The Prodigal Son (35 page)

“You gave him a dog?” She watched Ian rush off, calling for Aragorn.

“Aye, I did, I reckoned he needed something to call his own, being so far away from you.” The implied criticism struck home, with Margaret’s face a sudden pink.

“He rode off without permission. And then he had the pox.”

Matthew raised his brows. “Nay he didn’t and you knew that. He had the chickenpox as a wean.”

Margaret kept her eyes on Ian, now returning at full speed with Aragorn gambolling beside him.

“It’s been difficult, and Ian was better off here.”

Still would be, Matthew concluded from her tone. He studied Ian; in everything a copy of himself. How would he fare at the hands of Luke, now that Luke had a son undoubtedly his own?

“Margaret,” Alex sounded very aloof, inclining her head in the slightest of nods.

“Alex.” Margaret shook out her purple velvet skirts ostentatiously, making Matthew muffle a chuckle. The two women were facing off, a silent contest played out with eyes and straightened spines, with bosoms and shapely waists. He had to concede Margaret was still the most attractive – beautiful, even – but Alex was quite the picture, the skin smooth and rosy, the hair gleaming with health, hair that shifted from darkest brown to strands that shone pure copper in the early April sun.

Margaret greeted the lads and looked cautiously in the direction of Alex.

“Rachel?”

Alex busied herself with Daniel, sitting him on her lap as she undid her bodice. Matthew moved over to stand beside her, a hand on her shoulder that she covered with her own.

“She’s dead. She died seven weeks and four days ago,” he said.

Margaret leaned forward, arms open as if to hug Alex – or him – but thought better of it and sat back.

“I’m so sorry; did she sicken?”

“No,” Matthew said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “She died under the hooves of a horse – an officer’s horse.”

“Ah,” Margaret said, “an accident.”

“An accident? Aye, one could say so; an accident that occurred while the soldiers that hound us constantly were here for yet another wee visit.”

Margaret looked quite stricken. “How terrible!” She placed her hand on Alex’ arm. “God’s will, Alex.”

Stony silence met her remark.

Margaret tried out a tentative smile on Daniel, who smiled back, showing off six white teeth. “My Charlie has eight teeth,” she said proudly.

“Whoopee,” Alex mumbled, but Margaret launched into an eager description of her youngest son, from his dimpled knees to his perfect, bitty ears.

“He’s quite big for his age,” she finished, “and you should see his hair, like copper, aye?”

“We heard,” Alex interjected, “just like Luke’s.”

Margaret beamed. “Aye, in everything he takes after his father.”

“Like Ian,” Alex said.

Margaret seemed on the verge of agreeing. At the last moment she collected herself.

“Ian takes after his uncle.” She stood, threw Alex a poisonous look and declared she must go and find her son.

“How long is she staying?” Alex said the next day. Matthew had no idea, he told her, he was in general very confused by the visit – was it Margaret’s intention to take Ian with her or not? And if it was, was it now that he should speak up?

Alex considered that for some moments. “Let’s wait and see, she can’t be staying long, can she? She has a baby to get back to.”

Over the coming days it became apparent that Margaret was in no hurry to ride back, installing herself in the little cottage and insisting that Ian stay there with her. To Alex’ immense annoyance, Matthew gravitated towards her, muttering something about needing to talk to her about Ian before disappearing for hours on end. Alex was jealous; a wild heaving, green beast of a thing that crowed and cackled inside her head.

Pretty, pampered Margaret with her expensive perfumes and well-cut clothes made Alex feel like a country bumpkin, and every morning she eyed her total of three skirts with increasing irritation. Why didn’t she have something becoming to wear, something someone else had made for a change? Nor did it help that bloody Margaret was gorgeous in a way Alex definitely wasn’t. She exhaled and dressed, tightening her stays as far as they would go. At least she had better tits.

Alex stopped dead on the path and shrank back against an oak. In front of her were Matthew and Margaret, and Margaret stood on her toes to pick out a dead leaf from Matthew’s hair, saying something in a low voice that made him laugh. For an instant her hand caressed Matthew’s cheek, dropped to rest on his arm, and there was something so natural about the gesture that Alex felt her insides contort.

She didn’t know what to do; remain where she was and hope he’d take a different way home, walk up to him and ask him what the hell he was doing, letting another woman touch him that intimately, or just turn and run. He’d seen her and was coming in her direction, so Alex wheeled and walked off, as fast as she could on the muddy, slippery ground.

