Charles heaped this his firstborn natural son with titles and riches, even investing him with a dukedom, no matter that he was bastard born. Ingrate, the son turned out to be, to the extent of plotting against his father’s life a couple of summers before Charles’ untimely death. Awful, is it not, to contemplate such ingratitude in a child?
“Huh,” Alex snorted, “and when Luke killed his own father, that was alright, was it?”
“We don’t truly know,” Matthew protested, “if it was Luke or Margaret.”
“Well, my money’s on Luke, just so you know.” She had never liked Margaret – bloody gorgeous woman who had first married Matthew then Luke – but she didn’t see Margaret as either strong enough or devious enough to lure old Malcolm Graham up to the millpond and push him in.
As a consequence of all that plotting, Monmouth spent the last few years of Charles’ life in Holland, dancing attendance on William of Orange while collecting a band of hotheads around him. Unfortunately, one of those hotheads was my son, my only son.
“Oh dear,” Alex said.
With an exasperated sigh, Matthew took the letter from her and settled himself on the narrow window bench to continue reading.
I do not understand how Monmouth ever came by the idea that there would be support for a bastard-born son against a legitimate heir. As I am sure you can fully appreciate, the people have no taste for further fratricide after those terrible years of civil war in the forties, and James is well enough liked, despite being a professed Catholic.
It was bound to fail. Monmouth counted on William of Orange’s support, conveniently forgetting the fact that William is married to King James’ eldest daughter, and on top of that, he allied himself with the Earl of Argyll, that luckless, untalented son of a brilliant father, and well… Did you ever meet the old Earl of Argyll, Matthew? A fox, I hear, although I never had the pleasure myself. But the son, well, the son I knew well, having spent months with Archie Campbell during the Glencairn rising, mediating between him and Middleton.
“He does have quite the cheek, doesn’t he?” Alex interrupted. “To chit-chat casually about his own participation in a rising he managed to get you condemned for.” Three years in prison, that treachery of his brother had cost him.
“Mhm,” Matthew grunted.
Ah well, neither here nor there, although I suspect your temperamental wife is by now spewing vitriolic comments as to my unrepentant nature. For what it’s worth, brother, I do have moments of remorse, but it suffices to touch my silver nose to clear my head of such.
“Bastard! So now the fact that you cut his nose off is comparable to him stealing years of your life from you?” It still made her squirm to recall how a wild-eyed and incoherent Matthew had sliced off Luke’s nose in payment for years spent in prison, for the child Alex had miscarried due to Luke’s beating, but, foremost, for the humiliation of finding Luke with the beautiful but false Margaret – in Matthew’s marital bed.
“Do you wish me to read it out loud or not?” Matthew said, sounding irritated. Alex waved for him to go on.
Archie, poor sod, set off for Scotland, there to rouse the Highlands, while Monmouth was to land in the south, and together they would close the pincer round defenceless James’ middle. It all went wrong, and well before Monmouth set foot on English soil, Argyll was defeated in the north.
With Monmouth rode my Charlie, no doubt enamoured of himself in armour and sashes, but with no understanding at all of the workings of war and state. It grieves me to admit that my son, while diligent and witty, lacks in comprehension of the mechanics of power. Had he but studied the situation, he would have seen that Monmouth stood no chance to win – not against a crowned king. But Charlie, well, he saw himself set off in the fashion of the dashing Cavaliers, fighting bravely and honourably to place his chosen prince on a throne he had no right to.
There are no honourable wars, as you well know, and fighting battles is a dirty and sordid affair, with little bravery and much knavery. Charlie, I fear, found that out very quickly, but being endowed with very little sense of self- preservation, he stuck with Monmouth to the end.
My son was captured in the aftermath of the battle of Sedgemoor, and carried off to sit in chains in Taunton, where, as well as I can make out, he still lingers. Monmouth was beheaded. I was there to watch, and it was a spectacle: an incompetent executioner that struck the Duke five or six times and yet the wretch remained alive.
