The Prodigal Son

by Belfrage, Anna

  THE PRODIGAL SON

  ANNA BELFRAGE

  Copyright © 2013 Anna Belfrage

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

  or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

  publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

  the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

  concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299

  Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email: books@troubador.co.uk

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  ISBN 9781783069576

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Converted to eBook by EasyEPUB

  This book is dedicated to all those people who open their hearts to a child not oftheir blood and take it as their own.

  Where would the world be without you?

  Contents

  Cover

  Previously published titles in The Graham Saga :

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 1

  Previously published titles in The Graham Saga:

  A Rip in the Veil

  Lke Chaff in the Wind

  Chapter 1

  Four shadows rose out of the darkness of the moor, darting from patch to patch of vegetation. Here and there they found cover behind a boulder, now and then they huddled together under a stunted tree, gliding noiselessly due north. It was too early for birds, so when a sharp whistle cut through the air the leading shadow set off at speed, his companions slinking after him towards a protective outcrop of stone.

  “Hush!” Matthew Graham sank down, the three men accompanying him doing the same. He pointed to where a group of six riders were making slow progress on a marshy stretch of ground.

  “More soldiers,” he said, his voice a low hum.

  “And here was I thinking they were but angels of deliverance,” the man sitting closest to him said, and despite their situation Matthew smiled. The speaker moved closer to Matthew, his mouth a scant inch from Matthew’s ear. “They won’t find us.”

  “You think not?” Matthew tried to sound unconcerned but his eyes were stuck on the approaching group of soldiers, his brain scrambling to find a way out of this neat little corner. Summer dawn was only hours away and no matter that he and his companions were all cloaked and hooded in dark colours somewhere between brown and grey, they would be visible the moment they stood to run.

  “Nay,” Minister Peden replied comfortably. “They may look, but they won’t see.” With a slight nod he indicated the strands of fog that were multiplying over the wetter ground. Days of insistent heat had dried out the moor, resulting in clouds of evaporated water that reverted to fog and mist when night was at its coolest.

  “At least the weather is with us,” another of the men commented in a low voice.

  “God, my friend,” Sandy Peden corrected. “God is with us, and this is yet another sign that he hasn’t forgotten us.” Without another word he moved off and one by one the others followed him, shrouded in the early morning mist.

  “That way,” Matthew said a bit later. “If you keep to the left of yon trees you’ll find a passable path that will lead you all the way to Kilmarnock.”

  “Thank you,” the tallest of the three men said. “And be sure to convey my gratitude to your wife as well.”

  “Aye,” Sandy grinned. “Please tell Alex how appreciative we are of your hospitality.”

  “Umm,” Matthew said. Alex wasn’t quite as enthusiastic about extending help to their Presbyterian brethren as he was. Even if she cooked and packed baskets with food, sending along blankets when she could, he knew she didn’t like it, in particular not now, not since the last few arrests that had dragged at least one of their neighbours before the court to answer to charges of treasonous activities. The man had been flogged publicly.

  “Truly,” Sandy said, and now there was no laughter in his grey eyes. “Do thank her, Matthew. I know it costs her in fears.” With that he was off, taking the lead as the three ministers made for the depths of the moor. Not until they’d dropped out of sight did Matthew set off for home.

  “Where have you been?”

  Matthew started when his brother-in-law popped up to block his path.

  “Out,” he said.

  “I gather that,” Simon Melville said. He frowned, taking in the sword and pistol, the long cloak that was now bundled over an arm. “This is no game.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Never mind.” Simon gestured in the direction of the yard. “You have visitors.”

  “Visitors? At this hour?”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Simon said with a certain edge. “They’re not soldiers here to drag you off for questioning – not this time. It’s your ex-wife, no less.”

  “Margaret?” Matthew came to a halt. “What might she be doing here?”

  “I have no idea; mayhap she’s hankering for long morning walks over the foggy moor.”

  “I’m doing what I must, Simon, you know that.”

  “What you must? You’re helping them break the law! They’ve been ousted as ministers, they’re not allowed to preach or teach, they may not perform any types of rites, and to aid and abet them is to risk the full displeasure of the powers that be.”

  Matthew just shrugged.

  “Oh well,” Simon sighed. “You’ll do as you please.”

  “Aye.”

  Simon threw him a sidelong look. “She brought Ian with her.”

  “Ian?” Matthew increased his pace.

  “She’s in the yard. I don’t think Alex intends to invite her inside, and even if she did, I doubt Margaret would enter. She insists she’ll wait outside until she can talk with you.” Simon’s face broke out in a wide grin. “I don’t think she helped herself by reminding Alex that any decisions are yours to take anyway, so why waste breath telling Alex what she will then have to repeat to you?”

  “Nay,” Matthew said, smiling faintly. “I reckon Alex didn’t like that.”

