Chapter 21
“Mr Graham.”
Matthew turned at the sound of his name and sighed when he saw Oliver – Major Wyndham – bearing down on him followed by Captain Howard.
“Shit,” Alex muttered. In the aftermath of that sad little rebellion that ended at Rullion Green back in late November, her husband had been persistently hounded, despite him having no connection whatsoever with the ragged band led by Colonel Wallace.
“A word?” Major Wyndham waved his hand in the direction of the Merkat Cross Inn. “Alone,” he added, when Alex made as if to come with them.
“Nay, I won’t leave my wife standing out in this cold.”
“That’s alright,” Alex smiled at him. “I have some further items to purchase.” She stood on tip toe and kissed his cheek. “Beware of snakes,” she murmured.
She remained where she was until all three had disappeared into the inn, noting that only Matthew had to bow his head to walk in under the lintel. She hefted her basket higher and hurried off in the direction of the combined drapery and haberdashery. She wanted buttons, ribbons, linen for new shirts, and some nice dark grey broadcloth for new breeches for Matthew. She pinched at her own skirts and weighed her pouch. No, she’d have to wait; she had another winter skirt back home and the money was simply not enough – homespun would have to do. And she had to go to the apothecary; she needed camphor, willow bark and mustard seeds.
At the draper she met Mrs Brown, who drew her aside into a corner.
“Poor Jane Williams; another one dead – three bairns and a husband dead in less than a year. The remaining lad died last night, and we couldn’t do anything to help.” Mrs Brown sighed and adjusted her shawl. “Consumption, and with the weather we’re having…” She threw a disgusted look through the door at the heavy drizzle.
“And Mrs Williams herself?” Alex asked.
Mrs Brown raised her brows at this totally idiotic question. “She isn’t well, and she rarely speaks, or does anything much but sit beside her bed.”
Mrs Williams had been staying quite openly with her erstwhile neighbour for the last few months. Now that the family was appropriately destroyed it would seem the crown had lost interest in punishing the poor woman further – as if there was anything more they could do to her now that her home was gone, most of her family was dead and her own health broken.
“The lasses will go into service,” Mrs Brown said. “One of them in Ayr and the eldest in Edinburgh.”
Alex sighed; eleven and thirteen and sent out into the world to fend for themselves. Mrs Brown shrugged; not that uncommon, was it? She drew the damp cloak tighter round her shoulders and hurried off into the rain.
Matthew sat facing the window when Mrs Brown’s distinctive crouched shape crossed the open space in front of the pillory, seemingly making for the army quarters. That surprised him, but before he could dwell further on that, the barmaid set down three pewter cups and a bottle of wine on the table, returning shortly with a bowl of steaming cabbage soup and three spoons.
“We have reason to believe Alexander Peden is back in the area,” Captain Howard said, sniffing at the soup.
“Alexander who?”
“Do not give us that!” Captain Howard said. “There’s not one man in this accursed little town and its surroundings that doesn’t know Alexander Peden.”
Matthew pretended to think. “Ah! You mean Sandy. Aye, we all know Sandy.” He suppressed a little smile. Sandy had been no further than ten miles away at most, utilising his network of hideouts, stretching all across the moor and the adjoining farms. Including on his own, although as yet Alex was unaware of the few nights Sandy had spent in the much improved hideout, or the little shed by the mill.
“He’s an outlaw,” Howard said. “A man who flaunts the authority of church and state and whose life and assets are forfeit.”
“It would depend on what church,” Matthew retorted.
Howard twisted his mouth into a non smile.
“It’s always a question of what church, and for years it was people like my family that were persecuted by people from your church.”
That shut Matthew up.
“Sandy Peden is a fanatic.” Captain Howard stood up. “One day we’ll apprehend him and drag him screaming to hang.”
“You think? Sandy himself prophesises he’ll die in bed.” Matthew took a spoonful of the cabbage soup and regretted it immediately, spitting the contents onto the floor.
“And is this something he’s shared with you recently, Mr Graham?” Howard said with an edge. “Seeing as that would put you in close proximity with a foresworn enemy of the king?”
