“Do you think he knows?” Alex sounded very amused.
“What? That he’s served her, or that she’s with foal?”
“Both, I suppose.”
Matthew thought about that for a moment. “I hope for his sake he recalls the serving of her. It’s not much more than a dozen times a year for him. But, as to the foal, nay, he doesn’t know.”
“Oh.” Alex fell silent for a while. “Do you think he’s alright?” she asked with a hitch to her voice.
“Who?” Matthew did a swift count through his head – all their bairns were, as far as he knew, safe.
“Isaac,” she whispered.
“Ah.” No wonder she’d been tossing through the night: she’d been dreaming of her lost life, of her people in the hazy future, foremost amongst them her future son – this no doubt brought on by the discussion they’d had some days ago about that accursed little painting. He shifted in the saddle. Thinking about this made him right queasy: his wife a time traveller, her mother a gifted painter that painted portals through time, and wee Isaac seemed to have inherited his grandmother’s magical gifts. After all, it was one of Isaac’s paintings that Magnus Lind, Alex’s father, had used as a time portal all those years ago, appearing one day much the worse for wear in yon thorny thicket back home.
Matthew strangled a nervous laugh. First his wife, then her father. And as to those paintings… Ungodly, such paintings could only be created with the help of potent magic – black magic. Matthew tightened his hold on the reins and uttered a brief prayer to God, begging him to protect them all – and especially his wife – from evil. He coughed a couple of times.
“What do you think?” he said.
“I’m not sure. I never miss him, not truly. Yes, I think of him, wish him well in his life and all that, but he’s no hole in my heart. What if I’m a hole in his?”
Matthew reached back to squeeze her thigh. “He was but a lad when you disappeared from his life. Aye, surely there are nights when he dreams of you, moments when you are a vaguely remembered shade, but a hole in his life that you are not. Man is too resilient for that.”
She didn’t reply, but he felt her relax, and after a few minutes of silence, she changed the subject by asking him what he thought of Lionel Smith, pompous shit that she found him.
*
It was nearly noon before they stopped for a break – by then Alex had been fidgeting for some time. She more or less fell off the horse and made for the closest screen of shrubs. She hiked up her skirts and crouched. Cocking her head to where her men were busy lighting a fire in the glade, she grinned when Daniel loudly complained about the state of his buttocks, tore off some moss to wipe herself with, and rose.
“Mrs Graham, what an unexpected surprise.”
The voice froze Alex to the spot but, with an effort, she turned, only to find herself a scant yard or so from Philip Burley: still with that messy dark hair that fell forward over his face in an endearing manner that contrasted entirely with his ice-cold eyes, still with a certain flair to him, albeit that he was dishevelled and dirty. Alex opened her mouth to yell, but all that came out was a squeak.
“Down to witness the demise of my dear brother?” Philip continued, his voice far too low to carry to her companions. Low, but laden with rage.
“Good riddance,” Alex managed to say. She whirled, screaming like a train whistle.
Things happened so fast Alex’s vision blurred. The ground came rushing towards her, her face was pressed into the mulch by Philip’s tackle. She heard Matthew roar, set her hands to the ground and heaved. Up. Philip grabbed at her skirts, Alex kicked like a mule, and here came Matthew, bounding towards them. Philip scrambled to his feet, and Alex crawled away on hands and knees.
In Matthew’s hand flashed a sword. Philip levelled a pistol but had no opportunity to fire it before Matthew brought his blade down, sending the gun to twirl through the air and land in a distant bush.
Men: from all over, men swarmed, and there was Walter Burley fighting his way towards Matthew with an intent look on his face. He was brought up short by Dandelion: over a hundred pounds of enraged dog throwing himself at Walter. A howl, a long howl that ended in a whine. Walter brandished his bloodied knife and cheered, a sound cut abruptly short when Thomas Leslie charged him. A hand grabbed at Alex, she tore herself free and backed away, looking for some kind of weapon, anything to defend herself with. And there was Matthew – everywhere was Matthew: kicking her assailant to the ground, fending off Philip’s sword, swinging round to punch Walter, grinding an elbow into yet another man, and all the while he was yelling out commands to his sons and Thomas.