My son was condemned to death before the court in Taunton, late in September. It was one of those golden autumn days, a day that began in misty sunrise and dewy grass, a day that should be spent rejoicing in the pleasure of being alive. Instead, I sat at Taunton Castle and watched as a man bearing but a passing resemblance to my strong and vivacious son was brought to stand before the bench. His hair was shorn, his clothes hung ragged and soiled around his decimated frame, and he could barely walk on account of his fetters.
I had tried everything to save him, but this time money had no clout. The King was bent on setting an example, and in Judge Jeffreys he had his man, an ice-cold man with not one whit of compassion in his body. People call him the hanging judge. They whisper his name in revulsion, and justly does he deserve it, for a man more drunk on his own power have I rarely seen. He screamed at witless children, he jeered at the prisoners, accusing them not only of treason, but of dissent and Presbyterianism.
Women were sentenced to burn, mere boys were taken to hang, and in Taunton 500 unlucky souls had their lives gavelled away from them – among them, my lad. It is a strange experience, brother, to bear witness to the passing of your beloved child’s life, to sit helpless while a lowly clerk reads out his names and then pronounces his life to be forfeit.
I saw the despair in his eyes, and even more I saw it when Jeffreys announced that Charles Graham wasn’t to hang. No, he was to be transported to the West Indies there to serve out his life as a slave. His life! A long, extended death sentence, a slow degeneration from human to beast, from beast to corpse… My lad, Matthew, my bonny red-haired lad to die alone and so far from home!
“The sins of the father,” Alex muttered, thinking that maybe there was divine justice after all, even if it seemed somewhat unfair on poor Charlie.
If the King had as his aim to frighten the country into obedience, he has succeeded, but these excesses may come back and haunt him, for people are sickened by the lack of compassion, for the cruelties done. It behoves a king to remember that his subjects are fickle: what they love today, they may hate tomorrow, and in these days of unrest, a king must be possessed of strong political instincts and a flair for governance. I hope, for England’s sake, that James has this in equal measure as my mourned and defunct liege.
I suppose, brother, that you wonder why I come to you for help…
“Too right,” Alex agreed, “and what does he expect you to do, anyway?”
…and the answer to that is simple: your brother, on account of his previous relations with the Netherlands, is no longer in a position of trust. I have been placed under house arrest while it is ascertained that I have not in any way been involved in this nefarious rebellion. I have not, I assure you. I am a loyal subject of the King, as I was of his brother, and trust matters will soon be sorted. But, until then… Charlie’s ship is to sail in late March, with destination Jamaica or Barbados – I know not which – and, assuming he survives the journey, he will be there in May or June. I fear that in his weakened state after near on a year in English gaols, he will not have strength enough left to him that he will live even another year.
I have no one else to ask. I am at my wits’ end, restrained from helping him myself, and I lie awake at night imagining his sufferings, and cannot truly bear it. My son, to wither away and die after a short, stunted life… I beg of you, Matthew, that you show the compassion for my son I never accorded you. Please help him, brother. Don’t let him die a dog.
“Very eloquent,” Alex said unsteadily. “And how does he sign off? Yo
ur loving brother Luke?”
Matthew just handed her the letter. Luke, it said, nothing more.
Alex watched him turn away, sink his hands into the window frame and grip it. His shoulders bowed, his back stiffened, and she knew he was reliving his long ago abduction and subsequent slavery – all on account of his brother. What a bloody mess all of this was. In retribution for his disfigured face, Luke had abducted and sold Matthew as indentured labour in Virginia, there to be worked for seven years or until he died, whichever came first.
Damn Luke…a veritable Judas, and now he had the audacity to turn to Matthew for help! Alex’s instinctive reaction was to reject it outright, but then she thought of Charlie, the cousin Jacob had grown so fond of, and reluctantly she recalled how good Luke had been to Jacob. In exasperation, she puffed out her cheeks.
“What do we do?” she said, coming over to hug Matthew from behind. She rubbed her face up and down between his shoulder blades, feeling him relax.
“There isn’t much choice, is there?” he said. “I have to go down there and attempt to find him.”
