“But it was a woman you saw?”
“Oh, yes, I recognise a good female arse.” Smith chewed his lip for some moments. “Now if I were to see the mistress’ bottom, then maybe—”
“Smith!” Captain Leslie bellowed, pre-empting Matthew who was on his feet, a dangerous gleam in his eyes.
“I was just saying,” Smith muttered.
“And her hair? Was it long or short?”
Smith scrunched up his brow. “Uncovered, it was uncovered and short.”
“Was she alone?”
Smith scowled. “No. If she’d been, I’d have collared her. She was with a man.”
“Hmm,” the minister said, looking at Matthew. “And the man, would you recognise him?”
“No. I was mostly looking at—”
“Yes, yes, we know.” The minister waved him silent. “Well,” he said to Captain Leslie, “your man’s description matches that of our other witness: a man and a woman, and the woman in outlandish clothes. Do women wear breeches in Sweden?” He swung to face Alex, who took a step back.
“No,” she said, wrinkling her nose at his sour exhalations. “But they do in Turkey, and in China, as I hear it.”
The minister frowned, clapped his hands together and a man was dragged into the room. Alex struggled to remain calm, hands relaxed where they rested against her skirts, face demurely lowered.
“Is he sober?” the minister demanded of the guards.
“As much as he ever is,” the elder of the guards retorted.
“So, is it her?” Weir asked, waving his hand in the direction of Alex.
The man squinted at Alex. His hair hung in a matted mess, and even from the distance of a few metres, Alex had the distinct impression he was crawling with lice.
“I don’t know,” the man said.
“So you don’t know if Mrs Matthew Graham is the woman you saw,” Minister Weir pushed.
The prisoner stood straighter at the sound of the name and peered in her direction. “It might be; I can’t see her face.”
“Show your face, woman,” Minister Weir said, “and take off your cap so that he can see your hair.”
“I think not,” Matthew interrupted. “My wife doesn’t bare her hair in public, Minister Weir – not on the say so of you.” Matthew smiled at Alex. “Let him see your face, lass.” She raised her chin. The prisoner stared and took a step back.
“It’s her,” he squeaked and the room exploded.
“You’re a perjurer,” Mrs Gordon yelled, pointing at the prisoner. “All that you’ve said about seeing a woman kill your two companions, who’d believe you? You’re a murderer, a rapist and a filthy thief!”
“Not a murderer!” the man screamed back over the shouts for order from Captain Leslie. Mrs Gordon waited until the room has calmed down.
“If yon man…” She pointed at Minister Weir. “…if he hadn’t let drop that this was Mrs Matthew Graham, would you have known her then?”
Captain Leslie nodded, giving Minister Weir a beady eye. Despite the situation, Alex was somewhat amused by how the minister paled under the captain’s scrutiny. Captain Leslie leaned towards the prisoner.
“Answer, man!”
“I don’t know, but I do know that I saw a woman kill my friends.”
Mrs Gordon snorted. “You’re full of the fairies, Tom Wilson. You’ve been out of your head since you were a bairn up in Lanark. A woman kill two grown men!” There was a rustle of whispered agreement in the room and Mrs Gordon expanded her opulent chest. “I saw you, Tom. You came down from the moor alone on an August afternoon, and your hands were bloodied.”
Tom shook his head and looked down at his hands.
“Nay, I never killed them. Not me, I just knifed the man. It was the woman.” He stared about him and stabbed his finger in the direction of Alex. “It was her! She did it!”
“Hmph!” Mrs Gordon expressed. “I saw what I saw, aye? You, Tom, not her.”
“No! Not me!”
Captain Leslie got to his feet and told the wardens to take the prisoner away. “This is unseemly, a ruffian casting aspersions on the character of a married woman, with no proof but his own ramblings.”
Minister Weir made as if to protest, but at an icy look from the captain subsided on his chair.
“And from what Mrs Gordon has told us, it may well be he himself is the killer of his erstwhile companions, and if so he has done us all a service.” Captain Leslie bowed to Alex. “My apologies, mistress, for an unnecessarily harrowing experience.”
