“But surely…” Joan shook her head after listening to Alex’ brief recap. “You can’t mean that. God is always right.”
“Really? To me it seems he’s either very blind or extremely uncaring.” She was seriously mad at God; horrible, white bearded man to sit there among his angels in eternal paradise and let the little people die for him. Alternatively, of course, God wasn’t a Presbyterian and had no great fondness for them. Joan looked aghast when Alex voiced this out loud.
“Well you don’t know, do you? He might be Catholic, you know. As far as I know all Christians were Catholic for the first 1500 years after Jesus, so heaven should be littered with them. Or,” she added, unable to resist it, “God is Jewish. Yes, that probably makes the most sense. The Jews are his chosen people, and it was to them that he first spoke.”
Joan had gone pale; without a further word she walked off.
“Oh dear,” Alex muttered, “no sense of humour whatsoever.”
“You forget that they were raised very strictly,” Simon said, still laughing at the idea of God being Jewish. “To Malcolm, Kirk was something very serious, and his children spent much time with their nose in the Bible and being catechised.”
“And look what fine examples they all turned out,” Alex said caustically. “Especially the baby brother.” She added saffron to the dough she was setting, mixing in honey, raisins and salt. The saffron had cost her far too much, but on seeing it at the apothecary she hadn’t been able to resist it. She covered the dough with a cloth and set it to swell before turning her attentions to the ham.
“It’s difficult to question truths you’ve grown up with,” Simon said, leaning against the kitchen wall. “In the Graham home there was only the one true Kirk, and that was the Kirk of Scotland, legacy of the saintly John Knox.”
“And in your home?”
Simon shrugged. “My father was a lawyer, spent his life with his nose deep in the business of his fellow men. It is somewhat disenchanting, that… My mam was a papist, a Highland lass.” He chuckled. “She only agreed to me being raised in the Kirk on account of it helping Da in his business to be seen as a firm Presbyterian. But in secret she taught me both my rosary and all about the saints. ” He inspected a wrinkled apple before biting into it. “Da knew, but didn’t disapprove. It was his opinion that an open mind was a valuable asset – in religion as much as in other things. Not that he said that out loud, or I wouldn’t have been allowed anywhere near Joan Graham.”
“It’s all so incomprehensible to me, I feel entirely out of context.” She heaved herself up to sit on the table, dangling her legs. “I’m not even sure…” She shook her head. “ There are days when I’m not sure God exists at all.”
“Aye, I have such days too. But best not mention them to Joan.”
Alex laughed and slid back down onto the floor. “I won’t.”
“Not now, not this close to Christmas,” Alex said next day, looking out through the door at the three riders in the yard.
“Apparently. You stay here,” Matthew said, lifting his hand to her cheek. “I’ll be right back. Simon, Ian, come with me, aye?”
Together the brothers-in-law went out into the frost covered yard, with Ian hurrying after them. Joan came to stand behind Alex. It was a grim conversation, with Matthew shaking his head repeatedly. Simon took a step forward, hands in a placatory gesture, and after some minutes the lieutenant drove his horse round in a tight circle, crossed the yard in the opposite direction of the one he had come, and set his mount towards the moor, his two men falling in behind him.
“Now what?” Alex asked once they were all inside again.
Simon rolled his eyes. “They’re but making the rounds, wishing us all Christmas cheer.”
“We were advised to stay at home over the coming days,” Matthew said in an irritated tone. “And we were reminded yet again as to the dangers of supporting confirmed outlaws or attending any unlawful assemblies.” He looked worried. “They’re after Sandy, a novel sort of fox hunting. ”
“Will they find him?” Joan asked, sounding just as worried.
“Not without dogs and much luck, and Sandy is no fool. He’ll have the wits to lie still.” He met Alex’ eyes and sat down to finish his interrupted breakfast.
“You’re more concerned than you let on,” Alex remarked several hours later.
“I am.” He threw a look out of the window at the fading light of the December day. “He isn’t well, and these last few days of icy weather have left him in bad shape. If he has to run…” Matthew shook himself. “Only one way to go; he’ll have to go into the river.”
