The Prodigal Son (3 page)

“Is it him?” the officer asked. One of the men tilted his head to the side, frowning.

“It could be,” he said, “although…”

“Could be?” Simon pounced. “Well, it could be anyone.”

The soldier shuffled on his feet. “There is a likeness.”

“A likeness?” Simon laughed out loud. “How?”

One of the younger soldiers took a step forward. “He’s tall and the man we saw was tall – that we know for sure.”

“Ah,” Simon nodded. “And did he have dark hair?”

“I don’t know,” the young man said.

“No? Why not?”

‘“He was wearing a cloak.”

Simon rolled his eyes, smoothed at his coat. “Not much to go on,” he said to the officer, who shifted on his seat.

“Tall, a competent swordsman – and we know Mr Graham has a past as a soldier – who else could it be?” the officer said.

“You?” Simon said.

The officer flew to his feet. “What?”

“Well why not? You’re of a size, and in a cloak, well…”

“What is it you’re implying?” the officer barked.

“I am but making the point that it does not suffice, does it? Mr Graham insists he was at home last night, and this is corroborated by his wife, who…”

“His wife? And what else would she say?”

“Well no; there you have me,” Simon conceded with a little bow. “But it is still a fact that if all your men saw was a hooded, tall man on the moor, it is not enough to place Matthew Graham there, is it?”

The officer wheeled, glared at his men, at Matthew and at his toes. “This is a serious matter,” he said. “We are no longer talking of the occasional meal, are we?” He came close enough that his nose brushed against Matthew’s. “This time someone has taken steel to my men, even wounded one of them.”

A wee gash, Matthew was on the point of saying, but bit his tongue at the last moment. Instead he blinked, attempting to look as dense as possible.

The officer frowned, dashing a long strand of fair hair from his face. “Take him away, lock him up for the night. Who knows, it might jog his memory.” He smiled – a small, cold smile that made Matthew shiver inside. They were going to hurt him.

Simon protested loudly. The officer stood his ground, repeating that he had to ascertain once and for all that Mr Graham was no threat to law and order. A shove, yet another shove, and Matthew was dragged from the room.

Merciful Lord! He gasped as yet another bucket of ice cold water was poured over him. Hands pulled him to stand, he tried to see through his swollen eye. A fist drove into his gut, another in his kidneys. Small bursts of pain all over his upper body, a fist in his face, and Matthew was unable to defend himself, could not do anything to deflect the blows, what with the two men holding him upright.

“Admit it, man,” the lieutenant in charge said, leaning in to stare Matthew in his one good eye. “Admit it was you and this will stop.”

Matthew just shook his head. The responding clap to his head had his brain ringing, a high pitched sound that made it difficult to hear what the wee man was saying, although he assumed it was yet another repeated ‘admit it’.

After hours of this physical interrogation, Matthew was weaving on his feet. He pretended to faint time and time again, gaining himself a few minutes of precious reprieve while the soldiers set to reviving him. He let his head loll back and groaned. The lieutenant made a disgusted snort.

“For all his size he’s quite the weakling,” the wee officer said.

Matthew almost smiled; he could beat the lieutenant one handed should he need to.

“No,” the lieutenant decided, clapping himself on his thighs. “We’re done with him.” A booted toe prodded at Matthew. He slumped, an unconscious mollusc on the floor.

Except that he wasn’t, and the moment the door grated shut behind his tormentors he moved over to sit with his back against the furthest wall. No broken bones, no serious damage, just one bruised, aching body, a split lip, a swollen eye and a burst eyebrow. Very much on purpose, he concluded. This was merely the soldiers giving him a warning, a gentle reminder of what was in store for men who flaunted the law. He laughed hollowly; not all that gentle.

Simon must have been up with the sun. Even in his shivering, dozing state Matthew recognised his friend’s voice, a loud constant haranguing as he followed whoever was guiding him across the garrison yard. The door swung open, a shaft of light made Matthew squint and Simon rounded on the lieutenant, near on spitting with anger.

“Simon,” Matthew croaked, wincing when his lip split open. “It’s no great matter. Just get me out of here.” From the way the lieutenant was eyeing Simon, he was considering whether to lock him up as well rather than releasing Matthew.

“No great matter? Have you any notion…” Simon rushed over to steady him. “Sweetest Lord, what will Alex say?”

