“And since then, have you seen him?”
“Minister Crombie left the parish in late 1660, bound for Edinburgh.” Minister Crombie nodded in silent agreement. “Since then I haven’t seen him except for a brief visit in 1663, and I must say it worries me to see him in such state of ill health.” As if on cue the minister coughed, a heavy sound that resulted in him hawking and spitting a huge globule of phlegm.
“Consumption,” the captain diagnosed.
“Aye,” the minister said. A slight gleam flashed through his sunken eyes. “If I’m fortunate it will mean I die here, before I am deported.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” the officer replied laconically. “It takes a long time to cough your lungs to pieces.”
Alex sent a darting glance around the yard. She’d sent Mark off the moment she saw the soldiers, and hoped he’d managed to find and warn his father before he set off in the direction of this day’s hillside sermon, because something told her he would be walking straight into a trap.
The last few weeks had seen a flurry of arrests, some ending only in a beating, most resulting in fines and two in imprisonment. Behind her Daniel decided it was time for second breakfast and began to wail, a loud, insistent noise that had Alex crossing her arms to hide the fact that her breasts had begun to leak.
“By all means, take care of the child,” Captain Howard said, dismounting to retrieve his prisoner. “We’ll wait for your husband.”
It was a long wait. Over the coming hours Alex grew increasingly nervous, and it didn’t help to have the captain hovering around her like an enervating fly, his dark eyes registering her every emotion. With a superhuman effort Alex succeeded in looking mostly bland, allowing this to change into mild irritation as the day wore on, with muttered comments as to the inconsiderate nature of men in general and her husband in particular. All the time her heart was hammering inside her chest, her guts liquefying at the thought that Mark had been too late. Well; he obviously had, and Alex was torn with the double worries for her husband and her son.
“Where is he?” Captain Howard demanded.
“I don’t know, he usually takes Mark for long walks on Sundays. Maybe they’re fishing or hunting.”
“Hmph!” Captain Howard expressed, before striding outside to talk to the messenger that came galloping down the lane.
“Where is he?” the minister asked in a low voice.
“I have no idea, he was supposed to go to the meeting, and…” She bit down on her lip, thinking that she couldn’t start to cry because if she did she wouldn’t be able to stop.
“He’ll be fine,” Minister Crombie said, patting her hand.
“You think?” Any further conversation was interrupted by the captain, who entered the kitchen with a satisfied expression on his face.
“Quite a few arrests today, I hear.”
“Really?” Alex asked, going for unconcerned. But her voice betrayed her, sounding strangely cracked. For an instant she saw something akin to compassion in the officer’s eyes, and she averted her face, mumbling something about having to feed the baby.
A trap. Sweetest Lord, the ground sprouted soldiers, and all around him people screamed, running this way and that like befuddled hens. A company of mounted dragoons came charging over a drier patch of ground, swords glinted in the sun, and the screaming that surrounded him intensified. Matthew grabbed hold of Sandy, boosted him over a boulder and vaulted over, landing with a curse in a thicket of brambles.
“We have to go,” he said, struggling to adjust the ridiculous fair hairpiece atop his head.
“Aye, I gather that, but which way, do you think?” Sandy sounded controlled, but his hands were shaking and his mouth kept on twitching as if he were a cornered rabbit – adequate, all in all, Matthew mused wryly.
Matthew slid in under the brambles to better study the scene in front of him. The soldiers had formed a rough square and were closing in on the remnants of the meeting, swords raised. To the north, the line was straggly, and fleeing brethren and sisters rushed by the angry, shouting soldiers, making for the wetlands beyond. They could stay here, hoping that they wouldn’t be found, but when he saw the dogs Matthew decided that was not a good idea.
“This way,” Matthew said, and with Sandy’s hand in a firm grip he broke cover.
“It’s him! Peden!” There was a loud whistle from somewhere behind them, and the sound of booted feet, many feet, charging after them.