Like a deadly whirlwind was Matthew Graham, and beware anyone coming between him and the man he was screaming at, spittle flying in the air as he advanced, step by step, towards Philip, a Philip who seemed surprisingly taken aback, retreating towards the woods. Matthew lunged, Philip fell back, using a stout branch to defend himself. Again, and Philip took yet another step backwards. Alex intercepted a swift glance between the Burley brothers, and she didn’t like the smirk on Philip’s face. Matthew charged, Philip turned and fled with a triumphant Matthew at his heels.
“No,” Alex croaked.
A dull crack and Matthew staggered, a giant of a man appearing from where he’d been hiding, brandishing a cudgel. Walter Burley whooped, doing a few dance steps.
Alex didn’t stop to think. She launched herself at him, toppling him to the ground and landing knees first on his chest. There was a whoosh when the air was expelled from his body, and then he went limp. She picked up Walter’s pistol from where he’d dropped it and turned to find her husband locked in a fight with two men while Thomas, his man and her sons were kept at bay by seven.
Philip Burley yelled when Matthew succeeded in sinking his dirk into his right arm. For an instant, it seemed as if Matthew was about to tear himself free from the unknown huge man, but there was Philip, whacking Matthew over the head again. Matthew’s knees buckled under him, and Alex fired into the air.
“I’ll cut his throat!” she screamed, holding Walter’s lolling head by his hair. “I’ll do it now!” Her hand was shaking so badly, at first she couldn’t get to her knife through the side slit of her skirt, but then her fingers closed on the familiar handle, and she pulled it free.
“Let him go!” Philip Burley glared at her. “Let go of him, you fool of a woman, or I’ll gut your husband like a pig.”
Matthew tottered, blood running in miniature rivulets over the left side of his face.
“An impasse, it would seem,” Alex said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “You let my husband go, and I’ll let your brother live. For now.” She increased the pressure of her blade on Walter’s skin, making him gargle.
Philip sneered and glanced down at his bleeding arm. “You stand no chance, Mrs Graham. We are ten to your six.”
“Seven,” someone said. A shot rang out, and the large man helping Philip to hold Matthew dropped like a stone to the ground, shot through his back. “And now you are but nine.”
Burley’s men shifted, trying to find the sharpshooter. Thomas’ hand flew out, and one of the men fell to his knees, gripping at the hilt of a knife that stuck out from his thigh. A collective muttering ran through the six men left standing, their eyes sliding towards the relative safety of the woods.
Alex’s hand was slick on the handle of her knife and to compensate she tightened her hold on Walter’s hair, pulling so hard the man squealed.
Philip scowled: at Matthew, at Alex, and at the woods. With a swift movement, he levelled a pistol at Matthew’s head.
“If any more of my men are hurt, I’ll kill him,” he shouted, scanning the surrounding trees. He jerked his head in the direction of the forest, and his men helped their wounded comrade to stand, closing ranks around him. Ian and Daniel closed in on Philip who was dragging Matthew with him as a shield.
“My brother,” he said to Alex. “Release my brother, and I’ll release your
husband.”
Ian raised his musket and aimed it at Walter.
“Do as he says, Mama. And if Da isn’t released before the count of three then Walter Burley is no more.”
Walter’s breath came in loud hisses, his pulse leaping erratically against her hand. At less than ten feet, Ian would never miss.
Daniel aimed his weapon at Philip. “Nor is Philip Burley,” he vowed, but the barrel trembled a bit too much.
Alex let go of Walter’s hair and stepped back, watching as he lurched to his feet. At least one broken rib, and if she was lucky, maybe two or three. Walter Burley wheezed, wrapping his arms around his midriff.
He lifted strange light eyes to Alex. “You’ll pay,” he spat through colourless lips.
“You can always try, and next time I’ll squash your balls instead.” It took a superhuman effort to retain eye contact with those eerie grey eyes, but she did, stiffening her spine with resolve.
