Serpents in the Garden (The Graham Saga)

by Anna Belfrage

  Agnes looked up from where she was slicing beets and frowned. “She should be silent in his presence. Mr Leslie is so much wiser than her, and he’s her husband.” She nodded vigorously, dislodging a strand of pale blond hair from under her cap.

  Naomi rolled her eyes at her. “Wiser? If he were wiser, he wouldn’t have married a girl that young. Look at the discord it’s causing in his family.” Naomi gnawed at her lip. “Poor Jenny, first she loses her mother, and now she’s lost her father.”

  “Not a major loss, if you ask me,” Alex muttered. “At least, not in his present besotted state. But, to be fair, one must remember it can’t exactly be a bed of roses for Constance either.”

  Agnes choked and raised grey eyes her way. “Bed of roses? Marriage is a duty.”

  “If that’s all it is, let me tell you there would have been no more than one, perhaps two Graham children,” Alex retorted, grinning at the expression of mild shock that flew over Agnes’ face. Seven years living with them, and Agnes still had days when she regarded Alex as a potentially demented woman.

  “Anyway,” Naomi went on, “Uncle Peter has stated that he expects a full apology from you before even considering to resume his friendship with you.”

  “From me? For what?” Alex said.

  Naomi and Mrs Parson just looked at her.

  “You told the wife she was simple, and then you told the husband he was even simpler, a pathetic old goat ruled by his cock,” Mrs Parson said.

  “Oh, that.” Alex shrugged. “Well, that’s true.” She leaned over and nabbed a carrot from the basket at Agnes’ feet and, with a small wave, stepped outside.

  “I reckon that means she won’t apologise,” Mrs Parson stated, her voice carrying through the open door.

  “Did you ever consider that a possibility?” Naomi said.

  “Poor Mr Graham,” Agnes put in, “to be saddled with such a headstrong wife.”

  Mrs Parson laughed. “Poor Mr Graham? I don’t think he sees it quite that way, aye?”

  He’d better not, Alex chuckled, and set off in search of her unfortunate husband.

  “I think Agnes feels sorry for you,” Alex said, leaning back against the sun-warmed wall of the woodshed.

  “She does?” Matthew threw her a look. “Aye well, that’s nice of her. I have a hard life, do I not?”

  “You do? How?” She moved that bit closer. Matthew grunted as he brought the axe down, splicing the wood in two.

  “You, of course. What was it Peter Leslie said? Oh aye: that a wife as opinionated as you needed regular beating, and that in his experience it helped, mellowing Elizabeth as the years went by.”

  “You think he did? Beat her?” Peter sank even lower in Alex’s estimation.

  Matthew wiped at his forehead and picked up the next piece of wood. “Aye, I do. But as far as I can make out, it didn’t mellow her much, did it?”

  “Not much.”

  A couple of chops, a few more pieces of wood, and then he was done, sinking the axe into the chopping block. It quivered, and Alex’s eyes flew automatically to his thigh, since some years back decorated with a scar the size of a kitchen knife. He noticed and gave a little shake of the head. “I know how to wield an axe. I didn’t do myself the damage.”

  No, that had been courtesy of Walter Burley, an attempt on Matthew’s life that was foiled at the last moment by their Indian friend – was he a friend? – Qaachow.

  “Do you think he’s still alive?” Alex asked.

  “Who? Walter? You know he is – however unfortunate.”

  “Not him. Qaachow.” Alex willed away the disturbing images of the Burley brothers that flew through her mind.

  “I have no idea. The Bacon Rebellion and its subsequent aftermath crushed most of the local Indians, did it not? They even razed the Susquehannock forts, and them good allies all along.”

  Alex gave herself a little hug. It had been a fearful time, with Matthew called to serve at times in the militia, but mostly left at home to defend his own as best he could. Ian, Matthew and Mark had spent months on permanent sentry duty as the situation deteriorated all through 1675 to explode in 1676.

  The Indians had retaliated as best they could, leaving a bloodied path when they moved south to avenge the Susquehannock chiefs killed in an attempted parley. But for all that they trampled crops both at the Chisholms’ and at Leslie’s Crossing; for all that they stole livestock from all their neighbours, Graham’s Garden was never touched, safe behind an invisible wall of gratitude because Alex had once saved Qaachow’s wife and son.

