A Rip in the Veil (22 page)

“Well, that’s what he said, wasn’t it?”

“And you believe him over me?” she hissed, running a hand through her hair so it stood on end.

Matthew pursed his mouth. “I don’t know, I really don’t know.”

“Fine.” She moved over to pack up her few belongings. In less than a minute the roll was tight against her shoulder, and she stood to face him.

“Give it back,” she said extending her hand to him. “Give me back my ring and my other stuff, because you obviously didn’t mean what you said the other day.” She looked a sight; puffy eyes, tear-stained cheeks and pink ears. For an instant, her lower lip wobbled, the corners of her mouth drooping, and he knew she was making an effort not to weep. It made his heart go out to her, this brave lass who was so utterly alone in the world.

“Alex, please Alex, sit down and we can talk this through.”

“Talk what through? That you think my mother is a witch, and per definition perhaps I’m one too?”

“I haven’t said that, of course I don’t think you’re a witch!”

“My ring, and I swear I’ll never bother you again.” She leaned forward and caught his eyes. “And in the future, don’t say things you don’t mean. ‘It’s you and I now’ you said, and then you just disappear for hours on end without caring how that might make me feel. Who knows, maybe Margaret was smart enough to fall for the right brother, the one who actually cares.”

He hadn’t meant to slap her quite that hard, was shocked when she stumbled and fell. He reached down to help her up, she flapped her hands at him, long hiccupping breaths whistling through her open mouth. She shoved at him, struggling to push him away, tried to rake her nails across his face. Without a word, he wrapped his arms round her, gathered her to his chest, and sat down on a nearby rock to hold her on his lap.

“Better?” he asked much later. She nodded, pressing her ear to his shoulder.

“I promise,” he said. “I’ll not do as I did again, leaving you all alone. And I did mean it, all of it.”

“I’m sorry for saying that stuff about Margaret. That was very underhand.”

He kissed her head. “Forgiven, sweetheart. Will you forgive me for slapping you?”

“This time, but if you do it again, I’ll brain you with something.”

He laughed, and after a couple of moments so did she.

“I’m not sure,” she said, keeping her cheek pillowed against the rough weave of his shirt.

“You’re not sure of what?” Matthew looked up at the night sky. It was dark by now, and he could make out the uneven ‘W’ of Cassiopeia straight above.

“If she’s a witch or not; I didn’t tell you the whole story about Ángel.”

“I noticed; do you want to tell me now?”

“She burnt him to death,” she whispered. “She stepped up to him, wrapped her arms around him, and they went up in flames.”

Matthew didn’t know what to say, his throat working uncomfortably.

“She was a good person, so if she’s a witch, she must be a very light shade of white, right?”

“I’m sure she was,” he said, but behind her back his fingers made the sign against the evil eye.

*

He shook her awake in the grey of the predawn, and put a finger to his lips. Matthew moved like a ghost as he packed together their camp, ears straining in the direction of the sound of approaching horses. He took her hand and rushed her down the slope, and a few moments later they were sitting huddled in the midst of a thicket, a blanket drawn over their heads.

He heard the creaking first, and then the soft thud of something heavy hitting the ground. From where he was crouched he could only make out the legs; sixteen legs, four horses. The men sitting on them were silent, no talking, almost no shifting in their saddles. Matthew’s hand tightened on Alex’s at the tell-tale scrape of swords being loosened from their scabbards, and it tightened even more when one of the men laughed.

“Got him,” a voice said, and for an instant Matthew was certain it was him they meant, that any moment now he’d feel a sword ram through his back. But then he heard the screaming and sank back. One of the horses stamped and the party moved further downhill. Still too close for comfort, and Matthew glanced at Alex to make sure she understood she had to keep quiet. She nodded that she did.

It was Sanderson, an enraged Sanderson who protested at how he was being treated and demanded to be taken to a senior officer, not a lieutenant barely out of the nursery. The lieutenant in question was not amused.

“And this is?” he asked one of the soldiers.

“Matthew Graham, sir.”

“How many times must I tell you this?” Sanderson exclaimed, wincing as his swollen leg hit the ground. “I’m not Matthew Graham! I’m Diego Sanderson.” He threw the officer a desperate look. “I think I know where Matthew Graham is, he’s up there, in the dell with the spring in it.”