“Let’s hope the soldiers follow their own advice and stay home, busy stuffing their goose,” Alex said, “and then let’s hope they get really, really drunk – all of them – so that they leave us in peace for some days.”
Matthew tried to smile; it didn’t work very well.
Four young faces to kiss good night, one baby to feed and tuck into his cradle and then she slipped into bed to wait for Matthew. She could hear his voice, a dark murmur from below interspaced by Simon’s higher range and occasional bursts of laughter. It made her feel safe, to lie half-asleep in her bed and hear the man she belonged with. Her man, her Matthew… she stretched out her hand to caress his pillow.
“Dear God, hold him in your hand and keep him safe,” she prayed. She laughed at herself. “I know, I know. First I say I’m not sure you even exist and then I ask you for a favour. But if not for me, then for him, God. Because he’s a good man and does his best – he always does his best.” She curled onto her side, Matthew’s pillow in her arms.
He wasn’t sure she ever woke properly. He wasn’t sure if he himself was awake, but he had a clear memory of bidding Simon a somewhat unsteady good night and coming into his bedroom to find his wife sleeping, his pillow held to her chest. After that it was all very fuzzy, but his cock had somehow found its way inside of her, and she was moving against him, but he could swear she was still asleep, and he was in a whisky powered dream, anchored to reality only by her body, and the warmth of her around his standing cock.
“I love you,” he whispered into her hair. “I love you so very much, my bonny Alex.” Easier to say when she couldn’t hear it, and he mumbled it over and over again, his long body folding itself round her to keep her safe and to make sure she never, ever left him. “My Alex,” he murmured, slipping his hand in under the pillow to cup her breasts. She grunted something unintelligible, but he thought he could make out his name. My own miracle, he thought dizzily, my gift from God.
“You could have woken me,” Alex sounded disapproving, but the smile lurking at the corner of her mouth destroyed the effect. Matthew yawned and stretched.
“You’re more biddable when you’re asleep. I can do all I desire with you then.” He kissed her on the cheek.
She wrinkled her nose. “Ugh! What did you do? Finish a whole cask of whisky on your own?”
“Nay,” he sat up far too fast and squinted at the sudden headache that shot up from the base of his skull. “Simon helped.”
“Oh dear,” Alex grinned, “I can see a major hangover coming on.”
Matthew slumped back in bed with a groan, covering his eyes with his arm.
“You sleep, and I’ll make you some breakfast.”
His stomach cramped at the thought of food. “Nay, I’ll just sleep.”
“Simon as well?” Alex asked Joan, who just shook her head.
“Those two and a quart, and you never know how they’ll end up. They must have sat up through most of the night.” She kissed Lucy on the top of her head and set her down, watching with maternal pride how her daughter hurried over to Ian.
“Thank you, Ian,” Joan said, “I don’t know how we manage without you in Edinburgh.”
“Do you like it? Living there?” Alex asked.
Joan made a noncommittal sound, pulled back her hair into a messy knot and secured it with her hairpins.
“Well enough. Si
mon has plenty of work and I’ve found someone who may be able to help me with Lucy. A woman of our age, deaf since childhood.” She kneeled down to help Ian adjust Lucy’s clothing. “Go on, off with you both. And the dog.”
Ian took Lucy by the hand and led her off in the direction of the stables to go and feed the pigs, with Rachel skipping beside them, rosy with excitement.
“She has a thing about the pigs,” Alex sighed, smiling at the exuberance of her daughter. “She’s even managed to teach one of the piglets to sit.” She slid her eyes over in the direction of the pantry and the waiting Christmas ham. “Not that it helped him much,” she murmured tongue-in-cheek, making Joan burst out in laughter.