“Alex!”

She grabbed at a stand of hazel for support, and then she was on flatter terrain and set off at a run. He caught up with her, but was smart enough not to touch her, matching her stride instead.

“Have you been doing that a lot these last few days? You know, walking in the woods and somehow getting leaves in your hair that she has to pick off you?”

“Alex,” Matthew sighed. “You know that isn’t how it is.”

“Then how is it?”

“We talk. About her life, mostly.”

“Well that must read like a very sordid reality TV show.”

“Aye it does,” Matthew agreed, by now familiar with the concept. He took her hand, and led her off in the direction of the high meadows. “He’s a difficult man to live with.”

“Tough; she had her chance with you and blew it. I see her stroking your cheek again and she’ll not be walking much for some weeks.”

Matthew chuckled, giving her a sly look.

Idiot! He was enjoying this, the bastard.

“You won’t,” he said.

“Good.”

“She thinks Ian’s welcome will be harsh,” Matthew said a bit later. Alex looked up from where she was cuddling a lamb.

“Has she told Ian that?”

“Nay, what purpose would it serve?” But the lad knew anyway, he said, he could see it in how Ian’s face tightened whenever Margaret spoke of riding home.

“But why would Luke…” Alex voice tailed off. To see Ian now, on the brink of manhood, was to see Matthew. That would suffice; that and the rankling suspicion that Ian wasn’t his to begin with. “It’s all very strange. At one point in time Luke must have been certain that Ian was biologically yours as he seemingly couldn’t father children, and all those years he treasured Ian as his own. And now, when by having fathered a son of his own and thereby increasing the probability that Ian might be his, he no longer knows what he feels for him.”

“You forget one important aspect,” Matthew said. “The new wean is the spitting image of Luke.”

“But not all children look like their father and you’re his uncle. Many nephews take after their uncles, I’d imagine.” She chewed her lip and frowned. “No; I think this is much simpler. He’s never quite believed that Ian is his – after all, he can count. And Margaret definitely knows – no matter what she says.” She released the lamb and got to her feet.

“You think?”

“Absolutely. But she’s lied for so long she probably believes herself by now.”

“Mayhap. She’s breeding again.”

“She is? That was quick.”

“Making up for lost time, I reckon. She didn’t tell Luke before she left or he would never have let her come.”

“Poor Ian,” Alex said, thinking that with two children definitely his, Luke would view Ian even more askance. “Or not,” she continued, eyes flashing to meet Matthew’s, assuring him that her promise from some weeks back still held. He squeezed her hand in response. “So am I – with child, I mean.” Her free hand drifted for an instant down her front.

“Aye, I know.” There was a shade of something dark in his eyes when he looked at her; concern that it was too soon, worry that she might think this child a replacement. She drew their interlocked hands to rest on her as yet flat stomach.

“A new child; not a replacement, but perhaps a consolation.”

He just nodded.

“I don’t want to.” Ian looked beseechingly at his mother. “I can’t leave them, Mam, not now, not after Rachel.” He tried to explain how Matthew needed him, how on occasion he found his uncle sitting mute by the grave and it was Ian that could sit beside him, knowing his simple presence was enough. He gnawed at his lip, surveying their surroundings. This was home now, much more than the little manor in Oxfordshire. But he didn’t tell Mam that, nor did he tell her how frightened he was of standing face to face with the man who called himself his father – but he was sure she knew.

“Your father wishes you to return home,” Mam said. She tried to stroke his face, but Ian scooted out of reach. She sighed, dropped her hands to her lap. “He’ll be most displeased, you know that.”

Ian swallowed.

“And I want you with me,” Mam said, eyes shiny with tears.

“He’ll send me away,” Ian said. “He doesn’t want me there, not now, not with Charlie.” He peeked at her from under his lashes, hoping she would laugh and tell him not to be a fool, of course his father would do no such thing. Instead she looked away and Ian’s stomach churned.

“Ian!” Uncle Matthew’s voice rang out over the yard, and Ian jumped to his feet.

“I have to go, we’re cutting the piglets today.”

Mam just smiled, waving him off in the direction of his uncle. Ian took a few steps, came to a standstill and turned towards her.

