A Rip in the Veil (23 page)

“Is it important to you?” Alex asked, startling him out of his thoughts.

Matthew looked down at her. “What?”

“The not having a king, being part of a republic.”

“Aye. But the republic has been dead for some years. These last few years…” He broke off to shake his head. “…it has been one man, and one man alone, at the helm.”

“Like a dictator.”

“Aye – a good dictator.”

“A contradiction in terms if you ask me,” Alex said.

“It doesn’t greatly matter now, does it? He’s dead, and as you say it, things will revert to how they were – before men like Cromwell and Fairfax. A kingdom, not a commonwealth.”

“And you don’t care?”

“I do,” he said, “of course I do. But…”

“But what?”

“I’ve lost so many years of my life to this conflict already, and now I just want to live in peace, tend to my lands, my beasts.”

“Oh.” Her blue eyes were very close to his, and there was something in them that made him flush, an insinuation that he was going back on his beliefs.

“Maybe that’s what happens when for one thousand, one hundred and thirty-nine days you’ve lived like an animal in a cage.” He shoved her aside and stood up, his back to her.

They hadn’t believed in him when he’d protested his innocence. Men who’d known him, fought with him, had chosen to listen to Luke instead. It tore like a canker at his gut, even now, three years on.

“You counted?” She placed a hand on his back.

“I counted every hour, every day.” He wheeled to face her, and she backed away from him. “I never want to live through something like that again, it near on killed me. I just couldn’t bend, and instead I was broken, and the pieces don’t fit together as they used to.”

He rubbed at his wrists. “Of the men I was locked up with, more than half died the first year. We were all beaten and underfed, cold and constantly ill of one thing or the other, but the ones who died were the ones whose inner light failed them, who woke one day to a hollow chest and the despairing knowledge that there was nothing worth the effort to keep on living for.”

He was silent for a while, overwhelmed by memories of long, endless days. “My light still burns, but at times it gutters on the brink of extinction. I wouldn’t survive another time in prison, I’d just curl up and die. And so…” He shrugged, giving her a crooked smile. “I still hold to my beliefs, but I’ll be far more selective as to what battles to fight. It’s called adapting to your circumstances.”

“Adapting is good, that’s what all of us have to do to survive.” She cleared her throat, hugged herself. “And if you don’t, you die.”

“Aye,” he said, realising she was talking just as much about her own situation as his. “I’m here, I’ll be here for you, lass.” She brushed at his face, stepped up close enough to meet his eyes.

“And I’ll be here for you, and two lights burn much, much brighter than one, right?”

“They do,” he agreed hoarsely. When she rose on her toes to kiss him, he kissed her back. When her arms came round his neck, his arms wrapped themselves around her waist. No more talking; not tonight. He lifted her into his arms and carried her over to their makeshift bed.

*

Alex woke to find him already awake. She rolled in his direction, stretched, and gave him a lazy smile.

“Did I?” A gentle finger traced what she was sure was a bright red love bite on her throat.

“Well, no one else did, I would definitely have noticed.”

“I hope I wasn’t too…” he said, inspecting a blue spot on her breast.

“Oh, you were, but I didn’t exactly mind.” And he did sport a few bruises of his own, she smiled, a puddle of warmth expanding through her at the thought of last night.

“Hoyden,” he murmured, using his long toes to caress her shin.

“Well, aren’t you the lucky one?” She sat up, ran her hands through her hair in a useless effort to comb it into some sort of order.

He got to his feet, eyes narrowing as he studied his surroundings. “We’re nearly home.”

She came to stand in front of him, and at their feet the landscape shifted from greys to gold and brilliant green wherever the sun touched it.

“It’s as if there was only us,” she said, her eyes on the threads of fog that glistened and glowed in the returning light. She drew in a breath of cold, clear air and held it in her lungs before letting it out. Never had she felt as alive as she did in this minute. Behind her stood her man, before her stretched a new, unfamiliar world, and with a twinge of guilt she realised that she hadn’t thought about John, not like that, for the last few weeks. Matthew chuckled and leaned forward to bite her ear.

“Like man before the fall from grace,” he said, his hot breath tickling her. “And this is our Eden spread before us.” He turned her to face him. “This is your life now, here, with me. It’s time, Alex, to let the old life go.”