“Run!” Matthew extended his stride, dragging Sandy along. To his right, the soldiers were busy herding together a group of men. The soldiers to his left were too far away to be of any concern, and Matthew set his sights on a threesome of soldiers standing somewhat to the side. He brandished his sword, roared, and Sandy roared with him. The soldiers fell back, one of them tugged at his sword, another stumbled to his knees, and they were past, running deeper and deeper into the moor.
The ground squelched under his feet, gorse snagged at his coat, his breeches, and with Sandy like a fetter he darted this way and that, leaping over crevices, ducking under stunted trees, running, always running, despite the taste of blood in his mouth, despite the ragged sound of Sandy’s breathing. Not get caught; you must not be apprehended, Matthew Graham, because if they catch you… Oh dear Lord, what will happen to Alex, his bairns?
A shout, yet another whistle, and out of the corner of his eye Matthew saw two men coming in pursuit, double mounted on a long-legged, ugly piebald.
“Over here!” Sandy tugged at Matthew, and they were on a patch of sloping ground, making for a stand of stunted trees. The ground was too dry. Lord in heaven, the horse was gaining on them! Sandy slipped, skidded for a few yards, and by the time they reached the trees the soldiers were upon them.
Sandy disappeared in a welter of limbs and garments, Matthew made a desperate attempt to rush to his aid, but was blocked by one of the soldiers, sword at the ready.
“Sit on him,” the soldier called over his shoulder to his companion. “Keep him still until I’ve dispatched this one.”
“Not quite as simple as you hope, I reckon,” Matthew said.
“Ah, no?” The soldier lunged, Matthew parried. Lunge, parry, lunge, lunge, and Matthew’s side burst open with pain. Keep your guard up, look him in the eye, aye? The soldier was an expert swordsman, but so was Matthew, for all that he was somewhat rusty. A misleading thrust to the right, two steps to the left and Matthew brought his blade down on his opponent’s swords arm. The soldier slowed, eyes huge as he stared down at where his hand should be. Matthew muttered a hasty prayer and drove his sword into the uncovered throat. With a loud wheeze the man died.
Matthew staggered towards Sandy. The soldier lad sitting on him – aye, it was a lad, not a man – raised a white, terrified face to Matthew.
“I…” he began, trying to get to his feet. He never got any further.
Matthew’s arm was shaking, blood running in rivulets over his hand and into his sleeve. A few feet away Sandy had managed to get to his knees, smoothing at his coat, his hair, his coat again.
“A lad,” Matthew groaned.
“You couldn’t do differently,” Sandy said. “To let him live was to risk being arrested.”
Matthew nodded and wiped his sword blade against the grass. So much blood… He slid a look at the dead lad. He’d never killed a mere child before, and his stomach churned.
“You’re bleeding,” Sandy said.
“Aye. The other one was quite the swordsman, and he got me in the side.” He straightened up, squinting in the direction they’d come. He frowned; more horses, still a way off, but it was a matter of minutes before they came close enough to see them.
“Let me see,” Sandy said.
“Not now. We have to get out of here.” He sheathed the sword, helped Sandy back up on his feet. “And you?”
“None too bad, I have but twisted my ankle.”
Matthew lugged Sandy over the rougher patches, choosing a track that led them deeper into the decept
ive flatness of the moor. It was well into the afternoon when they made their way down towards the Lugar Waters.
“Someone betrayed us,” Matthew said.
“Aye; it’s the prize money – tempting if you’re poor.” Sandy stiffened, eyes on a minute speck or two on the horizon that were growing rapidly. “More soldiers.”
They plunged into the river, waded through the shallows and swam towards the deep green of the further bank. Trees and thickets hung over the edge, creating adequate cover for a man or two, but the water was cold and the air in their little hiding place buzzed with hungry insects. For the better part of an hour they remained there while the horsed dragoons rode back and forth on the opposite shore, obviously nervous and irritated.
“Are they looking for us, do you think?” Sandy whispered.
“For you.” Matthew’s side hurt, and the makeshift bandage he’d applied earlier had slipped.