“It’s common knowledge,” Matthew replied, stretching his booted legs in front of him. He studied the younger man in silence for some time. “I don’t know what happened to your family, and I can hear in your voice it was bad, but you mustn’t forget that it wasn’t us up here that did it.”
“No, it was soldiers. Men like yourself, Graham, who served in the parliamentary army.”
“Not I, never I.”
“Yes,” Howard said. “That’s what they always say; not me, it was someone else.” Howard swivelled on his toes and walked out.
“And do you want Sandy Peden dragged to the gallows as well?” Matthew asked Oliver.
“Not particularly, no.” Wyndham poured them both some more wine and regarded Matthew morosely over the rim of his cup. “What happened? Where did it all go wrong? When did our dreams of a new, better world turn into this nightmare?”
“I’m not sure. I think it all began when the king that was went back on his word, thereby reopening the fighting. You recall the siege at Colchester; men were shot point blank even after having surrendered, and the radicals urged ever harsher punishment on the royalists.”
Oliver nodded. “A war between brothers, and those wounds never heal, do they?”
“Nay they don’t,” Matthew agreed, thinking not only of the war.
“You must be careful,” Wyndham said. “Howard is a persistent man, and he’s convinced you were involved in the death of those two unfortunate soldiers on the moor – and in the hanging of Lieutenant Gower.”
“Aye,” Matthew sneered, “there were sightings of a bay horse.”
Wyndham laughed softly. “You were in Edinburgh, I’m told.”
“Aye; gone the whole week.”
“Mmm.” Wyndham leaned forward and peered into Matthew’s face. “Quite the remarkable recovery,” he said, sitting back.
“Recovery?”
“From the pox. Not a scar on you, and yet Howard says you were covered in pustules.” The major gnawed at his lip. “He’s not convinced,” he said with a shrug. “ He insists it was you he saw in the yard the night the munitions shed was blown sky high.”
“I was in bed,” Matthew said. “Weak as a kitten.”
“And that is also mighty strange. You were in the best of health when I left you late afternoon.”
“Aye; it was uncommonly vicious. Near scared my wife to death, it did.” He smiled; not much of an untruth, all in all.
The major downed his wine in one long gulp, eyes never leaving Matthew.
“I’ll warn you if I can,” Wyndham said. “But I might not always be able to.”
“Why?” Matthew leaned forward. “Why would you do that for me?”
“For you?” Wyndham shook his head. “I owe you something for my life, I suppose, but I’m not doing this for you. I may sit in front of you an officer of the crown, but here…” He beat his fist against his chest. “… here the Oliver Wyndham you knew still lives. And as you may recall, that Oliver Wyndham was a pure hearted Puritan.”
“Except when it came to whores,” Matthew grinned.
Oliver grinned back. “Not even I am perfect.”
Matthew bade Oliver good bye and went off to find his wife. Quite an eloquent performance, especially the chest beating part. Did Wyndham consider him that gullible? Matthew had not been inactive these last few
weeks and was piecing together a complex portrait of a man who had once been a youth of promise and ideals but now was a husk – rotting from within.
Gambler, he heard whispered, heavily in debt and with something of a lecherous reputation. Married twice, twice widowed and with one sickly son of four, presently in the care of an aunt. He wrinkled his brow in concentration. Oliver was up to something, but for the life of him Matthew couldn’t see what it was. But the fact that Luke knew Oliver, gambled and drank with him, made Matthew worry that maybe Alex was right, maybe Luke had a finger or two in this particular broth, and that was a most unnerving thought.
“I met Mrs Brown.” Alex tucked her hand under his arm, shivering in the wind.
“Aye?” Matthew wanted to get home before this turned to snow, throwing a concerned eye at the leaden clouds.
“She said that only two girls remain to Mrs Williams, and she herself is in a bad way.”
Matthew pressed her hand closer to him and lengthened his stride.
“I hate it when you do that,” she grumbled. “You’re making me run after you like a little dog.”
