But today it was a summer evening, and he saw her make her way down the path towards the little eddy pool. He didn’t need to be there to know that she’d begin by finding a willow twig and clean her teeth. And then she would… He hurried his way through the last of his chores, ran his hands through his hair, and strolled off after her.
He liked to watch her swimming. She was like an otter, graceful and fast, diving into the deep end and surfacing a long way out before she flipped on her back to float. She did a backwards somersault, offering him an interesting view of her dark pubic triangle, and swam towards the shore. He stood up from where he’d been sitting and came down to the water’s edge.
“Hi,” she said and pointed at the pot of soap she’d placed on a nearby rock. “Will you help me wash my hair?”
He lathered her hair into a cap of white foam and towed her out into the deep to rinse it. Then it was her turn to wash him, and somehow things ended up as they often did, with him only half washed but terribly aroused. Her breasts bobbed in the water when she leaned back to float away from him, her lower part anchored to his. He stood on the pebbled bottom and made love to his wife as the summer twilight turned to night, wondering if in the darkness of her womb it was a son that lay waiting to be born.
Chapter 31
Simon looked very grim when he and Joan rode in a few weeks later. In his leather satchels he carried letters for Matthew and a new book. Matthew handled the book reverently, turning it back and forth between his hands.
“What? A new Bible?” Alex asked Simon in a low voice. The Grahams were prickly when it came to digs at their religion, and it was a comfort to both Simon and Alex to recognise a kindred spirit in each other.
“Nay, a book of poems.” Simon rolled his eyes.
Alex brightened. The few books in the house left quite something to be wished for when it came to light reading, and the thought of reading poems – any poems – seemed a welcome change.
Simon tugged at Matthew’s sleeve, the grim expression back on his face, and the two men disappeared in the direction of the barn, leaving Alex and Joan alone.
“What’s the matter?” Alex asked.
“Simon heard this incredible story, about how three would be robbers found the tables turned on them. Two died, killed by a lass.”
Alex’s throat dried up. “Really? Sounds unbelievable to me; how could one woman possibly overcome two men on her own?” Not one single tell-tale squeak, she noted with some pride.
Joan held her eye a bit longer before nodding.
“The third robber is in the custody of Captain Leslie. He’ll hang, but the shadow of the approaching gibbet has made him very voluble, and he has been spreading this tale to anyone who will listen. Many do.” Joan slipped her hand under Alex’s arm and steered her in the direction of the garden. “It’s best you don’t come to Cumnock for a while.”
“Me? But…”
“She was a foreign lass, he says; a lass with hair as short as a lad’s and strange blue breeches.”
Alex shook out her full skirts and shrugged.
*
Mrs Gordon came to find her that afternoon.
“Pie?” she asked. Alex looked down at her basket, full of early raspberries. A pie would be very nice.
Mrs Gordon sat down beside her on the bench and, in an affectionate gesture, took Alex’s hand.
“I heard yon Mr Melville talking to the master, about the robber and his story, aye?”
“Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
Mrs Gordon looked at her for a long time. “I hope you burnt them, those strange breeches of yours.”
Alex didn’t know what to say.
“I won’t tell, but the description he gave of a strange lass with short hair and odd breeches, well, we both know, no? And then there’s the knife wound in the master’s shoulder, just where the robber says it should be. So what happened?”
There was no lying to those glittering black eyes, and Alex told her the truth, twisting with embarrassment at Mrs Gordon’s admiring expression.
“You fought them with your bare hands?”
“Mostly feet.”
Mrs Gordon chuckled. “You know, the first time I saw you I thought you were a fairy. Then I took you for a gypsy, but you left me payment for what you took, and no fairy or gypsy would do that.” She regarded Alex piercingly. “But you’re very strange. You can’t knit nor spin, you’ve never butchered a lamb —”
“Yes, I have! We did it together, remember?”
“Aye, and you looked fit to throw up when you were told to rinse the guts clean.”
