Ian grunted in reply, saying that he liked being here, surrounded by his whole extended family, and Malcolm pined for his uncles if he didn’t see them daily.
“All the same, Jenny can’t be too thrilled, can she, to be spending so much time alone.” It worried her, how Jenny isolated herself, rarely accompanying Ian and Malcolm. Ian hunched under her inquisitive look, but chose not to reply.
“Do you think of him often?” Ian asked instead, making a hasty grab at her skirts to stop her from overbalancing on a fallen log.
“Who? Jacob?” All the time, more or less, spending an idiotic amount of time scanning the lane for the implausible arrival of an anachronistic postman, complete with a letter from her son assuring her he was alive and well.
“Nay, Isaac.”
“Oh.” She glanced at her twenty-five-year-old stepson. She was still in two minds about him knowing the truth about her, and disliked his repeated attempts to discuss all aspects of her future life – and especially her son living in the twenty-first century. “Of course I do, but not exactly on a daily basis,” she said, feeling rather ashamed. She increased her pace up a short incline and waited for him at the top, breathless with exertion. “Does that make me an awful mother?”
“Not to me, but perhaps to him.”
“There wasn’t much I could do about it, was there?”
Ian gave her a long look. “Would you like to go back?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“That’s a rather stupid question, isn’t it? I have my family here, not there.”
“And if you could take us with you?”
Alex fell silent, mulling this over. “No, I somehow think you’d all be quite unhappy there.” Rednecks, the lot of them, and where here Matthew and his sons were looked upon with respect, there they’d be considered uneducated. “It’s very different: people live in cities, and the jobs they do keep them mostly indoors. And for your father, it would be difficult to adapt to an age so devoid of God.”
“Devoid of God? How can any time be devoid of God?”
“Oh, believe you me it can.” She gave a short laugh. “If the Second Coming happens in my time, no one would really care, and poor Jesus would have his work cut out for him to even achieve being heard.”
“So you’re glad that you happened upon this time?”
“Glad? Well, now I am. But if it hadn’t happened then I would probably have been pretty okay with the life I was leading there, in the future. Of course, that would have meant I would never have met Matthew Graham, and that would have been a terrible loss.” She snaked her arms hard round herself. Quite unbearable, actually.
“Besotted,” Ian said, rolling his eyes.
She laughed and swiped at his arm.
It was probably because they had the advantage of higher ground that they saw the Indian before he saw them. Still in the same gruesome coat as last time she’d seen him, but Alex could swear there were more braids decorating the dark broadcloth, one of them an eye-catching red colour that for a moment had Alex choking on her heart: that could have been Ruth’s hair.
Beside her, Ian had gone still, sinking down on his haunches with an admonishing finger to his lips. Alex nodded, lowering herself to a crouch, eyes never leaving the silent shape that was gazing so intently at her deserted yard. Not entirely deserted, because suddenly Narcissus loped into view, his heavy snout raised to the wind. The dog barked and took a couple of steps in their direction. Below them, the Indian raised his bow, notched an arrow, and aimed at the dog.
Alex just couldn’t stand it. “Hey!” she called out, barging down the slope.
The Indian wheeled, still with his bow raised. Belatedly, it struck Alex that this was a very stupid thing to do, to rush a man with a lethal weapon. She faltered. The Indian pulled back the bowstring.
“Mama!” Ian’s arms wrapped themselves around her thighs, tackling her to the ground. The arrow whined through the air, striking a nearby tree at head level. Narcissus was barking his head off, and from all over came canine reinforcements, adding their voices to the cacophony of sounds. Ian whistled, and here came the dogs, making a beeline for the intruder.
The Indian set off for the river. Ian roared and charged after, dirk held high. With him went the Graham pack, now running in sinister silence. Alex rose to her feet. A couple of hundred yards to her right, the Indian had reached the shore, but Narcissus was snapping at his heels. When the dog sank his teeth into the man’s thigh, the Indian screamed. Ian yelled, rushing for the Indian. Some of the younger dogs were leaping about like demented rabbits, but, step by step, the Indian dragged himself towards the water, with Narcissus like a huge yellow leech on his leg. With a splash, the man went under, and Narcissus released his hold.