An hour or so before sunset Matthew was back at Hillview. He was tired, weakened after a whole day on the run, and it didn’t much help that the wound along his flank had opened again, bleeding into his shirt and coat. He was almost off the hill when from behind a bush Mark appeared.
“Son?” Matthew drew to a surprised stop. His son was dirty and dishevelled, and from the puffy look of his face he’d been crying. “What are you doing here?”
“Mama sent me to find you,” Mark said, beginning to cry again. “But I couldn’t, you were already gone, and I didn’t dare to go back down, and there are soldiers waiting in the yard and…”
“Shush, lad,” Matthew said, wiping at his son’s eyes and cheeks. “I’m here now. It’ll be alright.”
Alex slumped with relief when a dripping Mark appeared from under the trees, holding his father by the hand. She tightened her grasp on Daniel, who let out a muffled squawk, releasing his hold on her breast to look at her reproachfully out of eyes as blue as hers.
“Sorry,” she kissed him. “Now go on, finish up.” There was something wrong with how Matthew was moving, a stiffness to his gait, however well-disguised. She adjusted her clothing, handed Daniel to Sarah, and rushed out of the door, ignoring the surprised and rather disapproving looks from the assembled soldiers as she flew towards her man.
“Where have you been?” she scolded, eyes flying up and down his body to see where he was hurt.
“Fishing, up beyond the millrun.”
“Aye,” Mark nodded, “all day.” He dropped the rods they must have borrowed from the miller to the ground.
“And the fish?” Captain Howard asked from behind Alex.
“No luck,” Matthew shrugged.
“Ah,” the captain said, taking in the sword that hung from Matthew’s belt, the dirk, the wet clothes. “You fell in?”
“I did,” Mark said, “and Da had to jump in after me.”
“Ah,” the captain repeated, looking unconvinced.
“Go on, get inside and change your clothes,” Alex said to Mark. “And you,” she added to Matthew, “you’re wet all through!” She’d found the wound by now, could see the tell-tale stain on the right side of his coat. “Here.” She unwrapped her shawl and swept it around him. As if by chance she stepped up close, thereby pressing against his damaged side. His arm came round her shoulders, seemingly an affectionate gesture towards his wife. In reality he was using her as a prop, settling a substantial amount of his weight on her.
“Somewhat excessive,” the captain commented. “To carry a sword for a day of fishing.”
“Uncertain times,” Matthew replied, walking towards the yard. The captain subjected Matthew to a barrage of questions, but Matthew insisted he’d been fishing – all day. He was trembling with the effort of remaining upright, and Alex couldn’t very well go on clinging to him like a limpet for much longer.
“You’re shivering,” she said, interrupting the captain mid-flow.
“Ma’am, I’m conducting an interrogation.”
“Is that what this is? Well, in that case you’ll continue inside so that I can get something hot into my husband. I don’t want him to die of pneumonia or something. Go on then,” she chided, releasing Matthew. “Inside with you, now.” And please, please walk these last few feet without stumbling. She shadowed him, keeping up a creative nagging all the way to the kitchen. “Okay?” she mumbled once he was sitting down.
“No,” he muttered back, “but it’ll keep.” He raised a brow in warning when the captain came through the door, and Alex retreated a pace or two to allow the officer to sit.
A few minutes later the captain gave up. There was nothing to be had from Matthew, who now sat at ease in his kitchen, long legs crossed at the ankles and a mug of hot, sweetened wine in his hand. Captain Howard sat back and glared at Matthew, at Alex, in turn.
“And the minister? What of him?” He jerked his head in the direction of Minister Crombie, who was being manhandled out of the door.
Matthew looked confused. “Minister Crombie? What about him?”
“He’s a friend of yours. And we apprehended him just off your land. Had he been on it, well then…”
“Plenty of men cross my land without my knowing, am I to fence it?” They eyeballed each other in silence over the table. Finally Captain Howard got to his feet, forcing Matthew to do the same and follow him outside.
“What will you do to him?” Matthew said, eyes never leaving the minister.
“He’ll be taken to Edinburgh, and from there he’ll find himself on a ship.” The captain said.
