The Prodigal Son (37 page)

“They’ll be fine. Sarah will look out for them.”

Half an hour later they were on their way, Alex seated in front of him.

“Why?” Alex asked, leaning back against his chest. The sun was uncomfortably warm on her skin, even through her clothes, and she was swept with longing for a pool side vacation with the smell of sun lotion in the air. Yeah; right. Still, she could take a swim. Once they got back she was going to go for a long, private soak in the eddy pool, no children allowed.

“This wee scheme of theirs has been a long time in the making. Oliver will be most upset when it doesn’t work, and God alone knows what he’ll do then. And if something happens at the Brown farm, I don’t want to be close,” Matthew said.

Alex thought about that for a long time. “Do you think something will?” At his continued silence she craned her head back. He was looking tired, worn around the eyes, his long mouth set into a straight gash.

“Aye, along the lines of masked men entering and killing an unsuspecting Mr Brown, and when the soldiers give chase what do they find but that the tracks lead back to Hillview and there I am, a sitting duck for their accusations.”

What? She sat up straight. “Kill him?” She liked Tom Brown, could only imagine what anguish he was going through as he was forced to betray his friends to keep his son alive.

“Och aye; he’s expendable.” He sounded sad – very sad.

“But… no! Besides, murder is a hanging offence, and that would mean that Hillview would still remain with Mark, which Luke doesn’t want.” She nodded, comforted by her own logic.

“Aye, but what’s to stop them from hanging
and
fining me?”

“Jesus in heaven!” Alex almost fell off the horse, so upset did this make her.

Matthew slowed the horse well before the crossroad oak. The large oak drooped in the heat, and just to the right was the branch from which he had hanged Gower. He shivered, a quick prayer for forgiveness flashing through his brain – mostly for not feeling any remorse.

In his arms Alex tensed, no doubt as affected as she always was by this particular crossroads – the place where she had nearly been dragged back to her time, all those years ago. A long, guttural howl rose into the air. Ham neighed, Alex clutched at his arm.

“What was that?” Alex said.

Matthew held in his horse, reluctant to go on. Ham snorted, small ears pricked into alertness. There was something lying on the further side of the tree, half in, half out of the oak’s spreading shade. Matthew took in splayed, stiff legs, the glint of metal under the hooves.

“A horse. Dead it would seem,” he said. Yet another howl cut through the air, a wordless plea for help.

“Or in pain,” Alex suggested.

“That’s no horse,” Matthew said. “That’s a man.”

He’d been right; it was a dead horse, and pinned below it was its rider, arms pushing futilely against the ton of horseflesh that was squeezing the life out of him. They dismounted. Matthew frowned down at one booted leg, following what little he could see of the man until he found his face. Two dark eyes met his, eyes so wide he could see the bloodshot whites that surrounded the irises.

“It’s Captain Howard,” Alex said.

Matthew nodded. He’d recognised the officer immediately, although this terrified man had very little in common with the normally so controlled captain. Well, with the exception of last time he had seen him.

“We have to help him.” Alex put a hand on Matthew’s forearm.

Aye, not much choice, was there? Not that he wanted to, the man could well die here, under his horse – a divine retribution for wee Rachel.

“Matthew!”

He sighed. “You’ll have to help, I can’t pull him free on my own.”

Once they’d succeeded in pulling him from under the horse, Matthew propped the captain up against the gnarled trunk of the oak. Howard was so pale Matthew could see the fine blue veins that ran just below the skin at his temple.

“One broken collarbone, one mangled leg and I think you’ve fractured your wrist,” Alex concluded after her examination. She bent his hand, he yelped. “Just checking. So, what happened?”

The captain shrugged. “I’m not quite sure. Nestor…” He broke off to look at the dead horse. “He became skittish as we approached the crossroads. Somewhat temperamental, Nestor is – was. Mayhap it was a wasp – or a viper.”

“A viper?” Matthew laughed, shaking his head.

“No, probably not,” the captain said. “But one moment we’re trotting along, the next he’s bucking and heaving, impossible to control, and then he took one giant leap, stumbled and fell, thereby breaking his neck, I’d hazard. And there was I, trapped beneath him.” He rubbed at his face. “I’d have died if you hadn’t come along.”