“I’m staying here, I won’t be riding back with you.” He bored his eyes into hers and she nodded in agreement.

“It won’t please Luke,” Margaret confided to Matthew on the drizzling spring morning of her departure.

“Nay, it won’t.” He wet his lips and looked away. “But it pleases me.”

Margaret inhaled noisily. “He’ll come for him.”

“Aye. And then we’ll see.”

“See? See what?”

“If Luke truly wants him back, when it stares him right in the eye that Ian is mine.”

“He isn’t,” Margaret said.

“Aye he is; you know that, I know that. It’s about time we all acknowledged it.”

Margaret inhaled and opened her mouth as if to say something, but ended up emitting a loud exhalation, her eyes flying from Ian to Matthew.

“Alex won’t want to,” Margaret said, sounding confident.

“You think?” Matthew said, beckoning Alex to come over. He draped his arm over her shoulder and pulled her close. “She stands by me; on this issue as on all others.” For an instant he felt sorry for Margaret; her eyes darkened, her mouth set into a sad little smile. But then she straightened up, arranged her features and went over to bid her son farewell. No words, no tears, just a clinging embrace, arms wound so tight round her lad it seemed they’d been welded together.

“Be a good lad,” she said once she let him go. She smoothed at Ian’s hair, gave him a dazzling smile and turned to Alex. “Take care of my son,” she said.

“Of course I will,” Alex said. “I always do.”

Chapter 30

“I don’t want to watch this!” Alex was frantic. “Please Matthew, let’s go. I don’t want to…”

“Here,” Matthew pressed her face against his chest. “I’ll tell you when it’s safe to look.” It was stifling in the July sun and the heat had the unwelcome effect of releasing an unsavoury stench of stale sweat, fluids and general filth from the unwashed bodies that surrounded them.

“Why can’t we just leave?” Alex shoved at the people closest to them .

“Too late, the soldiers have fenced all of us in.”

She struggled against his hand and stood on tip toe, frowning at the straggling line of soldiers that encircled them. Here and there Matthew caught a flash of bright steel, one of the officers was brandishing a pistol. No one would be allowed to leave, trapped between the threat of violence and the gallows.

“I’m sorry, lass,” Matthew said into her hair. “I should have remembered what day it was today.”

Alex peeked at the three empty spars, at the hangman who was busy with his nooses.

“Three?”

“Aye,” Matthew sighed, “one outlawed preacher, one man who stabbed a soldier in defence of the preacher and a woman.”

“They’re going to hang a woman? What for?”

“She murdered her sister,” Matthew said, hitching his shoulders. There was a commotion by the scaffold, someone screamed and Alex hid her face against his shirt.

They began with the woman, the crowd catcalling and whistling. Objects flew through the air to smack into her torn dress and one egg hit her straight in the forehead, to general cheer among the apprentices closest to the gallows. The woman looked befuddled, peering short-sightedly at the crowd, and it was only when the hangman adjusted the noose around her neck that it seemed to dawn upon her what was happening. By then it was over and she hung like a sack of barley, swinging back and forth as the rope twisted round itself.

“Good hangman,” the person closest to Matthew said in an undertone. “Quick and neat.”

Matthew could but agree; as hangings went this had been an easy death. Alex made a choking sound and kept her nose to Matthew’s chest when the first man was guided up the ladder and hanged, as efficiently as the woman.

The mood of the crowd changed when the preacher was led forth. No jeering, no cheering, only a heavy silence that had the soldiers shifting from foot to foot. The preacher himself was calm, alternatively he was royally drunk, a mere glass away from total oblivion. Matthew kept his hand on Alex, holding her to him. All around, women were turning to their husbands, because this was something none of them wanted to see: a man of their Kirk hanged for the single offence of holding to his faith.

One of the officers was arguing with the hangman, who shook his head. There was an altercation and the hangman spat and walked off the platform, taking noose and rope with him.

“Merciful Father,” the man beside them said. “That wee officer intends to hang him himself.”

To hang a man quickly is an art; it requires understanding of how to calculate the fall and tighten the noose, of how the fibres in the rope function together. The officer had no such skills, and the crowd stood in agonised silence while the poor preacher slowly, very slowly, was strangled to death. Matthew couldn’t breathe; he held his wife to his heart, incapable of tearing his eyes away from the man that was still twitching, still alive, eyes like pickled eggs.