For a moment, Alex thought the Indian might be dead before the dark head resurfaced halfway across the river. Without a backward look, the man swam to the other shore, limped his way to the bordering woods, and disappeared.
“Are you alright, then?” Ian was breathing heavily by the time he got back to Alex.
“Yes, I scraped my knee, that’s all.” She patted Narcissus on the back. “He’ll sleep in the yard for now.”
“Aye, they all will.” Ian slid his dirk back into its sheath and took her hand.
The Indian had come with a purpose they discovered some time later, finding yet another little package where he had been standing.
“Burn it.” Alex nudged it with her toe.
“Shouldn’t we open it?” Ian said.
“Whatever for? We know what’s in it. Yet another calling card from the damned Burley brothers. Sick bastards.”
She told Matthew of the whole incident while she served him hot broth for supper. For all that he was hot with fever, he tried to get up, insisting he was well enough to leave his bed and take over the defences of their home.
“Forget it,” she told him, pressing him down on the pillows.
“I must,” he said, trying to stare her down.
“Ian and Mark will handle it, and then there’s Narcissus. Somehow, I don’t think our Indian friend is all that eager to meet him again.”
Matthew’s lips stretched into a faint smile. “He bit him?”
“Like a clamp. Must hurt like hell.”
“Aye, if we’re lucky, the wound will fester. Nasty things, dog bites.”
*
For several days, Betty had stayed close to the house, unnerved by the notion of finding herself face to face with an Indian man who collected braids. But when she saw Ian enter the resurrected stables, she decided it would be safe enough for her to brave the yard as well. Moments later, she slid into the dusky light of the stables and seeing as Ian was nowhere in sight, busied herself with Moses.
She had finished with the mane before Ian came back, pushing a creaking wheelbarrow.
He set down his load and nodded a greeting to her. “You like horses?” he said.
Betty went on with her currying, standing on tiptoe to properly reach across Moses’ wide back.
“They smell nice, and they’re warm and they don’t talk.”
Sarah and Ruth recently out of sick bed made for enervating companions, Naomi was sick, and as to Agnes… After several weeks of Angus anecdotes, it was Patrick this, Patrick that, and had Betty noticed how beautiful his eyes were, and did Betty think he preferred grey or green, and should she perhaps leave her hair unbound now and then? She sighed. It lay like an uncomfortable rock in her belly, the scene she had witnessed in the woods, and she was still not sure it was the right thing to do, not to tell. Would Ian not want to know?
Betty crouched and combed her way through the white feathers that adorned Moses’ fetlocks, and tried to make him lift his hoof. Moses stood like a rock, sinking his head into his manger. Betty tried again and sat back with an irritated sound.
“You can’t do it by force,” Ian said mildly from above. He entered the stall and ran a firm hand down the leg, squeezed, and waited until Moses lifted his hoof.<
br />
“See?” Ian smiled at her. His eyes were far too close, and so like Jacob’s – except that he had a ring of small yellow spots all around his pupils, and Betty couldn’t recall if Jacob had those. She drowned in these hazel pools, widening her own eyes in response.
Ian stood up abruptly, slapped Moses on the rump, and backed out. “Tell me if you need help.”
“I did it!” Betty crowed. She gave Moses a carrot and exited his stall, looking for Ian. He was down by the pigs, and Betty danced towards him.
“Oh, aye?” Ian wiped his forehead with his sleeve and grinned at her. “There are four more horses – and the mules.”
She stuck her tongue out and came over to hang over the railing to look at the huge sow. “She could do with a wash; she looks very dirty.”
“I wouldn’t try,” Ian said. “She’s not in the best of moods at the moment.”
“Who would be?” Betty extended a piece of bread to the pig. “Look at that belly!”
“Aye.” Ian sighed. “Breeding females are difficult.” A shadow flitted over his face as he sank his pitchfork into a heap of soiled straw and lifted it into his barrow. Betty waited for him to say something more, but after some minutes she trailed back to the horses.