Matthew attempted a shrug. “Mayhap I should clean up some.”

“Aye, that would be wise,” Simon said. “I’ll have the innkeeper heat you some water. A few hours’ sleep, I think, before we ride back home.” Matthew stifled a gasp when Simon’s arm came round his middle but he walked as straight as he could through the yard.

A mere half-hour later he felt much better; hot food in his belly, his bruised body washed and inspected by the innkeeper’s wife, a pretty lass with a gentle touch and an endless supply of herbal ointments. He was in a hurry to get back home, knowing that Alex would be worried by his continued absence, but at the mulish look on Simon’s face he crawled into bed. A wee nap, no more. He yawned, closed his eyes and dropped off.

Alex was too distraught to give Joan much of a welcome when she arrived around noon. In fact, she was so immersed in her worries for Matthew, that it wasn’t until Joan took off her cloak that Alex noticed her sister-in-law was pregnant.

“Why haven’t you told me?”

“I wanted you to see for yourself,” Joan said. “But I dare say today is not the best of days to impart such news, is it?”

Alex shook her head, eyes flying to the lane. “Not really.” She made a huge effort and turned to face Joan. “But I’m so very glad for you.”

Joan smiled down at her. At almost six feet she was uncommonly tall, and in general so thin as to look fragile. Now, there was a sizeable bump on her and her normally flat chest had upgraded itself to something resembling a timid B-cup.

Alex frowned. “You don’t look too well.” That was an understatement. Joan was pale to the point of looking ashen, with her beautiful grey eyes sunk into deep purple hollows.

“I’m tired, that’s all. You shouldn’t mind me,” Joan said, “not all bloom like you do with the bairns.”

“Have you been eating?”

Joan looked away. “I’m greensick all the time.”

“No wonder you’re the colour of a sheet,” Alex said. “I’ll fix you something with plenty of honey and eggs in it.” With that she propelled Joan in the direction of the house.

“No word?” Joan sipped at the posset Alex set before her.

“No. But there wouldn’t be, right? It was afternoon when they rode off.”

“Mayhap.” Joan drank, wiped at her mouth. “Was he? Out on the moors?”

Alex threw a wary look round the kitchen; neither Sarah nor Janey were in sight. She nodded, irritated by the admiring look in Joan’s face.

“It’s dangerous! What if they…” she broke off when Mark came rushing through the door.

“They’re back! Da’s back!”

“Well, thank heavens for that,” Alex said, leaping to her feet.

Joan grabbed at her hand, met her eyes. “He does as he has to, Alex. Remember that, aye?”

“It’s a risk, an unnecessary risk.”

“To you, mayhap. To Matthew it’s a matter of conscience and faith.”

Alex came to a stop at the sight of Matthew. He gave her a rueful smile, fingers flying to his swollen face. Dear God! She moved closer, all of her itching with the need to drag him off to a secluded corner for a detailed inspection.

“They couldn’t identify him,” Simon said. “All they could say was that the man had been tall and shrouded in a long cloak.”

“Ah. So that was it?” Obviously not, judging from Matthew’s face.

“Nay,” Matthew said, looking grim. “They locked me up overnight and…” He winced when he moved his arms.

“It could have been worse,” Simon said. “Much, much worse.”

“Oh, well; that’s a comfort,” Alex said. But Simon was right. Matthew might look as if he’d been trampled by the cows, but he’d suffered no serious damage – made very apparent by the fact that the first thing he did once he was off the horse was scan the skies.

“Tomorrow. We start the harvest tomorrow.”

“Are you sure? Shouldn’t you take it easy for some…” Her hands flew down his arms, his back. There were bruises everywhere; peeking from the neckline of his shirt, all over his face, on what she could see of his arms, and when she touched his lower back he inhaled, twisting out of reach.

“Tomorrow; and I’m perfectly hale.”

“Well, sorry for asking.”

“I’m fine, lass; truly.” He smiled, a somewhat strained smile, and raised his hand to her cheek. “I dare not wait any longer, because if it rains now…”He shook his head.

Alex nodded her agreement, raising her eyes to the unclouded summer sky. All summer the sun had blazed down on them and the barley looked starved for rain, as did the rye and the oats. But it was ripe, however puny, standing man-high in the elongated fields.

