“Stay,” Philip said.
“The girl is beddable,” he said, switching to English. “And the woman has some years of work in her. The man is strong but must be treated firmly. Maybe you should geld him – that tends to quieten them down.” He grinned at Matthew. “I can do it,” he offered, tucking his pistol back into his belt.
“I’m sure you can,” the man obviously in charge among the Indians replied, and with a start, Matthew recognised Qaachow’s voice. “But we do our own gelding.”
Walter was being helped to stand by two of the Indians, and Philip sneered at Matthew. “A slave, Graham. And not only you, but your wife and daughter as well.”
“They are my kin,” Qaachow said.
Philip’s mouth fell open. “Your kin?”
In response, Qaachow snapped a command in his own language, and a young lad stepped forward into the sun. Matthew squinted at the Indian lad: dark hair, with hazel eyes that glinted a disconcerting green in the early morning sun. He blinked. Samuel? His Samuel?
Philip swallowed and backed away, fumbling for his pistol. Two Indians grabbed hold of his arms, making Burley yell and try to yank himself free.
“Their son – and mine,” Qaachow introduced with a little smile.
Philip increased his efforts to pull free. Matthew stared at his lad – nay, Qaachow’s lad – and received a smile in return. Qaachow barked orders. Samuel flew off in the direction of Alex, and Matthew was lowered to sit, the ropes cut away from him, and a blanket brought to cover his nudity.
“I am so sorry we were not here to stop them.” Qaachow placed a hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “And I am sorry that your son is dead.”
In the events of the last twenty-four hours, Matthew had forgotten his dead son, but now grief rose hot and hard through his chest, up his throat, and he covered his face with his hands.
“Jacob,” he whispered, and he saw him running towards Sarah before the impact of the musket ball propelled him backwards for a couple of paces. Matthew would never forget the expression on Jacob’s face, or how his body folded into itself to land in a cloud of dust.
“We found him yesterday afternoon, him and your other sons. I sent them home with their brother, and promised to find you and see you safely home.” Qaachow sat down beside Matthew and put a light arm round his lacerated frame. “I am here for you, white brother.”
Matthew nodded, not trusting himself to speak. “Piss,” he finally said. “I have to piss.”
*
Alex was wishing for a Valium – no, make that a whole bottle of Valium – something that would pad her in cotton wool and allow her to process the last days of horror piece by piece. Her world was unravelling, and she had no energy left, none at all. She sat sunk into herself, clenching and unclenching her bloodied right hand – the hand of a killer. Sarah was trying to tell her something, but Alex waved her away.
She had to get back on her feet. Somehow, she had to find the strength to make it over to her shivering, naked man, but the effort required was impossible even to contemplate. So close, and now they would be carried off with the Indians. It was all too much, and having the boy throw himself into her arms brought her dangerously close to breaking point.
Samuel? Here? She began to laugh, and then she was crying, loud, harsh sobs that began in her belly, tore their way up her throat to be expelled in barks.
“It’s alright,” Samuel said. “You’re safe now.”
Safe? Alex raised her head to where Matthew was being helped to sit, a blanket swept around him. Samuel hugged her, and she blinked at him. Her son, he was here, her lost boy was back, and Alex crushed him so hard he yelped in protest.
“You’ve grown,” she said, running a hand over his lanky arms. “I think you’re taller than David.”
“You think? I think not. He’s taller, older.”
She frowned. It sounded strange, his English, as if he were making an effort to produce the sounds required. Still, that was quickly sorted; a matter of days, no more, now that he was home. With half an ear, she listened while Samuel explained that he and his tribe had been north-west of the great river for the last few months, some sort of Iroquois get-together, which was why they hadn’t been at hand to protect the Grahams. Frankly, she couldn’t care less, not now, but she registered every ‘my tribe’, ‘my people’ with a sinking feeling in her gut.
“How I’ve missed you,” she said, interrupting him mid-flow. She just had to touch him again, making him squirm. She took his hand instead, and it was lean and strong and very brown. “I’m so glad you’re home.” Out of the corner of her eye, she kept an eye on Matthew, her heart nearly leaping out of her mouth when, for some seconds, he disappeared behind a bush, supported by an Indian.
