The Prodigal Son (24 page)

When Rachel rushed over he bent down to hug her and hide himself against her warm, sturdy little body, breathing in the scent of milk and honey and sun that always clung to her. He threw Wyndham a sidelong glance; what had he been playing at, dragging Matthew off the street and holding him for hours while he questioned Matthew in detail as to his whereabouts the last few weeks? And why had he insisted on accompanying him home, transforming from a most unpleasant interrogator to a friendly ex-comrade? There was something here he didn’t understand, and a warning prickle at the base of his spine was telling him to tread carefully around Major Wyndham.

Ian provided part of the puzzle later that evening, sitting down beside Matthew.

“I know that man,” he said.

“What man?”

“Major Wyndham.”

“You do?” Matthew offered him a slice of the apple he was eating. Ian chewed in silence, accepting yet another slice.

“I’ve seen him with Father.” He gave Matthew a long look. “They laughed a lot, aye? Laughed and drank.”

Matthew nodded that he understood. “So they’re friends then?”

Ian shrugged. “Mam doesn’t like him, but Father has known him for several years. They were in Holland together for many months.” He made a face. “He didn’t recognise me. But then he wasn’t looking at me, was he? He was gawking at Aunt Alex.”

“Aye,” Matthew nodded, “I saw that too.” He took a new apple, and they sat in silence for some time. “Will you look out for your aunt? If I’m not here?” Matthew said it casually, catching Ian’s eyes.

The lad smiled. “Aye, I will. But Aunt Alex can take good care of herself.”

Matthew ruffled his hair and laughed. Aye, that was very true. Alex Graham was not defenceless and Oliver Wyndham might discover that at his own cost if he wasn’t careful.

“I don’t like him,” Alex told Matthew. “I have a problem with men that allow their eyes to drift quickly off my face to lock down on my tits. Still, he did send you a warning.”

Matthew settled himself on his side and gathered her to him.

“Aye, but why? And he was far from friendly earlier today.” His hand found its way in under her shift, fondling her breasts. “Ian knew him, has seen him with Luke several times.”

“Do you think Luke has sent him?”

“Nay; Oliver would never come here, to this far off corner of his world if he didn’t have his own ends to meet.” He nuzzled her along the side of her neck. “We will tread with care round that wee viper.”

“Absolutely, I don’t like snakes anyway.”

“Ah, no?” he moved against her. Alex laughed and twisted to face him.

“That’s not a snake, it’s a beast, remember?”

“A very tame beast,” she added a bit later.

“Tame?” Matthew bit her ear. “We’ll see, Mrs Graham, we’ll see.”

Chapter 19

She was fast asleep when he left her, sometime before midnight. He just couldn’t sleep, not when men he knew and liked might be languishing in jail, mayhap even dying from the wounds they’d suffered during the day. He rode Ham over the moor, keeping well off the road, and night was at its darkest when he slunk into Cumnock, a black shade that moved silently from one protective shadow to the other. He heard them well before he reached his destination; loud shrieks that spoke of pain, so much pain. His innards quivered like jellied eels, while in his head a small voice was telling him this was most unwise, and what could he do, all alone?

The entrance to the garrison yard was well guarded, a group of four soldiers standing round a brightly burning fire. However, unlike in Ayr, this was not a purpose built barracks; this was a collection of houses and sheds that the powers that be had appropriated some years back and fenced haphazardly. There was no perimeter wall, no proper munitions house. Munitions; he pursed his mouth. Aye, there he had it: if he could set the powder ablaze, it might cause the distraction he needed. But he couldn’t do it alone. A high, pleading wail rose from somewhere to his right. Matthew slunk off to find help.

An hour later and they were back, four men standing in the close that ran along the back of the garrison buildings. It was quiet; no more screams, no clatter of boots on cobbles.

“They’ll be in their beds by now,” Matthew said in an undertone. “All but the guards.” The blacksmith, Peter, nodded. He’d not been all that happy when Matthew woke him, but after a hushed conference in the smithy they’d agreed to try at least, they owed it to their brethren, one of whom was Peter’s cousin. Matthew eyed the other two; he knew only one of them by name – Will – but according to Peter they were good men, strong of faith, and both of them with relatives who’d either died or been imprisoned in the ambush.

