The Prodigal Son (20 page)

It was cold sleeping outside. The bread and cheese had long since run out, and now there were only some apples left in his bag. He didn’t know how much further it was, but counting on his fingers he’d been riding for near on ten days, so that should mean he was close.

He had left a week or so after the fire. The memory of the huge conflagration – a magnificent spectacle of burning houses and churches, exploding roofs and windows that fell like fiery stars towards the river – made all of him shiver with a combination of exhilaration and fear. People running, women screaming, dogs, cats, rats – a swarm of creatures plunging into the waters in a desperate attempt to evade the heat and flames. He had watched from the safety of their lodgings on the South Bank, incapable of pulling his eyes away from the horror that unfolded in front of him.

When at last the wind had died down, the charred ruins of London lay smouldering under the September sun. The stink of it filled the air, an acrid smell that made your eyes water and your mouth dry up. Soot whirled, it stuck to clothes, to hair, it fell from the sky to collect like filthy froth along the banks of the Thames. Everybody coughed, destitute people thronged the roads, pitiful creatures with no more to their name than the few garments they were wearing extended their hands and begged for pennies, for groats, for a leftover heel of bread.

A few days on Father had decided they should cut their visit to London short, muttering that there was no business to conduct given the present circumstances, so the family had returned home to the small brick manor halfway between Oxford and London.

It was when Father informed him that he was to remain at home while his parents and the babe went for an extended visit to one of his father’s friends that Ian made up his mind. A day or so later he took the opportunity to slip away, leaving a note for Mr Brown, the steward, in which he explained he was riding after his father. It would have taken at least a week before they found he was gone, but by now they’d know. He wondered if they cared enough to come looking, and he turned his head into his cloak and cried because he wasn’t sure they would.

Mam had greeted him with joy last December, exclaiming that he had grown, and what had they been feeding him to make him so tall and strong? But Ian was forbidden to hug her or to make too much noise. Father had explained that Mam had to rest, because the babe had to be kept safe, and surely he could count on Ian to help. The babe? Ian had looked from Father to Mam, and had felt the first coil of jealousy already then. But he’d promised that he would help as well as he could, becoming a silent shadow that spent far too much time on his own while Father hovered round Mam’s bed.

Sometimes, when Father was at court or otherwise occupied, Ian spent whole days at his mother’s side. He sat in Mam’s bed and brushed her hair, he held the skeins of yarn for her as she wound it into balls, he read haltingly while she sewed, proud as a peacock at her vociferous praise at how well he spoke the written words. He talked, and Mam listened and sighed when he told her of how Williams had been punished for helping the unknown minister.

“No! 200 merks?”

Ian had no concept of how much money that was, but asked Mam if Father would have a problem finding it should he be fined.

“Fined?” Mam laughed. “Why would your father be fined?”

“He is also of the faith.”

Mam laughed again and assured him that his father was wealthy enough to pay such a sum several times over should he have to, but that this would never be an issue as Luke Graham was high in the king’s favour.

Those long spring days with Mam had been just like the old times, only him and her with all her attention focused on him, even if now and then her hand would drop to rest on her growing belly. At times she slept, her hand held in his and he worried because she looked so pale, frail and breakable, but she smiled and told him not to fret, that was the wean, aye?

He hadn’t really thought so much about the babe as anything but an anonymous bump on his mother’s body until the day he heard Mam and Father talk about it, none of them aware that he was sitting in the window seat.

“He thought I couldn’t sire bairns of my own,” Father had said. “But it seems I can.” He laughed out loud and kissed Mam. “And this time I know for sure it’s mine.”

Ian had wanted to crawl away and die, because from the tone in Father’s voice it was clear he had considerable doubts when it came to Ian himself. Not even Mam knew for sure – at least that was what she said the afternoon Ian confronted her about it, late in May.

“You must know!” he’d said. “How can you not?” Mam had gone the colour of a scalded ham and told him this was not something they were going to discuss further.

“You’re Luke’s son in all that matters and he loves you, ” she’d said, before retreating to bed, complaining all this upheaval made her stomach ache.