“Home? No, Mama, I’m not coming home. My fath…Qaachow will not allow it. Not yet.” He glanced at the tall Indian, eyes lightening when Qaachow smiled at him. He stood, like an adoring hound at the sight of his master.
“You’re our son, not his!” Alex said with more of an edge than she’d intended to.
Samuel’s tanned face acquired a red hue. “It is not that many more moons, is it?” He looked at her shyly. “One hundred and twenty-one days left, Mama.”
“You count them?” Her eyes darted over to Matthew, returned to her son.
“Every night,” he said, and something dark flitted over his face, his eyes leaping to Qaachow, to his Indian brother.
Alex looked at her son, at Qaachow, back at her son. Shit, bloody, bloody fucking hell. Alex was too exhausted to rouse herself much beyond this, even if for an instant she nailed her eyes to Qaachow’s back. Instead, she hugged Samuel hard.
“Mama!” He struggled out of her hold and sat back on his heels. “Thistledown has a new son, a brother for me and Little Bear.”
“Oh,” Alex replied, her insides contorting with jealousy at the pride in his voice.
“But she’s frightened.”
“She is? Is the boy ill?” Alex felt a stab of compassion for Thistledown.
“No.” Samuel plucked at a stand of grass, avoiding her eyes. “You cursed my Indian father, his seed and the seed of his seed, and my mother fears for her baby boy.” He gave her an entreating look, not even noticing his slip of tongue. “I don’t want my wee brother to come to harm, Mama, nor Little Bear. Won’t you lift the curse?”
*
Sarah stood forgotten in the centre of the clearing. Mama was with Samuel, Da was impossible for her to approach. All that he’d lived through, every single mark on him was because of her. If only she’d stayed in the yard, if, if… She snuck a look down at herself, mortified to see so many signs of her ordeal. The neckline of her shift gaped open from where Walter had torn it apart, and she fisted her hand round the tear in an effort to cover her chest, exposed beyond the limits of propriety.
She ducked her head when Qaachow came towards her, glad of the way her undone, messy hair fell in a protective curtain over her battered face. She had no idea what she looked like, but she could feel the bruises, her torn and tender mouth, the throbbing swelling around her left eye. Qaachow stopped before her and with a question in his eyes raised fingers to her hair. She nodded, and closed her eyes when he gently combed the hair back and braided it.
“It is not your shame.” He draped a blanket round her and handed her a knife. “You have the right,” he said, tilting his head in the direction of the captive Burley brothers.
Sarah weighed the weapon in her palm, finding the balance point between blade and grip so that it hung quivering across her forefinger. “And if I don’t?”
“Then we will. And it will be slow and painful, very painful.”
“I don’t want them to die.” Sarah wet her lips. “I want them to live. I want their souls torn from them, their manhood destroyed, I want them to scream for help – as I did – but have their cries go unheard. I want them to live a long time afterwards, and know themselves to be hollowed husks – as hollow as I am.”
“If th
at is what you want, that is what you get,” Qaachow said, retaking the knife. “Your brother will bear witness to their agony.”
“My brother?” Sarah turned to look at Samuel who was still sitting by her mother. “But he’s a boy!”
“White Bear is old enough to watch.” Qaachow inclined his head and moved away.
*
Out of the corner of her eye, Alex had seen Qaachow approach her daughter, had watched him braid her hair, wrap her in a blanket. Now, the Indian turned her way, and Samuel scrambled to his feet at Qaachow’s approach. Qaachow said something, and Samuel nodded, giving Alex an awkward hug before setting off in the direction of Matthew.
She could feel Qaachow’s eyes on her, but she couldn’t summon the energy necessary to be polite, so she kept her eyes on the ground, tried to pretend he wasn’t standing right beside her.
“Do you still hate me?” he said.
“How can I?” Alex muttered. “You just saved us.” She swivelled her head to look at Matthew who was sitting with Samuel kneeling before him, and she wept inside at the destruction wreaked on him.