“Accepted,” she said and curtsied, extremely proud of herself for not sitting on her arse while doing so.
*
Leslie clamped down his hand on the arm of Minister Weir who was sidling off in the direction of the door.
“A word, minister.”
“Aye,” Matthew agreed, “a word. Or two.” Together they frogmarched the protesting minister out of the room and into Leslie’s office.
The previously so cocky little man wilted under Matthew’s inspection.
“You have some explaining to do,” Matthew said.
“Aye,” Simon said, “a very elegant little set up. Slip in the name and have him identify her.”
“I did no such thing! It was not done maliciously, it was merely a slip of the tongue.”
Captain Leslie made a derisive sound. “You’re an experienced man of both church and court, Minister. I don’t believe you, and would know – right now – who set you up to this and why.”
Minister Weir pressed his mouth shut, making him look like a repulsive toad. He avoided the three pairs of eyes, concentrating on packing his papers into his leather satchel.
“Surely you’re not thinking of leaving?” Matthew loomed over the smaller man, closing his hands round an urgent desire to slap the wee bastard.
Minister Weir flinched, a small pointed tongue darting out to wet his lips. “I’m a man of the Kirk, you’d best not harm me.”
“Harm you? You disgusting maggot of a man, hiding behind the skirts of your office when it suits you.” Matthew lowered his face to stare Weir in the eyes. “I don’t know what you were playing at, but the intent was to rob me of my wife. And I, Minister Weir, don’t take kindly to that. So, either you tell us all you know, or you’ll need to look constantly over your shoulder for the few days of life that remain to you.” He ignored Captain Leslie’s protest at the threat, and backed the minister into a corner.
*
“It was Luke?” Alex looked from Simon to Matthew and back again.
“Aye,” Simon said, “he put the wee miscreant up to it, telling him how you’d appeared out of nowhere, and how quick you’d been to marry Matthew, all to gain the protection of his name.” He drank from his tankard and wiped the foam off his lip before continuing. “And he then added a few twists. Like maybe you were heathen, not being from here, and that you might have bewitched his poor brother, and how worried he was that you were out to kill Matthew in his sleep.”
“Oh.” Alex took a big gulp of cider.
Mrs Gordon bit into her pie and studied it suspiciously before taking yet another bite.
“That man is not what he seems,” she said, “holier than thou on the outside, but a nasty piece of work on the inside.”
“You know him?” Matthew asked.
Mrs Gordon shook her head. “Nay. But I’m a good judge of character.” She gave Alex a glance and smiled.
“And Hector Olivares?” Alex asked. “Did they catch him?”
“No,” Simon said, “And by now it’s too late – he’ll have taken to the moor.”
Alex scooted closer to Matthew.
“He won’t come back,” the innkeeper put in, “too much of a risk.” He hawked and spat, losing himself in contemplation of the slimy globule that now decorated his floor. “A witch hunter, pah! Superstitious nonsense!”
“Absolutely,” Alex said, agreeably surprised by this rather modern reaction.
*
“Would his word have been eno
ugh?” Alex asked Matthew much later. They were alone in their little room at the inn, a fat tallow candle spreading but a faint light – a good thing, as it meant Alex could ignore the dirty floor, the mildewed bed hangings and the grimy window. At least the sheets were clean, smelling of thyme.
“Let’s just say that it was fortunate Mrs Gordon came forward.”
Alex swallowed. “She lied for me, and now he hangs, right?”
“He’d hang anyway.” He sat down beside her on the bed. “I’d never let them hurt you, they would’ve had to kill me first.”
“How romantic,” she snorted.
Matthew laughed, dug into his pouch, and extended a small twist of cloth to her.
“Here.”
“What is it?”
“It’s something you should have had a long time ago,” he said, shoving a curl off her cheek. “Won’t you open it?”
She did, and a heavy gold ring fell into her hand. A dark stone glinted in the candlelight.