Ian was not so sure, not anymore. Before the wean he was convinced Father loved him, just as Uncle Matthew said he did, and he had even been able to find some comfort in the fact that his father loved him despite not knowing for sure if Ian was his. But the afternoon Father stood tall and angry in front of him, spittle flying from his mouth when he asked Ian how he dared to upset his mother now that she was heavy with child – his precious child – was the afternoon when Ian began to doubt if he was indeed as loved as he had thought. He hadn’t been able to sit for a week afterwards, and was no longer allowed to either talk to or be in his mother’s presence, relegated to living on the fringe of a household that orbited round the coming birth of the child.

He hated the wean; ugly and scrawny with bright red hair that shouted to the world that this was Luke Graham’s son, while Ian was but a cuckoo in the nest. Mam had disappeared into a world of nursing, that horrid little creature hanging off her breast. Even once the wet nurse was installed, Mam lived her days at the beck and call of this adored new child, Luke Graham’s longed for son.

“A miracle,” she whispered reverently and Father would agree. And the boy thrived, smiling at his love-struck father in a way that made Luke coo and laugh. Ian had no memories of Luke ever cooing at him.

Worst of all was Mam’s defection. It used to be she enjoyed his company as much as he did hers, but from one day to the other she shifted all her attention to the wean, listening distractedly to whatever he might have to say before rushing off to ensure the babe was comfortable and safe. Little Charles, named after the king and graced with the presence of His Majesty at his christening; wee Charles, apple of his father’s eye… Ian sat up in the predawn darkness, too restless and cold to attempt further sleep.

He saddled up his horse, a mare that Father had bought him shortly after returning home from Hillview. It was a beautiful horse, a dark blue roan with a white tail and mane, and Ian wrapped his arms around her neck and was comforted by her warmth. Salome nickered, buffeting him with her head, and he dug into his bag for one of his few apples, feeding it to her in pieces. He hadn’t taken much when he left, only some changes of clothing and something he’d wrapped in a square of silk and hidden at the bottom of the bag.

If Father ever found out he’d taken it he’d probably beat him to death, Ian swallowed, but it had seemed the right thing to do, just in case. One thing hadn’t changed despite the wean, and that was Father’s obsessive hatred of his brother. Ian had heard far too many threats against an absent Matthew uttered over the last few months, mostly when Father had drunk too much, but increasingly when he was sober as well.

Once on the horse, Ian shivered when the winds caught at his cloak, making it billow around him. It was raining, a sharp, driving rain that hurt his uncovered face and hands. He studied his surroundings, looking for any landmarks that could help him find his way, but with the clouds and the rain and the ice cold wind it was difficult to make out anything beyond the narrow path in front of him. Still, he was certain he was riding in the right direction, and halfway through the day he saw some stones that he thought he recognised, huge boulders that seemed to have rolled down the slope before coming to rest at a small, shallow pool.

By late afternoon he knew he was almost there. He passed the huge stand of hazels that stood just off the road to Cumnock and then he was riding up the last incline, and soon he would be home, back at Hillview. Something knotted in his stomach; mayhap they wouldn’t want him either, but Aunt Alex had said that there was always a place for him here.

He held in Salome and sat in the wet and windy cold looking down at the small manor. Just as it had been when he left, snuggled against the hill behind it. There was light spilling from the kitchen window, the door opened and a tall shape stepped outside into the dusk, face raised in his direction. Ian clucked Salome into a trot.

He slowed the horse as he got closer. He swallowed once, twice, and threw back the drenched hood. There was a long, indrawn breath, and Ian tried a smile, meeting eyes just like his, in a face just like his. His uncle – or was it his father? – smiled back and opened his arms wide.

“But they must be worried sick!” Alex frowned down at Ian. He shrugged and averted his eyes, mumbling something about not being so sure about that. She set down a second helping of food in front of him and poured him another mug of milk. “Eat up first, and then we’ll talk.” She grinned mischievously at him. “Well; first you eat, then you wash and then we talk. You stink, Ian Graham.”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” he asked.

Alex wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “You’re going nowhere near my sheets smelling like that, so we’ll be spending some quality time together in the laundry shed once you’ve finished your food.”