“One,” Ian counted, “two…” Matthew was pushed to land at Daniel’s feet, and Ian swung the muzzle of his musket towards Philip and the band of renegades. “Three,” he said and fired, as did Daniel.
*
“Why did you do that?” Alex couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering. One more man lay lifeless on the ground; one of the ruffians was screaming some yards away, clutching at his bleeding gut. Unfortunately, neither Philip nor Walter Burley had been hit.
“I couldn’t leave that many standing. I don’t want to have my throat cut during the night.” Ian scanned the woods, pistol in one hand. Thomas muttered an approval, bending over stiffly to relieve the dead men of their weapons.
Alex gulped at that, meeting his eyes for an instant before going back to what she was doing, her hands examining Matthew, probing the bleeding indentation in his head, his arms, his legs…
Matthew groaned, heaving himself up on all fours.
“Are you alright?” she asked in a low voice.
“Nay,” he replied, just as low. “My head.”
“You should have killed Philip Burley,” Daniel said to Ian, setting down his reloaded musket and busying himself with Matthew’s gun.
“Yes,” Thomas agreed.
Ian tucked the pistol back in his belt. “Oh, I tried, but yon man has the luck of the devil himself. He threw himself to the side at the last moment and—” Ian stopped talking when Betty stepped out from behind the oak where she’d been hiding. She threw the musket she was holding to the ground and held out her arms beseechingly towards Ian. Bright, reddish-brown hair sprouted in all directions from under her cap, light brown eyes were huge in a face so pale it seemed to Alex each and every one of Betty’s freckles stood in glaring contrast to it. Ian limped towards her, reached her and caught her just as she sank to the ground, mouth open in a sobbing wail.
Under Thomas’ efficient command, things were quickly brought back under control. One of the mules had careened off into the woods but was recovered; a bullet had ricocheted off a tree before nicking the hide of Betty’s placid mare; and all around the clearing lay their intended dinner, foodstuffs thrown hither and thither. Ian was set to take care of the beasts, Alex organised the food, and Matthew was instructed to sit still – very still.
*
“I killed a man,” Betty repeated for the tenth time. “And I shot at another.” She stared down at her hands and flexed her fingers.
“And if you hadn’t, I would have been dead or worse,” Matthew said.
He watched out of the corner of his eye how Thomas’ servant and Daniel dug graves for the dead men and the dog. Brave Dandelion, Matthew sighed, launching himself in his defence. He looked over to where Ian was inspecting the horses and the pack mules, and one part of him supposed he should go over to help, but the other part was incapable of movement. His head was one loud throbbing, his right arm bruised and numb, and his legs were shaking with pent-up tension, the back of his knees damp with sweat. He clutched the loaded flintlock that lay across his lap, finding some comfort in the smooth, worn wood of the stock, the cool metal of its barrel.
“They didn’t plan it,” Ian said a while later.
Matthew just looked at him. “Aye, they did, they ambushed us.”
Thomas nodded, studying the little clearing. “I think you’re right, Matthew. But it backfired, didn’t it?” He gestured at the two shallow graves. “I’ll ride back to Providence with our wounded prisoner and inform the elders. Having the Burleys close is like having a rabid wolf among the sheep.”
“You do that.” Matthew rose, ignoring how his head protested at this sudden movement. “But we must be on our way.” He kept on seeing the Burleys descending on his home, and, God, what would they do to his youngest bairns, to Sarah and David, Samuel and wee Adam? What would they do to his grandchildren, to Mark and Jacob, grown men the both of them, but outnumbered if set upon by a band of ruffians?
“They’re wounded,” Alex said in a reassuring voice. She stuck her hand into his and squeezed. “But you’re right. We should be on our way.”
Chapter 5
Matthew threw up again, and sat back against the tree trunk.
Alex handed him a damp cloth. “You’re concussed. You really shouldn’t be moving at all.”
“No choice, is there?” Matthew snapped, throwing the rag to the side.
“Yes, there is,” Alex said. “I can stay with you and they can ride on.”