She didn’t understand, but Matthew let go of her hand and extracted the bundle that Mrs Gordon had given him and placed it on the ground. He threw some more wood on the fire until it burnt a ferocious blue and beckoned for her to come close.

“Here.” He handed her the jeans.

She looked at her pants and back at the fire.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Burn them, they don’t belong here, they belong there, and you’re not going back are you?”

She laughed nervously. “I suppose not, not unless I sit around and wait for a new thunderstorm.”

“If you could, would you?” His eyes were very, very green and very, very close.

“No,” she breathed, and threw her jeans in the fire.

All of it he made her burn; the jacket, her shirt and the bra. She had the sensation of performing some sort of sacrificial ritual, watching as the remnants of her old life went up in smoke.

He smiled at her as she stood naked in the chilly wind, her skin stippling into goose bumps, and bent his head to kiss her on her nose.

“So, my little heathen, I think it’s about time you’re baptised.”

“But you’re not a priest, and this isn’t exactly a church.”

“It’ll do, God is as present here as He is in a church, and I don’t think He’ll mind if I give you a name in His presence.”

“And what were you planning on? Edwina?”

“No, I was thinking of Alexandra. Alexandra Ruth.”

“And now what?” she asked as he helped her into what he said was a petticoat and handed her a skirt in dark brown wool. “How am I supposed to dress myself with all these lacings at the back?”

“I’ll help you,” he grinned, standing back to give her an appraising glance. “You look very nice,” he said before pulling on his shirt, adjusting the worn cuffs and neckline. Alex gave him a doubtful look. She felt padded, her breasts kept in place by the lacings of the bodice, and when she moved her hips the skirt swung around her. She liked that, trying out different walks to make the heavy cloth dance.

“Why did she give you all this?” Alex pinched at the skirts. “That was very nice of her.”

Matthew rolled his eyes at her. “I bought it. We can’t go down to Cumnock looking like tramps, can we?” It had been Mrs Gordon’s idea, he explained, her insisting that the lass couldn’t very well go about looking like a wee lad. And she hadn’t taken much money either, saying the ear-bob well covered the cost.

“Cumnock? Why are we going there?” She didn’t like the idea of going into a town, and what if there were soldiers? He adjusted something at her waist, rolled their few belongings together and gave her his hand.

“To get married. I can’t go on bedding you without giving you my name.”

“Oh,” said Alex Lind, and gripped his fingers hard.

Chapter 18

It was a shock to walk into the little market town. From a distance, Cumnock had looked quaint, if very small, but as they got nearer, all Alex could think of was the stench. The privies, the animals on the street, the people – all of them smelled. In comparison, she felt like a rose in a pigsty.

The few paved streets were covered in filth; discarded bedstraw, contents of upended chamber pots, the odd dead cat. Women in dirty mended skirts hurried by, tagged by equally dirty children, a piece of burnt bread was lobbed outside and immediately a fight for it ensued between several dogs and two boys, all of them rolling round in the muck.

“What date is it today?” She held on tight to Matthew’s hand, disgusted at having to walk barefoot through the stinking slurry that coated the streets.

“September twelve, I reckon.” He helped her as they crossed a muddied stretch. It had begun to rain when they were halfway down the hill, and Alex pulled the shawl tighter round her shoulders, longing for the weatherproof qualities of her jacket. Matthew more or less ran up the streets, nodding in passing at the odd, curious shopkeeper.

“Matthew?” Alex hated having to puff. The bloody lacings were cutting her in half, and things weren’t exactly helped by Matthew’s pace.

“Mmm?” Matthew threw her a quick look.

“Why do we need to get married?”

He came to a standstill. “Don’t you want to?”

“That’s not what I meant.” She wasn’t sure she did, things were happening at a pace that frightened her. “What I meant was, how come you feel you can baptise me just like that and wham! I’m no longer a heathen, but that a marriage has to be conducted formally. Why can’t you and I just promise we’ll be together?”

Matthew gave her a serious look. “A marriage is a legal contract, it must be properly registered. Unless it’s legal, any child of our union would be branded a bastard.”

“What’s the big deal? A child is still a child.”