“It’s your wedding ring,” he said and threaded the ring onto her finger. “Sapphire, like your eyes.”
She held out her hand to admire it and placed her hand over his heart.
“Thank you, I’ll never take it off.”
“As it should be,” he replied gruffly and kissed her nose.
Chapter 33
She woke and knew that today was it, and she wasn’t sure she should leave her safe bed – maybe she could stay here, pretend she was sick or something. Coward. With a muffled sigh she rose, inspecting herself in the clear light of the morning. She pinched at her waist, slid her hands down to weigh her buttocks, her thighs; no longer as muscled as they’d been. Well tough; it wasn’t as if she’d found a gym anywhere close was it?
Slowly her hands travelled over her belly, already visibly round with child. Very round; she should probably cut back on her helpings. Her skin was a milky hue – except for hands, feet and forearms – her hair fell in curls to her shoulders, giving all of her a softer appearance. She ran her tongue over her teeth; still whole. She dressed slowly; shift, stays and petticoats, skirt and bodice. A year ago they’d felt strange, today she’d feel undressed in anything less. Talk about conforming to conventions, hey? She twisted her hair into a neat bun, settled her cap on top, and grinned at her reflection. Mrs Matthew Graham grinned back, but here and there Alex Lind still peeked out. Thank heavens for that! She blew herself a kiss and clattered down the stairs.
All through breakfast and her morning chores, images of her lost people populated her brain. As the months passed, that old life had acquired a dreamlike quality, and it was only occasionally that her thoughts turned to them, a sudden flashing image of Magnus or John appearing and fading in her head. Isaac she couldn’t visualise, not beyond a hazy outline dominated by two dark eyes.
Today though, her head was filled with them, all three. She tried to imagine what it would be like to be yanked back to her own time, leap into her red convertible, turn the key and continue on her way as if this whole year hadn’t happened. She had to sit down; that would mean losing him, the man presently leading Samson across the yard. She inhaled and placed a hand on her stomach, caressing the bulge that was her baby – their baby. This was her time now, this was where she was meant to be – with him.
*
Matthew was splicing hazels into fencing rails and she sat on an upturned bucket, her hands held tight around her knees. All day she’d tagged after him, and it was beginning to grate on his nerves. Out of the corner of his eye he studied her, noting how apprehensively she was watching the sky and let his gaze follow hers. Nothing; a cloudy summer afternoon with the promise of a thunderstorm later in the evening.
“Shouldn’t you be helping?” he asked with an edge of disapproval, indicating the yard where clotheslines had been stretched from tree to tree. Mrs Gordon and Rosie had been at it all day, and he’d wondered why she wasn’t there, instead of nattering on to him about this and that as she’d followed him to the fields and back.
She didn’t reply, her eyes darting to the sky, and she looked so frightened it made him smile. A short summer shower and some claps of thunder, surely she wasn’t afraid of that? He stopped halfway through his next axe chop and turned to face her. Then he looked up at the sky and back down at her again.
“It’s today.”
She nodded and knotted her fingers into her skirts.
“But you can’t think… No.” He shook his head. “It won’t happen again.”
“How do you know?”
Matthew dropped to the ground in front of her and placed his hands on her thighs.
“It won’t; you belong here, with me. That’s why you’ve been like an extra little shadow today.”
She hitched her shoulders. “I thought that if you were close, then maybe you’d be able to grab me and hold me should anything happen.”
He studied her for a long time, and then stood up and took her hand, setting off for the hilltop. It had begun to rain, a soft pattering rippling through the tree crowns. Alex hung back, but Matthew dragged her along until they stood uncovered below the growling sky. He undid his belt, looped it round their wrists, and raised his face towards the sky. If you try to take her I will stop you, he assured whatever power might inhabit the clouds, I will stop you or die.