Matthew spat and went over to the horse on which the minister was sitting.
“No,” Alex moaned, eyes on her husband who was talking to Minister Crombie, the older man’s hand clasped hard in his.
“He was formally outlawed a year ago, and he has repeatedly refused to take the oath or to respect the laws of the country. Surely you don’t hold with lawlessness, mistress?” Captain Howard mounted his horse and frowned at Matthew and the minister.
“Not all laws are just or fair,” Alex said.
“I couldn’t agree more, Mrs Graham. Myself, I’m a Catholic, as were my parents and their parents before them. Not so long ago it was them that were persecuted, based on other laws.”
“But then you should know…” Alex pleaded.
A small glimmer of something darted through the dark eyes of the captain.
“I know,” he said, and kicked his horse hard.
No sooner were the soldiers gone than Alex dragged Matthew off to the laundry shed.
“What happened?” she asked, helping him out of shawl, coat and shirt. The shirt was wet with blood, as was the coat, but the wound itself was shallow, a long flesh wound that had done little damage to the underlying muscles or tendons, however much it had bled. Briefly he retold his day, his long mouth settling into a grim line.
“And is Sandy alright?”
He ran a light finger over the stitches up his side. “Well enough, but as for the others…” He scrubbed at his face. “What a terrible, terrible day.”
“Bed,” Alex said.
“Bed,” he agreed.
Next morning Captain Howard was back, mouth compressed so tightly the skin around it was white.
“Two men dead! Two, you hear?”
“Nothing to do with me. I was fishing.”
“Don’t give me that!” The captain crowded Matthew back towards the door. Several inches shorter than Matthew, he was still a burly man. “Someone helped that accursed Peden get away – an uncommonly tall man, as I hear it, a man who slit the throat of a mere lad!”
Matthew hitched his shoulders. “Not me.” Alex heard the slight quaver in his voice, saw how he wiped his right hand against his breeches and knew he was swimming in recriminations.
“Your sword,” Howard said.
“My sword?”
“Yes, Mr Graham. The sword you carried yesterday, on your little fishing excursion.” The captain sent his men inside the house, telling them to look everywhere for the weapon. Ten minutes later one
of them returned, carrying a sword still in its scabbard. The captain took it, closed his fingers around the hilt and tugged. The sword bit into the scabbard and with a loud squeak it pulled free.
“As you can see I haven’t used it much lately,” Matthew said. “I mainly use it as a deterrent.”
The captain inspected the blade. Alex knew for a fact it was clean but dull, with traces of rust and lint along the edges. It clattered when the captain threw it against the floor.
“I know you killed those men – just as you killed Lieutenant Gower.”
“I resent your tone, captain, just as I resent your unsubstantiated accusations. I would have you leave, sir.”
Captain Howard wheeled on his toes.
“I’ll be back, Mr Graham.” A clear threat, his steely voice indicated.
“Aye, you probably will,” Matthew muttered to his back.
Much later, Matthew stowed the sword he’d retrieved from the pigpen in its normal keeping place under a floorboard by his side of the bed.
“What will happen to the ones that were arrested?” Alex asked. More than forty men and women had been taken. She sat down on her stool and let down her hair, hunting about for her brush.
“They’re in breach of the Conventicle Act, apparently the single most important law to uphold in this the realm of Charles II.” He studied her in the candlelight and after some time moved over and took the brush from her, pulling it through her long, curling hair. “The unwed women will be bonded overseas and we both know that means they’ll never return.”
Alex nodded; there was a chronic shortage of women in the colonies.
“The ministers are to be hanged, all five of them.”
She didn’t know what to say. Poor Minister Crombie, although she hoped he might see it as a reprieve to die here – quickly – rather than on a sugar cane field. Matthew’s throat worked, his grip on the brush tightened to the point where his knuckles whitened. She took hold of his hand and pressed it to her cheek.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
He just nodded, eyes bright with unshed tears. He loved Minister Crombie and she could only imagine what it must feel like to know the minister was condemned to die so ignominiously.
The Prodigal Son Page 15