“Well you know, in Sweden —”
Mrs Gordon laughed and shook her head. “Nay, lass; my brother’s a sailor and has been to Gothenburg several times. But never has he told me of girls in breeches and with short hair. They seem to be like us, no?”
Alex attempted a derisive snort. “Gothenburg! That’s not really Sweden. I come from the far, far north.”
“I don’t believe you, I think you carry secrets that you can’t share, and I won’t push. But you must be careful, lass.” Mrs Gordon braced her hands against her knees and stood. “I like you, Alex Graham, and I’ll stand by you.” She gave Alex a perceptive look. “You had no choice. Had you not killed them, it would have been you and the master dead.”
“But still,” Alex sighed.
“Aye well; they’d have hanged soon enough anyway, vermin that they are.” With that Mrs Gordon hurried off, saying something about finding some lard for the piecrust.
*
Two days later, Matthew was halfway to the stables when Captain Thomas Leslie rode into the yard, looking as if he wished he could be anywhere but here. With him came four cavalry soldiers, a minister, and a slight man in a huge hat. Matthew came to a halt, noting how Alex appeared in the kitchen doorway, neat in sober green and with a linen cap on her head.
Captain Leslie shook his head at the sight of her, and leaned out of his saddle to say something to the minister. Even from where he was standing, Matthew could hear the minister’s caustic reply along the lines that the captain should not meddle with things he had no knowledge of, and then the minister was off his horse, strutting across the yard towards Matthew.
“Master Graham,” he said. “There are questions I have to discuss with you regarding your wife.” Matthew swept out his arm to welcome both the minister and the captain inside.
“And you,” Matthew added, nodding in the direction of the unknown man, who for some reason was wearing a full length cloak, gloves and an antiquated lace collar that succeeded in covering most of his lower face.
“This is Mr Olivares,” Captain Leslie introduced. “He’s accompanying Minister Weir.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Matthew saw Alex take a step back. He struggled to keep his face bland, while inside he was churning with questions. Hector Olivares, here? For what purpose?
“Mistress,” Olivares said, bowing in the direction of a pale Alex who succeeded in bobbing him a responding curtsey, before flattening herself to the wall to allow him inside.
“He’s a witch hunter,” Leslie said, “much in demand. He and Master Weir were called to investigate some unfortunate incident in Lanark, when they came upon the wretched robber in an inn. The fool was damning himself with every drunken word he uttered.” He frowned down at a spot on his grey coat.
“Ah,” Matthew nodded, trying to sound unperturbed. Witch hunter; it made his intestines twist.
“Besides,” Captain Leslie said, “there seems to be some truth in his unhinged story. One of my men…” He waved in the direction of his mounted soldiers. “…insists he saw a woman in outlandish breeches a year or so ago.”
“Really?” Matthew shrugged.
The coming hour was extremely uncomfortable. Minister Weir directed himself only to Matthew, and Hector Olivares retreated to stand in a corner, his strange jewel eyes boring into Alex. Matthew frowned, not quite sure what to do. Alex shifted closer to him, clasped
her hands in front of her, and dropped her eyes to the floor, but every now and then he saw her lashes flutter as she peeked in the direction of Olivares. And Olivares, God curse him, well he continued to stare at Alex in a way that had Matthew seething inside.
“But why?” Minister Weir asked, eyeing Alex as if she were a cow. “Why would you take up with a strange girl?”
“I told you; I found her on the moor, distraught. Was I to leave her there, all alone?”
“And her father, is he dead?”
Matthew saw the trap in time; say yes and they’d be asked to show them where he was buried.
“I don’t know, and nor does my wife. She has no recollection at all. One moment she was riding pillion behind her father, the next she wakes up badly burnt, both father and horse are gone.”
Olivares’ mouth twisted into a derisive smile.
“Hmm,” Minister Weir said, “and she’s from Sweden?”
Matthew nodded.
Minister Weir wrinkled his nose as if at the smell of something distasteful, and leaned towards Matthew.
