“How?” she said. “And why to you?”
“I don’t know.” He nudged the painting. “Do you…do you think it’s the same?”
Joan swayed, gripped his arm and sat down on a stool, eyes tightly shut. “Yes,” she groaned. “Dearest Lord, take it away, destroy it!”
“Joan?” Simon gave her a gentle shake. In response, she moaned, a weak mewling no more.
“Joan!” He grabbed at her when she slipped off her stool.
Lucy started from where she’d been reading by the window, oblivious to their conversation. Her eyes flew to her parents, and she rushed towards them.
“Here.” Simon rewrapped the painting with one hand, the other arm supporting Joan. He handed it to Lucy and waited until she was looking at him.
“Burn it,” he said slowly. “Burn it, aye?” He jerked his head in the direction of the empty hearth. Lucy nodded, took the package and made for the kitchen where there always was a fire.
*
But Lucy didn’t burn it. She couldn’t – not when for the first time in her life, she heard sounds, wonderful magical sounds.
Revenge and Retribution
The Graham Saga continues in book six
The sun had just cleared the eastern forest when they set off next morning: six horses, two loaded mules, and seven people. Thomas Leslie took the lead, with his armed manservant riding just behind him. For practical reasons, Alex was riding pillion behind Matthew, while Daniel rode the roan she’d ridden down, and, given the general bustle of departure, it took Matthew some time to realise his wife seemed out of sorts, uncharacteristically quiet and distracted. She didn’t join in the banter between Ian and Daniel, she expressed a vague “Hmm?” when Betty asked her something, and to Matthew she didn’t say a word, a silent warmth at his back no more.
“What is it?” he finally asked.
“Bad night.” She tightened her hold round his waist.
She’d tell him in her own good time what it was that was preying on her mind, so instead Matthew concentrated on the way his stallion moved beneath him. Aaron was in many ways a throwback to his sire, but where Moses had been a singularly docile horse, Aaron was far more hot-blooded, capable of taking a leap to the side in an attempt to dislodge his rider – or get closer to the mare.
“You’ve had her already, you wee daftie,” Matthew said, slapping Aaron on the neck. “She’s with your get.”
“Do you think he knows?” Alex sounded very amused.
“What? That he’s served her or that she’s with foal?”
“Both, I suppose.”
Matthew thought about that for a moment. “I hope, for his sake, he recalls the serving of her. It’s not much more than a dozen times a year for him. But as to the foal…nay, he doesn’t know.”
“Oh.” Alex fell silent for a while. “Do you think he’s alright?” she asked with a hitch to her voice.
“Who?” Matthew did a swift count through his head – all their bairns were, as far as he knew, safe.
“Isaac,” she whispered.
“Ah…” No wonder she’d been tossing through the night. She’d been dreaming of her lost life, of her people in the hazy future, foremost amongst them her future son – this no doubt brought on by the discussion they’d had about that accursed little painting. He shifted in the saddle. Thinking about this made him right queasy: his wife a time traveller, her mother a gifted painter that painted portals through time, and wee Isaac seemed to have inherited his grandmother’s magical gifts. After all, it was one of Isaac’s paintings that Magnus Lind, Alex’s father, had used as a time portal all those years ago, appearing one day much the worse for wear in yon thorny thicket back home.
Matthew strangled a nervous laugh: first his wife, then her father. And as to those paintings… Ungodly, such paintings could only be created with the help of potent magic – black magic. Matthew tightened his hold on the reins and uttered a brief prayer to God, begging him to protect them all – and especially his wife – from evil. He coughed a couple of times.
“What do you think?” he said.
“I’m not sure. I never miss him, not truly. Yes, I think of him, wish him well in his life and all that, but he’s no hole in my heart. What if I am a hole in his?”
Matthew reached back to squeeze her thigh. “He was but a lad when you disappeared from his life. Aye, surely there are nights when he dreams of you, moments when you are a vaguely remembered shade, but a hole in his life that you are not. Man is too resilient for that.”
She didn’t reply, but he felt her relax, and after a few minutes of silence she changed the subject by asking him what he thought of Lionel Smith, pompous shit that she found him.
*
It was nearly noon before they stopped for a break – and by then Alex had been fidgeting for some time. She more or less fell off the horse and made for the closest screen of shrubs. Alex hiked up her skirts and crouched. She cocked her head to where her men were busy lighting a fire in the glade, grinned when Daniel loudly complained about the state of his buttocks, tore off some moss to wipe herself with, and rose.
“Mrs Graham, what an unexpected surprise.”
The voice froze Alex to the spot, but with an effort she turned, only to find herself a scant yard or so from Philip Burley. Still with that messy dark hair that fell forward over his face in an endearing manner that contrasted entirely with his ice-cold eyes, still with a certain flair to him, albeit that he was dishevelled and dirty. Alex opened her mouth to yell, but all that came out was a squeak.
“Down to witness the hanging of my dear brother?” Philip continued, his voice far too low to carry to her companions. Low, but laden with rage.
“Good riddance,” Alex managed to say. She whirled, screaming like a train whistle.
Things happened so fast, Alex’s vision blurred. The ground came rushing towards her, her face was pressed into the mulch by Philip’s tackle. She heard Matthew roar, set her hands to the ground and heaved. Up. Philip grabbed at her skirts, Alex kicked like a mule, and here came Matthew, bounding towards them. Philip scrambled to his feet, and Alex crawled away on hands and knees.
