“Hi, how are you feeling?”
He swallowed a couple of times to lubricate his throat. “Poorly,” he creaked, “everything hurts.”
“What happened?” she asked a while later. “Who did this to you?”
“Luke, it was Luke.”
“He’s here?”
Matthew felt it unnecessary to reply.
“Simon says I shouldn’t have told you,” she said.
Matthew closed his eyes. Nay, she shouldn’t. It would have been better never to consider that there was a possibility of Ian being his son. Possibility? He’d had his answer in Margaret’s white face, in the way her eyes had darted to the lad.
“I didn’t want you to run into him and suddenly see what everyone else has seen for years,” she went on, sounding hesitant.
“I wouldn’t, I would never have looked at him for long enough to see it.”
“But it’s better to know, right?”
No it wasn’t; some truths were only thorns driven into your flesh, an unnecessary suffering. Once he’d had a son, and now he no longer did. Ian; my wee Ian… He closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.
*
In the morning they woke to thunderous knocking on the door, and a baffled and protesting Simon was shoved to the side by a group of determined soldiers that hastened up the stairs.
They ignored Alex’s heated pleas that they not move an injured man, they just heaved Matthew out of his bed and dragged him down the stairs, informing Simon that they were taking their prisoner to stand court.
“He’ll hang before sundown,” the lieutenant said with a satisfied smile. “But our Commander has accorded him the right to be heard. Mayhap you should be there – he doesn’t seem to have much to say for himself. Ma’am.” He bowed in the direction of Alex before following his bound and dazed prisoner out into the street.
Chapter 29
Simon saved Matthew’s life that day. In his best coat, with his hair smoothed into place, he lined up argument after argument in the defence of his friend, who was kept on his feet only due to the two soldiers that propped him up. Matthew wasn’t there; he was lying on his back in his secret place, a grassy dell back home, and above him the sky spread a pale, washed blue. He swayed on his feet and wondered why his arm hurt, and when they took him away to lock him in for the night all he felt was relief at being allowed to lie down.
*
“You know he’s no royalist!” Simon glared at Captain Leslie. “You know it was a trumped up charge last time.”
Captain Leslie looked away, uncomfortable under Simon’s penetrating eyes.
“He was condemned to hang for treasonous activities.” This was distasteful to him; hauling an injured man from his sickbed on the whispered accusations that he, Captain Leslie, was allowing an enemy to the Commonwealth to range free. It made him sick to his stomach to see the dazed and feverish man who’d stood blinking owlishly for most of the proceedings.
“Aye, he was, and all because of his brother and his lies. It‘s Luke Graham you be wanting as an enemy to the Commonwealth, not Matthew.”
Thomas Leslie shrugged to indicate that matters were out of his hands. Simon set his mouth and followed him across the room. Leslie retreated behind his desk. He fiddled with the decorative braid on his buff coat and avoided meeting Simon’s eyes. Simon brought his hand down hard on the desk.
“He fought for the Commonwealth!” he yelled. “For four years he fought with the Horse.”
Leslie gave him a chilly look and rearranged his disturbed piles of dispatches.
”People have been known to change sides. It happens all the time.” Like himself; in his early youth an admirer of Prince Rupert – well, he still was – but now a convinced Commonwealth man.
“His sentence was commuted to gaol,” Simon said.
“Yes, but then he escaped.”
Simon threw his arms up in the air. “And why is that? May it have something to do with his brother bribing the guards to mistreat him? But no, of course not, how can we dare utter the blasphemous thought that even Commonwealth men are open to bribes – all the way, from court officers to wardens.”
Captain Leslie frowned and moved over to the door. “We’ll continue this matter tomorrow.”
“And will you pledge your honour that he’ll wake alive and well tomorrow?” Simon’s bitter comment brought Leslie up short.
“Why would you fear for his life, here?”
Simon laughed hollowly. “This has nothing to do with Matthew being a royalist, all that know him can vouch that he’s not. This is about Luke and his twitching need to have Hillview to himself.”
