Howard looked down at the little headstone and extracted a small silver cross from his pocket.
“May I?” he asked.
“Aye.”
Howard kneeled, dug a small hole and buried the cross, reciting a prayer in a low voice.
Matthew laughed ruefully. “Safeguarded; whether Catholic or Presbyterian, God is sure to receive her in his heaven now.”
Howard straightened up to stand beside him. “All children go to heaven, of course they do.”
“I hope so,” Matthew said.
It was late evening of the same day and Matthew stood in the pasture, examining the breeding mare.
“Any day, lass,” he said, stroking the bulging side. The horse nickered, pushed a velvet nose into his hand and blew. He found a piece of carrot and offered it to her, slapped her on the broad, brown rump and wandered over to where Ian was currying Salome, the little mare dancing about impatiently, ears laid back flat.
“Stand still.” Matthew grabbed the halter and tugged hard. Salome tried to back away, but came to an obedient halt when she recognised that this man wasn’t about to give in. “Daftie,” Matthew crooned, rubbing the horse between the eyes. Salome stamped with her foreleg.
“Why did you invite him to your table?” Ian asked, keeping his eyes on Salome’s long, white tail.
“He saved my life in Cumnock and at heart he’s a decent man.”
“He wasn’t back in February,” Ian said, moving over to comb the long mane.
Matthew bent down to inspect the hooves, running his hands over the smooth surface to ensure they were whole.
“He had no intention to kill Rachel,” Matthew finally said.
“Nay, but he wanted very much to kill, or at least harm, you.” Ian came over and leaned against Matthew, resting his cheek against the coarse linen shirt. “If he had, I would’ve killed him,” he said, with such conviction in his voice that it made Matthew shiver.
“Shush,” he said, hugging the lad close.
“I love you, I can’t abide men that wish you harm.” Ian swallowed, taking a big breath. “If my father – uncle – attempts to do you damage I’ll stop him. Somehow I’ll stop him, even if I have to kill him.”
“Nay lad, it will not come to that,” Matthew said, kissing the top of his head.
Ian tilted his head to meet his eyes and nodded gravely. “No, it won’t.” The lad retreated and took a couple of deep breaths. His fingers disappeared down the inside of his breeches, reappearing a few seconds later with a wee pouch. Long fingers shook as they struggled with the knot.
“He’ll never forgive me for this,” Ian whispered, shaking out a small glittering object that he placed in Matthew’s palm. His eyes shimmered with tears and with a strangled sound he went back to his horse.
Matthew brushed a finger over the pretty piece of jewellery resting in his hand. Why had Luke kept it? Ian still had his back to him, narrow shoulders so stiff Matthew suspected he was holding his breath in an effort not to weep. Poor lad – brave lad – it had to tear him to shreds to do this. He patted Ian on the back.
“You’re a son to be proud of,” he said, leaving him to cry in peace.
“You just left him there?” Alex raised her brows and went back to her washing. She scooped up a new handful of fine sand and rubbed it briskly up and down her legs, strong circular motions with special emphasis on the cheeks of her bottom and the top part of her thighs.
Matthew moved closer, took some sand and did the same to her back, noting as he always did how white her skin was. The first time he’d seen her, her body had been a golden brown, all the way from her face to her feet with only some splotches of pale skin over her breasts and privates. It still horrified him to imagine a society where women wandered round in such state of undress before men other than their husbands, and he derived a considerable amount of pleasure from knowing that he was the only man who ever saw her like this, entirely naked.
“He needed to be alone,” he said, retreating to sit on the log. Alex snorted and brought out a piece of soap, lathering herself everywhere before wading out to dive into the water. She swam all the way across before she came up for air, her head sleek like a seal’s.
“I was right then,” she said once she was back within hearing distance. “It was Luke that killed Malcolm.”
“Or Margaret, but that’s an option Ian hasn’t considered.”
