“She can meditate on her behaviour for some time. It will do her good,” Julian said, and pocketed the key before retiring to his little study. From somewhere in the house came the high, wailing cry of an abandoned Edward, and Julian popped his head back out through the door. “Your son,” he snapped. “Take care of our son, wife!”
Ruth was already on her way, damp patches on her bodice. From the little room behind her came an absolute silence, and Ruth thought that was even worse than the screaming that had come before.
It was equally quiet some hours later, when Ruth unlocked the door.
“Here.” Ruth placed a tray beside the bed. Sarah lay curled on her side, her face to the wall. “You have to eat.” Ruth stretched out her hand to touch her sister. The reaction was spectacular. Sarah rose off the bed in one fluid moment, backing away into a corner with her knife in her hand.
“Don’t touch me!”
“Sarah, it’s me, Ruth.”
“I know who you are,” Sarah said icily, “and I won’t have your hands on me ever again. You helped him hurt me.”
“You hit him! And you disobeyed him. He was within his rights to punish you!” And he was. Of course Julian had to punish Sarah when she had so brazenly flaunted his authority, but Ruth felt somewhat queasy at how he had gone about it.
“He has no rights over me!”
“Aye, he does! He is in Da’s place while you stay with us.”
“Da won’t like it that he belted me, and neither will Mama.” A triumphant gleam appeared in Sarah’s eyes at Ruth’s obvious discomfort. “Get out.” She motioned towards the door. “Take your food with you. I won’t eat anything you’ve touched.”
She threw herself in rage at the door when Ruth turned the key, she yelled and screamed and kicked, and Ruth had no idea what to do, standing there with her carefully prepared peace offering in her hands.
“I’ll unlock the door tomorrow morning,” Julian said. After well over an hour of constant sounds, Sarah had quieted again, and the Allerton household was getting ready for bed after a far too exciting day. Malcolm, who adored his young aunt, had refused to eat either dinner or supper in silent solidarity with Sarah. Patience had complained about being locked out of her room, but was now settled in bed with Mercy, and Ruth had finally managed to soothe a fretful Edward back to sleep. It was probably her own agitation that made the babe so restless, she reflected, and her hands knotted themselves tight around the material of her shift. She shouldn’t have let him hit her.
“She hit me first,” Julian said, “and I didn’t hit her very hard, did I?”
Ruth hitched a shoulder. To her, it seemed he had. Sarah was right: neither Mama nor Da would be pleased to hear of this. Since last spring, they had become exceedingly protective of their youngest daughter, and to hit her, to slap her like Julian had done, and then throw her on her front and belt her – it must have been a far too tangible reminder of that awful experience.
Julian squirmed in bed when she said this out loud. “You’re exaggerating.”
Ruth shook her head. “She was terrified, and I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me.” A single tear rolled down her cheek.
*
Julian unlocked the door in the morning, and told Sarah she was welcome to join them for breakfast. She didn’t, and Ruth was torn with worry.
“She’ll eat when she’s hungry enough,” Julian said, and held out his bowl for more porridge, adding a generous knob of butter and molasses. Malcolm was ushered off to school, Patience was sent to do errands with Mercy in tow, and with a brief kiss on Ruth’s brow, Julian stood to go to the meetinghouse and yet another meeting.
Ruth sat in the silence of her kitchen and nursed Edward. Still no sounds from upstairs, and Ruth was at one level relieved, not knowing quite how to meet her sister’s eyes, and at another concerned, because mayhap Sarah was poorly. With a small sigh, she adjusted her clothes, took Edward in her arms, and climbed the stairs to see her sister.
Sarah wheeled when the door opened. Her shoulders relaxed at the sight of Ruth, and she continued folding away the last of her few items of clothing.
“What are you doing?” Ruth asked.
Sarah closed the canvas bag. “I’m leaving.”
“You can’t leave!” Ruth took hold of Sarah’s arm, but was brusquely shrugged off.
“Aye, I can, and I don’t think you can stop me.” Sarah shouldered by Ruth and made for the stairs.
“Where will you go? I have to know, I am your sister!” Ruth could hear her own voice breaking.