Leslie drew himself up tall and met Simon’s eyes straight on. “I give you my word. He lives the night.”
“I’m sure that will be a comfort to his distraught wife,” Simon said and left the room.
*
Next morning, Captain Leslie found his office crammed. Simon Melville must have done his rounds until late in the night, and turned up with several witnesses for Matthew’s staunch Commonwealth stand. Minister Crombie was as vociferous as Simon in his insistence that Matthew had been set up, calling heatedly for new trial, and in the end Captain Leslie gave in.
This was not a time to be seen as too rigid, with London in upheaval after the Army had relieved the new Protector, that incompetent son of a great father, of his charge only a fortnight back. The messenger had ridden in two days ago, shaking his head at the anxious unrest in the country. No one wanted a return to war, but as things stood now, it might well be that the late Protector, rest his soul, would see his inheritance torn to pieces in yet another bloodied feud.
Matthew was pale but coherent when they brought him in. They had put him in chains, and even from across the room the red welts round the mangled wrists were visible.
“You gave me your word no ill would come to him,” Simon said.
“He’s a convicted traitor,” Leslie replied, smoothing down his long, grey hair.
“Nay, he’s not,” Minister Crombie put in. “Haven’t you just agreed to a new trial?”
Leslie regarded these two obstinate Scots with dislike. A small snake of pettiness reared its head inside of him, and he threw Matthew a disinterested glance.
“He stays in chains.”
*
“I want to see him,” Alex said, “I have to see him.”
Simon shook his head. “I don’t know if that’s wise.”
“But his arm! I have to make sure he’s healing properly!” So that he could walk whole and healthy to the hangman’s noose. The acrid taste of bile washed through her mouth.
“I don’t think he wants you to see him like this,” Simon said.
She wheeled away and tightened her arms around herself. “But what if he’s condemned to hang? And it will all be my fault.” For the last few nights she hadn’t slept, rotating like a spitted chicken in bed, as she imagined one end worse than the other for him – her man. He’d hang; she’d die. Boom, just like that.
“Nay, it isn’t your fault,” Joan said. “It’s Luke’s fault – he’s the one who denounced him.”
Alex sank down to sit on the floor, her fingers tracing the sunbeams that filtered through the half closed shutters.
“It’s my fault,” she said, pushing the words through her drying mouth. “If I hadn’t told him about Ian, he wouldn’t have gone to find Margaret, and then Luke wouldn’t have known he was here.”
Joan knelt down beside her. “He already knew. Margaret would have told him when she got back from church.”
Alex bit down on a wobbling lip and shook her head. “I don’t think she would, for both their sakes.” She got back onto her feet and turned pleading eyes on Simon. “I have to see him. Please.”
*
Captain Leslie protested at first, but finally agreed to one visit from Graham’s wife. Alex handed over her basket to the sentry, hated seeing those dirty fingers rifle through her carefully prepared foodstuffs and the clean shi
rt she’d brought for Matthew. With a nod the sentry allowed her entry, and Alex held on hard to her basket as she crossed the courtyard at the heels of yet another soldier, this one not much more than a boy.
She kept her eyes on the cobbles, closing her ears to the appreciative whistles from a group of soldiers loitering in the yard. Her head jerked up when someone screamed, worried eyes scanning her surroundings for Matthew, but her shoulders slumped when she realised it wasn’t him, it was an unknown someone, and from what she could make out he was not yelling due to torture or flogging, but rather due to the inspection of his injured leg.
“It’ll have to come off,” the boy threw over his shoulder. “But he doesn’t want them to cut him.”
“I can imagine,” Alex said.
Alex stood in the door and waited for him to ask her in. The man sitting hunched on the straw pallet in front of her was a stranger, his face shadowed by lack of sleep and contained fear. He motioned for her to enter, but when she made to come over to him he raised a hurried hand, the chains clinking. She drowned a surprised exclamation in a cough. Simon hadn’t thought to tell her they’d put him in fetters. They were holding him like an animal; a pail in a corner, straw to sleep on and…her eyes went to the iron round his wrists and ankles.