They broke in through the wooden fence that closed the gap between stables and holding cells. One decisive jerk with the crowbar and Peter had the boards shattering, a sound that seemed far too loud in the silence of the night. One by one they slipped inside. Two made for the holding cells, Peter was to guard their retreat.

Matthew’s hands were damp with sweat, the blinded lantern in his hold swung this way and that as he made his way over the yard towards the munitions store. A shed, no more, an ancient padlock on the door, no windows, but a narrow aperture along the roof on one side. He gripped the ledge and heaved himself up for a peek inside. He was in luck; barrel after barrel stood stacked in the small space.

Matthew knelt down and began his preparations. Someone laughed. Who? Where? An officer came staggering out from one of the houses, undid his breeches and pissed, continuing his conversation with the man who was standing in the door. Yet another laugh. The door creaked shut, and Matthew sank down, wiping at his brow. Had they but looked this way… but nay, he was cloaked and hooded, and in the dark it would be difficult to separate a man from a pile of sacking.

He had eight small projectiles, lengths of tightly coiled rope round a core of bundled cloth drenched in linseed oil. He began at the furthest end, as far away from the yard as possible. A couple of steadying breaths and Matthew uncovered the lantern, trying to shield what to him seemed a beacon of light with his body. He lit the first bundle. With a soft whoosh it began to burn, the fibres glowing red in the night. He lobbed it through the aperture, lit the next one, and the next one.

Sweat rolled down his spine, his hands shook. Something was beginning to burn inside the shed, he could hear the crackling sound of fire taking hold in dry wood. There; the last one lit and dropped inside, and Matthew scurried back the way he’d come. Now all they had to do was wait for the explosion and then…

Behind him there was a roar. The night exploded with light and he was thrown off his feet, near on flying for a yard or so. There was a sharp jolt of pain when he hit the ground, teeth sinking painfully into his tongue. He scrambled up onto his knees and tried to crawl away. Burning spars dropped to the ground beside him, the air was full of smoke. He wheezed, coughed and was crushed flat when something landed on his back.

“Matthew?” A hand gripped his. Matthew squeezed back, gasping with pain as he was dragged from under the debris. So much noise, so many men, soldiers pouring out of doorways in undress, horses that galloped and neighed, witless with fear, and yet in all this chaos one man had kept his head. In the light of the conflagration he saw Captain Howard standing in the middle of the yard, screaming orders. At his back he had the guards from the gate, the only men to be properly awake.

“We have to go!” Peter hissed, pulling Matthew with him. Aye, they did, but how?

“There! Who goes there?” The captain hollered, using his sword to point to where Peter was helping Matthew to his feet.

“Go,” Matthew said, “leave me.” They were only yards from the fence, but the four guards were covering ground rapidly.

“Nay, that I will not. Sandy will have my liver for breakfast if I leave you behind.”

“But I…” Matthew could scarcely walk, let alone run. His lungs were clogged with smoke, there was blood running into his eyes, and here, God help him, came the first of the soldiers. Peter struck him over the head with the crowbar and the soldier collapsed in a heap. Will came running, and together with Peter dragged Matthew towards the gap in the fence. Dear Lord, how it hurt when they pulled him through it! Peter jammed the opening with the crowbar, and off they went. A shot went off, someone cursed, and from behind came the sounds of breaking wood.

Matthew limped and wheezed, he was half carried, half dragged, into a close, into another, up through a window, across a room where a woman screamed until Peter hushed her, out through a door, down stairs, up stairs, and all the time he could hear it; the distant screams, the angry voices of the men in their pursuit.

For near on an hour they hid in the river, flitting from one stand of reeds to the other. By the time they’d made it back to where Matthew had left Ham, approaching dawn was colouring the eastern horizon with streaks of grey.

“Did we…” Matthew croaked. Failure. He’d risked his life, their lives, and for what?

One of the men smiled. “At least seven.” He described how they’d managed to breach the door to the holding cell, releasing the prisoners that could to run for the gap. His companion scuffed at the ground, muttering something about it being unfortunate the accursed captain had made directly for the makeshift prison, because if not they’d have freed most of them.

“Seven?” Matthew closed his eyes. Well that was something, he supposed, but he was too tired and too fearful to feel any elation. How on Earth would he get home? And should he go home? The soldiers … He coughed, coughed again. His lungs hurt. Alex; he wanted his wife.