“Is she of the right faith?”
Matthew drew himself up straight, well aware of how intimidating his height was to men as small as the minister.
“I’m a man of the faith, Minister Weir. Do you think I’d risk my bairns not being properly raised?”
The little man looked discomfited and muttered an apology.
*
After a hushed little conference between the minister and Olivares, the minister nodded a couple of times, smoothed down his dark coat and cleared his throat.
“Well,” Minister Weir said. “It’s best you ride in with us.”
“Why?” Matthew asked.
Minister Weir gave him a sharp look. “We have a man in jail who says he saw a woman kill his two companions almost a year ago – a foreign woman, just like your wife.”
Matthew laughed. “And you believe him? Would any woman you know be able to overcome two men on her own?”
Minister Weir insisted, despite Matthew’s protestations that of course his wife had not done something like that, and finally Matthew went out to saddle Samson, giving Alex a supporting look as he left.
She was having problems standing straight. Would the moss-trooper recognise her? And if he did, would his word count for more than hers? As she exited the house, Hector jostled into her, his eyes far too close.
“Scared?”
“Why should I be?” she said stiffly. “I’ve never done anything wrong.”
“Oh I would be, if I were you.” He sniffed her. “You smell like a witch, Alex Lind. And I’m the witch hunter, remember?” She reared back from him, but he came after. “I bet you’ll scream, they all do when we torture them.” He snickered and bowed to allow her to precede him.
Alex walked across the yard on sheer willpower. She even managed to smile at Captain Leslie when he offered her his hands to boost her onto the horse, but once on Samson’s back she slumped against Matthew, noting how Minister Weir and Olivares were huddled together, the minister’s eyes fixing on her.
“Oh, God.”
Matthew’s arm came round her like a supporting bracket. “It’s him, isn’t it?”
“I think so, and I don’t like this witch hunter thing. He just told me I smelled like a witch. It scares the shit out of me.”
“Mmm,” he breathed.
*
No sooner had they left Hillview behind, before Hector rode up to the minister, a hushed conversation springing up between them that involved many looks in the direction of Alex, who shrank back against Matthew’s chest. The minister said something, the two men shared a little laugh, and Matthew decided there and then that this was enough.
“Is it common?” he asked in a carrying voice.
“Common? Is what common?” the minister said, sounding irritated.
“For ministers of the Kirk to consort with papists.”
“Papists?” Minister Weir squeaked. “What are you on about?”
“Him,” Matthew said, pointing at Hector. Every single head but Alex’s swivelled to stare at Hector who fidgeted in his saddle.
“Hector?” Weir laughed. “You must be mistaken, Mr Graham. Hector is a witch hunter of great repute.”
Matthew raised his brows. “Really? That’s mighty strange, seeing as we had him arrested as a spy last time he was here.”
“A spy?” Captain Leslie looked the small man up and down, taking in the broad-brimmed hat, the enveloping cloak.
“Absolutely,” Matthew said, “he’s a Spaniard. And he asked so many questions that we sent him off in chains to Edinburgh as a royalist spy – and a papist.”
“I had no idea,” Minister Weir said in a shocked voice, his eyes flying all over the place. Matthew almost smiled; this wee man was a most incompetent liar.
Matthew adopted a grave mien and nodded repeatedly. “No, because if you did, you’d have denounced him.”
“Of course.” Minister Weir looked at Hector as if he expected at any moment to see horns protrude from his forehead.
“Nonsense,” Hector said sharply. “All this is nonsense. It’s just an attempt to discredit me.”
Matthew looked Olivares up and down. “You’re definitely a Spaniard, and a papist – all Spaniards are, more or less.”
“Prove it!” Hector scowled at Matthew.
“We can catechise you. It will be easy enough for Minister Weir here to verify if you’re of the faith or not, and I’m sure Minister Crombie will be glad to help – as will I, and no doubt the captain as well.” Matthew smiled wolfishly at them both.
