The Prodigal Son by Anna Belfrage Page A

I?”
    “Nay, you wouldn’t.”
    “Good. And I’ll check, just so you know.” With that she left.
    Matthew kicked at the hammer and slid down to sit. Damned woman, making him feel like a bairn of four caught with his fingers in the honey pot! Sandy was doing poorly, a nasty cough to him, and now he’d have to go up and tell him he had to leave. He groaned out loud and leaned his face into his hands.
    “Here.” Alex’ voice startled him. A basket was placed at his feet. “I added some raspberry cordial, it helps with the cough. And I took your old cloak. I can make you a new one – there’s fabric enough.”
    Before he had time to say anything she was gone, running from him.

Chapter 8
    “One day it will all be mine,” Mark said with evident pride. They were sitting halfway up the slope behind the house, sharing the hot biscuits Mark had lifted behind Sarah’s back.
    Ian let his gaze travel the grey stone of the house, the black slate roof and the weathered buildings that formed a haphazard ‘U’ facing the house. The yard was full of sodden, steaming linen, and here came Aunt Alex with yet another load. Given the harried look in her eyes they’d decided it was best to keep away until it was all safely done with.
    “It should be mine,” Ian said. “That’s what my father says.” Not quite; what Father said was that Hillview should’ve been his, not Uncle Matthew’s – because Matthew should have been dead – and by definition that would have meant it coming to Ian once Father was dead.
    Mark looked at him in bewilderment. “Yours? But it’s Da’s, and then it will be mine and my son’s. From eldest son to eldest son.”
    Ian was bursting with jealousy; Hillview in the hands of a snotty-nosed lad five years his junior.
    “Some say I’m Uncle Matthew’s eldest son.”
    “But you’re not,” Mark said with a little shrug.
    “No? I’ve even heard Uncle Matthew himself yell to the world that I’m his son.” He looked away, overwhelmed by memories of bloodied faces and angry words.
    Mark threw down his remaining biscuit and rushed off. Ian sighed. Mayhap he shouldn’t have told him. He kicked at the discarded biscuit, scattering crumbs all over the grass.
    The single benefit of spending a whole day doing the laundry was that it was blissful to sit down once it was all done. With a little grunt Alex collapsed on a stool. Her hands ached, as did her back, her thighs, her shoulders.
    Rachel and Jacob were playing under the table, something promising was cooking on the hearth and here came Sarah with some herbal tea. There was a sound of running feet and Ian burst into the kitchen – alone.
    “Where’s Mark?” Alex looked from Ian to the door and back again. “Ian? Where’s Mark?” She glanced over to where her sheets flapped in the weak November wind and sank her eyes into the boy.
    Ian muttered something along the lines that he didn’t know and attempted to escape.
    Alex grabbed him. “You went out together and now you come back alone. So what happened? Did you have a fight?”
    “Not as such. He just ran off.”
    “Where to?”
    “Up there, somewhere,” Ian replied, pointing in the direction of the mill.
    Alex frowned. It was getting dark, and Mark usually never missed a meal.
    “When?”
    “Just before Uncle Matthew rode off with the yearling he was going to sell.”
    “That was hours ago!” Alex exploded, making Ian skitter away from her.
    “What’s the matter?” Joan came into the kitchen, with Lucy snug in a shawl at her chest.
    “Mark.” Alex explained and ended by throwing yet another worried look out the window. “I’ll have to go and look for him. Will you keep an eye on Miss Scatterbrain and Jacob for me?”
    Joan nodded that of course she would.
    “He won’t be far, he’s just a laddie.”
    Nowhere! Not in the stable, not in the barn. Not up around Margaret’s cottage, nor in his hideout under the blackberry brambles that only he and Alex knew about. Alex