  The two women turned towards them when they entered the yard. Of similar height and colouring, with dark, well-defined brows, high cheekbones and shapely necks, at a distance they could be taken for sisters. But where Margaret was all willowy grace, Alex was r
ounder of breasts and hips – assets presently accentuated by her very trim waist. She must have tightened the stays a notch or two before going out to receive their visitors. He studied his wife; silent, arms crossed over her chest and dark blue eyes never leaving Margaret or the half-grown lad beside her, Alex looked icily impressive – and displeased. With an inward sigh Matthew went over to greet his guests.

  Alex watched Matthew come towards them, long legs striding at such speed that Simon was jogging to keep up. She gave her husband a thoughtful look; yet another morning waking to an empty bed and she had a pretty good idea of what he’d been doing. It was a constant source of contention between them, his insistence that he had to help his brethren, her loud protests that it might come at too high a price. Bloody stubborn man! She gnawed at her lip and frowned.

  Having Margaret show up with Ian in tow hadn’t exactly improved her mood, nor did the fact that Margaret, as always, looked gorgeous. No practical skirts in brown for Margaret, oh no; dear Margaret sported a gown in a vibrant blue that complemented her eyes, her neckline was adorned by Brussels lace and on her head she wore a rakish hat of the same hue as her dress, with glistening, black hair falling in arranged ringlets well down her back. Long riding gloves in soft red leather completed the outfit, although on a day as hot as this Alex suspected they were quite uncomfortable to wear.

  “Mama?” Mark tugged at her skirts. “Who’s that?”

  Alex smiled and brushed his hair back from his brow. Nearly six, Mark was normally his father’s shadow, but the tension in the air had made him gravitate towards his mother, with his two siblings in tow.

  “That’s your cousin, Ian.”

  She was convinced Mark had forgotten the events surrounding the last time he’d seen his cousin nearly two years ago, but from the wary look in Ian’s eyes she could see that he had not – and nor had any of the adults presently in the yard. Not that she blamed them; two grown men, brothers, fighting with deadly intent until their respective wives managed to step between.

  “He’s my son,” Matthew had said on that occasion, pointing at the then nine year old Ian. “My son, and you know it, Luke Graham.”

  Alex threw a quick look in the direction of Ian; still a startling copy not only of Matthew but also of Mark – same dark hair highlighted by chestnut strands, same hazel eyes fringed by thick, dark lashes. The resemblance as such was not all that much of an issue, given that Luke and Matthew were brothers – or it wouldn’t have been if it hadn’t been for Matthew’s angry outburst. Why have you brought him back, Alex thought, throwing eyebolts at Margaret. Why couldn’t you stay well away from me and mine?

  “I have nowhere else to go.” Margaret kept round, imploring eyes on Matthew as she spoke.

  Smart move, Alex fumed, because for some inexplicable reason Matthew had a soft spot the size of an elephant when it came to his ex-wife. Totally incomprehensible, given how the woman had behaved – married to the one brother while betraying him with the other.

  “And I had to get away. People are dying like flies and I hope you’ll allow me the use of the wee cottage yet again.”

  “What?” Alex took a hurried step back. “The plague? You’ve brought the plague?” Even this far north they’d heard of how London and the villages around it were suffering a virulent outbreak of the Black Death.

  “Nay, of course not,” Margaret said. “We haven’t been in London proper for months. But what with the heat of the summer and the increasing number of deaths, I thought it safer to repair even further north. I can’t risk my son.”

  Matthew’s eyes strayed to Ian and Alex sighed. She could commiserate to a point with his feelings for the boy that should have been his but no longer was – due to Margaret’s lying insistence that Luke had fathered her child – but Matthew’s statement almost two years ago could put her children’s inheritance at risk, and there were days when she had problems forgiving him for that.

  Alex’ eyes fluttered over to Simon Melville, who winked at her. She stuck her tongue out, making Simon grin. A thousand times he’d told her not to worry, that there was no way Ian had a claim to Hillview, not now that he was the recognised son of Luke. Besides, he’d said rather smugly, he’d drafted the documents himself, and so he could assure her there were no loopholes, none at all.

  “You may stay,” Matthew said, and Alex glowered at him. He should at least discuss it with her first. At times Matthew was a bloody old-fashioned man – to be expected, given that this was in fact the seventeenth century and the odd one out was she, born in 1976.

  Not that it showed, she reflected, throwing a quick glance down her body. In skirts and bodice, her head neatly capped and a clean apron covering the dark material of her skirts, she was undistinguishable from most of the women of the here and now. All in all a good thing, because to shout to the world that she was from a future time would be the equivalent of tying a noose and placing it around her neck. Witches hang, and no one would listen to her protestations that she’d done nothing to transport herself from modern day Scotland to here, that it had all been due to the thunderstorm.