“A bastard has no rights,” Matthew said harshly, his eyes tightening as he studied her face. “You don’t want to, do you?”

Alex sighed and looked away. “I’m scared, things are spinning way too fast. Look at me,” she indicated her skirts. “This isn’t me, not yet. I’m a girl from another time where being married or not isn’t really that important, you know?”

Matthew tweaked her cheek and smiled. “But here and now it is important – very important. So will you have me declare myself to you here in public, or will you come with me quietly?”

Alex looked around at all the people. “Quietly, but I’m still scared.”

“Of course you are,” Matthew laughed, “but I promise to be gentle with you.”

It was a relief to escape off the street, Matthew’s hand firm on her waist as he guided her towards a door above which swung a wooden sign: Simon Melville, lawyer.

“Simon? Is that the Simon who’s married to your sister?”

Matthew nodded and opened the door, almost lifting her across the threshold. The office was very dark – dark and dusty, with huge leather clad tomes covering shelf after shelf in a creaking bookcase.

“Simon?” Someone moved in the inner corner. “Simon? It’s me, Matthew.” The shape picked up speed, and Alex backed away as a small but very massive man threw his arms around Matthew, issuing a string of enthusiastic noises, among which Alex could make out idiot, wee fool, daftie and clumsy dolt, the last when Matthew trod on Simon’s foot.

“We heard you were dead,” Simon said once he’d calmed down. “But it seems those reports were somewhat exaggerated. Poor Luke will be heartbroken at seeing you alive and well.” He laughed, a staccato sound that made Alex recall summer evening spent playing at war with her Swedish cousins, all of them imitating machineguns. Simon grew sombre and punched Matthew on the arm. “What were you thinking? To run off like that…it may be it’s dangerous for you to return.”

“Not if I’m officially dead.”

“Ah, but officially you’re not. Not until it has been proved it was you they hanged. And there was no body to collect or bury when we got to the tree. Just a cut rope.” Simon eyed Matthew and stood on tiptoe to examine his throat. “Well, it wasn’t you at any rate, was it?”

“Nay, it wasn’t me.” Matthew took Simon by the shoulder and turned him in Alex’s direction. “This is Alexandra Lind – my soon to be Swedish wife.”

“Hi,” Alex said, giving Simon a sketchy little wave.

“Well, knock me dead with a feather.” Simon sat down with a thump.

Alex wasn’t sure whether to take Simon’s reaction as approval or apprehension, and she remained standing where she was, feeling very much like an object on display as Simon gawked at her.

Matthew looked amused. “She doesn’t bite, and she does speak English.”

Simon tilted his head to one side, a mischievous glint in his light blue eyes.

“She’s right bonny, Matthew. What would such a pretty lass want with a lout like you?”

“Sex appeal,” Alex said, which left both men nonplussed, even if the gratified expression that flew over Matthew’s face showed he could work that one out.

“Sex what?” Simon asked.

“Never mind,” Alex grabbed Simon’s hand in hers and gave it a firm shake. “Pleased to meet you.”

Simon retook his hand, giving her a surprised look. “Your servant, ma’am,” he said, standing up to give her a bow.

Curtsey, she told herself, that’s what you’re supposed to do. Not pump a strange man’s hand up and down, just curtsey and flutter your eyes. She nearly laughed, feeling like the proverbial bull in the china shop.

Matthew gave Simon an abbreviated, and entirely false, description of how Alex and he had met, involving highwaymen, a helpless Swedish lass and a dead father.

Simon clucked and shook his head, apologising for the brutal treatment the poor lass had received at the hands of his countrymen, and generally made an effort to look as if he believed a tale he obviously found incredible. Well, Alex thought, the truth would be even more unbelievable, but it was evident that Matthew and she had to work on their story before spreading it to a larger audience.

“So you’re marrying the lass out of civic duty, are you? Not wanting to leave her unprotected in the world,” Simon summarised once Matthew was done. He handed Alex a mug of cider, poured some for Matthew and himself.

“If that’s his reason, I’ll brain him before I marry him,” Alex said, making Simon choke on his drink. She waited until he had stopped coughing before smiling sweetly and continuing. “I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”

“Ah,” Simon smiled. “So then why? Is there any particular reason for this haste?”