A Rip in the Veil

They made very little progress that day. After their third near encounter with a troop of southbound soldiers, Matthew decided it was best to lie low for the remainder of the day. Only once the sun had set, did they venture out of their hiding place.

“He’s dead then,” Matthew said out of nowhere. “The Protector,” he clarified, “the soldiers, they said he was dead.” He sighed and used a branch to dig at the small fire, sending sparks flying in all directions. “He was a good man—harsh, mayhap, but good—but he leaves an unsteady legacy behind.”

Alex looked up from where she was scrubbing at the bloodied knee of her breeches.

“They’ll invite the king to come back, you know.”

Matthew looked at her in surprise. “They will?” He laughed at himself. “Well, he’s been the King of Scotland for some years already, quite the spectacle that was, with his royal person being fought over by the Covenanters and the Engagers.” He grew serious. “So the Commonwealth will die then?”

“Yes. The British have a thing about their kings; you’re stuck with them.” She spread the djeens to dry, and wound her shawl round her bare legs before coming over to join him by the fire. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

“They’ll dig Oliver Cromwell up and cut his head off,” she said. “Seems a bit overboard to do that to someone who’s already dead, don’t you think?”

Matthew didn’t reply, but inclined his head in agreement. They’d do far worse than that, he reckoned, to the Commonwealth leaders left alive.

“Is it important to you?” Alex asked, startling him out of his thoughts.

Matthew looked down at her. ”What?”

“The not having a king, being part of a republic.”

“Aye. But the republic has been dead for some years. These last few years. . . ” He broke off to shake his head. “. . .  it has been one man, and one man alone, at the helm.”

“Like a dictator.” 

“Aye—a good dictator.”

“A contradiction in terms if you ask me,” Alex said.

“It doesn’t greatly matter now, does it? He’s dead, and as you say it, things will revert to how they were before men like Cromwell and Fairfax. A kingdom, not a commonwealth.”

“And you don’t care?”

“I do,” he said, “of course I do. But . . . ”

“But what?”

“I’ve lost so many years of my life to this conflict already, and now I just want to live in peace, tend to my lands, my beasts.”

“Oh.” Her blue eyes were very close to his, and there was something in them that made him flush, an insinuation that he was going back on his beliefs.

“Maybe that’s what happens when for one thousand, one hundred and thirty-nine days you’ve lived like an animal in a cage.” He shoved her aside and stood up, his back to her.

They hadn’t believed in him when he’d protested his innocence. Men who’d known him, fought with him, had chosen to listen to Luke instead. It tore like a canker at his gut, even now, three years on.

“You counted?” She placed a hand on his back.

“I counted every hour, every day.” He wheeled to face her, and she backed away from him. “I never want to live through something like that again, it near on killed me. I just couldn’t bend, and instead I was broken, and the pieces don’t fit together as they used to.”

He rubbed at his wrists. “Of the men I was locked up with, more than half died the first year. We were all beaten and underfed, cold and constantly ill of one thing or the other, but the ones who died were the ones whose inner light failed them, who woke one day to a hollow chest and the despairing knowledge that there was nothing worth the effort to keep on living for.”

He was silent for a while, overwhelmed by memories of long, endless days. “My light still burns, but at times it gutters on the brink of extinction. I wouldn’t survive another time in prison, I’d just curl up and die. And so . . . ” He shrugged, giving her a crooked smile. “I still hold to my beliefs, but I’ll be far more selective as to what battles to fight. It’s called adapting to your circumstances.”

“Adapting is good, that’s what all of us have to do to survive.” She cleared her throat, hugged herself. “And if you don’t, you die.”

“Aye,” he said, realising she was talking just as much about her own situation as his. “I’m here, I’ll be here for you, lass.” She stepped up close enough that her breath tickled his face.

“And I’ll be here for you, and two lights burn much, much brighter than one, right?”

“They do,” he agreed hoarsely. When she rose on her toes to kiss him, he kissed her back. When her arms came round his neck, his arms wrapped themselves around her waist. No more talking; not tonight. He lifted her into his arms and carried her over to their makeshift bed.