* * *
Edinburgh, Perth, Inverness and now Glasgow; Hector regarded his surroundings, taking in yet another sad little town full of grey houses, dirty streets and acrid smoke.
“Not much to see,” he said to Minister Weir.
“To see?” The minister gave him a blank look.
“It’s very small.” Hector dismounted, handed the reins to one of the minister’s hired goons.
“Bigger than Inverness,” Minister Weir replied with a shrug.
“Anything’s bigger than Inverness,” Hector muttered. At least it wasn’t raining, and soon this goddamn tour of his would be over. He eyed the minister with dislike; months with the small preacher hadn’t exactly endeared him to him, in fact rather the reverse.
A bigot, a self-serving runt of a man who enriched himself through a combination of extortion and bullying, Weir had cornered Hector one night in Edinburgh and suggested they work together – or else he’d find himself obliged to inform the authorities Hector was a papist and a spy. When Hector had laughed, the little man had sunk those piggy eyes into him, and told Hector that he, Minister Weir, could make life extremely uncomfortable for him, in fact he could make it unbearable, a stretch of days, no years, sitting forgotten in a damp and totally dark cell. And, the minister gleefully added, Hector might be a renowned witch hunter, but he, Minister Weir, had quite the reputation for rooting out papist subversives – and seeing them hang.
Hector recognised a genuine threat when he heard it. As he had no desire to rot away in darkness, he had spent the last months traipsing round Scotland in the wake of an enthusiastic Weir, listening to endless discourses on the evil of popery, complete with vivid descriptions of the torments in hell that awaited any Catholic unfortunate enough to die. They made Hector’s head ache, these rambling monologues that always ended with the minister professing his willingness to die for his beliefs should it ever be necessary. Not bloody likely; this weasel of a man would recant, give up his friends, his wife, his mother, even his children to save his own skin. It takes one to know one, Hector snickered. Well; he would have drawn the line at his children – at least he hoped so.
“Three,” Minister Weir said, interrupting Hector’s thoughts.
“Ah, openly?” Hector asked, calculating his share of the potential profits.
“No, no, my dear Hector. A discreet visit, an opportunity for them to make…eh…amends, and once they do we’ll be on our way.”
“One day someone’s going to call your bluff,” Hector warned.
“How can they? I have you, a proven witch hunter, to back me up.”
Hector had to agree it was an excellent little scam. Accuse and allow yourself to be bought off, all the while dripping veiled threats as to the consequences of being hauled into open court on accusations of witchery.
“Sooner or later —” Hector began, but Weir waved him into silence.
“I’m a man of the Kirk,” he said – he said that quite often. “Whose word do you think will count the most? Besides, they’re surely guilty of something.”
“We all are,” Hector said.
“Not me,” the minister replied complacently. “I am but rooting out sinners.”
The only amusing thing in all this was that the little shit was entirely oblivious to his own hypocrisy.
Hector was halfway down the High Street when he stopped. Mercedes! Here! His nostrils flared, he closed his eyes and opened his mouth as if attempting to inhale her presence. But no; he tasted the air carefully. She’d been here, he could feel that, leaving behind an ephemeral impression that she was just round the corner, but it was very many years ago since she’d walked these streets.
“Bruja! Witch.” He was swamped by a burning rage to hurt someone and do it soon.
“What?” Minister Weir said. For an moment Hector wallowed in the pleasing daydream of venting all this anger on the minister – disembowel him there and then – but he had no doubts whatsoever that the two men at Weir’s back would beat him senseless and drag him off in chains to the closest gaol should he do so. Hector smoothed down his coat and managed a bland smile.
“Nothing,” he said.
Chapter 28
Matthew looked at peace when they left the service, an inward look in his eyes. Alex slipped her hand under his arm and squeezed.
“It must have been a long time.”
“Aye, a very long time.”
Simon snorted and clapped Matthew on his shoulder. “Didn’t you see, then? Half the congregation was waiting for you to sprout horns, terrible escaped felon that you are.” Matthew frowned down at his brother-in-law, and Joan stepped in between them.