“Look what they’ve done,” she moaned. “My beautiful man.”
Qaachow helped her to stand. “He will live.”
She gave him a long look. “And so will your sons. I hear you have two now.”
“Three,” he said, eyes resting on Samuel.
“Oh no, he’s mine,” she told him, hating the way his mouth softened into a little smile. “Make sure you bring my boy back whole.” She gave him a stiff bow and set off towards her man.
*
Matthew rested his forehead against his wife’s and closed his eyes. He very much wanted to put his arms around her, but there was no strength left in them, and so he let them hang by his side. He had a burning need to tell her all that had been done to him, but shame froze the words into hard, ice-cold pellets that clogged his mouth and windpipe. Her fingertips were on his face, walking over the whip slash, the bruised nose and eye, the swollen lip. Very gently, she placed her cool, soft lips against his cracked, bloodied ones. And Matthew knew he was safe and crumpled unconscious into her arms.
*
It was a terrible homecoming. Matthew lay delirious on the primitive sled behind one of the horses, Sarah had retreated into absolute silence, and with every step down the long lane, Alex knew she was coming closer and closer to confronting the reality of her dead son.
It didn’t much help when the whole family came out in silence to greet them. Alex wanted only to disappear, to drag a quilt over her head and sleep until she could wake up to a reality where none of the last days had happened, to a world where Jacob was still alive, Sarah undamaged, and her Matthew healthy and whole. She stifled a sob, she swallowed and swallowed. Don’t cry, not now. Later, yes; now, no. Instead, she stood as straight as she could and bid the Indians a courteous farewell, told her sons to get their father inside, and turned Sarah over to Ruth.
“Make sure she has a long hot bath.” Alex pushed a mute and unwilling Sarah towards a reluctant and horrified Ruth.
“I’ll do it,” Betty said, stepping between the girls. “Come here, Sarah. I’ll help you.”
“Mama,” Sarah whispered, “please, Mama.” Her hand knotted itself into Alex’s skirts, the gesture of a very small child.
“You take care of the lass, Alex,” Mrs Parson said. “We’ll take care of Matthew, aye?”
No, she wanted to say, bloody hell, no! But what was she to do? She leaned over the sled and kissed Matthew’s uncovered nape.
“I don’t want to leave you,” she admitted to his ear.
“You have to,” his breathless reply floated up. “I’ll be here when you are done.”
“Promise?”
He actually smiled, a slow smile while in the corner of his eye a tear glinted.
“Aye, lass, I promise. I don’t think I’ll be moving much the coming days.”
Sarah flinched and shrank away when Alex undressed her. The shawl, the torn and dirty skirts, her stained stays, the chemise that stank of sweat and semen and blood…each protective layer was stripped off her, revealing dried blood, flowering bruises shifting from near black to sickly yellow.
“I don’t know where the bodice is,” Sarah said.
“Who cares? I’m going to burn it all anyway.” Alex put a tentative hand to Sarah’s swollen face. “How on earth could you walk all day yesterday?”
Sarah shrugged. “It was Da. Jacob was dead, and then Da…” She drew in a ragged breath. “It was my fault. Jacob died because of me.”
“Jacob died because he was a valiant fool.”
“But if I hadn’t disobeyed you…” It came out as a gulping sob. “…and now Jacob’s dead, and you will all hate me for it.”
“No, honey. We’ll lay the blame where it belongs: on the Burleys.” She almost meant it; not quite, not yet, but as she helped her daughter into the bath, washed her and lathered her hair, the remaining anger dissipated, replaced by a ferocious protectiveness towards her damaged, cringing girl.
She helped Sarah stand and patted her dry, ignoring the instinctive flinching. She motioned for her daughter to lie down, and oiled all of her with lavender oil, attempting to caress the pain and humiliation away. Halfway through, Sarah began to cry, but Alex pretended not to notice. By the time she was done, Sarah was no longer crying – she was fast asleep. Alex sat beside her for a very long time before wrapping her in a quilt and calling for Mark to carry his sister inside.