*
Ian worked himself into a sweat, all the while thinking about Jenny. Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. At times, she was like fire in their bed, and he allowed himself to be devoured by this wild, unknown woman who was insatiable and demanding. Other times, she was a stiff board, insisting that they blow out the candle first.
During the days, she was incessantly occupied with her work, as was he, but now, with the shortening days, the evenings were long, and there should have been opportunity to talk, to somehow bridge the distance that had grown between them during these last few years. Instead, she escaped into more chores, insisting the table had to be scrubbed with salt, or how could she have forgotten to mend Malcolm’s breeches.
She never touched him out of bed, gliding away like a fleeing doe when he tried to hug her or simply take her hand. He didn’t understand. He tried to show her how overjoyed he was with the coming child, but when his hands spanned her expanding waist, she shrivelled under his touch, her face acquiring a distant look. He had to talk to someone about all this before he burst, but not with Betty, not with a pretty lass that followed him around with her adoring beautiful eyes wherever he went.
*
“Maybe she’s afraid,” Alex said, having listened to a very hesitant Ian.
“Afraid?” Ian slurped the hot soup.
“That things might go wrong; that something might happen to her – or the baby.”
Ian shook his head. “She’s fit as a fiddle, and Malcolm was an easy delivery.”
“How would you know?” Alex said with some acerbity. “And, even if it was, maybe it scared her. Some women just hate it.” She came to stand behind him, and stroked his hair. Hair so like his father’s used to be, a deep vivid brown that even in winter retained a tone of chestnut to it. Her fingers unravelled tangles, dragged their way through wavy soft curls that had gone a long time unbrushed. Alex produced a comb from her apron pocket and began to tug her way through his hair. Ian sat immobile under her ministrations and to her surprise, Alex realised he was crying.
“Ian?” She hugged him, kissing his cheek.
“Don’t mind me,” he said in a gravelly voice. “It’s just…”
“Just what?” Tenderly, she smoothed a lock of hair in behind his ear.
“She doesn’t touch me like this,” he admitted in a pained whisper. “Not anymore.”
“Oh, Ian.” Alex kissed him again. “She will. Just bear with her for some time, okay?” And if she didn’t shape up then Jenny was going to find out just how protective Alex Graham was of her children – all her children.
“A lioness,” Matthew agreed with a weak smile when she told him this. His hair had also been brushed into some kind of order, his face washed, his sore nose anointed with grease that smelled of peppermint, and he was sitting up in bed, nursing a steaming cup of something he insisted tasted like horse piss.
“Much more dangerous than a bloody lion.” Alex sat down beside him and adjusted his clean shirt. “Better today?”
“Aye.” He tentatively pulled in air through his nose, sounding as if he were gargling. Alex smiled and indicated the mug.
“That’s why you have to drink that. All of it.”
He made a face but drank all the same.
“He’s right,” Alex said, snuggling up to him.
“Hmm?” Matthew yawned and put his arm around her shoulders.
“Something’s bothering Jenny, and I don’t believe it’s the baby or her strained relationship with her father.”
Matthew yawned again. “Breeding women are a strange kind, aye? It will sort itself once the wean is born.”
Chapter 15
It was touch and go who was the most surprised: the Burley brothers or Matthew. There was no doubt whatsoever as to who was the most frightened, with Matthew sinking back with a little hiss into the trees, musket in hand.
“Why if it isn’t Mr Graham himself,” Philip Burley said. “Just the man we wanted to see.”
“You’re trespassing,” Matthew told them, putting some more yards between them. A few paces behind the brothers limped a fourth man, and when Matthew saw the grisly coat, he concluded this was the accursed Indian scout.
“We are? Oh dear, oh dear.” Philip caressed his musket, looking at Matthew. “We heard the hunting is exceptionally good here.”
“And so we came,” Stephen filled in.
“No dog?” Philip asked, taking a step towards him.
Matthew wheeled and ran.