“You’re exaggerating, Simon. Aye, they were looking, but more at his wife.”
“His wives,” Simon corrected, and Matthew came to a halt.
“Margaret was there,” Simon said, “sitting further back. You should have seen the eyes of the old hens as they flew from Margaret to Alex and back.”
Alex made a disgusted sound. She could imagine the comments, the suppressed gasps at how alike they were, and the careful assessment as they compared number one with number two. Margaret won hands down, at least when it came to the looks department.
“Did she have her son with her?” Alex said, catching the look that flew between Simon and Joan. They saw it too then, the striking resemblance between the boy and the man who’d formally disowned him.
“I don’t think so,” Joan replied airily. “But I didn’t really look.”
Matthew looked from one to the other, and narrowed his eyes at Alex.
“What?” she asked, attempting to sound confused.
“There’s something here you’re not telling,” he said, and she hated it that she could feel the blood rush up to stain her cheeks. Miss Transparent, that was her.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Hmph! You’ll tell me later,” he said in a low voice, and she could hear he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“And Luke?” Matthew asked Simon. “Is he here as well?”
“Not as far as I know, off to Glasgow, as I hear it.”
Matthew gave Simon a sharp look. “Really? Why else would Margaret be here?” He placed a hand on Simon’s arm. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you? After all, I have matters to settle with him.”
“Oh, of course,” Simon said, before darting across the street with Joan in tow to greet an acquaintance. Matthew muttered something very foul.
“You’ve promised me you won’t do anything stupid,” Alex said, “it’s not worth it, okay?”
She gripped his arm, threw a look over her shoulder. She didn’t like being here, was worried that at any moment men would appear to drag Matthew off, fugitive that he was. She’d said as much, but Matthew had just shrugged, reminding her that the realm at present had far graver concerns than the whereabouts of one escaped royalist.
“It would seem the ground’s burst open and we have supporters of the king crawling out from every crevice,” he’d said. Nor did it help that Parliament and the Army were at loggerheads, he’d added, a constant internal squabbling leaving the country rudderless.
“Not everywhere,” she said.
“No, but here in Scotland it’s mostly for the king now.” He’d twisted his mouth into an ironic smile and bowed. “I may need to brush up my court manners, for when I’m asked to receive the knighthood due to the great misfortune I’ve suffered on behalf of the king.” His eyes had darkened as they always did when he recalled his days in prison. “Free men should rule themselves, not be told what to do by a man with curls down to his waist.”
Having reassured herself that there were no soldiers anywhere close, Alex turned her attention to her surroundings, looking with interest at the small shops – all of them closed, given that today was Sunday, and most of them shuttered as well, the heavy horizontal shutters that normally did double duty as counter and roof safely bolted. She came to a halt halfway down the main street. What
? No, it couldn’t be! She took a step closer to the small dirty window of the town’s mercer, and if she hadn’t been holding on to Matthew she would probably have fallen.
“Bloody hell!” She stared at a far too familiar painting. In swirling greens and blues it captured her eyes, whirlwinds of paint that beckoned and whispered, urging her to come closer, lean in and look for that point of blinding light that existed at the end of this undulating tunnel of ultramarine and turquoise.
She knew, even before looking for the tell-tale scrawled M, that this was done by Mercedes’ hand. No; this was just too much. Her brain ached with the effort of trying to understand; a painting, by her mother, here. But Mercedes had been with her, with Magnus, so how?
She set her hand to the thick glass pane. Mercedes. But when? Just the thought of running into her mother – here, where she shouldn’t be – had her breaking into a rash. Don’t be ridiculous; how can she be here? She set herself on fire for God’s sake! Not much of a comfort, really. She squinted; the paint looked cracked, and her shoulders dropped. She hadn’t been here recently, at any rate.
“Alex?” Matthew’s voice made her jump. “What’s the matter?”