She dried herself and came over to sit beside him, uncorking her stone bottle of oil. All of her skin she oiled, with him a silent but appreciative spectator.
“Your turn,” she said once she’d finished. “And I’ll sit and ogle you, shall I?”
Matthew chuckled and shed his clothing, picked up the soap and waded out into the deep.
“Unfair,” Alex called after him. “I stayed where you could see me – all of me.”
“Aye, but I have better self-control,” he teased from out in the water. Obligingly he moved closer, uncovering himself well down to half-thigh.
“Nice,” Alex smiled. “Looks very promising.”
There was a snapping of twigs and Matthew hurriedly backed himself and his half standing cock deeper, while Alex busied herself with the drawstring of her chemise.
“Are you decent?” Simon’s voice carried from the stand of alders that bordered the pool.
“Decent enough,” Alex replied, looking round for her shawl. She mouthed a “later” in the direction of Matthew and stood up.
“There’s a towel for you as well,” she said as she passed Simon. “After all, there are certain tangible benefits to keeping clean.” She evaded the stick he threw in her direction and escaped laughing towards the house.
Last night’s bath seemed rather pointless after a couple of hours in the kitchen garden. Alex regarded her stained hands and arms, grabbed an empty basket and went over to join Joan, busy with the redcurrants.
“So, are things working out?” Alex said, diving further into the bushes to reap the ripe clusters. She felt like some sort of love guru, dispensing one tip after the other as to how one could, well, and… hmm… and sometimes, you know, fingers and… mouth, and why not do this…
“What things?” Joan sounded confused.
“You know, you and Simon.”
“Ah.”
They concentrated on filling their baskets.
“I’m not sure,” Joan said, sitting back on her heels.
“Sure about what?”
“If it’s right,” Joan sighed.
Alex popped her head round the side to stare at her. “Right how? Don’t you like making love?”
Joan went a vivid red. “A man and a woman should lie together to beget children, not for pleasure alone.”
Alex darted back to her side of the bush, mainly to hide her wide, disbelieving grin.
“Your husband has needs,” she said, receiving a grunt in reply, “I assume you have needs. I know for a fact that I’d go nuts if Matthew and I didn’t make love regularly.”
“Well you do,” Joan teased. “Very regularly, it would seem.”
Much more than you can imagine, Alex smiled. Last night had been very good. She stretched, her insides warming in desire at the thought of him.
“But you beget,” Joan said, puncturing Alex’ daydreams.
“Joan!” Alex plunked down beside her. “You can’t – another child would kill you. And still you want to, don’t you?”
Joan muttered that yes, she did.
“So it’s easy; Simon wants to, you want to. And because you can’t become pregnant you have to restrict yourself, be somewhat creative.” Alex grinned at Joan’s deeply embarrassed expression. “I don’t think God minds.”
Joan laughed and threw a handful of berries at her.
“Nay, but then you believe God might be Catholic.”
“Or a woman,” Alex said, ignoring Joan’s loud gasp. “No one knows, do they? The dead never come back to tell us.”
“You shouldn’t say things like that. They mig
ht get you in serious trouble. Should a minister hear you, he would have you whipped.”
“No ministers around,” Alex said, “in fact, I haven’t seen any for years – except in glimpses.”
“Is she right?” Alex asked Matthew as they walked hand in hand up to the bare hilltop in a private celebration of their anniversary. Nine years today since she’d fallen through a gash in time to land unconscious at his feet, on the tenth of August 1658.
“Would they have whipped me?” Her back curved when she recalled Lieutenant Gower and his whip.
“They might have tried, but I wouldn’t allow any man to bear hand on my wife.”
No, because if they do you kill them, she gulped.
“Not even a minister of your Kirk?”
“Not even Sandy Peden himself.” He smiled at her, braiding his fingers with hers. “Mind you, he’d never resort to something as crude as a whipping. No, wee Sandy would talk you to your senses – or your imminent death, whichever came first.”
