The Prodigal Son (7 page)

“You’ll not mind us verifying that for ourselves? Ensure you’re not harbouring a fugitive or two?” He motioned for his men to dismount, jerking his head in the direction of the outbuildings.

“No, of course not,” Alex said, following the two men that rode off in the direction of the mill with her eyes. Oh God; for all that Mark had a head start, he was a small boy on foot, while the soldiers were horsed. Her heart shrank into a prune when the horses were set to canter. She cleared her throat, forcing her attention back to the captain.

“Is there any particular reason why you seek my husband?”

“He hasn’t sworn the Oath of Abjuration.”

Alex did her best dim-witted look, giving him a simpering smile.

“The oath of what?”

The officer frowned. “Come, come, mistress, all of you know that the king requires all men to swear oaths of fealty to him and his church. A most necessary measure here, where Covenanters stand as thick on the ground as common daisies.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’d be one of them yourself, I’d warrant.”

“Me?” Alex said. “Not really.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw the two horses disappear in among the trees, now at a more sedate trot.

“No? Well, beg my pardon for not believing you, mistress. And that absconded preacher, that… err…”

“Sandy Peden,” Alex filled in. Mark should have reached the mill by now, she calculated, and if they were quick, they’d make it out in the nick of time.

“Yes, that’s right. Well he doesn’t help, does he? What with his insistence that there’s nothing between man and God, no bishops and definitely not a royal head of church. Pah! Ah well, sooner or later we’ll catch him – him and anyone foolish enough to succour him.”

“Not my husband,” Alex said.

“No? That’s not what we hear. He served in the wars, did he not? As a soldier of parliament.”

Alex shrugged, succeeding in looking disinterested. “I met him seven years ago, a royalist escaping from gaol.”

The captain blinked. “A royalist?”

“Convicted at the court in Ayr,” she nodded. There was no need to tell him the trial had been a farce. Matthew had been falsely accused by his brother, convicted based on his brother’s testimony, when all the while it was Luke, not Matthew, who was the diehard royalist.

The dragoons came back, shaking their heads. After a tense half-hour or so, the two sent off to inspect the mill returned, empty-handed. Alex’ shoulders dropped an inch.

“We’ll be back,” the officer said as he turned his horse. “Please convey my regards to your husband.” It came out with quite the edge.

“I’ll be sure to.” Alex curtsied and stood still until the last of the horse rumps dipped out of sight.

No sooner were they gone than she was hurrying up the hill. She met Mark making his way back down and gave him a hug.

“Are you okay?” Her son was rosy with excitement, squirming in her arms.

“We went out the back way,” he said, “just as the soldiers rode up to the door.”

“Oh.” Alex clutched him to her.

“Mama!” He pushed at her. “He’s at the oak, hiding.”

As far as Alex was concerned, Sandy could bloody well stay there, but with a sigh she rose to her feet.

“We’d best go and tell him it’s safe.”

Mark made as if to rush off, but Alex took his hand.

“I’ll come with you, okay?”

The hiding place was ingenious. Apart from Matthew, only Alex and Mark knew of its existence. While Alex was uncomfortable with lumbering her son with this kind of information, Matthew shrugged, saying that Mark had to be taught to run and warn – as he had done today.

Alex trudged after Mark down to where the millrun re-joined the river, walking along the water’s edge until they reached a point opposite the old oak that hung precariously over the eroded river bank. The water was unpleasantly cold but shallow as they waded across. The platform was barely visible from below, even now in late October with the leaves more or less gone. At Mark’s whistle a tousled head appeared, reappearing some minutes later on the ground.

Sandy Peden took off his mask and wig and rubbed his fingers through his thinning hair.

“They’re gone,” Alex said, meeting calm grey eyes. “So you can relax and go back to the room at the mill.” Why not read up a bit more on the Bible, or pack your stuff together and go somewhere else altogether?

Sandy seemed to see what she was thinking, and scratched at his chest.

“Nay, I’ll be leaving.” He inclined his head in the direction of the moss. “A wee bit too close this time.” He did look rather shaken, hands smoothing at his coat. “You’ve been most kind, Alexandra, but I don’t want to overstay my welcome.” His eyes glinted with amusement, and Alex unwillingly smiled back, thinking as she always did that she’d never met anyone with such long lashes before – long and so fair as to look almost white.