“Wrong pronoun,” Alex told him. “It’s ‘we’, Matthew, not ‘I’.” No way did she intend to let him face the ghosts of his past alone.
“We,” he said and twisted round in her arms to hold her close.
Chapter 16
“Kate? What do you mean we have to talk to Kate?” Alex hated having to run, and when he showed no intention of shortening his stride, she stopped, folding her arms over her chest. “Go ahead,” she called after him, “go and talk to Kate on your own, and let’s see if I’m still here when you come back, shall we?”
He came to an abrupt halt and stood waiting until she caught up with him.
“Sorry,” he muttered. He placed her hand in the crook of his elbow and set off, this time adjusting both pace and stride to hers. “She has boats.”
“Aha,” Alex replied, having no idea what he was talking about.
“Kate,” he explained with a small smile, “she has ships. And most of them trade from here to the Indies.”
“Aha,” Alex repeated.
They found Simon on Kate’s terrace, and from his unchanged clothes, Alex deduced he had spent the night.
“And the wig?” Alex asked, retrieving his coat from where it had slid to the ground.
“Too hot,” Simon grumbled, “and I’m not quite sure where it ended up last night.” He grinned, his pale blue eyes looking genuinely happy for the first time in very many years. His face broke up even further when the dark nursemaid appeared with Duncan.
“See?” he said. “He recognises me.”
Alex gave Duncan a sceptical look. “He has gas,” she said, holding out her arms to the child.
“Let me.” Matthew slid his big hands under the child to lift him to his chest, escaping to sit on a chair some distance away to acquaint himself with the grandson he had so far scarcely touched.
“Where’s Kate?” Alex asked. “Taking a nap?”
“Sleeping? Nay, Kate has been up and about since just after dawn.” He nodded to where Kate stepped into sight, a wide-brimmed straw hat shading her face. “Not that she slept much before dawn either,” he added with a self-satisfied little smirk.
“Poor her,” Alex commiserated.
“Poor her? Nay, Alex, poor me. It’s common knowledge, how voracious widows are in bed.”
“It is?” Alex eyed Kate with guarded interest.
“Oh aye. Once a woman has discovered the joys a man can give her, well then…”
“Yes, and she of course was very lucky in her husband,” Alex said. “I can really see him taking the time to introduce her to the glorious world of sexual completion.”
Simon looked at her with interest. ”You think he was remiss in those matters? After all, they had seven children.”
“I think Dominic Jones was a very self-centred person in bed.”
“Ah well, someone has lit her fire,” Simon said, “and done a right good job of it.”
“Oh,” Alex replied, her eyes on her husband and his very pink cheeks.
Simon read Luke’s letter in silence and after an inquiring look at Matthew, passed it to Kate who retreated to read it alone. Not a good reader, Alex noted with a spurt of satisfaction, keeping her face blank as they all waited for Kate to work her way through the multiple pages.
“Oh dear,” Kate said, and between her and Matthew passed a wordless communication that made Alex seethe inside.
“Yes, you would know,” Alex said, earning herself a reproachful look from Matthew. Well, she would, wouldn’t she? Rich, successful Kate Jones had, after all, crossed the ocean involuntarily, loaded onto a ship as a convicted criminal.
“I suppose I would, even if it was worse for the men.” Kate’s mouth tightened, one hand bunching itself round the cotton of her skirts. “They die quickly down there, what with the heat and the toil – and they won’t be in the best of health to begin with.”
“Nay, not after so many months in gaol.” Simon set his elbows on the table and tilted his head at Matthew. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t owe Luke anything. That brother of yours has cost you dearly. Years in prison, further years of slavery, constant persecution back in Scotland…”
“Nay, but the lad is my nephew.” Matthew looked down at Duncan, now fast asleep in his arms, and handed the boy over to Simon. “Jacob would have wanted me to go, and had Jacob been alive, he would have gone too.”
“I can arrange passage for you on one of my sloops,” Kate said, addressing herself to Matthew. “It will take some weeks, the Althea is not due back before the latter part of May, but all in all you’d be down in Jamaica by early July the latest.”