She pointed at the painting. Her vocal chords had gone on strike. She coughed.
“My mother, she painted that.”
He dropped her hand as if it were red-hot, and stared from her to the painting and back again.
“But…”
“I know; how?” Oh God, it was true; her mother was definitely a witch, how else to explain this? She snuck him a look. He was staring at the picture, mouth slack, eyes glazed. Alex gave his hand a little shake. He didn’t react, swaying on his feet.
“Matthew?” She tugged harder. He jerked, tore his eyes away from the painting and closed his hand hard round hers. Ouch!
“I must have it,” she said. He shook his head. She wiggled her fingers against his tight hold. “I have to have it. I think it must burn.” She peeked at it; definitely burn it. Their eyes met, he nodded once and turned Alex to hasten after Joan and Simon.
*
“Right,” Matthew said as they were getting ready for supper. “Tell me.”
“Tell you what?” She turned guileless, blue eyes on him, making him suppress a little smile.
“Alex…” he warned, “I saw, aye? There’s something all three of you are keeping from me.”
“Ask Simon.”
Matthew shook his head. “I’m asking you, my wife, and I expect you to answer.”
Alex sat down on the single stool and busied herself with her hair. He rested his shoulders against the wall, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited. None of them were going anywhere until she told him.
“Have you seen Ian lately?” she asked, making him look at her quizzically. Ian? Why would he have seen him? She exhaled and fixed her bun into place with a hairpin.
“He looks just like you,” she said, throwing him a look from under her eyelashes. He was very still as he tried to assimilate what she was saying. Then he laughed.
“Well, that’s not so strange. I’m his uncle, after all.”
Alex gave a quick shake of her head. “I don’t think you are, and I think they know – both of them.”
Matthew blinked. But no, surely not even they would cheat him of his son? And wouldn’t Margaret want her son protected, safe in his inheritance? He made a negating movement with his head.
“No,” he said.
“They’ve been lovers for years. And there’s only the one child – the child conceived while she was married to you. Strange, isn’t it?”
Matthew grabbed at his coat, retrieved his shoes from beside the bed.
“Where are you going?” Alex placed a hand on his arm.
“I’m going to find out the truth,” he said through gritted teeth. “If I have to beat it out of her.”
“No!” Alex stood herself between him and the door. “Don’t you see? It’s too late anyway. You’ve disowned him, haven’t you?”
He flung her aside. “If he’s mine, then I want to know.”
*
“Open the door!” Matthew pounded at the heavy oak planks. “Open the door, goddamn you!”
“What do you want?” The door was flung open to reveal a half-dressed Luke, with Margaret hovering in the background.
Matthew lunged for her. “Is it true? Is he mine?” Luke’s arm stopped him from getting at her. “Is he?” Matthew yelled, and now the laddie was there as well, and Matthew knew, just by looking at him, that Alex was telling him the truth. “You lying, whoring slut,” he hissed, spitting in the direction of Margaret. “May you rot in hell, you hear?”
Margaret blanched, backing away from him, and Matthew slammed Luke against the wall, intent on getting at her. A dull pain slashed down his arm, he was shoved sideways and turned to see Luke raise the knife yet again.
At the last moment Matthew evaded the knife. He twisted his brother’s hand, and the knife fell to the cobbles. Luke parried a punch, sank his right fist into Matthew’s unprotected gut, and Matthew used his elbow to send his brother staggering back, a hand clapped to his eye. Matthew came after, all the pent up rage of years spilling over. He was going to…aye, his wee brother was finally going to pay for days, months, years of humiliation and despair.
His left arm hung useless, but he took no notice, using feet and one good arm to fend Luke off. He tripped, was kicked and punched, closed his hand on Luke’s breeches and succeeded in pulling him down with him. He rolled, for a moment he was on top and then Luke bashed at his left arm and Matthew almost fainted. Luke bucked like an unbroken horse, and Matthew was thrown to the side.
“He’s mine!” Luke panted, “he’s mine, damn you. I sired Ian, you hear?”