“Good try,” the officer said, “but we came down that way, and there was no one there.” He scratched at his crotch and then looked at Sanderson again.

“What was it he’d done?” he asked, stifling a yawn.

“He’s a royalist sir, an escaped fugitive at that. He’s a horsethief; he’s stolen money and food on his way north. Most dangerous, quite the hothead; spent a fair bit of time in chains or in the hole. Flogged a couple of times, but mostly cudgel work.”

Matthew’s pulse was racing, a loud thudding behind his ears that he was certain had to be audible to anyone within a furlong’s distance. Alex was trembling beside him, and he didn’t dare to turn his head to look at her, he just braided his fingers hard round hers, just as much for his sake as for hers.

In the clearing the officer had dismounted and was inspecting Sanderson’s leg. He kicked at it, recoiling at the muffled yelp, and stood back to study the closest tree.

“A bit low,” he muttered. “Watson,” he called, waving over one of his men. “Will this do?”

The soldier studied the tree dubiously. “Not that high, sir, and the bough looks weak.”

Sanderson was trying to stand, his eyes darting from the tree to the officer and back again.

“You can’t be serious! I’m telling you, I’m not bloody Matthew Graham!”

“Well you would say that, wouldn’t you?” The officer took off his hat to scratch at his short hair. “Damned lice, I’m crawling with them.” He scratched his groin again and shook one of his legs, making the breeches flare out. “No, it’ll have to do, I’m not going to cart a fugitive in that state all the way back to England. He’d hang anyway.” He pouted and braced his hands behind his back, looking at his men. “Well go on then! We haven’t got all day. We have orders to ride back today and you all know that.”

“But…” said Sanderson, and the officer stalked over to him and slapped him in the face.

“One more word from you, sir, and you’ll die gagged as well.”

“But you can’t!” Sanderson bleated. “I haven’t done anything! I’m innocent!”

The officer snorted. “No man is innocent, and if you hang for the wrong sins then I’m sure you’ve done something to merit hanging. Look at you, ruffian every inch of you.”

When Sanderson opened his mouth to protest, the officer produced a grimy handkerchief from his sleeve and stuffed it into Sanderson’s mouth.

“There.”

A rope was slung over one of the boughs, a struggling Sanderson was hoisted onto a horse, a noose fitted round his neck.

“I’m still not sure, sir,” Watson said, shaking his head. He tightened the noose and slid off the horse. Sanderson shrieked through his gag.

“Dear God,” Matthew whispered. “Oh Lord, have mercy on his soul.” He put his lips to Alex’s ear. “Don’t look, close your eyes.”

“I can’t” she whispered back. “I’ve already tried.”

The officer stood at a distance from the tree and nodded in satisfaction.

“Good. Mayhap it will gladden the Protector’s soul to know that yet another royalist lies dead. One less to worry about now that the Protector is dead.”

He inclined his head in command, and the man behind the horse brought down his whip on the hindquarters, making the horse set off. Sanderson was jerked back by the noose, he fell towards the ground and Matthew noted that Watson had been right. The drop was too low, and Sanderson’s feet scraped at the ground in an effort to keep the air whistling down to his lungs.

“Heave him up a bit!” the officer said, and the toes danced in the air. They danced for a long time, the stench from his vacated bowels hanging in the air.

* * *

Hector woke with a start, his mouth filling with acid. Diego! Something had happened to his Diego. He sat up, disoriented, trying to clear his head of what he hoped was a dream. He massaged his neck, a sensation of burning rope making his skin tingle. They had hanged him…Diego’s eyes, frozen into an expression of permanent surprise.

Hector rolled out of the straw, an urgent need for a cigarette rushing out to his fingertips. But there were no cigarettes, not here, not in this dark hovel that stank of pig shit and mould.

He stepped outside, avoiding looking at the dark splotch of blood from where he’d killed his unsuspecting host. His hands smoothed at the unfamiliar clothes, fidgeted with a frayed cuff. He took several long, steadying breaths. He was utterly alone, he was in the wrong time, the wrong place, and the family he had lay inaccessible in the shrouds of time. He had to find a portal; but how on earth was he to do that here, on a godforsaken moor in Scotland?