“Jamaica, you think?”
“I would start there, a jungle-infested place, I hear. It eats men.” Kate shuddered, once again sharing a quick look with Matthew. “I can go with you. I have several contacts that may come in useful.”
In your dreams. Alex was very tempted to kick Kate – or Matthew.
“That is kind of you,” Matthew said, “and I’ll gladly take whatever names you think may come in useful, but Alex and I will manage on our own.”
“Alex?” Kate turned to look at her. “Is she coming too?”
“Absolutely.” Almost like going on a cruise, Alex was trying to convince herself, hearing Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers duet their way through Islands in the Stream in her head.
“Beware of the ague,” Kate said.
“Oh, we will,” Alex said. “I’ll stock up on Jesuit’s bark.”
Once the discussion about ships to the Indies had been concluded, Kate insisted on dragging Alex off to inspect her gardens.
“Yesterday…” Kate bent down and studied a patch of garlic, “I…”
“Yes?” Alex prompted when Kate fell silent.
“I had hoped you’d enjoy the evening, and instead you were saddened by it.”
“Saddened?” Alex shook her head at Kate’s back. “I was insulted and angry.”
“Yes, I suppose you would be.” Kate straightened up and smiled tentatively at Alex. “I behaved badly. I shouldn’t have danced with him more than the once.”
“I’m not married to you,” Alex reminded her.
“Thank heavens for that,” Kate muttered, and they both burst out laughing. They continued their little stroll, stood for some moments looking out over the water.
“Will you marry Simon?” Alex asked.
“Marry Simon?” Kate gave her a very surprised look. “Why would I do that?”
“To stop the whole community from gossiping about you? Or ensure you’re not suddenly accused of fornication by Minister Macpherson?”
“Pfff! They can chatter as they wish. I lead a discreet existence, too far away from town for those old busybodies to truly know what happens.” Kate unfolded her fan and set it to work as they walked back towards the house. “No, Simon and I are friends, related through our common grandchildren.” She fluttered her
eyelashes and grinned. “How fortunate that such small children nap frequently during daytime.”
“Simon might want to marry you,” Alex said.
“Oh, I’m sure he would,” Kate answered with a certain asperity. “Widow Jones is quite the catch.”
“I don’t think that stands foremost in Simon’s mind.”
“You think not?” Kate sounded bleak. She plucked at a rosebud, breaking it off with a snap. “Widow Jones is not about to remarry. She is far too fond of her independence.” She levelled a dark look at Alex. “Maybe you should let him know.”
Alex shook her head. “Oh no, that’s something you are perfectly capable of doing yourself – independent woman that you are.”
*
“Do you think she’s right? Will Simon have an eye on her on account of her wealth?” Alex gripped Matthew’s hand as they balanced down the rocky shore towards the lapping waters of the bay.
“Of course he does,” Matthew replied, “not only, mind, he is foremost taken by her as a woman.”
“Hmm,” Alex said.
“Alex,” Matthew sighed, “you can’t deny she is a fine woman.”
“Yeah, and we all know she’s a formidable dancer,” Alex muttered. She stuck her bare foot into the cool water and sneaked him a look.
“Not like you,” he said.
“Right,” she snorted. “As if you would know, given that you didn’t dance even once with me last night.”
“Alex…” He looked away. “I’ve said I’m sorry.”
“I know. But that doesn’t make it go away, okay? It still hurts.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, lass. You know that, don’t you?”
Alex lifted one shoulder, she lifted the other. “But you did – badly.”
“I did.” He nodded. “I didn’t mean to, but I did.” He raised their braided hands to his mouth and kissed her fingers. “I love you.”
“Good line, given the circumstances,” Alex muttered.
“But true,” he said, his eyes burning into hers.
“I know.”
He looked at her expectantly but she couldn’t bring herself to say she loved him, not today, not when she was still angry and humiliated. After some seconds, he exhaled and broke eye contact.
Whither Thou Goest (The Graham Saga Book 7) Page 14