“I want us home, wee Daniel will soon have need of you.”
“Mutual need, let me tell you,” Alex said, “my breasts are the size of melons.”
Matthew laughed, took her by the hand and began to run towards the stables where he’d left Ham.
He had to help her off the horse when they got home. Her cloak, her skirts were encrusted in frosty sleet, her shawl was wet with molten snow, her nose was bright red with cold, and even through her tightly closed mouth he could hear her teeth chattering. When he handed her the basket she couldn’t open her hand to grasp the handle, but had to suck on her frozen fingers to thaw them somewhat first.
“Je… je… je… sus,” she said.
He patted her on the arse and shoved her in the direction of the house.
“Daniel; I’ll wipe down Ham first.”
Throughout the evening and night the snowfall intensified, the wind a constant howling.
“Amazing!” Alex stared out of the window at the unrelenting storm. “It’s like a curtain of white.” She stuck her hands into the sleeves of her bed jacket and shivered. “It doesn’t even look like snow, it looks like falling ice.” It was an hour or so until dawn and the house around them was sunk in sleep and darkness. Only here, in their room, the weak light of a single candle flared, throwing their combined shadows against the wall.
Matthew added more wood to the fire and came to stand behind her, peering out into the opaque night.
“Aye, a terrible night to be out.”
Matthew tilted his head and listened. The house stood strong and solid, snug against the protective hill behind it, but he was concerned for the stable – the roof should have been replaced during autumn but he’d had neither the time nor the will. There was a thunderous crack, a loud noise that made both of them jump.
“What was that?” Alex sounded shaky. “It can’t be lightning, can it?”
“Nay, of course not. But I must out and check.”
“In this?” Alex gave him an incredulous look. “You’ll barely make it across the yard.” He was already pulling on clothes, his skin breaking out in protesting pimples at the damp wool of his breeches.
“I must check on the beasts,” he said, raising his brows when she began to dress.
“If you’re going, I’m going,” she told him, pulling on double pairs of stockings.
They held hands as they made their way across the yard. Despite the lantern, he couldn’t see a thing, and the cobbles below his feet were treacherous with ice. At one point her fingers slipped from his grasp and he had an instant of panic, seeing her swallowed forever into this swirling, impenetrable white, but then her hand was back, and he was leading them in the general direction of the stable – or where he thought the stable should be. The wind came in gusts so strong that they had to hunch and lean into it to avoid being blown away, and when he at last discerned the grey outline of the stable, his hair, his eyelashes, his brows and his coat were all layered with ice.
The stable stood, and after the storm outside it was heaven to step into its relative warmth and silence. Matthew left Alex by the door and walked through the building, inspecting doors and shutters. The loft; he clambered up, cursing loudly when he saw the leak.
“What?” she called from below. “Has the roof blown off?”
“Nay, but there’s a leak. Hand me a bucket and a rake.” Alex followed him up and took over the raking while he calibrated where to place the bucket, glaring at the sodden shingles above his head.
The barn was undamaged, as was the laundry shed and the smoking shed. Long before they reached the privy, he knew that this was where the damage was. Despite the wind and the snow there was a stench of ordure in the air, and when they finally could see it, he gaped. The privy was gone. Instead there was a heap of kindling, crushed by the huge oak that lay across it.
Alex tried to say something, but the wind snatched the words out of her mouth. She stood as close as she could, her lips an inch from his ear.
“I said it could be worse!”
Oh, aye; a privy was no great matter. He turned them both towards the house, shivering in his icy clothes. Alex screamed, loud enough to make him jump. She stumbled, crashed into him so heavily they both fell.
“What?” Matthew staggered to his feet, using both hands to hoist Alex back up. He fumbled for his dirk, thinking that mayhap she’d seen a wolf, hungry and mean as it came out from under the trees. She whimpered against him. He bent his head to her mouth.
“Look, look up the slope!”
Matthew squinted. Night was giving way to grey day, and the snowfall was less heavy, allowing for some visibility. All he saw was white; white on the ground, trees caked with white ice, white in the air.