“My sister? I don’t have a sister. I have but six brothers.” Sarah fixed Ruth with a cold look. “As to where I will go, I don’t rightly know. I may go down to Mrs Malone’s and earn my living on my back, in keeping with the wanton you seem to think I am.” The door slammed, and Ruth sank down to cry on the stairs, her babe cradled in her arms.
By nightfall, Ruth was sick with worry, as was Julian. He had looked everywhere for her, even going to Mrs Malone’s to ensure she wasn’t there, but it was as if Sarah Graham had been swallowed by the earth. No one had seen her apart from the odd sighting just after she left the house in the morning, and now they sat facing each other over the kitchen table, and Ruth had no idea what to do.
“How do we explain this to Da and Mama?”
“She left,” Julian replied. “Inconsiderate little wench that she is, she just walked out.”
“You shouldn’t have punished her.”
“She should have obeyed me. And it was you who told me in the first place.”
Ruth hid her face in her hands. If only she’d overlooked Sarah’s two-hour disappearance yesterday, none of this would ever have happened. Instead, she had been filled with indignation at the way Sarah openly disregarded Julian’s instructions.
“Mayhap she’s ridden home.” Yes, of course, that was it. How foolish of her not to think of that immediately. Even Julian seemed slightly relieved.
“Where would she get a horse?” he asked.
Ruth made a dismissive gesture. Sarah could have borrowed one.
“I’ll ask around on the morrow.” With a firm hand, Julian led her to bed.
*
No one had lent Sarah a horse. No one had seen her. No one had any idea where she had gone.
“Sweetest Lord,” Ruth whispered when Julian told her this, “what have we done?” She hiccupped with agitation as she turned to face her husband. “Da…oh God, Julian, Da will never forgive us if anything has happened to her!”
“She brought it down upon herself,” Julian said, but Ruth could hear how worried he was.
“I don’t think Da will care,” Ruth groaned.
Chapter 37
Alex was dozing in the shade when the warning cry went up, and the previously somnolent ship transformed into a beehive of activity, with a cursing captain berating the lookout for his late warning.
“What?” Alex snuck her hand into Matthew’s.
“I don’t know.” He frowned at a small speck that was growing into an impressive ship under full sail.
“A Spanish galleon,” the cook told them, “and from the looks of it, headed directly towards us.” He sighed theatrically. “By tonight, we will all be prisoners of the Spanish King.”
“No, we won’t!” Captain Jan snapped, but he looked as pale as it was possible for him to look, his normal copper hue shifting into a yellowish tan. He swept his deck, instructed the first mate to hold the Althea steady on a north-north-west course, and had Carlos brought before him.
“God must have had a reason for me to spare your sorry life after all.” He grinned down at the little priest.
“I won’t do anything to help you!” Carlos said. “I’ll gladly see you swing from the mizzenmast – you and all your crew!”
Alex croaked a ‘no’, eyes flying to her son.
“But we both know that isn’t what will happen, don’t we?” the captain said. “I might be hanged, but the crew and the Graham boy, and most cert
ainly both Matthew and Charlie Graham will be carried away as enslaved sailors.” Captain Jan beckoned Charlie over and ripped his shirt open, baring the branded letters. “This one is already marked a slave, and soon the others will be too.”
Carlos stared at the bubbling, dark S and B. The priest’s narrow shoulders slumped in defeat, throwing Alex and Matthew a look. “What will you have me do?” he said in an emotionless voice.
“We found you, we saved you, and we’re on our way to Florida where you aim to find a ship back home.” Captain Jan nodded to himself, and spent the coming fifteen minutes embellishing the story until both he and Carlos had it down pat. After that, he called to the lookout to hail the galleon, and the Althea was slowed to lie nearly still in the water.
“We can’t outsail her,” Captain Jan explained to Matthew and Alex. “She carries far too much sail. Look, two mizzenmasts and two lanteen sails.” Alex counted four masts in total, and an impressive amount of billowing canvas. Equally impressive were the cannon ports. Thankfully, most of them were closed, but two in the uppermost level stood wide open, and Alex moved even closer to Matthew when the snouts of two cannon appeared.