“I know; terrible, isn’t it, to owe your life to your purported enemies,” Alex muttered and the captain went a dusky red.

Soon they were well on their way from the crossroad, with Matthew and Alex walking beside Ham while the captain sat the horse. No way was she sharing the horse with him, Alex had told Matthew when he suggested she might ride as well – not unless she broke both her legs.

“With one I’d drag myself along rather than sit that close to him,” she’d said, making Matthew chuckle.

The captain looked down at them and frowned. “It’s Sunday.”

“Aye.”

“But…” the captain’s frown intensified. “You’re supposed to be attending a conventicle.”

“A conventicle?” Matthew shook his head. “Such things are illegal, are they not?”

A small bubble of laughter escaped from Alex’ lips. After a few moments, the captain joined in.

“You should perhaps wash a bit before we get to town,” Alex suggested, looking the captain up and down. He was sitting beside her on the verge, while some yards further away Matthew had disappeared behind a stand of shrubs to relieve himself.

“It won’t make that much of a difference, will it?” he said, looking at his torn and dishevelled garments.

She hitched her shoulders: it wasn’t really any of her business.

“Is it fun?” she asked. “You know, hunting Covenanters?”

He flushed. “They‘re in breach of the law.”

“They are simple, good people that believe in God, just like you do.”

“They?” Captain Howard looked at her with interest. “Aren’t you one of them?”

Alex looked away. “My mother was a Catholic, and I dare say that some of the Presbyterian ministers I’ve met are very worried about my lack of commitment to their faith. Sometimes it makes things difficult – especially for him.” She smiled in the direction of her husband. “He didn’t much like it when I told his sister that reasonably God was Catholic rather than Presbyterian – given the overwhelming amount of Catholics.”

Captain Howard stared at her. “Do you believe He is?”

Alex yanked loose a tuft of grass and pursed her mouth. “No. I don’t think He cares one way or the other – He judges on actions not on denomination.” She stood up and wiped her hands down her skirts. “I believe God is fair; not always kind but at least fair.” She placed both hands on her stomach. “A kind God wouldn’t have taken Rachel.”

Captain Howard looked as if he wanted a geyser to open then and there, the heat evaporating him to smoke.

“Holy Mother of God,” he groaned. “I swear I didn’t mean to.”

“I know you didn’t, and I’ve forgotten to thank you.”

“Thank me?”

“You sent us the one person he needed.” She inclined her head in the direction of Matthew.

“Oh, that,” he muttered. “It was the least I could do.”

It was noon by the time they reached the garrison buildings.

“Is the major in?” Matthew asked, supporting the captain to the door.

“The major?” The captain shrugged. “I think not. He insisted on commanding today’s raid on the Covenanters.” He gave Matthew a shrewd look. “I dare say he’ll be most disappointed at not finding you there – he had hoped to.” He bowed and limped off.

“I can imagine,” Alex said in an undertone to Matthew. “Who knows, maybe he’ll be so frustrated he bursts a gut.”

Major Wyndham was furious, stalking back and forth in the cramped, dark kitchen of the Brown’s farmhouse. House? This was no house, this was a hovel, and the woman’s silent weeping was making him itch. Damn! So elegantly planned, so beautifully baited and still Graham managed to evade his little trap. He’d counted on him being here, administering justice to the informants, and instead… He crashed his fist into a door and cursed.

A rivulet of sweat trickled down his back and he wasn’t sure if it was the heat or fear that had him transpiring like a pig. Luke Graham had been very threatening in his last letter, and with every day Oliver saw the advent of a most unappetising future, a future in which destitution and dishonour figured to a very large degree. He looked out of the window and back at the silent Brown couple. Well, he thought, what was it the infidels used to say? If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed, then Mohammed must come to the mountain. And he was doing this for his son, a small boy of five. He closed his mind to the voice of conscience reminding him that Matthew had children too, pulled his sword and turned to the fear-stricken Browns.

An hour later, Oliver Wyndham held in his horse at the top of the lane leading to Hillview. The coming half-hour was going to be most unpleasant and he hoped Mrs Graham wouldn’t be too difficult to handle while Matthew was fettered, but if it came to that, he supposed a slap or two would calm her down.