*
“He’ll keep,” Mrs Parson said, clasping Alex’s hand. “He sleeps like a babe. But you, lass, you look dead on your feet.” She led Alex over to the table, more or less forced her to sit.
Alex looked down at the heaped plate before her. She didn’t think she was hungry, but once she began to eat, her stomach screamed for more. Well over two days since she’d eaten, and the stew was hot and spicy, the bread was newly made, and when Mark poured her a full measure of whisky, she didn’t try to protest. She just threw it down with the rest.
“Tell us,” Mark said, “all of it.”
“I don’t think I can,” Alex replied, not wanting to relive the worst parts. Nor did she have any intention of ever telling them everything, as much for their sake as for Matthew’s.
“You have to.” Ian came over to sit close enough to take her fisted hand and straighten it out to rest in his.
“Matthew,” she said. “I have to go to Matthew.”
Ian wouldn’t let go. “He’s safe, Mama.”
Alex sighed, concentrating on chasing an escaped piece of onion across her emptied plate. “Jacob,” she breathed. “Oh God, my Jacob.”
Slightly drunk, and very comforted by the last few hours spent with her eldest sons and Mrs Parson, Alex finally stumbled to her room some time before midnight.
Matthew was fast asleep, not as much as twitching when she stroked his cheek.The room was hot and stuffy, and she went over to open the window to the night, leaning out to draw in the scents of early summer. A nighthawk flew by, its piercing call cutting through the silence, and against the lighter sky towards the river, Alex saw a bat flit by in high-speed acrobatic circles. Behind her came the reassuring sound of Matthew breathing, and on her way here she had tiptoed in to where Sarah and Ruth lay fast asleep. Safe, all of them were safe. Even Samuel was safe, somewhere out in the rustling green of the forest. All except her Jacob, who would never see his twenty-second birthday.
Despite having promised herself she wouldn’t, Alex leaned her head against the window frame and wept, standing at the open window for a very long time.
Matthew woke with a start when she got in beside him, and she wasn’t sure quite how to touch him, but he solved that by pillowing his head on her chest.
“Hold me,” he whispered. “Hold me and heal me.” And she did, as well as she could, stroking the only undamaged part of him she could reach – his head – telling him over and over again that somehow they’d make it through. Of course they
’d make it through.
*
He couldn’t sleep. It was a long way to dawn, and he stared out into the dark, his head leaping from one half-baked thought to the other. He was hot with fever; every nerve in him ached, humming loudly that he was alive. Beside him, Alex lay sunk into a sleep so deep it bordered on stupor. He needed her urgently, but didn’t want to wake her, so instead he put a hand on her thigh, caressing the softness of her skin. It helped to feel her under his hand, and he shifted close enough to sniff her hair. Sun and dust, sweat and blood…Blood? Had she been hurt as well? But no, she was whole and unscathed under his touch. His foot throbbed, his back was beginning to flare again, and his buttock was raw with pain. His arse… He muffled a sob in the pillow.
She rolled towards him, disorientated and half asleep, but her hands were on his shirt, under the hem, soft, gentle fingers stroking and cupping. She lay back, her legs widened for him, and he shoved her shift out of the way, ignoring how his skin shrieked in protest at his movements. She enveloped him in her warmth, and he was safe. She lay asleep but acquiescing, and he rocked them back and forth, not wanting this joining to end. In his feverish state, he wasn’t sure this was happening, and he considered that maybe he should try and roll off, but he didn’t want to. He wanted his cock inside of her, buried in her welcoming darkness, testifying to the fact that he hadn’t died at the hands of the Burleys. Her hand drifted up to his head, and she pulled him down to lie on top of her.
“Sleep,” she whispered hoarsely.
Chapter 39
Matthew was feverish for days, lying like a beached whale on their bed with his whipped back bare to the air. Any movement made him wince, all of him a mass of welts and bruises, and on top of that, there was his foot. Philip Burley had amputated the fourth toe jaggedly, and the remaining stump was a swollen, infected area that had to be drained of pus repeatedly.
Revenge and Retribution (The Graham Saga) Page 32