learn to keep her mouth shut? She’d angered him, and the man laughed nastily as he advanced towards her. She kicked, was hampered by her skirts, and he grunted in surprise when her foot caught him just below the sternum, not in his head as she’d intended.

  “Stay back!” she threatened. “Get too close and I’ll kick your balls off.” They regarded her warily, edging towards her, and she lunged for a knife, a cleaver, anything to brandish against them, but all she got hold of was a stirring spoon.

  “Do as you’re told.” A cold voice cut through the dark. “Hand over your ring or I’ll slice your sister-in-law’s hand off.” Joan made a muffled whimpering sound and Alex turned towards the door, where the man previously lounging in the shadows was holding Joan’s hand against the frame with a knife at wrist level.

  “You!” Alex launched herself across the room. “Why you…” she brought the wooden spoon down on her brother-in-law’s head, ignoring Joan’s warning sounds. “What kind of a bastard cuts his own sister, what’s wrong with you?” Alex was stuttering with rage, she whacked Luke again, was vaguely aware of how silent the men around her had fallen, and then her wrist was wrung, the large spoon dropping with a clatter to the floor.

  “Ow!” She tried to tear her hand free, glared at Luke, and the green ice in his eyes made her swallow down a sob. She chopped at his arm, hard enough for her to gasp with the impact. Luke grunted but held on, swaying slightly on his feet. He reeked of whisky, of beer, his face was flushed, his dark red hair messy.

  “Luke…please,” Joan said, grabbing at her brother with her uninjured hand. He shrugged her off, wiped at his bleeding brow and then he hit Alex, straight in the gut. She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, tried to force air into her lungs.

  “No woman raises her hand to me, and definitely not my brother’s foreign slut,” Luke slurred. Once again he drove his fist into Alex’s stomach. Time stopped. Pain exploded, up her spine, down her legs.

  “Agh!” Oh my God, the baby! She struggled to breathe, tried to back away. She wrenched at her arm. He laughed. He pulled his arm back, fisted his hand. He met her eyes. Another blow and her legs buckled, small stabbing points of black swimming in front of her eyes. Again. Air rattled its way up and down her windpipe. Again, and again. Wet; something wet down the inside of her thighs.

  Joan was crying, pleading with him to stop. Yes; please stop. Alex collapsed to her knees. The kick sent her sprawling. Someone picked her up. She couldn’t stand, she fell to her knees. He kicked her again. She crawled, keening. She could taste blood in her mouth. A hand in her hair and she was dragged to stand. So quiet. All she could hear was her own breathing, her own pulse. Yet another blow. Son of a bitch! A spark of anger flashed through her brain, spluttered and died. So much pain. Her baby.

  She was half dragged, half led out of the kitchen and up the stairs. She heard Joan scream her name, was aware that she should try and do something, but the hand in her hair tightened its hold and then she didn’t remember, no, please, she didn’t remember…

  *

  Matthew made his way cautiously down the slope. He was cold after his night out on the moor, had hoped for a warm welcome and hot food. Instead, his home seemed deserted, sunk into a silence that made his skin prickle. He stood for a long time hidden under the trees, surveying his yard, his buildings. No smoke belched from the chimneys, no bustle in the yard. A trap? He hesitated, uncertain as to what to do.

  He moved stealthily along the fringes, trying to understand what had happened. Horses – several horses – but they were gone now. In the barn and stables the beasts stood unharmed. He met Gavin, who’d been to milk the cows, and asked him if he’d seen anyone at the big house yet, but Gavin shook his head, saying that as it was Sunday he’d thought they had given themselves a bit of a rest after all that business yesterday, what with Mr Simon being carried away by the soldiers and the master himself running like a fox.

  Matthew nodded but felt his shoulders tense. Mayhap the lad was right, but half the morning was gone, the November sun almost at its zenith, and Joan would be worried blind for Simon.

  He armed himself with a pitchfork and approached the house. In the kitchen he found Joan, sitting unresponsive against the wall. There was a gash on her right forearm, and she looked at him with no initial sign of recognition, grey eyes focusing and un-focusing. She held out her tied hands to him in a supplicating gesture.

  “What did they do to you?” Matthew asked, loosening the makeshift gag.

  “Nothing too bad,” Joan said, eyes sliding away from his.

  “Alex?”

  “Upstairs, he took her upstairs, and I haven’t heard a sound from her since…oh God, since she stopped screaming.”

  “Who?” he asked, forcing the words through a mouth filled with gravel, but he already knew, had his answer in Joan’s shocked face.

  “Luke.” She frowned. “Someone left the door unbolted. It must have been Mrs Brodie. Rosie was off to visit her Mam, and it seems Mrs Brodie is gone.”

  At
present, Matthew couldn’t care less. All of him was focused on the heavy silence from upstairs.

  “You think she’s…” Joan whispered, grabbing hold of his arm.

  “I don’t know,” he said, making for the stairs.

  Alex was on the floor. Alive, thank the Lord, alive and lucid enough to start weeping when she saw him. He helped her to stand, and her skirts were stiff with dried blood.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m so sorry, so sorry…” He hushed her, blinking his eyes free of tears. Time for that later, now he had to be strong and reassuring for this woman who had problems standing, who wouldn’t meet his eyes. What had he done to her, that bastard brother of his?

  She held her soiled clothes to her, cried that she didn’t want him to see, didn’t want to see herself, but he insisted, calling down to Joan for hot water and towels – many towels.

  One garment at the time, and she wept and sobbed, gasping now and then as he undid lacings and buttons. Dearest Lord! Her front, her back, her upper thighs – a patchwork of bruises, of welts. Carefully he washed her, and she recoiled from his touch.

  “I…” she stammered.

  “Hush,” he said, waiting until she resumed breathing.

  He rinsed the towel, and in the basin the water was a dirty brown. A clean shift, her bed jacket, and he carried her over to the bed, cradling her in his arms as if she were a wee bairn. His wife; his throat clogged with grief and anger.

  “Joan will come and sit with you,” he said, brushing at her hair. “I have to find Simon.” And Luke. She nodded and rolled over on her side.

  *

  Matthew was gone all of the following week. He rode like a madman across the surrounding countryside looking for his brother, but of Luke there was no trace. Margaret swore she hadn’t seen him for weeks when Matthew appeared at her door, but he could see she was lying, her neck mottling red.

  Despite Joan’s worried entreaties that he not put himself at risk, he rode into Cumnock, walked his way through all Luke’s haunts but there was no sign, not even a whiff of him.

  “Are you sure?” Simon panted, trotting after Matthew towards the Merkat Cross Inn. “Was it really him?”