Chapter 17

They sat where they were for a long time after the men had disappeared down the slope. Before them, the swinging body twirled, tongue protruding from a blue face.

“Oh God, oh my God…” Alex leaned over and threw up, her whole body shaking. The rope creaked, fibres stretching so that Sanderson’s feet scuffed at the grass.

Matthew crawled out and stood. Alex followed him and stuck her hand into his, needing to touch him, make sure he was alive.

“We can’t leave him like that,” she said, “the birds…”

Matthew licked his lips. “He’s dead.”

Alex threw him a sidelong glance. Of course he was dead. For ten minutes he had struggled to stay alive, harsh guttural sounds escaping the makeshift gag, eyes bugging out of his head. Matthew sank down to sit, keeping his back to the hanging man.

“I’m dead as well,” he whispered, rubbing his hands through his beard. “Matthew Graham was hanged today.”

Alex kneeled down beside him. “But you’re not, you’re sitting here.”

“You don’t really know, do you? If I am who I say I am.”

That stumped her, and she sat back on her heels to look at him.

“Aren’t you?”

“Aye I am. But you have to take it on trust, because I can’t prove it.”

“But others can, right? You sister and her husband, your brother…” her voice tailed off at his sardonic smile.

“Luke will have no reason to recognise me, after all, if I’m dead, he’s the new master.” He put a hand on her thigh and squeezed. “But there are others, lass; he’ll not cheat me of what is mine. Not this time.”

It was hard work. Alex’s hands were raw with digging, and her shoulders ached with the weight of Sanderson’s body as they cut him down and dragged him across the slick grass to the hole they’d dug behind a thicket of brambles, a fair distance away.

“It’s too shallow!” she gasped, once they began filling it in. So far she’d managed to keep her eyes from Sanderson’s face, but now she glanced at the head end and his nose was still visible through the dirt. A small beetle scurried across it and Alex stumbled to her feet. She drew in a gulping breath and looked at Matthew.

“If you hadn’t woken up, that would have been you, and I, oh my God, I would’ve had to watch!” She wheeled and ran, away from the tree and the shallow grave, tripped over a stone and fell, all air knocked out of her. Her chin hurt, and she could taste blood in her mouth. Matthew put a hand on her shoulder.

“Are you alright?”

“No.” She ran her tongue over her teeth to check they were all there. She sat up, frowning at the blood that seeped through her jeans.

Matthew hunched down and extended his hand towards her, index held aloft.

“Can you bend it?” He crooked his finger in demonstration. There was a soft light in his eyes, halfway between amusement and tenderness as he watched her raise her finger and bend it.

“Good,” he smiled, “then you’ll be fine.”

Alex looked from her forefinger to him and back again.

“How can me bending my finger have anything to do with my skinned knee or my bitten lip?”

“I have no notion, but Mam did that when we were bairns.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “She did that as well, and that always helped.”

Alex wiped her hand across her face and smiled unsteadily.

“Smart woman.”

*

They made very little progress that day. After their third near encounter with a troop of southbound soldiers, Matthew decided it was best to lie low for the remainder of the day. Only once the sun had set, did they venture out of their hiding place.

“He’s dead then,” Matthew said out of nowhere. “The Protector,” he clarified, “the soldiers, they said he was dead.” He sighed and used a branch to dig at the small fire, sending sparks flying in all directions. “He was a good man – harsh, mayhap, but good – but he leaves an unsteady legacy behind.”

Alex looked up from where she was scrubbing at the bloodied knee of her breeches.

“They’ll invite the king to come back, you know.”

Matthew looked at her in surprise. “They will?” He laughed at himself. “Well, he’s been the King of Scotland for some years already, quite the spectacle that was, with his royal person being fought over by the Covenanters and the Engagers.” He grew serious. “So the Commonwealth will die then?”

“Yes. The British have a thing about their kings; you’re stuck with them.” She spread the djeens to dry, and wound her shawl round her bare legs before coming over to join him by the fire. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

“They’ll dig Oliver Cromwell up and cut his head off,” she said. “Seems a bit overboard to do that to someone who’s already dead, don’t you think?”

Matthew didn’t reply, but inclined his head in agreement. They’d do far worse than that, he reckoned, to the Commonwealth leaders left alive.