“Help me up on the horse,” he said. “I’ll manage on my own.”

“Are you sure?” Peter sucked in his lip, looking most concerned.

Someone rustled through the nearby shrubs. “I’ll see him home.”

Matthew squinted in the direction of the young voice. Ian? Aye, it was, a shivering, frightened Ian, who appeared from further in the little copse, leading his mare.

“Lad? Why are you here?”

Ian just shook his head, helping Peter boost Matthew up on Ham.

“We have to go,” he said. “Aunt Alex will not like it if you’re not back home before daybreak.”

Like it? Matthew laughed, stopped short. “Nay, I dare say she won’t,” he whispered. Nothing more was said. Ian whipped the horses into a mad rush for home, taking the shortcut over the moor.

She was no longer asleep. No, she was wide awake, eyes brimming with tears as she scolded him while helping him up the stairs. Matthew sagged against her, wanting to tell her that he loved her, so much did he love her, but it hurt to breathe, his head was clanging, and it was but a matter of time before the soldiers came to drag him off to hang. Look at him; sooty and damaged, the hair on one side singed, and how was he ever to get out of this alive?

“Soldiers,” he mumbled. “Hang me, aye?”

“Over my dead body,” she said, and no matter that he didn’t quite believe her, he was comforted all the same.

Together with Ian she succeeded in getting him into their bedroom. The bed; he wanted to lie down, sleep, but she wouldn’t let him. His clothes were pulled off, he was washed and washed, she muttered over the wound to his scalp, did her best to brush his hair over it. A clean shirt, and finally he was allowed to lie down. He peeked up at her. She was gnawing her lip, hands at her waist.

“What?” he croaked.

“What?” she said. “What, he asks me!” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but this is going to hurt, okay?”

And it did; sweetest Lord, it did.

“Did you burn it?” Alex said in an undertone to Ian an hour or so later. She’d bundled clothes, boots, cloak – well, everything – and handed it to Ian, asking that he destroy it.

“Aye, all of it,” he whispered back. He was all eyes, huge eyes that now and then clipped with lack of sleep. Well, no wonder, given the adventures of the night.

“And we don’t tell a soul,” she said. Again.

“No one,” Ian swore. Again.

“Good,” she nodded, eyes on the grim soldiers trotting down their lane. No major today, only that dratted captain, accompanied by a troop of six dragoons. She gave Ian a hug and painted a reassuring smile on her face. “Here goes, right?” Thank God he’d woken up, thank heavens Ian had been downstairs drinking water when Matthew snuck out of the house. And even more, thank God that he’d followed Matthew, even if it was a totally insane thing to do. She gave him yet another hug, kissed the top of his head.

“Thank you,” she said.

He squirmed in her hold. “Will he… will they hang him?” He nodded in the direction of the window and the soldiers beyond.

“They’ll try,” Alex said. “Now, sit down and eat, okay? Pretend things are normal.” She gave him a crooked smile. Normal? Bloody hell, she had a menagerie of writhing, living things in her stomach. In the yard the captain was yelling the household awake, and with a long, steadying breath she stepped outside alone.

“Captain Howard.”

“Mistress.” A curt nod, no more. “Your husband?”

“My husband? What do you want with him this early in the day?”

“Want with him?” The captain raised his brows. “Why, Mistress Graham, we wish to question him.”

“Again? Your major was all over him yesterday.”

“Yes, but that was before someone blew up our munitions building.”

“What?” Alex croaked. Stupid, stupid man! “Was anyone hurt?”

The captain gave her a long look. “None too badly, fortunately. But several of the prisoners escaped.”

“Ah.” She shrugged. “I can’t say I’m sorry.”

“No, I didn’t expect you to be. Now; your husband.”

“He’s in bed,” she said. “He’s sick.”

“Ailing?” The captain shook his head. “Now, now, mistress, you’ll not expect us to believe that, will you? He was hale and hearty yesterday.”

“Some diseases strike like a bolt from heaven,” she said.

“And what is ailing him”

Alex frowned, twisting her hands together. “I’m not sure; I think it may be smallpox.”

“Smallpox?” The captain scratched at his bristling cheeks. Now that she’d noticed, this was not at all the normal, suave captain. No, his eyes were bloodshot, his boots unpolished and his clothes dishevelled. Well, maybe his apparel was the least of his concerns.