The Prodigal Son (13 page)

“Five times?” Simon looked up from his food. The four day ride from Edinburgh had seemingly whetted his appetite, and when Alex offered he eagerly held out his plate for a refill, muttering that he needed his strength back.

“Six if you count yesterday,” Alex said. “But that wasn’t a search, that was just the lieutenant riding by to wish us all a good day.”

“Polite lad,” Simon said with a gleam of laughter in his eyes. Matthew was not amused. Yon lieutenant was a cocky wee shite who took great pleasure in disrupting their life as often as possible.

“It’s not right,” Matthew said, “for law abiding people like us to be hounded thus.”

“It’s the way it is,” Simon said. “No worse for you than for your neighbours.”

“Oh, it’s much worse,” Matthew said. “Nowhere else do the soldiers descend as regularly as they do here.”

“Someone has set them on us,” Alex said. “These spontaneous little visits are far too well rehearsed – and increasingly nasty. I swear, if one of those morons shoves my boy again I’ll…”

Joan sighed. “Luke,” she said, “it has to be Luke.”

Ian shrank back against the wall and took several deep breaths in an effort to make his heart stop thumping so loudly. Why would they think Father was in any way involved? He pressed his ear to the door again, listening to the low murmurs of adult voices, punctuated by the odd laugh.

Nothing more was said of Luke and Ian tiptoed back to his bed, his brain whirring as he tried to make some sense of all the new complications in his life. His uncle was perhaps his father, but at the same time he wasn’t. Uncle Matthew was being harassed by soldiers and this was apparently Father’s fault, and then there were those strange whispers about his faithless mother. He buried his face in his pillow, digging an elbow into Mark to make him move over.

“Did you never find the ring?” Ian asked Aunt Joan a day or so later while helping her clean Malcolm Graham’s headstone.

“What ring?” Joan sounded surprised, but continued sweeping the stone free of leaves.

“The ring he always carried round his neck. Aunt Alex told me.”

“Oh, his mother’s ring.” She patted the stone and put the small wreath she had made on it, clumsily getting off her knees. “Nay we never did, and strange that was, very strange. The chain he wore it on was short, it would never have slipped over his head. It must have come off him in the millrace, something must have snagged it – however unlikely, seeing as his shirt was whole and the lacings intact.”

“What did it look like?” Ian already knew; Aunt Alex had told him, but mayhap she had it wrong.

“A dainty piece of work, too small to fit on any of his fingers. Three strands of gold braided together and a small, blood-red stone.”

“Oh.” Ian felt his heart sink to settle somewhere just above his balls. He kicked at a stone and sent it flying in the direction of the rowan.

“Aunt?” Ian waited until she turned to face him. “Why don’t they love each other? Why is it that my father hates my uncle so?”

Joan sighed. “It’s a long story. And it isn’t really mine to tell.”

“I must know, it’s not right that I shouldn’t know, because I’m stuck between them. And I love them both.” Ian squared his shoulders and drew himself up straight, trying to look older than he was. “I can’t ask them; Father rarely speaks of Uncle Matthew with anything but hate in his voice, my mother never mentions it at all, and my uncle, well, he says I must ask my parents.” He made a wry face at that.

“You might not like what I have to tell,” Joan said.

Ian looked at her for a long time. “Aye, I know that. I’m not daft for all that I have problems reading.” It irked him, that wee Mark had such facility with letters, while to him they were at times incomprehensible jumbles of lines, no more.

She shook her head. “You’re but a lad; mayhap when you’re older.”

“I’m all of eleven,” Ian said, “and my uncle rode to war when he was fifteen, as did my father.”

Joan made a resigned gesture. With a little exhalation she sat down on the graveyard bench, swept her shawl tight around her narrow frame and began to talk.

It was a sad story she had to tell, a tale that began the day his grandfather brought Margaret, his mam, home – a wee, bitty thing, all eyes and dark hair that took one look at Luke, slipped her hand into his and never let him go. For years it had been like that, but they grew up, and the innocent games transformed into a love affair, and when Malcolm Graham found out …

“You know how your grandfather threw Luke out, for… err..”

“Fornication,” Ian whispered. “Mam told me, how she and Father loved each other, and mayhap they were too young but they couldn’t help themselves, she said.”