  “I hope he is,” Alex said. “He and Thistledown; alive and very far away. And I hope they stay there.” Yes, please stay away, please don’t come back.

  “It isn’t that easy. He might find his welcome cold among other Indian tribes – he might even be dead, killed in an Indian skirmish.”

  Alex hitched her shoulders, ashamed of the relief that flowed through her at the thought of Qaachow dead. “Maybe you’re right, but I think he’s still alive. Somehow, I know he is.”

  “If so, one day he’ll come for Samuel,” Matthew said in a low voice.

  Alex gave him a black look. “Don’t remind me, and it wasn’t me that promised him our son for a year.” She was being unfair, she knew that. Matthew had not been in a position to refuse, but there were days when she was very angry with him for agreeing to Qaachow’s proposal that Samuel be raised into manhood with his son – as an Indian.

  “Nay, and it wasn’t me that suckled Qaachow’s son at my breast, thereby making him and our Samuel foster brothers – at least in Qaachow’s eyes.”

  “He would’ve died otherwise. What was I to do?”

  “You did as you should.” He reached forward to brush an escaped lock of hair off her face. “And as to Samuel, it probably won’t happen. Qaachow might simply forget, or mayhap he’ll never come back.”

  “Yeah,” Alex said. Qaachow didn’t strike her as a man that forgot.

  Chapter 7

  Jacob shouted with joy and ran from one side of the boat to the other, eagerly pointing at the dolphins that seemed to be racing the Regina Anne.

  “Look!” he said to Captain Miles. “Look how fleet they are!”

  “Aye, lad, I’ve seen dolphins before. And as I recall, you should be below deck, working with Iggy.”

  Jacob made a face. To spend hour after hour in the galley had not been what he’d had in mind when he snuck aboard the Regina Anne, but after his initial surprise, Captain Miles had decided that, if the lad was on board, he was going to earn his keep and more, so Jacob swabbed decks and peeled turnips, polished the captain’s boots, kept the captain’s cabin neat, and in general was at the captain’s beck and call.

  “I want to learn to sail,” Jacob grumbled, earning himself a neat clip on the head.

  “You do as I say,” Captain Miles said.

  “Put him on the night watch,” Smith suggested. “They’re good men, all of them, and you can count on Johnny to keep him in line.”

  Jacob nodded eagerly. Aye, he’d do the night watch, and of course he’d still mind the goats and help Iggy in the galley, and—

  “We’ll see,” Captain Miles said. “You’ll not be quite as light on your feet a week from now.”

  The first few nights were mainly exciting. So much to learn and understand, and Jacob tagged after Johnny and repeated words and terms, tugged at ropes, retied knots, hoisted sails, took in sails, and scrambled up the rigging to free a corner that had caught. He kept his eyes firmly on the flapping white above him, because the single time he looked down he nearly fell, uncomfortably aware of how high up he was, and how difficult it was to make out the deck in the dark of the September night. He collapsed into his hammock just before dawn. For five hours, he slept like the dead, and then he was shaken awake and told to get himself down to the galley to help with the food.

  By the end of the week, Jacob was cross-eyed with lack of sleep, but he wasn’t about to complain; not now that Johnny h
ad clapped him on the shoulder and told him he had the makings of a fine sailor. Instead, he became adept at crawling away to hide during the afternoons, snatching the odd hour of sleep in the straw behind the goat pen, or in the narrow space beyond the forecastle.

  He was ridiculously happy. He was on his way to see the world, and it didn’t matter that he hadn’t washed since he came on board, nor changed his clothes, that his hands were full of blisters, and that his shin was one black bruise from where he had fallen the other night. Very rarely did he think about home, and when he did it was mainly Mama he thought about, effectively blocking out Da. Occasionally, he woke to a hard cock, and he would rub himself to release, his eyes closed as he visualised Betty. His wife, he reminded himself with a small grin, and then the smile was wiped away as he wondered if she was alright.

  “You think he’ll let her wait for you?” Johnny stared at him and burst out laughing.