Alex broke off a piece of the saffron bread, planning the day as she munched. Christmas celebration in the Graham home was mostly for her benefit, as the Scottish Kirk tended to frown on excessive celebration of this holiday. Over the years Matthew and she had developed a compromise version of the festivities, with him insisting that the reading of the Scriptures had to be the focal part of the day while agreeing to a full out Christmas feast – even if he drew the line at presents. Alex made a mental list of the foodstuffs she needed to put the final touches to, starting with the minced meat pies.
Beside her Joan stiffened, looking at her with a small crease between her brows.
“Do you hear that?”
Alex listened; a faint baying sound that made the hairs on her arms stand at attention.
“Dogs,” she said, “they’ve brought dogs onto the moss.”
When Alex entered the bedchamber Matthew was already up, dressing with haste. Down the stairs, out the door and up towards the moor, with Alex at his heels. He fumbled with his belt as he went, adjusting his scabbard and sword.
“Someone is feeding them information,” Alex said, half running to keep up with him.
“Feeding them what?” He rushed up the last slope and stood panting on the flat hill top, scanning the frozen surroundings, every thicket, every stunted stand of trees as if he hoped to see Sandy pop up from behind them. The sound of the dogs was louder up here, and even if Alex couldn’t see them, she could imagine them. Large and heavy, the mastiffs weren’t fast, but thorough.
“Look at the size of this,” she went on, waving her arms at the vast, open landscape. “And still they know to look here, on the corner abutting not only Hillview but also, more or less, the waters. He could be anywhere, and yet they keep on coming back to here – to these few square miles.”
Matthew pursed his mouth, dark brows coming down to form one very straight line of anger over eyes that had gone quite cold.
“And someone told the soldiers about that failed ambush. They knew. That’s why what’s his name, Oliver, warned you. So who?”
“I don’t know, but I aim to find out, aye?” They stood for a long time in the gusting, icy wind scanning the moss, but apart from the far off baying of the dogs they heard nothing and saw nothing – nothing at all.
Chapter 23
“I have to go and look for him,” Matthew whispered to Alex, bending down to kiss her brow.
“Now?” Alex blinked at him, a vague shape in the dark.
“I had a dream, and I have to go and see him safe.”
Alex scooted up to sit, shivering when the quilt fell off her shoulders, baring her arms to the cold night air.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
Matthew shook his head; he would cover ground much faster without her.
“Sleep, I’ll be back before dawn.”
“Sleep he says,” she grumbled, lying back down as he tucked her in. “Sleep while your husband goes gallivanting in the dark the night before Christmas.”
“Before dawn,” he promised, and kissed her again.
Alex slept off and on, relaxing fully only when Matthew reappeared in the grey hours of the night. He dropped sodden clothes in a heap before he clambered into bed beside her, making her yelp at his touch.
“Matthew Graham, if you don’t take your ice cold feet away from my legs I might do you some grave bodily harm, involving my knitting needle and your eye.”
“Oh, aye?” He pulled her shift out of the way to warm his hands on her arse.
“Matthew!”
“I’m cold, woman, do something about it.”
“Huh,” she muttered, but pulled him as close as he could get. “Was he okay?”
Matthew yawned and mumbled something unintelligible that she took for a yes.
It took half the morning before Alex understood they had a new houseguest, hidden up in the attic.
“You tell her, your sister, before you tell me?” she barked at Matthew, so angry she could barely speak coherently.
“He needs help,” Matthew said. “Joan can look after him.”
Alex gave him a look that should have reduced him to a heap of smouldering ashes, pushed by him and stalked up to the attic to examine Sandy Peden. He looked awful, cheeks sunk into grey hollows, eyelids a dark purple. His breath came in long, unsteady rasps, and even now, after hours under quilts he was shivering. His leg was bandaged, but there was blood seeping through in places, indicating that the gash was not only long but also very deep.
“Not in our home,” Alex said, turning to face Matthew. “You promised.”
“He’s hurt and ailing.”
“I can see that, but you promised. And even worse, you didn’t tell me.”
“I couldn’t leave him to lie like this on the moss! He’d be dead by morning.”
Alex studied the pale man in silence. Maybe that would have been for the best, she thought uncharitably, feeling ashamed of herself.