“I don’t want you to come too close. I stink,” he said.
She struggled to wipe her face clean of disappointment, even managed a smile.
“I don’t mind, and I want to see how your arm is.”
“My arm’s healing. You don’t need to worry.”
“I don’t need to worry?” She shook her head. “Of course I worry, you bastard!” She went over to him, her hands hard around his face, a hasty kiss on his mouth. “And I don’t care if you stink, okay?” Which he did, badly. She studied the iron manacles and bent to place her lips against the reddened skin around his fetters. She stood and brushed his hair off his forehead.
“Are you alright? Truly?” Talk about unnecessary questions…
Matthew hid his face against her belly and exhaled when she put her arms around him.
“No, not really.”
Before she left he put a hand on her arm. “Did you buy the painting?”
“The painting? What painting? Oh…” A shiver rippled through her. “I forgot, these last few days, well, I’ve had other things to think about.”
His mouth curved into a faint smile. “Aye; so have I.”
“I can imagine,” she said, and she just had to smooth at his hair, kiss his cheek.
“You said you had to buy it.”
“It sort of calls to me,” she muttered.
“I…well, I don’t like it. It makes my innards flip. I don’t want you looking at it, you hear?”
“I won’t.”
“If you buy it, you burn it – as you said.”
“Yes, I burn it.”
*
They dragged the proceedings on over a further four days, but in the end Captain Leslie concluded that the first trial had been an apparent miscarriage of justice. In the continued absence of the key witness at that trial, Luke Graham, and in view of the multiple testimonials as to Matthew Graham’s unwavering support for the Commonwealth cause, he could not but find that Matthew Graham had been wrongfully accused and should be acquitted of any charges laid against him.
Once the chains had been struck off, he apologised, hoping Mr Graham would not hold this against him, he was only carrying out his duty. Matthew bowed and assured him that no, of course he wouldn’t. But he held his hands behind his back tightly fisted, nails sinking into his palms.
The moment he was outside he turned to Simon.
“Where is he?”
“Who?” Simon said.
Matthew shook his head. “Nay, Simon, not this time. I know you’ve locked him up somewhere – otherwise he’d have come forward – and you’ll take me there. Now.”
Simon met his eyes and with a little sigh acquiesced.
“Stand up.” Matthew cut the ropes and hauled his brother to his feet. After more than a week locked up in the abandoned stables, Luke was a reeking mess, but despite his bedraggled state he drew himself up straight, sneering at Matthew and Simon. Whatever his other faults, brother Luke did not lack for courage.
“Need help, do you? Afraid that I’ll beat you senseless?”
In reply, Matthew crashed his fist into his brother’s face. Luke reeled, but came back fighting. But this time Matthew had two good arms, and on top of that he was fuelled by an ice-cold rage, one savage punch after the other driving Luke back into a corner.
“For Ian,” he spat as he landed one well directed blow. “My son, not yours.”
Luke parried, ducked. “Mine,” he panted, “Margaret swears he’s mine.”
“Then she lies,” Simon said, “but she does that a lot.”
“Take that back!” With a screech Luke launched himself in Simon’s direction, was brought up hard by Matthew’s fist in his gut. “Agh,” Luke groaned, all air knocked out of him.
“That’s for Alex,” Matthew said. Repeatedly, he hit Luke in the stomach, standing back to watch his brother crawl on all four. “And for the babe.”
“The babe?” Luke stared up at him, wiping at his bleeding mouth. “What babe?” He groaned, clutching at his midriff.
“The wean Alex lost.”
For an instant Luke froze, an expression of acute shame flashing over his features.
“A wean?” He was back on his feet. “I swear I didn’t know.”
“Does it make a difference?” Matthew said, “Would you have stayed your hand, had you known?” Two bright green eyes met his – angry, catlike eyes.
“I…” Luke looked away. “Probably not.”