They reached the top and stood looking down at their home, long afternoon shadows playing over meadows and fields, patterning the orchard and the cobbled yard between the house and stable. The sheaves on the harvested fields stood in neat rows, even from here they could make out the trundling cart that was bringing in the last load for the day, the voices of the men carrying in the still evening air.
“Do you ever wish yourself back?” he asked her, drawing her to stand in front of him. He slid his hands around her waist, resting them on their unborn child.
“No,” she shook her head. “How can I? But sometimes I’m very frightened, because life is so much frailer here than it is there, in the future.”
“You’ll live for many years more,” he said, digging his chin into her head. He increased the pressure of his hands on her body, making her smile wryly. Soon she would be thirty-five, and in front of her stretched several years of fertility and thereby, per definition, more pregnancies. Not an entirely pleasant thought, but there wasn’t very much she could do about it unless she planned on restricting their sexual encounters, something both she and Matthew would fail dismally at.
She turned his question around in her head. She rarely thought about her future life and with a twinge of conscience she recognised she even loved Ian more than she loved Isaac, her son in the future, because Ian was here and now, while Isaac had faded to be a vague presence in her head. But she would have loved to see them again, to sit and laugh with Magnus in his kitchen, to hold Isaac in her arms.
“I miss books,” she said, “books and newspapers, to know what’s happening in the world.”
“Books?” He blew her in the ear. “But you haven’t even managed to finish the Bible yet.”
“Yes I have – almost,” she protested.
He just laughed.
“I’m going to Cumnock tomorrow,” Matthew informed her on the way back. “I’ve decided to visit Oliver.”
“Why? He doesn’t deserve you to.” In Alex’ opinion Oliver Wyndham was getting off far too easily by being hanged; he should have been transported somewhere to spend whatever remained of his life in permanent servitude.
“Nay he doesn’t, but I can’t erase the memory of him as he once was, wild and passionate and so full of hope for this new country we were helping build, a country governed by free men.” He sounded nostalgic, and Alex squeezed his hand.
“Someday,” she promised.
“Aye, but not in my time.”
Chapter 36
“Very nice,” Alex said, making Matthew twirl one more time. He complied, thinking he looked quite the gentleman in his dark blue coat with black and purple embroideries on pockets and cuffs; square lace collar, narrow breeches in matching blue and sober dark silk stockings – all of it proclaiming him to be a man of worth.
Joan peered at the stitching and pursed her mouth. “You’re an excellent seamstress, this embroidery work is exquisite.”
Alex made a depreciating sound. “I enjoy it, and I had a good teacher, right?”
Joan smiled and went over to help Simon with his coat, fussily arranging his collar to lie flat across his front. She frowned, wet her finger and rubbed off a stain on one of the pewter buttons and stood back to nod.
“You look right fine, the both of you.”
The women trailed Matthew and Simon out into the yard, and stood waving after them as they set off. They were going to remain overnight in Cumnock, staying to witness the execution of Wyndham tomorrow, planned to coincide with a market day.
“Why does he want to see you, do you think?” Simon asked.
“I have no idea. Remorse? A last minute need to ask for forgiveness? A need to explain?” Matthew wasn’t looking forward to seeing Oliver, but felt somehow obliged. “I wonder what it will have done to him to spend a month in the holding cells. I suppose they must have kept him separated from the rest – he’d find very few friends among the other inmates.”
It sufficed with one look at Oliver to see that he had not been afforded the privilege of separate accommodation. Now, on the eve of his execution, he had been accorded the right to a bath and a shave so as to meet his end in style and he received Matthew in the small, confined space that was to be the last room he ever slept in. Along one side was a straw filled pallet, the only piece of furniture in the cell except for the stool he offered Matthew.
“I’ll stand,” Matthew said. He was uncomfortable being here and had not liked the avid interest in the face of the guard who’d let him in. Something was afoot, and after a quick perusal of the little room, Matthew decided to go very canny. There was something awry in the wainscoting, a slight misalignment that had him suspecting this interview was being monitored.