“It’s just that…”

“Aye, I know,” Sandy interrupted her. “And I know you have bairns to fear for.”

They crossed the river and set off in the direction of the millpond, with Sandy and Mark a few paces in front of Alex. Sandy threw Alex a look over his shoulder.

“Have you been studying the texts?”

For an instant Alex had no idea what he meant, but then she remembered and felt a flare of irritation; texts to study and be tested on, making her feel like a child. This minister had repeatedly made it clear just how dissatisfying he considered her religious education – and convictions – to be, and had taken it upon himself to instruct her.

“No, I’ve had too much to do lately.”

“You mustn’t be remiss regarding your spiritual wellbeing,” Sandy said.

“There’s nothing wrong with my spiritual wellbeing.”

“Ah no? And yet I dare say you cannot name me the books of the Holy Writ, nor even Jacob’s sons, can you?”

“If I want to know I can look it up,” she shrugged, and Sandy’s brows sank into a bulging ridge over his eyes.

“Some things one should know by heart, I think.”

“Waste of space, if you ask me,” she muttered, hitching a shoulder.

“Hmm.” Sandy sounded displeased, and looked over to her son. “Laddie, can you name me Jacob’s sons?”

Alex rolled her eyes at how Mark shone up, hurrying over to take Sandy’s hand as he recited his way through the twelve tribes of Israel. Sandy went on to tell Mark about Joseph and his dreams, about the Hebrew captivity in Egypt and Moses, the lawmaker.

“I know a song about that,” Alex said, and began singing about Moses, who went down to Egypt’s land to tell the pharaoh to let his people go. Both Sandy and Mark were delighted, and by the time they were back at the mill, Sandy had the verses down pat.

“…
So spoke the Lord, bold Moses said, let my people go. If not I’ll strike your firstborn dead, let my people go’
…” He broke off and grinned at Alex. “It has a ring to it, aye?”

Alex nodded, wondering if she should tell him this was a song written by slaves – black slaves. Sandy surprised her by nodding seriously once he’d finished the song for the third time.

“The man who wrote it knew what it was like to be a slave.”

“Yeah,” Alex said. “You hear it in every ‘
let my people go’
.”

She met Matthew and Simon on the way down, and briefly recounted the events. Matthew clouded, a dark scowl settling on his features, while Simon went an interesting shade of greyish pink.

“What…” he asked, but Alex shook her head.

“Not now, not here. After supper, when we’re alone.”

Simon paced the parlour with his hands clasped behind his back, giving him a startling resemblance to a strutting pigeon.

“I told you the last time I was here. You must stop this, you can’t put yourself at risk for men like Sandy Peden.”

“Of course I can,” Matthew said. “He’s a friend.”

Simon shook his head. “You knew him when you were young men, and aye, you share the same faith, but he’s in breach of the law, a wanted man with a price on his head!” Simon slammed his hand down on the table. “You risk it all; you risk your life, your home and your family. Is that what you want, to see your family destitute with you being picked clean by the crows?”

“You’re exaggerating, they wouldn’t hang me.” Matthew tried to sound unconcerned.

“No?” Simon knuckled at his irritated left eye. “Ah, no. They may be content with transporting you overseas. As a slave, like.” Matthew frowned at him, but Simon pushed on. “Not to Virginia, Matthew, to the West Indies. And if you were badly treated in Virginia you’ll have it tenfold worse in the West Indies.” He wheeled to Alex. “Tell him! Tell him how men die in the sun, worked to death at the sugar plantations! Tell him, aye?”

“I already have.” She shared a quick look with Matthew, who groaned inwardly. Repeatedly she raised the subject, obdurately he insisted he had to follow his conscience and help those who stood up to fight for the right to hold to their beliefs.

“I told you; Luke knows, and if Luke knows then he’ll use it to have you destroyed. Not simply killed, because then Mark inherits, but somehow charged with treason or something, with all your worldly goods befalling the king.” She sounded matter-of-fact, keeping her eyes on her shoes, her skirts, anything but Matthew.

“It won’t happen,” Matthew said. “They’ll never catch anyone here.”

Alex made a face. “Well excuse me for not believing that. If it hadn’t been for Mark, they’d have dragged both Sandy and you with them today.”