Ian didn’t quite understand this. How not help oneself? And why had his grandfather been so angry? Aunt Joan hitched one bony shoulder; in retrospect Malcolm had been wrong to throw Luke out, she said, but he had been shocked to find his ward and son together, and them like brother and sister.

“So Luke rode off, and Margaret was left at Hillview – with Matthew. And where before Margaret had at most wished Matthew a good day, now she began paying court to him, a constant shadow at his heels, blue, blue eyes always turned his way.”

Ian frowned; Mam throwing himself at Matthew?

“Some years on they wed, and five months later our Da was dead and Luke rode into the yard. Something snapped in Luke when he saw Matthew and Margaret together, and since then he’s been driven to punish your uncle for forcing himself on Margaret.” Aunt Joan broke off and gave Ian a stern look. “Matthew did no such thing. He loved your mam, was always gentle with her, but Margaret lied to Luke, painting Matthew an uncaring ogre, a vile, cold-hearted man that forced her when all she wanted to do was to wait for Luke to come home.”

“Mam?” Ian shook his head.

“I told you; you wouldn’t like it, to hear the truth.” Joan sighed. “Margaret was always an adept liar, embroidering her little tales most convincingly, and in this particular case Luke wanted to believe her.” She frowned down at her lap. “She did wrong your mam, she was wed to one brother and took the other to bed.”

He just nodded; he already knew this. “Why?” He licked his lips. “How could she?”

“Ah, lad,” Joan smiled. “She loved Luke. She still loves him, and he loves her.” She went on to tell him of how Matthew came upon them in his bed and threw them out, divorcing Margaret on account of her adultery.

“And me?” Ian said. “What about me?”

Joan put an arm around him, drawing him close. “Matthew loved you so much, but Margaret insisted that you were hers and Luke’s, not his, and Matthew feared that he might come to hate you for that, so he gave you up.”

She told him how Luke had gotten Matthew convicted for treasonous royalist activities that he had never committed, and how angered he’d been when Matthew returned, alive – and with a new wife. She told him how Matthew had come upon Luke in the woods threatening Alex, and how in anger Matthew had sliced off Luke’s nose. Ian gasped; he already knew this, but had never before heard how it had happened.

“Father wouldn’t harm a woman!”

“You think not? He did, lad, he most certainly did.” Something dark flitted over Aunt Joan’s face and for some moments she was quiet, before giving him a little smile. “You’ve heard the rest, I reckon. How in retribution Luke had Matthew abducted and sold into slavery and Alex was obliged to go after him. Margaret helped her with money,” Joan said, and Ian nodded, proud of Mam. “So now Matthew can’t forgive Luke for all those years that were stolen from him, and Luke can’t forgive him for having survived,” she finished with a sigh.

“And how will it end?”

“I have no inkling and nor have they.” She patted his cheek. “But they both love you, and that isn’t a bad thing, is it?”

There was a shout from below. Alex was standing by the laundry shed, waving at Ian to come down. He made a face.

“All the time she bathes us, and it isn’t enough to place us in the tub, she must oversee as well.” He threw a discreet glance down at his groin.

“I dare say your Aunt Alex can handle the sight,” Joan laughed. “She’s used to much bigger.”

Ian moved off towards the laundry shed, stopped and rushed back to hug her.

“Thank you for telling me.”

“It wasn’t much help, was it?” Joan smoothed his hair off his face.

Ian shrugged; at least he knew how things were, and mayhap he could someday help.

“God willing,” he added and trotted off.

Next morning dawned on a day of dazzling brightness and the whole household couldn’t wait to plunge through the pristine drifts of snow. Alex handed Matthew a heavily wrapped Jacob.

“Don’t drop him in the snow, we might not find him again.”

Matthew laughed and kissed his son. “Won’t find you? Of course we will. You have a bright red cap on.” Jacob pulled at the woollen cap, beaming. It even had a huge pom-pom, in blue. “A good effort,” Matthew murmured to his wife. “You’re getting better at it.”

“Look you, you’re wearing stockings I’ve knitted, clothes I’ve sewn, and your belly is full with food I’ve cooked. So be grateful, not sarcastic.”

“Oh, I am,” Matthew said, and darted outside with his children at his tail.

Halfway through the morning Jacob came back inside, snivelling and wet. His cap was askew and he garbled a long and sorry tale in which Rachel figured prominently.

“She sat on you?” Alex said, brushing the snow off him and rewrapping him in her old shawl.

Yes, Jacob nodded, and his face had been full of snow and then she had put snow down his neck.