  Her eyes flitted to the sky and she almost laughed at herself. No storm brewing, and besides, it had to be a once in a lifetime experience to live through a thunderstorm so gigantic it caused a rift in time. Once in a lifetime? It should be impossible and yet here she was, a living, breathing example of the fact that sometimes impossible things happened – as they had done to her seven years ago when time was torn apart at her feet.

  Alex returned her attention to Margaret, who was beaming at Matthew. To Alex’ huge irritation, Matthew smiled back.

  “Thank you.” Margaret dismissed the hired grooms who’d escorted them and set off in the direction of the cottage, her son at her heels.

  “You’ll stay away for the first few weeks,” Matthew said. “As a precaution, aye?”

  “Aye, a precaution. I see.” Margaret paled, looking so frightened that Alex felt sorry for her.

  “I’ll send up Sarah later, you’ll need food and such, right?” she said.

  Margaret gave her a grateful look and hefted the rather insignificant bundle she was carrying.

  “Aye, we left in haste.”

  “I can imagine.” An instant of shared motherhood flew between them.

  “That was generous,” Simon muttered to Matthew as Alex strode away to arrange for a basket to be taken to the cottage. Matthew nodded. Not that it surprised him, because this wife of his might on occasion blow both hot and cold but was mostly a temperate warm, being in general kind and cheerful. He put out a hand to stop Rachel from whacking Jacob over the head with her wooden doll.

  “Nay, Rachel! You mustn’t fight with your wee brother. It’s unseemly.”

  “He pushed me.”

  “He did no such thing,” Matthew said, sinking down onto his haunches to give her the full benefit of his stare. “If you hit him then you mustn’t be surprised when he hits you back.”

  Rachel gave her baby brother a sly look. At almost three Rachel was tall and sturdy for her age and topped Jacob by a head. Let him try, her face told Matthew, let him try and I’ll send him flying.

  “One day he’ll be taller and stronger than you, and you won’t want him hitting you then.” He sincerely hoped his children had grown out of squabbles by the time Jacob overtopped Rachel, but eyed his daughter doubtfully. He adjusted her cap and gave her a gentle shove in the direction of Mark.

  “Keep an eye on your sister,” he said. Mark’s face clouded and Matthew beckoned him over. “And you won’t go near the cottage.” Mark looked crestfallen. “You can help me carry up the basket later, but only if you watch Rachel first.”

  Mark sighed but took Rachel’s hand, wandering off in the direction of the swing Matthew had made them.

  “And you make sure she stays with you, all the time,” Matthew called, receiving a despairing look in return that made Matthew smother a smile. Where Rachel got her boundless energy from was an open question, although
Matthew insisted he had been a most biddable child – at least until the age of seven – so therefore it had to come from her mother.

  “For my sins,” Alex would sigh every now and then, making Matthew laugh out loud. Even worse, wee Rachel had her brothers firmly in hand and showed hair-raising creativity when it came to new activities, leaving a wake of destruction behind her.

  “Come, you,” Matthew said to Jacob and swung him up to sit on his arm. “Let’s find your mama.” He kissed the hair of his youngest before going off in search of his disgruntled wife.

  “I couldn’t do otherwise,” Matthew said to Alex’ back.

  “Of course not,” she replied, a trifle too coolly to sound sincere. She put a loaf of dark bread into the basket, added eggs, cheese, a flask of beer, half a pie, and as an afterthought a piece of currant cake. Jacob smacked his lips, waving a chubby hand in the direction of the cake.

  “After dinner,” Alex said. “And only if you eat all your greens.”

  Matthew made a face. Obliged to act the role model, these days he found himself eating large quantities of uncooked vegetables, his muttered protests along the lines that he was no cow ignored by his wife, who insisted it was good for him.

  “I can carry the basket,” Matthew offered once she’d finished loading it.

  “I have no doubts whatsoever on that score, but you’re not. Sarah will take it.”

  “I‘ve promised Mark he can go with me,” Matthew said, receiving a long look in return.

  “Neither of you will and both of you will stay well away from them, at least to begin with. Make sure Mark knows that as well.”

  Matthew frowned at her peremptory tone. “You can’t stop me from seeing them. I have to help them settle in.”

  “You go up there, Matthew Graham, and you’ll be sleeping very alone at night, in the hayloft. Your choice.” She hefted the heavy basket off the table and went to find Sarah.

  Matthew considered chasing her up the stairs for a serious one on one conversation regarding her duties and roles as a wife, but decided to save it for later. Much later, and possibly in the hayloft…

  Halfway through the afternoon, Alex decided to escape the heat by settling herself under the large ash that stood on the further side of the stables. A quick look in the direction of her youngest children showed her they were muddy and happy by the trough, and Mark would be with Matthew somewhere. She reclined against the trunk, produced her work and with a little sigh set to.