“There’s nothing there,” he said, his mouth at her ear.
“Yes there is,” she insisted, hot breath tickling the skin of his neck and jaw. “Oh God, there definitely is. Just behind the rose bushes.” She attempted to burrow her way in through his clothes, all the while emitting a series of low, dissonant moans. He looked again and his arms came up to hug her to him.
“Oh dearest Lord, nay, not like that!” He was already moving in the direction of the silent shape, dragging Alex with him. “Please, no, not like this, aye?”
Mrs Williams didn’t hear him. She would never hear anyone again, if it wasn’t the sweet voices of the angels of heaven. She sat with her back against a tree trunk in nothing but her shift. Her hair had frozen into stiff, long strands, her skin was a mottled blue and grey and her eyes stared wide and sightless. The shift lay in icy pleats high on the thighs, and her uncovered arms hung by her sides. The naked feet were bloodied and torn, and from her right wrist hung a blue ribbon threaded through an iron wrought key.
“She was going home,” Matthew said, trying to close the glassy eyes. “The poor woman was walking home to die.”
Chapter 22
It wasn’t much of a welcome party. No sooner had Simon and Joan arrived from Edinburgh before they all set off to attend the burial of Mrs Williams, with Alex filling them in on the way.
“Poor lasses,” Joan said, coming over to stand by Alex.
“Yes.” Her eyes followed the last remnants of the Williams family as they were led away from the grave in which their mother had just been buried, together with the boy that predeceased her by no more than a day. “Do you think she meant to?” Alex asked, wiping her hands down her skirts.
“Aye, I do, she dropped garment after garment.”
The sudden thaw that followed on the ice storm had revealed a trail of discarded clothing, up the slopes and onwards towards the Brown farm.
“You do that when you get too cold,” Alex said, “so that in itself doesn’t signify.”
“You undress when you’re cold?” Joan blinked with astonishment.
Alex nodded. “As your body chills to below normal temperature
the blood gets pulled back from your hands and feet and you start feeling hot. Well, that’s what they say anyway.” She smiled sadly and tightened her grip round Daniel. “Let’s hope she died believing it was a summer day, warm and welcoming.”
“Aye, let‘s hope.” Joan’s tone belied her words.
Alex scanned the small group of people for Matthew. He’d disappeared the afternoon after the storm and had been gone for several hours, waving away her questions with a curt comment that he needed to be alone. Now he stood in a small knot of men, and even from here Alex could hear the low, angry voices as they looked in the direction of the newly filled in grave. Round the men hovered Mrs Brown, waiting for her husband to take her home.
Three days to Christmas and Alex had never felt less inclined to celebrate this holiday, feeling angry with God for letting innocent people suffer on His behalf. They’d had a terrible argument about it yesterday, she and Matthew, and hadn’t quite been able to make up yet, both of them throwing wary glances at each other.
“How can you think God cares?” Alex had yelled at him. “He’s obviously busy with a hell of a lot of other things, isn’t he? Too busy to hold a protective hand over people who have been ousted from their home because of their faith in him.”
“They’ve been taken into his presence,” Matthew attempted to argue.
“How do you know? Maybe they were predestined to suffer and die and never make it to heaven. After all that’s what you believe, isn’t it? That some people are chosen to live lives that may lead to heaven, while the majority, well they’re just chaff, extras. And hey, God is probably somewhat blasé by now. All the people who’ve died on his behalf throughout the ages, it must at times make him yawn and go out to make himself some popcorn while thinking about what movie to watch. Besides, it’s much better TV to watch an early Christian martyr be torn apart by lions than it is to see a poor woman freeze to death out of desperation.”
“You blaspheme!” Matthew had gasped, backing away from her.
“I do? Tough; that’s what you get when you marry a woman who was raised on rational thought rather than blind faith.”
And that was where things stood at present; Matthew pretending to be fast asleep when she got into bed last night, she pretending she was just as heavily asleep when he rolled out of bed this morning.
The Prodigal Son Page 21