“Will they fire?”
“No,” Captain Jan said, “we’re not attempting flight, are we?”
Carlos hailed the Spanish captain in a carrying voice that made Alex look at him in admiration. She’d never heard the priest speak in anything but the softest of tones, and this baritone voice, ringing with authority, made her view him in a very different light.
“The mouse that roared,” she giggled nervously, watching Captain Jan walk over to stand beside the little priest.
“What is he saying?” Matthew wondered.
“A terrible story,” Alex said. “How his ship was attacked by pirates, how the crew was set into boats, and he, being a priest, was thrown to drown in the sea.”
“Hmm.” Matthew eyed Captain Jan’s stiff back. “A wee bit too close to home for comfort. And then what?” Matthew said, watching Carlos wave his arms and hands around, his voice still pitched at a level that would carry through a cathedral.
“Well, there he was, struggling in the seas, clinging for days to a wooden spar. He had given up hope, was using what strength remained to him to pray for a quick and merciful death when he saw the unmistakeable dorsal fin of a shark come towards him.” Alex had to crane her head back to make out the galleon’s captain, several storeys higher up in the air than they were, standing among the sailors that thronged the railing of the Spanish ship.
The masts were now bare, the sails had been taken down to allow the warship to float along at pace with Althea. From the stern fluttered the Cross of Burgundy, red on white with the Spanish royal arms superimposed on it.
“Shit,” she muttered, “they can just drop down on us.”
“Aye, but they’re far too close to use the cannon,” Matthew said.
“Given that they seem to outnumber us ten to one, I don’t find that much of a comfort,” Alex replied.
“So what happened with the shark?” Matthew prompted.
“Nothing,” Alex snorted, “you know that!” Still, she translated as Carlos described his abject fear and then, lo and behold, this man – here he clapped Captain Jan so hard on his back the captain actually winced – had appeared in the water beside him, and with no concern for his own life, dragged them both to safety.
“Ah,” Matthew said, “a very slow shark.”
“Geriatric,” Alex said, “and I’m not sure the Spanish captain is entirely convinced.”
Out of nowhere, the air filled with men, Spanish men, dropping down via ropes to land on the deck of the Althea. Captain Jan looked increasingly more nervous, sinking his hand into Othello’s hairy ruff, but he didn’t move nor as much as blink when the Spanish captain landed before him, sword drawn.
“Permission to board?” the Spanish captain asked with an edge of irony.
“By all means,” Captain Jan replied.
The Spanish captain nodded, sheathed his sword, and turned his attention to Carlos. A huge grin appeared on his bearded face. “Ángel! My dear, dear friend! At last!” He enveloped Carlos in a hug, all the while repeating how glad he was to find him alive. “I thought I recognised you from above, but thought it best to make sure.” He released Carlos who gave him a weak smile and shook his head.
“I’m not—”
“And this, I presume, is the English dog who sequestered you,” the captain said, pointing at Jan. “Well, him we’ll dispose of quickly.”
A snap of his fingers, Captain Jan was on his knees, his nape bared. One of the Spanish soldiers raised his sword, and any moment now poor Captain Jan’s head would be severed. The dog went into protective mode, growling as he threw himself at the men holding his master. David yelled, jumped, and landed on the man with the sword, and suddenly Matthew was no longer at her side but shouldering his way through the Spanish soldiers, sword held aloft, his eyes on their son who was screaming, rolling away from a booted foot.
“Enough!” The Spanish captain discharged his pistol in the air. “Tie them up,” he said, indicating Matthew and David. Matthew shoved his son behind him, sword held at the ready. The Spanish soldiers eyed him with some respect, but no matter that Matthew was tall and strong, he was one and they were eight.
“No!” Alex pushed her way towards the Spanish captain, “Don’t harm them. Por favor, no.”
The captain swivelled on his toes. “You speak Spanish?”
“I am Spanish.” Well, not quite, but no need to explain that at present. “My husband and I are passengers, no more.”
The captain shrugged. “He shouldn’t have interfered. He dies.”