Matthew was so surprised by the honesty of this reply, he lowered his guard, and Luke took the opportunity to swipe at him, landing a forceful punch on Matthew’s chin. But before he could reach the door, Matthew grabbed him and shoved him to land on the ground.
“The swords,” he said to Simon.
“Matthew,” Simon said, “this isn’t wise. It’s frowned upon, you know that.”
“Give me the damned swords!”
Simon handed him two rapiers and stepped as far out of range as possible.
“So, brother, do you know how to use one of these?” Matthew most certainly did, four years at war had left him an excellent swordsman.
Luke nodded, and when Matthew threw him one, caught it by the hilt.
“A duel?”
“A duel? I think not. Retribution, more like.” Matthew stood at ease, and Luke licked his lips.
“Afraid?” Matthew jeered. “Uncomfortable when you have to see me in the eyes instead of having others do your dirty work?”
Luke cursed and lunged.
They were well-matched in size and reach, and for a while Luke held his own, compensating for lack of experience and skill by sheer desperation. At one point Luke succeeded in grazing Matthew with his blade, a triumphant smile spreading over his face.
That was the only blood Luke drew, and over the coming minutes Matthew decorated his brother’s arms, his torso with a series of cuts. Desperate and cornered, Luke charged. Matthew sidestepped, rapped him over the hand with the flat of his blade, causing Luke to release his sword, and a few moments later it was over, with a bleeding and trembling Luke standing on his toes while Matthew’s blade rested against the uncovered skin of his throat.
“I could kill you,” Matthew said. “I should kill you; or geld you. Which is it to be” He angled the blade upwards, pressing hard enough to break the skin. His hand quivered; so easy, a decisive slash and Luke would be no more. He was vaguely aware of Simon hovering in the background, but Matthew’s attention was focused on the honed edge of his rapier and how it pressed against Luke’s throbbing jugular.
“Please…” Luke croaked, “please.” The enclosed space filled with the sour stench of piss.
Matthew wrinkled his nose and drew the blade to the side, leavi
ng a shallow bleeding gash in its wake.
“Get out, wee brother” he said contemptuously. “Get out before I change my mind.”
Luke fled. “I hate you, Matthew Graham,” he yelled when he was safely out of range. “I hate you, you hear?”
*
“…and by now he’s halfway to Edinburgh,” Matthew summarised much later.
“Oh,” Alex said. “And Margaret?”
“Margaret? Well, I assume she’s still here. She wasn’t riding with him.”
“She can’t, can she?” Joan said. “She has her son.”
“My son,” Matthew snapped and stalked from the room. Alex made as if to stand and go after him, but Simon waved her down.
“I’ll go, if nothing else I can offer the comfort of whisky and silent male companionship.” He winked at her. “Sometimes that’s all a man needs – or wants.”
“Here.” Simon refilled Matthew’s pewter cup, sloshed some more into his own cup, and sat back. “You should have killed him.”
“Aye. But he’s my brother.”
“Not for long, if Luke has his wishes come true.”
Matthew took another sip of whisky. The warmth of it travelled down his innards, calming the snaking anger that just the thought of Luke inspired.
“Why, Simon? Why does he hate me so much?”
Simon shrugged. “Luke’s a difficult man to comprehend. And God alone knows what fanciful stories Margaret told him when he returned – but I don’t think they painted you in a flattering light.” He paused and swept the remains in his cup. “I suspect Luke thinks you coerced Margaret into marriage, forced yourself upon her, and for that he will never forgive you.” Simon cleared his throat and stretched for the stone bottle. “Almost empty,” he said indistinctly, refilling Matthew’s cup. “You have to evict her, she can’t stay on in the cottage, not after this.”
“It isn’t her fault,” Matthew said.
“It’s her lies that lie at the bottom of it all.” Simon levelled a discerning stare at him. “What is it you want with her?”
“Nothing! It’s just… Sometimes I, well, I’d like to lay my ghosts at rest. To not always see her laughing at me in my head.” And as long as Margaret remained at Hillview, he could hope for the occasional glimpse of the lad.
A Rip in the Veil (The Graham Saga) Page 29