“You lie! She lies!” Matthew’s fist connected with Luke’s nose with a satisfying crunch. He hit him again, and Luke swayed, blood flowing from his lip. There was an explosion in his head, and Matthew lay stunned, all of him swimming in pain. A second blow crashed into his injured arm, and Matthew gasped. He raised his good arm to parry the next blow, succeeded in deflecting it from his face. He saw Luke raise the rock again, knew that the next blow would kill him, and there was Margaret, throwing herself over him.
“Nay, Luke,” she pleaded, “don’t, please don’t.” Vaguely Matthew realised she was weeping, her voice shaking as she begged Luke to stop. Somewhere in the back of his head, it struck him that maybe she was repentant for what she’d done to him. It made hope flare in his belly until he recalled he didn’t want her anymore, he had her, the other one, the one whose name he couldn’t quite bring to mind in his present state.
Luke made a disgusted sound, threw the rock away and stalked off. Matthew’s eyesight was blurring, he couldn’t even lift his mangled arm, but at least he was alive, however much he was bleeding and hurting.
“We’re square you and I,” Margaret said, heaving herself back onto her feet. “I saved your life tonight. At what cost to myself and my man, I don’t know.”
*
“You shouldn’t have told him,” Simon took another turn around the room. “It’s not safe for him to walk about alone. And now that he’s angered, well…”
“I like it how you give me words of comfort,” Alex said, “but what was I to do? Lie to him?”
“You didn’t need to tell him!” Simon rubbed his hand through his thin hair, making it stand on end.
“He would’ve found out at some point. He’d have run into the boy sooner or later.” She threw a worried look out of the window. It was night by now and he’d been gone for hours. “I’m going to look for him.”
“You can’t walk out alone. He’d flay me if I let you.”
Alex glowered at Simon. “How exactly do you propose to stop me?” she asked, making for the door.
Simon sighed, muttered a God help me, and pulled on his coat. “We’ll go together. But you must stay with me.”
Alex nodded, amused despite her worry. If it came to a crunch, it wou
ld probably be her defending him rather than the reverse.
It was dark outside; as dark as it gets in May, full of strange shadows and greys, creaking sounds and scattering shapes that she knew to be rats. Simon seemed to have some sort of idea as to what direction to take, and led her through a throng of closes and small, smelly streets. She recognised the church and hurried to keep up as they turned into yet another close.
“Matthew!” Simon called out. “Matthew, are you there?” They walked further in, and Alex saw something on the ground. A hand twitched and for a moment she was convinced that was the last movement he would ever make, but then he groaned.
*
Matthew heard her voice and felt her hands on his body, small, strong hands that tried to lift him upright. His head lolled back, and he had the strangest vision of his wife hanging upside down from the sky. He groaned again and turned his head to throw up, grateful that someone was holding him. Simon and…Alex; aye, that was her name, she was his Alex. But Margaret had saved him, and her black hair had tickled his face, as smooth and glistening as he remembered it.
He tried to protest when they lifted him, because it hurt so much, but he was already being half carried, half dragged. He gasped when he slipped out of a sweaty hold to hit the ground.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” someone muttered, and he was in the air again, hearing the heavy breathing of whoever it was that was moving him. He was lowered to lie down, his limbs were lifted this way and that, and something warm and wet moved over his body, making him yelp at times. The weak light of the candles was agony to his eyes, and every touch made his skin scream. He attempted to speak, but his lip was split, and his tongue was a useless sponge in his mouth. Alex, she was Alex, and he was Matthew Graham, and…it all went a blissful, soothing blank.
He woke to find Alex sitting by his side. She was asleep, her head resting against the wall. He twisted to see the window, noting with surprise that it was twilight. He moved his legs, his arms and hands, sending sparks of pain through his mangled muscles. His left arm was one throbbing fire, and he inhaled loudly when he shifted it. Alex awoke with a start.
A Rip in the Veil (The Graham Saga) Page 28