“Por Dios, no!” Carlos threw himself forward, caught his peg on something, and fell to the deck. With surprising speed, he was back on his feet. “These are my friends, all of them. And I’m not Ángel Muñoz. I am Carlos, a priest.”
The captain squinted at him. “Not Ángel?”
“His cousin,” Carlos replied, “an envoy of the Holy Church who would have died if it hadn’t been for the captain of this sloop. Look.” He held up his peg leg. “I would have died in the sea, eaten bit by bit, if it hadn’t been for Captain Jan. A true hero.”
The Spanish captain stared at the wooden peg, at Carlos.
Alex sidled over to stand beside Matthew. Captain Jan remained prostrate with Othello standing over him.
“Is he dead?” she whispered.
“Nay. But best remain where he is at present. Yon dog has these papist bastards frightened out of their skins.” Constant tremors rippled through him, his sword still brandished before him. “If…” He pressed her arm against hers.
“No ifs,” she told him sternly.
“No ifs,” he said, the faintest of smiles on his face.
Carlos and the Spanish captain were at present involved in a low-key discussion involving a lot of hand gesturing, many glances thrown their way, and a repeated inspection of Carlos’ peg leg. The Spanish commander barked an order, his men took a few paces back, and Captain Jan slowly got to his feet, adjusting his clothes as he went over to join Carlos and the Spaniard.
“Let’s just hope he never asks to see the stump,” Alex said to Matthew, “because even a total incompetent would see that is no new wound.”
“He won’t, will he?” Matthew said comfortably, far more relaxed now that the two captains were talking to each other. “Carlos is a priest and therefore allowed a certain modicum of privacy.”
Matters were swiftly concluded after this. The Spanish captain apologised profusely, and Captain Jan bowed, shaking his head in a deprecating gesture. But his hand kept returning to his nape, and Alex suspected their dashing captain was far more affected than he let on by this sudden brush with death. If it hadn’t been for the dog – and David – Captain Jan’s head would by now have been bobbing in the sea like a coconut.
A few minutes later, Alex was escorted forward by Matthew to where Carlos was prepar
ing for imminent departure by way of a rope.
“God works in mysterious ways,” Alex said and hugged Carlos, to the amused jeers of the Spanish seamen. “You were not meant to remain here in obscurity, despite your uncle’s best efforts. So, go back to Spain and wrest a life for yourself – you’d look good in cardinal red, I think.” Carlos’ lip wobbled, his dark eyes bright with tears.
“Que Dios te proteja,” she said and kissed him on both cheeks. “God be with you, Carlos Muñoz.”
“Y a ti – siempre a ti. I’ll remember you for the rest of my life, Alex Graham.”
“Of course you will.” She smiled, wiping at her wet eyes. “It’s difficult to forget someone who’s cut your foot off.”
Carlos just nodded, was swept into a bear hug by Matthew which made him squawk and nearly overbalance, and then up he went, dangling like a puppet on a string as he was pulled aboard the Spanish vessel.
Alex stood for a long time with her eyes locked on the galleon. For as long as she could see it, she remained by the railing, and she was convinced Carlos was standing on the poop deck, staring back at the Althea as she was staring after him.
Matthew came with her cloak and draped it round her shoulders, wrapping his arms around her for extra warmth. They stood in the shimmering September dusk, pressed together. To the east, it was already night, darkness staining upwards across the sky, and the evening star appeared, a solitary twinkle in the dark.
“He’ll be alright,” he said.
“He loves her,” Alex sighed, “and he will never forget her.” Venus, she reflected, the evening star isn’t a star, it’s a planet, named after the goddess of love.
“He wouldn’t have made our Sarah a good husband – and not only on account of him being a priest,” Matthew said, and his hands came down to her hips.
“No.” He was right: Sarah would have eaten Carlos for breakfast. She turned to Matthew and rubbed her cheek against his chest. “Love me,” she whispered. “Please lay me down and love me until I fall asleep in your arms.”
“Gladly,” he said, steering her towards their little cabin.
Whither Thou Goest (The Graham Saga Book 7) Page 31