On the way back down he kissed her. Kissed her as if it were the first time, tasting her, exploring her, their bound hands caught between them. He tore himself away and listened to his breathing, long, heaving gulps of air. He kissed her again, he buried his nose in her hair and inhaled her scent, and he wanted her to smell of him, no, reek of him, as she’d done that first time, the time he’d had her by the mountain spring. And he wanted to cradle her as if she were a fragile child, but he wanted to pound her and ride her until she merged herself with him, permanently fused together. In her eyes he saw that she wanted it too, here, now, despite the rain that fell from above, despite the fact that the evening was still light and anyone could come upon them.
“Later.” He undid his belt, stroked her cheek, and walked away under the trees.
*
They didn’t speak. He just stood and extinguished the candles, inclining his head in the direction of the stairs. He held the door for her, helped her with her lacings, and sat on the bed to watch as she shed her clothes, his eyes following her rounded shape. She was beginning to show, a bulge just above her pubic bone, and the thought of his bairn, in her, increased his desire.
He sat back as she undressed him, helping her when she needed it, but otherwise remaining still. Her touch, the soft pressure of her breasts against his chest, the tickling sensation her hair left behind as she kneeled between his thighs – all because of a rip in the veil of time, a slight shift of fate that let her drop from her world into his.
She lay back at his unspoken urging, she arched herself against his mouth, his fingers, a gust of air escaping her when he entered her. They rocked together, slowly at first, but soon her legs came up to wrap themselves around his hips, her hands pulled at his waist, his back. Matthew pressed himself deeper, harder, faster, and below him Alex was an enveloping warmth, a sinuous strength that urged him to push, to ride her, please Matthew, please.
Just as she came he kissed her, swallowing down her guttural exclamations, and then it was her mouth glued to his when he exploded inside of her. His body lay heavy on hers, and between them, protected by them both, was their child.
“Was it good?” He smiled down at her and twisted a riotous curl around his finger before rolling over on his back. She lay with her hair a tousled mass, her chest still heaving and a slight sheen of sweat on belly and legs.
“It always is.” She stretched like a cat, kissed him on his neck. “I love you.”
“And I you, my Alex.” My woman, my heart.
*
After dinner next day, Alex came to find Matthew, carrying a stone bottle of beer. He saw her coming and raised his hand in a wave before going back to his splicing, not s
topping until she kissed his nape. She extended the bottle to him and he drank, sitting back against the smooth stem of a rowan. She sat down beside him and leaned her head against his shoulder with a contented sigh. She slipped her hand into his and they sat like that for some time.
“I’m going for a walk,” she said. “Want to come?”
Matthew shook his head. “I must get this done today.”
“Oh.” After a few minutes she shrugged and got to her feet. “See you at supper.”
He didn’t reply, but raised his axe in a little wave.
Alex took her time. It was a beautiful day, a breather in a stretch of weeks of hard work. This farming thing was quite the workout, she reflected, and July had been an endless succession of long, gruelling days, with August so far not being that much better. She frowned; at least the present busy schedule was keeping Matthew at home, not in Cumnock to argue the merits of the Commonwealth versus the king.
It worried her, this open stand against the king and for the Republic. Not only in words, but also in clothing Matthew was stating his opinions, favouring browns and greys with tidy but simple collars and narrow breeches. As the whole country shifted itself towards receiving its potential king back with open arms and garish clothing, Matthew Graham went the other way, distancing himself from gaudiness and frills. Not that Alex minded, still finding the spectacle of men sporting huge sashes round their waists and massive amounts of lace at neck and wrists somewhat effeminate. But now, with Parliament in shambles, he should be more circumspect in expressing his viewpoints – maybe cultivate the low profile she’d expected him to keep given his experiences in jail. Instead, he seemed to find an almost perverse pleasure in voicing his thoughts out loud.
“It’s already too late,” Alex had said some days ago. “The Commonwealth is dead, and in the wings stands Charles Stuart, waiting to be king.”
“All the more reason for someone to speak up, so that all won’t be forgotten, so that this new king keeps in mind that he rules not alone, but with Parliament.”
Alex hadn’t replied. She had very vague ideas as to what would happen, but suspected that Parliament’s say in things would be severely diminished.
A Rip in the Veil (The Graham Saga) Page 32