The farm looked somnolent in the warm Sunday afternoon, with cows and horses grazing in the water meadows, hens scratching at the ground in the hen coop and one ancient dog stretched out in the shade of the privy. The dog lumbered to its feet, head lowered, and barked. A peaceful slice of the world, but a slice about to explode into so many shards it would never be put back together again.

“Ride on.” Oliver spurred his horse and rode hard down the lane, hatless, coatless, and with his sword drawn. There was a scream, several screams. A young woman rushed for the kitchen, carrying a child while dragging another behind her. A man as crooked and bent as Methuselah appeared from behind the stables, two more men were down in the meadows, but nowhere did he see Graham’s distinctive height.

“Matthew Graham?” Oliver barked, holding in his horse in front of the only humans still in the yard – two boys standing hand in hand. He frowned down at the elder of them. Hadn’t he seen him before?

“My uncle isn’t at home,” the lad said. “He is off to Cumnock, with my aunt.”

“Your uncle?” Oliver had problems keeping his mare under control. How had Matthew seen this coming? He should have been at home, and then he would’ve dragged him off, the evidence being found where needed. And now… Oh, Lord! What had he done?

“Aye, Matthew Graham is my uncle. I’m Luke Graham’s son, and we’ve met before.” The lad looked guilelessly at Oliver, but deep inside those hazel eyes Oliver saw a small flicker of contemptuous amusement. He was washed by a wave of anger that this boy should stand in front of him and smirk, when it was his father that was ultimately the cause of all this mess.

He tightened his hold on his sword, but behind him he heard a hissed “Sir!” and knew that while his men might turn a blind eye on the killing of two informers, they would not countenance him killing children – especially not here, where one child had already died due to the crown.

“Search the place,” he said instead. “Turn the whole farm upside down. We saw, did we not, how the murderers ran off in this direction?” His men muttered an unenthusiastic agreement but dismounted all the same. Oliver raised a shaking hand to his face, wiping at sweat and blood before dropping off his horse. Think! he urged. For God’s sake, think Oliver. And he was, thinking so hard his brain was overheating, but in whatever direction he turned he saw a closed door, and in his mind the space in which he stood was shrinking rapidly into something that looked uncomfortably like a hangman’s noose.

He made as if to enter the house, but the elder lad blocked his way.

“Not you sir,” he said. “I won’t let you enter.” Oliver lifted his hand to shove the boy aside and suddenly the other boy stood there as well.

“Not you,” the younger one said. Two pairs of eyes, startlingly similar, stared into his, and Oliver backed away. Damnation! He was surrounded by Matthew Graham lookalikes, bright hazel eyes swimming in his head wherever he looked.

He sat down on the ground and pulled off his riding gloves. There was a soft exclamation from the younger boy and Oliver looked down at his hand, still bloodied, despite the quick wash. He closed his fist. One hour ago he had been many things, foremost among them unprincipled and in debt. Now it all paled into insignificance; he had murdered. He had killed before – often even – but in the heat of battle, not with intent in a dark, squalid kitchen. For my son, he reminded himself furiously, I’m doing this for my little Francis.

“Nothing sir.” The shadow of one of the dragoons fell over Oliver.

“Well then we must keep on looking. And we must make haste towards Cumnock, lest Graham be attempting to create an alibi for himself.” He rose, inflated with a new bout of self-confidence. Let him find Graham and the rest would sort itself. Yes, of course it would.

Chapter 32

Alex was helping Matthew saddle up Ham for the ride home when Wyndham rode into the market square, boots and breeches covered with road dust. Behind him came a dozen or so dragoons, as grimy as Wyndham was. Matthew muttered an expletive, pulled his sword free and placed Alex behind him.

“Finally!” Oliver dismounted and advanced upon Matthew, stopping only when he saw the glint of light on the uncovered blade. Wyndham shook his head.

“Attempting to resist arrest, Matthew?” The man was grinning, eyeing Matthew as if he were a coveted trophy. Not reciprocated, with Matthew’s face acquiring a belligerent set to his jaw that had Alex decide it was best to take a firm grip of his coat. Oliver took another step and Matthew’s sword flashed in warning.

“What are you waiting for?” Oliver beckoned at his men. “Take this man!” Four dragoons slid off their winded mounts and advanced towards Matthew, who backed away.