“Right, let’s go and find her, shall we? And I can hold her while you put some snow down her neck.”

Jacob grinned and took her hand. They came to a standstill just outside the door and Jacob squealed at the sight of his father.

“What are you doing?” Alex eyed Matthew with interest. He had raked his hands through his hair to make it stand on end, blackened his face with what looked like soot and in his hand he carried a willow switch.

“Beware,” Matthew growled, crouching back on his legs. “Beware of me. I’m the… what is it I am, lads?”

“The Balrog,” Ian replied, appearing from behind a corner to pelt Matthew with a snowball.

“Aye, that’s it.” Matthew swung back towards his wife and leered at her. Jacob gave another squeal and buried his face against Alex’ skirts. “Dangerous creature,” Matthew hissed. “And now I will eat you.” He pointed at Alex.

“Balrogs don’t eat people, they just burn them to death,” Alex laughed, backing away.

“This one definitely eats them,” Matthew smacked his lips together. “A wee laddie makes for a tasty meal.”

“No, no!” Jacob crawled up into Alex’ arms. “Don’t eat me.”

“If he tries, I’ll punch him, and anyway we have both Boromir and Aragorn here to beat him off. Go get him boys!”

“And me, and me!” Rachel piped up. “I’m the dwarf man, I am.”

The children charged Matthew, who allowed himself to be overcome, disappearing in a flurry of snow and children. Afterwards he lay spread-eagled on the ground and complained about his aching back. Alex helped him to his feet, still laughing.

“Weakling, not all that much of a Balrog.”

He tightened his grip on her hand and his eyes were so very close, the shifting green of the eddy pool in the summer when the surface was dappled with sun.

“I will eat you,” he promised, his breath tickling the skin of her neck. “All night, I’ll eat you.”

“Words, words,” Alex snorted, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He took a firm hold of her and kissed her, kissed her until she was certain she was about to die from lack of oxygen. He was still kissing her when out of the corner of her eye she saw a chestnut horse begin dancing its way down the lane towards them.

“Father!” Ian’s voice squeaked up a register, and Alex froze, arms locked round her husband.

“Father, Father!” Ian had reached the horse and was hanging on to the stirrup. Luke Graham dismounted and hugged him, standing like that for a long while.

“I thought you’d forgotten me,” Ian said.

“Forget my own son?” Luke sounded as unsteady as Ian. “Now why would you think I’d do that?”

Ian made an incoherent sound and rubbed his face against Luke’s coat, arms tight around Luke’s waist.

Matthew had gone rigid, and Alex wriggled out of his embrace to place herself in front of him, her body a shield between him and his brother. Luke released Ian and said something to him in a low voice that had Ian rushing off towards the house, before Luke turned to face Matthew. None of them said anything; there was only the barest of nods.

As tall as Matthew and with far more vivid colouring, Luke was a handsome man – even the silver prosthetic he wore in lieu of a nose enhanced rather than detracted from his looks. He was more than well-dressed, in dark velvet breeches and a matching coat, snowy linen at his throat and fur lined gloves on his hands. Over his shoulders hung a cloak that Alex eyed covetously, a lustrous grey wool lined with lamb’s fleece, and here and there the sun struck silver buttons and buckles. This was a man who’d done well for himself – whether through royal patronage or actual skills was open for interpretation – but the fact remained that Sir Luke Graham cut a figure of substance and wealth far exceeding that of his elder brother.

She threw Matthew a look. In his worn breeches and shabby coat, with snow melting in his hair, soot decorating his face and damp spots on his knees, he looked a vagrant – a handsome, dishevelled hero kind of vagrant, but still. Even his Sunday best would look like peasant garb compared to what Luke was wearing – and the two silent servants looked flashier than Matthew ever could. Well; at least Matthew didn’t curl his hair, she thought, taking in the deep red corkscrews that flowed over Luke’s shoulders. Quite the dandy, effeminate almost.

“I see you made it through the smallpox, then,” Matthew said, breaking a heavy silence.

“Aye, I imagine that makes you very happy.” Luke’s eyes drifted over to Alex.

She straightened up, placing a hand on her stomach, whether to protect the baby or to remind him of what he’d done to her all those years ago, she didn’t really know. She shivered, blinking a couple of times to clear her head of the detailed memories of a night when Luke had lost all restraint and beaten her so badly that she’d miscarried.