“Will you be washing me yourself?” Ian squeaked.

Alex held up a pot of soap.

Ian looked at Matthew, hands coming down in a protective gesture over his crotch.

“But couldn’t you, Uncle?”

Matthew shook his head. “I’m afraid this is your aunt’s responsibility.”

“Too right it is,” Alex said, “men are lax washers.” She produced a brush, some towels and jerked her head in the direction of the laundry shed. With a sigh, Ian got to his feet.

There was not one inch of him that wasn’t squeaky clean once she was done with him. Ian followed her back inside, wearing one of Matthew’s old shirts that flapped around him.

“Here,” Alex plunked Daniel into his lap. “Hold him for me, will you? I’ll see if I can find you some cake.”

Ian looked at Daniel, at her. With reluctance he held the baby, arms stiff, face set in a mask of distaste.

“What? Does he need a new clout?”

Ian shook his head, and Alex ducked into the pantry. An angry holler had her reappearing like a greased rat, eyes flying from her son to Ian.

“Are you alright? And why is he crying?”

“Take him,” Ian said, “just take him, aye?” When Alex hesitated he deposited Daniel roughly on the floor and turned to leave, only to run his nose straight into Matthew’s chest.

“Explain,” Matthew said, sitting down across the table from Ian.

“I can’t abide them,” Ian said, almost in tears. “I don’t like weans.”

“You did last time,” Matthew said. “You’d sit for hours with Lucy, and you were right good with her too.”

Ian dropped his eyes to the table. “That was before Charles,” he said, and began to weep.

“We must send them a letter,” Alex said later, holding Matthew’s hand as they stood looking down at Ian, now fast asleep in the same bed as Mark and Jacob.

“Aye,” he sighed. “Poor Ian.”

“Yes, poor kid.” Inside, she was going through a complex battle between strong maternal instincts that were telling her Ian must go, mustn’t be allowed to grow into Matthew’s heart, and her basic sense of compassion for a boy that had been so cruelly caught in the middle. Two letters, she decided, one to Margaret and the other one she would send to Simon, because with the advent of little Charles things might just have become one twist too complicated.

By the time Alex had finished feeding her own little tyrant – Daniel was presently in a growth mode, demanding food round the clock – Matthew was fast asleep, thrown on his back across their bed. Months of heavy harvest work combined with the heartbreak of seeing friends and neighbours carted off to gaol had left him hollowed and exhausted, and it was a long time since he’d made proper love to her – or she to him.

Alex sat down beside him and brushed his hair off his brow. There were odd strands of grey in it, and now that she looked closely she saw new lines in his face, a crease between his brows, a sharp line from nose to mouth. She kissed the corner of his mouth and he smiled in his sleep, a brief smile that flashed and was gone. She drew the sheet off him and studied his body, from his strong thighs up his concave belly to the wide chest, and there his dark hair was definitely sprinkled with grey. She let her finger touch his scars, the long puckered one that travelled from his sternum and to his right – a misdirected sword slash from very long ago – the remaining indentations on his shoulders from the months spent as a beast of burden in Virginia, and the new addition down his right flank, still a startling pink. When she placed her hand on his thigh, edging slowly upwards, his penis uncurled, lazily stretching itself to full size.

“Will I do, do you think?”

Alex met his eyes. “Oh yes,” she breathed, “you do very well.”

He stretched up a hand to her shift, tugging at the lacing. “It isn’t fair, that you see all of me and I see nothing of you.”

Alex pulled the shift over her head, sitting cross legged beside him. “Better?”

He sat up. She closed her eyes when his hand grazed her breasts. So gentle, so warm, the touch so light it made her skin prickle. She braced back against her arms, and at his insistent touch uncrossed her legs to extend them in front of her. He kneeled between them, placed his hands on her ankles and slowly moved them upwards, caressing her calves, her inner thighs. When he reached her belly he stopped, fingers spread fanlike over her skin. She covered his hands with hers. Here she had her own scars, marks left behind by their children, and he touched them gently before sliding his hands upwards to cup her breasts.