  “But we’ve bedded and married by consent.”

  Johnny just shook his head. “If she ends up with child, mayhap. But, if not…” Johnny spat over the side. “No, lad, you must forget her. As you tell it, her father’s a fine man. He won’t wish to wed his lass to a sailor, will he?” His words dropped like stones through Jacob.

  “I don’t aim to be a sailor forever. Once I’ve seen a wee bit of the world, I’ll return to her.”

  “And how will you earn your living? Will your father give you land to farm?”

  Jacob admitted that no, that was probably not the case. “I can scribe. I can draw up documents and deeds.”

  “Hmph,” Johnny snorted.

  “Or I could become a healer – mayhap even a physician.” Jacob sighed. How was he to do that? He frowned down at the black waters below them. “Betty will wait. She knows I’ll come back for her.”

  Johnny shrugged and changed the subject by pointing towards the faraway shore.

  *

  Jacob could not turn his head fast enough. So many people! And what a city! He beamed at his surroundings, hurrying after Captain Miles who was making his way with dogged determination through the crowds. Jacob’s eyes widened at the sight of the wenches: pretty lasses that hung out of windows or loitered in doorways, their bodies exposed far beyond the limits of modesty.

  “Whores,” Captain Miles told him, “and you’ll stay well away from them.”

  Jacob nodded, but his hand closed around his little pouch. He had been very surprised when Captain Miles had given him three half-crowns, four shillings and three groats, gruffly telling him he had earned it. Never had he had this much money before, and he had an urgent need to spend it all – at once – and a visit to one of the taverns down by the docks did not seem a bad idea, not at all. And then he was going to buy something for Betty, he decided; perhaps a ring.

  The city was a warren of ongoing construction. Jacob had to weave in and out of scaffolding, step over piles of timber, and generally avoid being run over by the builders who were a ubiquitous presence all over the place. New multi-storeyed brick buildings tottered to impressive heights above him, storeys were added to already existing houses, and the narrow streets bristled with energy when the citizens of London went about their daily business in their half rebuilt city. Yet again, he marvelled at all the women; now substantially more sedate and prim than the ones down in the port area, but loud and commanding, their garments in vibrant colours, and their necks and wrists adorned by gold and jewels. He shook himself and caught up with Captain Miles who had stopped at the corner to wait for him, an irritated crease between his brows.

  “Have you been here often?” Jacob asked.

  Captain Miles grunted and nodded. “The port, aye. The city, no, not for many years. I don’t hold with the English or that sad excuse of a Scotsman who sits the throne.” He spat into the gutter and wrinkled his nose. “Filthy place, full of all sorts… You must go canny here lad, you hear?” He leaned towards Jacob and, after a furtive look at the people passing them, muttered that, as he heard it, times were hard on the papists – very hard. “It’s yon Titus Oates, him and that popish plot of his. Pah!”

  “Popish plot?” Jacob scanned their surroundings, hoping that out of nowhere would appear a band of papists, swords aloft.

  “According to Oates, they aimed to kill the king. And to hear Oates, even the queen was embroiled in the plot – to poison him, like.”

  “His wife?” Jacob gasped.

  Captain Miles gave him an exasperated look. “Lies – or fancies. Aye, the queen is unfortunately a papist but, as I hear it, fully devoted to her husband.” He pulled a face. “Unfortunate, that there is no royal issue. The Londoners are not much pleased with having a papist heir.” This Jacob already knew, having heard Mr Hancock expound more than once on the fact that the Duke of York was a Catholic. He hadn’t found it interesting then, he didn’t find it interesting now. Instead, he followed the captain through a series of winding alleys, coming to a halt by a huge stone set in the midst of a busy street.

  “The London Stone,” Captain Miles said. “Older than the city itself.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t know the city,” Jacob said.

  “I didn’t say that: I said I didn’t visit it much, not now. It used to be I’d go into the city, but after the big fire I’ve never been.”

  “Why not?”

  “None of your concern, laddie,” Captain Miles said, but told him all the same about his business dealings with the Widow Farley, and how it had all ended the day her establishments burnt to the ground.