In Matthew’s hand flashed a sword, Philip levelled a pistol but had no opportunity to fire it before Matthew brought his blade down, sending the gun to twirl through the air and land in a distant bush.
Men. From all over, men swarmed, and there was Walter Burley, fighting his way towards Matthew with an intent look on his face. He was brought up short by Dandelion, over a hundred pounds of enraged dog throwing himself at Walter. A howl, a long howl that ended in a whine. Walter brandished his bloodied knife and cheered, a sound cut abruptly short when Thomas Leslie charged him. A hand grabbed at Alex; she tore herself free and backed away, looking for some kind of weapon, anything to defend herself with. And there was Matthew – everywhere was Matthew: kicking her assailant to the ground, fending off Philip’s sword, swinging round to punch Walter, grinding an elbow into yet another man, and all the while he was yelling out commands to his sons and Thomas.
Like a deadly whirlwind was Matthew Graham, and beware to anyone coming between him and the man he was screaming at, spittle flying in the air as he advanced, step by step, towards Philip, a Philip who seemed surprisingly taken aback, retreating towards the woods. Matthew lunged, Philip fell back, using a stout branch to defend himself. Again, and Philip took yet another step backwards. Alex intercepted a swift glance between the Burley brothers, and she didn’t like the smirk on Philip’s face. Matthew charged, Philip turned and fled with a triumphant Matthew at his heels.
“No…” Alex croaked. A dull crack, and Matthew staggered, a giant of a man appearing from where he’d been hiding, brandishing a cudgel. Walter Burley whooped, doing a few dance steps. Alex didn’t stop to think. She launched herself at him, landing knees first on his chest. There was a whoosh when the air was expelled from his body, and then he went limp.
She picked up Walter’s pistol from where he’d dropped it and
turned to find her husband locked in a fight with two men, while Thomas, his man and her sons were kept at bay by seven. Philip Burley yelled when Matthew succeeded in sinking his dirk into his right arm. For an instant, it seemed as if Matthew was about to tear himself free from the unknown huge man, but there was Philip, whacking Matthew over the head again. Matthew’s knees buckled under him and Alex fired into the air.
“I’ll cut his throat!” she screamed, holding Walter’s lolling head by his hair. “I’ll do it now!” Her hand was shaking so badly she at first couldn’t get to her knife through the side slit of her skirt, but then her fingers closed on the familiar handle and she pulled it free.
“Let him go!” Philip Burley glared at her. “Let go of him, you fool of a woman, or I’ll gut your husband like a pig.”
Matthew tottered, blood running in miniature rivulets over the left side of his face.
“An impasse, it would seem,” Alex said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “You let my husband go, and I’ll let your brother live. For now.” She increased the pressure of her blade on Walter’s skin, making him gargle.
Philip sneered and glanced down at his bleeding arm. “You stand no chance, Mrs Graham. We are ten to your six.”
“Seven,” someone said. A shot rang out, and the large man helping Philip to hold Matthew dropped like a stone to the ground, shot through his back. “And now you are but nine.”
Burley’s men shifted, trying to find the sharpshooter. Thomas’ hand flew out and one of the men fell to his knees, gripping at the hilt of a knife that stuck out from his thigh. A collective muttering ran through the six men left standing, their eyes sliding towards the relative safety of the woods. Alex’s hand was slick on the handle of her knife and, to compensate, she tightened her hold on Walter’s hair, pulling so hard the man squealed.
Philip scowled: at Matthew, at Alex, and at the woods. With a swift movement, he levelled a pistol at Matthew’s head.
“If any more of my men are hurt, I’ll kill him,” he shouted, scanning the surrounding trees. He jerked his head in the direction of the forest, and his men helped their wounded comrade to stand, closing ranks around him. Ian and Daniel closed in on Philip, who was dragging Matthew with him as a shield.
“My brother,” he said to Alex. “Release my brother, and I’ll release your husband.”
Ian raised his musket and aimed it at Walter.
“Do as he says, Mama. And if Da isn’t released before the count of three, then Walter Burley is no more.”
Walter’s breath came in loud hisses, his pulse leaping erratically against her hand. At less than ten feet, Ian would never miss. Daniel aimed his weapon at Philip.
“Nor is Philip Burley,” he vowed, but the barrel trembled a bit too much.
Alex let go of Walter’s hair and stepped back, watching as he lurched to his feet. At least one broken rib and, if she was lucky, maybe two or three. Walter Burley wheezed, wrapping his arms hard around his midriff.
He lifted strange light eyes to Alex. “You’ll pay,” he spat through colourless lips.
“You can always try, and next time I’ll squash your balls instead.” It took a superhuman effort to retain eye contact with those eerie grey eyes, but she did, stiffening her spine with resolve.
“One,” Ian counted. “Two…” Matthew was pushed to land at Daniel’s feet, and Ian swung the muzzle of his musket towards Philip and the band of renegades. “Three,” he said and fired, as did Daniel.
For More...
For a Historical Note and more information about Matthew and Alex, please visit Anna Belfrage’s website at www.annabelfrage.com
Copyright Notice
Published in 2014 by the author
using SilverWood Books Empowered Publishing®
Second Edition
SilverWood Books
30 Queen Charlotte Street, Bristol, BS1 4HJ
www.silverwoodbooks.co.uk
Copyright © Anna Belfrage 2014
The right of Anna Belfrage to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the copyright holder.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-78132-173-7 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-78132-174-4 (ebook)
Serpents in the Garden (The Graham Saga) Page 39