“One night, that’s all.”
“He needs care,” Matthew said. “We must help him.”
“Two nights, no more,” Alex compromised. She ducked beneath his arm and escaped down the stairs.
Joan bustled about, her cheeks bright with excitement as she carried up food, bandages and clothes to the hidden minister, in full view of the curious children.
“Irresponsible!” Alex said to Simon. “Do they expect children this small to hold their tongues?” She glared in the direction of her husband to whom she wasn’t talking and stalked off, tagged by Rachel, who in a loud voice asked why Aunt Joan was in the attic and could she please go there too?
“Rachel, lass,” Matthew’s voice stopped his daughter. “Come here, I must talk to you, aye?”
“Yeah,” Alex muttered under her breath. “Take the time to explain to her what you didn’t bother to explain to me, you jerk.” Matthew seemed to have heard, because she could feel his eyes burning into her back. Well she didn’t care; she busied herself with preparing the Christmas dinner, keeping up a cheerful conversation with Simon and the children while cold shouldering Matthew completely.
Late that afternoon Alex took the tray up to Sandy, ignoring Joan’s protests along the lines that this was her task. She set it down on a stool and concentrated on the nasty leg wound, making Sandy hiss when she prodded and re-bandaged the wound. It looked clean enough, so likely it would heal with time. The cough however… she rocked back on her heels and studied him, her inspection being returned like for like from watery, grey eyes.
“I know you don’t like it,” Sandy croaked, groping for his handkerchief. “And I wish I had no need to importune you thus.” He smiled weakly. “But I do, lass. I’m not ready to die yet. Too much left to do.” He closed his eyes, colourless lashes fluttering against his pale cheeks.
“Yes, I suppose being a cocklebur up the English arse is something of a vocation,” Alex said, making Sandy laugh.
“I hear you think God is Catholic,” Sandy said between coughs.
Alex raised a brow. “Discussing me with Joan? Or is it perhaps Matthew, looking for guidance on how to handle his difficult wife?” From the way Matthew squirmed, she had her answer. “It would’ve been better to talk directly to me, don’t you think?” she said, before turning her back on him in a dismissive gesture.
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br /> “To answer your question, what I said was that he might be – just as he might be Jewish or Anglican. My point being that we don’t know to what, if any, church he subscribes. It would be presumptuous to assume he’s Presbyterian, given that the largest mass of Christianity is in fact Catholic.”
Sandy struggled to sit. He fixed her with a stern look, the overall impression ruined by his running nose and red, puffy eyes.
“You can’t say such. It’s blasphemy.”
“Not to the pope,” she retorted. “To the pope it’s a God given truth.”
Sandy gasped. “The pope? He heads a church that has lost itself in idolatry, more concerned about trappings and riches than spiritual devotion.” And, he added, she shouldn’t forget that the Catholic Church was an instrument in their persecution, as was the Church of England.
Alex shrugged. “Not so long ago it was the Kirk of Scotland that was doing the persecution in the name of God.” She ignored Matthew’s muffled objection, keeping her eyes on Sandy.
“Not me,” Sandy said.
“No? So you’ve never spoken out against the fiendish popish practices?”
Sandy twisted away from the look in her eyes. “We must hold to the true faith.”
“That’s what they say as well, and who’s to know who’s right and who’s wrong?”
“Surely you don’t mean that,” Sandy spluttered. “You must bring your wife to her senses, Matthew. She’s wilful, and speaks of things she has no understanding of.”
“I’m sitting right beside you, so kindly address yourself to me, not him,” she said.
Sandy sneezed, folding together as yet another coughing fit racked him. He waved away Matthew’s hand, taking a few gulping breaths before facing Alex.
“You think too much,” he wheezed. “That’s unseemly in a woman. You should trust your husband’s counsel on all matters spiritual and then perhaps you may hope.”
“Hope for what? A place in heaven ruled by a bigoted God? No thanks.”
The Prodigal Son Page 22