  “I was here at the time. It wasn’t pretty, not at all.” Captain Miles went on to describe those September days thirteen years in the past, when all of London had stood ablaze, huge plumes of dark, acrid smoke colouring the sky. He told Jacob how he’d watched it all from the safety of his ship, moored off the wharves that were engulfed in flames. Iron melted, stone burst with the heat, the lead roofs of the churches became molten drops of fiery heat that flew through the night to land sizzling in the river. “So many people lost it all,” he summed up, “and no one knows how many lost their lives.”

  “Not that many, Johnny said.”

  Captain Miles snorted. “When iron and lead melt ’tis very hot. Do you think there would be much left of a person burnt to death in that?” Nay, probably not, Jacob reflected, thinking that it must hurt frightfully to burn to death.

  “I have an uncle here,” Jacob said, following the captain into an inn.

  “An uncle?” Captain Miles sat down at a table, motioning for Jacob to do the same. He called for beer and food before returning his attention to Jacob.

  Jacob nodded. “Luke Graham.”

  “Ah, the evil brother.”

  “Aye.” Jacob’s attention was distracted by the serving wench who smiled broadly at him as she set down plates and a brimming jug of beer. He took a huge bite of pie, and just as quickly spat it out, grabbing for his mug.

  “Hot?” Captain Miles teased.

  “He works for the king,” Jacob said once he’d finished drinking.

  “He’s been doing that since well before the king was king,” Captain Miles said. “Have you ever met him?”

  “Aye, but I was but a wee bairn at the time.” Jacob took a new bite and chewed for some time. Luke Graham was a name rarely mentioned in his home, and only by eavesdropping and laying an intricate puzzle had Jacob managed to form some kind of picture of his uncle.

  Mark had told him that Da had cut Luke’s nose off, and how in revenge Luke had Da abducted and sold into indenture. Then there was Ian who had at one time been raised by Luke, despite really being Da’s son by his first wife, Margaret. They had lied, Mama had said. Margaret had sworn on everything holy that Ian was Luke’s son, insisting Luke was the father for all that Ian was born while she was still married to Da. Jacob had spent a lot of time getting his head around this. For Margaret to make such a claim, she had to be bedding with both Da and Luke.

  Then it all got even more confusing, because Margaret an
d Luke had a son of their own – wee, red-haired Charlie – and Ian was returned to Da, discarded in a way Jacob found callous. Even more disturbing was the fact that Margaret and Luke had been lovers before Da married Margaret, and Jacob didn’t understand that. Nor had anyone ever given him a good explanation for why Da had sliced Luke’s nose off in the first place – it seemed a cruel thing to do.

  “There’s no love lost between your da and your uncle,” Captain Miles said. “And, as I recall, for good reason. Your uncle has ever been a viper at your da’s breast, lad, and you best remember that.”

  Jacob shrugged. It wasn’t as if he was bound to ever meet Luke Graham, was it?

  “Nay, that you’re not. You’re coming with me to Edinburgh, and there I will turn you over into the loving hands of your other uncle, Simon Melville.” The captain looked Jacob up and down. “You’ll get a welcome to remember, lad.” He laughed and mimed an aching backside.

  Jacob nodded morosely. He already knew that.

  “So where does the king live?” Jacob asked, once they were back outside.

  “The king?” Captain Miles shook his head. “The king doesn’t live here. He’s no friend of the city of London, and the city of London is no friend of his. You know about the Commonwealth, don’t you?” He lowered his voice, looking guardedly at the men that thronged by them.

  “Aye, and Da says how London stood on the side of Parliament and free men.”

  “Against the king.” Captain Miles pointed in the general direction of the west. “The king lives yonder, in the palace of Whitehall; an hour or so by foot.” He had lost his audience: Jacob was staring at a young girl sitting in an upstairs window and smiling down at him.

  *

  They parted company on Cheapside, the captain to conduct his business negotiations, and Jacob, according to the captain, to return to the ship.

  “Straight back, or you’ll be swabbing decks all the way from here to Edinburgh.”

  Jacob rolled his eyes. “I’ll be doing that anyway.”

  “Aye.” Captain Miles grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “We sail with the tide,” he added as he turned away. “I have most pressing matters to attend to in Edinburgh.”