“So, tomorrow.” Without any further comments as to the events in Cumnock, Matthew set off towards the barn. Alex sighed. Sometimes this silent male thing was bloody enervating.

A fortnight or so later, Alex was so tired she considered hiding in the hayloft for the day. Instead, she was up at dawn to feed the men and then extended before her yet another stretch of never ending work.

“You must work in the field today,” Matthew told her over breakfast, “you and all the lasses.” He threw his head in the direction of the skies. “It’ll break. I can smell it.”

So could Alex; a heavy smell of brine. It made her mouth dry up and she studied the darkening horizon repeatedly during the day, lifting her face from the sheaves before going back to her work.

Sweat formed like dewdrops along her hairline, ran down her face and into her eyes. It trickled down her back and dampened the insides of her thighs, making every single piece of clothing she had on stick to her skin.

The clouds sank even closer to the ground and Matthew yelled at them to hurry up, they had to get as many of the half-dried sheaves as possible inside. Alex’ back screeched in protest, her arms trembled, and still she lifted, throwing sheaves into the flat carts. Men picked up sheaves and ran towards the barn and Alex tried to do the same, but the stupid thing kept slipping through her arms, the drying stalks scratching at her face.

Overhead, the skies had begun to growl, a distant rumbling that made Alex want to rush and hide. But she didn’t, of course she didn’t. Instead she wiped her brow and went back to wrestling with the recalcitrant sheave.

“Here.” Matthew appeared by her side. Together they lugged the sheave to the closest cart, and Matthew slapped the horse on its rump, shouting to Gavin to drive as fast as possible for the barn.

Overhead the skies exploded into a firework of lightning. Alex grabbed hold of Matthew’s arm, sinking her fingers into his flesh.

“It won’t happen again,” he said with a small smile. “Once was improbable enough.”

“You think?” she stuttered, eyes darting from him to the threatening sky and back again.

“Aye, I do; you won’t be knocked from this time to another, I won’t allow it.”

“Good to know,” she said, leaning against his solid frame. “But it almost did,” she added, thinking back to an incident some years ago.

“And I stopped it from happening, didn’t I?” He smiled down at her. “I’ll not let you go, Alex. Ever.”

The skies opened, rain fell like a sheet of water, flattening the un-harvested barley fields. Matthew took hold of her hand and ran for the house.

After a whole night’s rain, the next day dawned a sullen, drizzling grey. Matthew wolfed down breakfast and rushed outside to inspect his ruined fields, although to what purpose Alex had no idea. Simon went with him, and once Alex had set Sarah and Janey to work in the kitchen she followed Joan to the parlour. She rarely sat here during daytime, preferring the warmth of the kitchen, but given the peaceful quiet of the little room maybe she should use it more often. Dark wooden floors contrasted nicely with the lighter walls, the few pieces of furniture were decorated with the odd embroidered cushion, and on one of the tables stood Matthew’s precious chess set, each piece a little work of art that had taken him months to complete.

“It never looks that way when I do it,” Alex said, rooting around in her basket for her present work in progress.

“Aye, well, years and years of practise,” Joan shrugged, not even looking at the knitted blanket that flowered from her hands. She stopped and bent her head in the direction of Alex’ half-finished stocking. “Alex! You can’t go about in something like that!” She snatched the stocking from Alex’ hands and proceeded to tear up most of it.

“That took me ages! And who cares, anyway? It’s not as if anyone ever sees my stockings, is it?” She began rewinding the dark wool, throwing murderous looks in the direction of Joan.

“So you never wear stockings then? In your time?”

“Of course we do. But we just pop into a shop and buy them. Three for the price of two or something.” Alex sighed and studied the remainder of her massacred stocking. Joan was right; she couldn’t really walk around in something as badly knitted as this.

“Do you ever wish you could go back?” Joan’s needles clicked on at amazing speed.

“No. Never.” Alex underlined her statement with an affronted tone.

“But…” Joan began, but whatever she had planned on saying was interrupted by a series of loud, high-pitched screams.

“Rachel,” Alex and Joan said simultaneously, both of them hurrying out into the yard.

Pandemonium reigned. Simon was chasing the billy goat with Mark whooping at his heels. Old Samuel was stopping the other goats from escaping their paddock, Gavin was shooing at the interested hens that seemed to be everywhere, and Matthew was holding a bawling, muddied Rachel in his arms.