“Suit yourself.” Oliver sat down.
“What happened to your arm?” Matthew asked, indicating the limb Oliver was cradling.
Oliver raised red-rimmed eyes in his direction. “It broke – arms do that when they’re bent the wrong way.”
Aye, they did, and it was right painful, he’d assume.
“Why did you want to see me?” Matthew leaned back against the wall. Oliver didn’t reply, studying Matthew intently. The coat, the white lace at collar and cuff, the well-polished shoes and even the hat, black and discreetly decorated with a dark blue band, were scrutinised.
“One could think you were going to a wedding, not a hanging,” Oliver said, attempting a laugh.
“A festive occasion in any case,” Matthew retorted with an edge.
Oliver yanked at his shirt and muttered something about everything being too big. Matthew looked him over; his former friend had shrunk, and the well-tailored coat hung like sacking on his bony shoulders.
“It must be easy,” Oliver said. “To live in such assurance that you lead a righteous life.”
“Assurance? Nay, Oliver, not that. But I try.”
Oliver laughed hoarsely. “Try? To you the world was always very much black and white. Some things were right, others wrong, and there was never any doubt as to what was what. To most of us life is a jumble of grey, an endless succession of compromises between ideals we once strived for and the sordidness of reality.”
“It’s grey for me too, but there are some things I’d never do. Betray a former friend, for example, or kill a defenceless farmer and his wife.” He spat to the side.
“So you have never killed wrongfully?” Oliver laughed in disbelief. “And the lieutenant you strung up in the crossroads oak?”
Matthew looked at him, shaking his head from side to side – a far too obvious trap.
“Aye, I’ve killed, and mayhap sometimes wrongfully, but it was done in battle, at war.” Which neatly covered the lieutenant and the two soldiers on the fell as well.
“And the night you blew up the munitions shed?” Oliver demanded. “What then? You could have killed hundreds of men!”
“Not me; I was ill at the time,” Matthew said, “with smallpox.”
“From which you recuperated in a miracul
ously short time, with not one mark on you,” Oliver said with heavy sarcasm.
“I prayed and God listened,” Matthew said.
“Yes, I suppose you think he always listens to you – to you and your good friend Sandy Peden.” Oliver sat forward, glaring at him.
“Not always, no. If he did, Tom Brown wouldn’t be dead.”
“Oh, no? And how would you have dealt with him, informer that he was?”
“Informer? Tom?” Matthew was quite satisfied with how surprised he sounded.
Oliver gave him a long look, slumped and stared down at his right hand, turning it this way and that.
“I had to,” he said. “I stood to lose everything unless I… Oh God, and now my son, my Francis…” He threw a beseeching look at Matthew. “You understand, don’t you?”
“And my children? My wife? My life?”
“Your life?” A spark of the old Oliver flashed over his face. “Don’t give me that. You’re guilty as sin when it comes to helping the damned preachers and we both know it. Admit it, man, you’ve been helping them all along.”
“I have?” Matthew raised his brows.
The animation left Olive as quickly as it had surged. “Will you be there tomorrow?”
Matthew sighed deeply.
“Please?” Oliver said. “There’s no one else up here that knew me as I once was, is there?” He gave Matthew a quick look, mouth twisting into a little smile. “I dare say you’ve regretted it often lately, the night you pulled me out of the fire all those years ago.”
“Aye, there have been such moments,” Matthew said, “but at the time…”
“You couldn’t have acted differently. I know. And had it been you that had been thrown into the blaze, I’d have saved you.”
“Aye,” Matthew nodded, and for an instant they shared a genuine smile.
“So many years ago,” Oliver sighed. “So will you? Be there tomorrow?”
“I’ll be there.”
Oliver just nodded. He pressed a hand to his belly, grimaced. “Go,” he said, “and if you find it in you, I suspect my soul could do with a prayer or two.”
The Prodigal Son Page 33