“Aye,” Simon said, “and then…” He grabbed at his throat and made strangled noises.

“It was a coincidence that they should come when Sandy was here,” Matthew said. “They don’t know – no one knows about me helping Sandy.”

“Don’t be daft! Of course someone knows, and information is always for sale – in periods of unrest especially,” Simon said.

“Besides, someone told Luke.” Alex said.

“I’ll be more careful,” Matthew said, but that was as far as he’d go. Alex pushed away from the table and left the room without a word.

“You have responsibilities,” Simon said, “and first and foremost to your family – your wife, who travelled the world to bring you safely home, the bairns she’s given you. They must come first. Even God would agree with that.” He followed Alex out of the room, leaving Matthew to sit with Joan and the wean.

Matthew stared off through the little window, tracking Joan’s reflection in the thick glass. Mostly bones and very little else, Joan tired easily, and wee Lucy was often found nursing in the arms of whatever voluntary wet nurse was at hand.

“You think I’m wrong too?”

Joan sighed. “Of course I don’t; it’s our faith you’re protecting. But if Luke knows, and if there are dragoons riding in regularly, then you must be more than canny, take as few risks as you can.” She cupped Lucy’s little head. “Simon’s right; the bairns must come first.” She smiled at Matthew. “And there will be one more soon.”

“What?” Alex pregnant and she hadn’t told him? He frowned, attempting to recollect when last she’d bled. Joan jerked her head in the general direction of the kitchen.

“You should spend some time with your wife; this last month has been very much about other people than her.”

Matthew found her in the kitchen. “Will you walk out with me?”

Alex threw a look at the dark night. “Now?”

He just nodded, holding out his hand to her. He was silent when they walked across the yard, she trailing him as he closed doors, scratched Ham between the ears, and even offered a carrot to the pig.

“She doesn’t need that,” Alex said. “She had cake today.”

Every shed he inspected before leading her to the laundry shed, a new addition to the outbuildings.

“There’s a light!” Alex hissed as they got closer. “Someone’s in there.”

“Not yet, but soon.” He swung the door open, very pleased by her exclamation of surprise.

The water in the laundry cauldron was steaming, he had lit lanterns and hung them from the roof. The new, enlarged hip bath had been scrubbed and he had brought down quilts and spread them on the broad bench that ran the full length of the small space.

“When did you do this?”

“While you were off being angry with me for being an irresponsible man.” He was already undressing her, and then he helped her in, murmuring that it was about time someone washed her properly. When he began washing her hair she groaned, eyes closed as his fingers worked their way across her scalp. So much hair – so much naked skin to wash and rinse, his fingers doing the occasional detour to inspect her shapely thighs, the curve of her hip and the ticklish instep on her right foot. By the time he was done they were both very wet and very warm.

“Lie down,” he said. Her skin glowed pink after his efforts with the towel. She stretched out on the bench, he kicked off his breeches and drew his damp shirt over his head and joined her, holding a flask of lavender oil. When the oil dribbled onto her stomach she shivered. He stroked her flank and goose pimples broke out all over her thighs. It made him smile, and he repeated the motion, thinking as he always did that it was odd that his woman should pimple as if cold when in reality it was heat she was feeling, her skin blushing under his touch, her pupils dilating as he increased the pressure of his hands.

“You haven’t told me,” he said, slowing his oiled hands over her breasts. He nudged at her darkening nipples and bent his head to kiss them. Her back arched, her breasts lifting to meet his lips.

“I thought you could find out for yourself,” she said, her hands on his head as he continued further down her body. “Took you some time, though,” she added, wriggling under his mouth.

Matthew stopped what he was doing and threw her a look.

“Aye well, it’s been a trifle hectic.” Margaret leaving, Ian moving in, Joan and the wean… all in all the last few weeks had been a bit too much. He kissed her again, tasting her properly. Salt, she was, and smooth and soft like silk. She moaned. His tongue teased her, she tugged at his hair, her thighs falling wide open.

“Now,” she breathed, “I want you now.”

“Oh, do you?” He kissed her pubic mound, her navel, and she squirmed, making a series of low, urgent sounds. “Matthew!” she groaned, and he took pity on her, sliding up the bench to cover her body with his.