Betty had to get home, and get home soon, and, just in case, two had to ride with her, one to stay with her and one to ride for help should the baby decide now was a good time to enter the world. To Alex’s practised eye, that looked a most probable scenario, and from the way Betty was massaging her belly, it would seem she shared that concern, even if, being Betty, she didn’t say anything.
“No.” Matthew struggled to stand. If Ian hadn’t caught him, he would have fallen, swaying drunkenly on his feet. With a groan, he collapsed back down. “You ride on. I’ll stay behind. Alone.”
“In your dreams, Mr Graham.” Alex knelt beside him.
“It’s just a concussion,” he tried.
“And you’ve insisted on riding with it,” she said. “The brain’s been badly bruised, and it swells. You have to rest.”
“Here?” He scanned their surroundings. “Not much of a safe haven.”
“It’ll have to do,” Alex said.
“I can stay with Da,” Daniel offered. “You can ride with Ian and Betty.”
“I stay.” No way did Alex intend to leave Matthew in his present state.
*
“Quiet, isn’t it?” Alex said once she’d made Matthew comfortable on the ground. He grunted, saying that as far as he could make out there were rustlings, and snapping twigs, and the call of birds.
Alex tilted her head at him. “Quiet enough to hear all that, then.” She looked over to where Aaron was grazing, and back at the musket, leaning loaded within easy reach of Matthew. “Do you think there are any bears close by?”
Matthew opened an eye and studied her with irritation. “Bears, mountain cats, wolves…”
“Oh.” Alex fingered the scar on her right arm. She turned to ask him something else, but found him fast asleep, dappled in the sunlight that filtered down through the foliage of the plane tree.
She tucked the blanket around him and sat down beside him. From further in the woods came the staccato of a woodpecker. He was right. It wasn’t quiet: it was full of birdsong, of the rushing sound of water from somewhere close by, of the soft whooshing of the wind through the tree crowns high above them. Deceptively peaceful, she thought, pulled out her knife, and stuck it in the ground beside her.
Matthew slept on and on, a deep, immobile sleep that worried her. Twice, she woke him to make him drink and eat something, but he complained of nausea when she tried to make him sit up, and the short walk behind a bush to relieve himself left him dizzy.
“It’ll be better tomorrow,” she said, looking about at the darkening woods.
Matthew shifted clos
er to where she was sitting and subsided with a soft grunt, his head pillowed in her lap.
“Do you never dream of her?” Matthew asked, throwing Alex entirely from her own musings.
“Dream of who?”
“Your mother.”
Alex threaded her fingers through his hair and thought for a long time. “No. It’s strange, but I never dream of her. Not once, I think.”
“But you think of her.”
“It happens.” Like now, when Lucy’s scribble had woken memories of Mercedes’ magic little paintings, squares of bright blues and greens that lured you to come closer and look into their depths, and then wham! you were gone.
Matthew didn’t say anything. He snuggled closer, and she was glad to feel his warm weight on her, aware of how dark the night stood round them, their little fire a pitiful beacon of light. He slept. She yawned and yawned again. They should bank the fire, not advertise their presence this openly. Later, she thought, she would do it later.
*
“Not much of a sentry,” Matthew said in a dry voice when Alex woke with a start next morning. She heaved herself up to sit from where she’d been curled on the ground.
“I must have just dropped off,” she mumbled. She had no idea how long she’d slept, but it had been pitch-dark the last time she’d forced him awake to drink and talk to her. “How are you?” He was very pale, his eyes sunk into dark hollows.
“My arm hurts something terrible, but my head is better, I think.” He gingerly shifted it from side to side. “Not very much better.”
“So we stay one more day here,” Alex decided, overruling his protests with a quick kiss to his forehead.
They were both half asleep when Aaron whinnied, his head turned towards the narrow trail they’d been travelling on yesterday. The musket was already aimed at the bend in the trail when the small party of men appeared, two on horses and one on a mule.
“The Chisholms,” Alex said, relieved when she recognised their neighbours, and Matthew lowered the musket to his lap.
Revenge and Retribution (The Graham Saga) Page 4