*
Minister Weir had gone the colour of dirty linen, an unhealthy yellow tinged with grey. He sat ramrod straight in the saddle and nailed his eyes into Hector.
“Well? Are you? A papist?” He cringed when Hector rode in so close their thighs crushed against each other, and a little sound escaped him when Hector grabbed him by the arm, effectively putting the minister between himself and the others.
“You know I am,” Hector said in an undertone. “After all, that’s how you blackmailed me into participating in your little scam.” He twisted his fingers hard into the minister’s arm. “Fix this, fix it or I’ll tell them everything.” He rose in his stirrups, menace oozing from every square inch of him.
“A papist!” Minister Weir called out. “Oh my God, Mr Graham is right! Look, he threatens me! Arrest him, I say! Kill him on the spot if need be!”
“What? Why you twofaced little shit!” Hector turned to face the others. “This minister isn’t exactly what he —” As if by chance, Minister Weir crashed into him, nearly unseating them both.
“A papist, a papist! Jesus sweet, he intends to kill me! Do something, Captain Leslie!”
Hector opened his mouth to say something, the minister shrieked as if in agony, and the captain spurred his mount towards him, shadowed by two of his men.
“I wouldn’t try anything foolish,” Hector said, drawing his sword. The soldier closest to him lunged, Hector wheeled his horse, rammed the sword into the side of the unfortunate man, and set spurs to his mare.
“Go on! After him!” Captain Leslie waved his hand in the direction of the rapidly shrinking Hector and turned to frown at the minister. “You didn’t suspect?”
“Had I done so I’d have turned him over to the authorities immediately.” The little man shook his head. “Terrible…no doubt he planned to murder me in my sleep.”
“Yes,” Captain Leslie said, “although it seems to me he must have had ample opportunity to do so already.” He frowned, mouth pursing as he studied the minister.
Matthew caught his eye, nodded; aye, there was a whiff of something rotten in all this. Not that it greatly concerned him – not now, with Hector Olivares no more than a dwindling speck on the horizon.
“I assume this means we can ride back home,” Matthew said.
Minister Weir scowled at him. “Assume? What does the papist spy have to do with the two
murdered men?” He drew his cloak around him, regaining his dignity in leaps and bounds.
“Well, I thought —”
“You thought wrong!”
Matthew sighed and settled Alex closer to him. “It’ll be alright,” he whispered. “Your word will count for more than that of a drunken rogue, and we know there were no other witnesses.”
“You think?” Alex relaxed somewhat. “At least you got rid of Hector Olivares. For now,” she qualified.
Chapter 32
Simon was waiting for them when they rode into Cumnock.
“There’s a new witness,” he said as he helped Alex down. He inclined his head in the direction of a cloaked figure standing a way off. Alex and Matthew stared as Mrs Gordon winked at them from below her hood. “Gavin rode her in; the moment she saw the minister come riding down your lane, she set off.”
Once in the makeshift court room, Minister Weir rubbed his hands together, apparently recovered from the incident with Hector. He allowed his eyes to rest for an instant on the audience before looking Alex up and down in silence. A long silence. If he’d expected her to fidget, he had another think coming. Alex pasted a bland smile on her face – sort of like screwing down a lid on a can bulging with hairy worms – the worms in question being her guts.
“You!” the minister barked, pointing at one of the soldiers, and the man jumped.
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You’re Isaiah Smith, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir, I am.” The soldier straightened up.
Shit; not him again. Alex kept her eyes on her toes.
“Well? Is this her?”
“Her?” Smith sounded bewildered.
Minister Weir sighed, smoothed down his voluminous sleeves, and approached the soldier.
“Is this the woman you saw on the moor? The woman with breeches?”
“I couldn’t say,” Smith said after having looked at Alex. “I never saw her properly, it was dark. And when I rode after her, I mostly saw her…err…well, her arse, begging your pardon. Very snug, those breeches.” A titter flew through the room, making the minister frown.
A Rip in the Veil (The Graham Saga) Page 31