He was fast, and had the added advantage of knowing his land where they did not, leaping over trunks and crevices with the grace of a buck. A musket ball whistled past him, and he increased his speed, hoping Ian or Mark would have heard the shot. He slipped on a patch of ice, lost his footing, and rolled to the bottom of a long incline, scrambling to regain his feet.
He was up, veering to the left, but Walter was far too close. Matthew bounded up the next hillside, crashed through a thicket of blackberry brambles, and heard Walter curse. From his right came Philip, musket held aloft as a club. Over the relatively flat expanse of ground, the younger man gained on him, and it was but a matter of yards before that musket would strike him over the head, or between his shoulders.
Philip cheered, increased his speed, and the stock of his gun came down, whooshing through the air. It caught Matthew squarely over his left arm, a blow strong enough to send him staggering. For an instant, he was down, knee on the ground, and here came Philip, musket raised for yet another blow. Matthew swung his own weapon, striking Philip over his legs. A misdirected swipe, not at all enough to do Philip any serious damage, but at least Matthew was back on his feet while Burley was down. Matthew tightened his hold on his musket, preparing to deliver one final blow. A shot: it nicked his arm. Stephen screamed as he came running with Walter at his heels. Matthew fled.
His breath was catching in his chest. His teeth ached with the effort of pounding up and down the undulating, wooded hills. From behind came the sounds of determined pursuit, and Matthew knew that, unless he made it back home, he would soon be dead – a protracted and painful death, no doubt. His ankle was beginning to throb, his boots dragged at his tired legs and there was blood trickling down his arm. He heard Walter jeeringly call his name. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw him closing in. Another shot, this one uncomfortably close to his head, and Matthew ducked and wove amongst saplings and boulders.
Matthew’s mind cranked into ice-cold logic, and he led them deeper into the woods, where their speed and youth would be less of an advantage. He skirted the abandoned Indian village, dropped heavily down the steep side of sheer rock that bordered it, and ran flat out for the distant opening in the trees, for the safety of his fields. Matt
hew could hear his own ragged breathing, his heart was beating like a drum in the constricted space of his chest, and he sensed them closing in on him like wolves round a wounded deer. He opened his mouth and screamed.
*
Ian frowned. Was that Da? He couldn’t recognise the voice, distorted with fear, but moved towards it nonetheless. The kitchen door slammed open, and there was Mama running like the wind towards the sound, kitchen knife in one hand, skirts in the other. In only her stockings, she burst across the frozen yard, and Ian fell into step with her, pitchfork still in hand. From the river came Mark, lithe and swift with his flintlock already at his shoulders, and now Ian could hear the thrashing sound of someone running for his life through the underbrush.
“Matthew!” Mama gasped. “My Matthew.”
A crash, someone keened – a triumphant sound – and Da burst into the open, legs stumbling as he rushed towards them. Indians? The shrubs parted, and out came the Burleys. Here? How came they to be here? Ian tried to scream a warning. Fifty yards in front of him, the Burleys had almost caught up with Da; so intent on bringing him down, they hadn’t noticed the three of them.
Mama shrieked. It near on made Ian jump, and it definitely had an effect on the Burleys. Heads snapped up, and Walter threw his musket into a firing position. Da collapsed on his knees, crawling as fast as he could towards them. Ian increased his speed, brandishing the pitchfork like a three-pronged lance before him. His vision narrowed into a chute with Walter his target. He heard Mama exclaim, felt the rush of air as a musket ball whizzed by him. Thirty yards…twenty-five. He tightened his grip on the worn wood of the pitchfork handle. Twenty yards…fifteen, and the Burley brothers turned and ran. Mark fired and Philip yelped, clapping his hand to his head. Ian hollered, all of him filled with a need to chase them down and beat them into lifeless pulp. Mark grabbed at his arm and brought him to a standstill.
“Nay,” Mark panted, “we can’t risk that they turn on us.”
Ian wrested himself free, scowling at his brother. So close!
“They all had muskets,” Mark said, “and I don’t think a pitchfork is the best of weapons when you go hunting wolves.”
Serpents in the Garden (The Graham Saga) Page 13
