By the Sword

Wings ePress, Inc
www.wings-press.com

Copyright ©2007 by Alison Brideson

First published in 2007, 2007

"Thornton!” The name fell onto the table like a fist.

Jonathan looked up in horror, his eyes meeting the cold, blue eyes of a man he knew too well, a man he had once called a friend.

The stocky man in the uniform of a parliamentary officer smiled without humour or warmth. “Thornton. God is with me this day,” he hissed with a barely aspirated voice

Jonathan dropped the book and threw the table over in one swift movement. He took off down the street crowded with the afternoon's shoppers, pursuit not far behind. The man he knew as Stephen Prescott gathered his men for the chase, and he could hear their feet pounding on the cobbles and their shouted exhortations for someone to stop the fugitive.

The shoppers parted before the running figure but despite the urging of the soldiers, none made to catch him. Twisting and turning down the narrow streets, Jonathan found himself unable to shed his pursuers. His heavy boots slipped on the wet, mired streets and made running hard. Almost spent, he heard Prescott behind him, urging his men on.

Jonathan turned sharply down a street he knew led to one of the gates but was brought up short by a heavy ox cart, laden down with wool bales, taking the width of the passageway.

"Cornered, Thornton!” he heard Prescott's breathless voice behind him and turned slowly to face his pursuers.

There was no mistaking the look of malicious triumph on Stephen Prescott's face as he saw he had his quarry trapped. For a brief moment Jonathan considered fighting his way out, but one look at the heavily armed troopers behind Prescott changed his mind.

Slowly he raised his hands away from the hilt of his sword.

The King's Man

In the dark days of Cromwell's rule, Kit Lovell and Thamsine Granville are drawn into an underworld of espionage and plots where the price for betrayal is death.

The Thornton and Ashley families are entirely fictional but they move in and around the people and events of their times. The battle of Worcester is among the last battles ever fought on English soil and the reminders of that time are still very much to be found around that lovely city. The story of Charles II's unsuccessful attempt to regain his throne and his flight from the battle of Worcester has been the subject of many books, both fact and fiction. It is a tale so full of near misses and unbelievable courage that no mere fiction writer could ever have imagined it!

"Seven Ways” itself bears a very close resemblance both in appearance and location to Harvington Hall near Kidderminster in Worcestershire, a place that held a special significance to my grandfather, who took great pleasure in showing me all the priest holes—including the one in the study that is much as described! However, unlike many old houses in that part of Worcestershire, there is no recorded history of the fleeing Charles II taking refuge there.

Alison Stuart

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Devon

1646

Thrrm. Thrrm.

The beat of the drum, as steady and relentless as the rain, was the only sound in the village square as the wretched group of men staggered out of the church. Dirty, unshaven and reeking, they still wore the tattered vestiges of a once-proud blue uniform—the shabby remnants of the King's army. Blinking in the light and oblivious to the rain, they stared in bewilderment and disbelief at the five hastily erected gibbets that faced them.

The stony-faced drummer continued his steady cadence as the prisoners shuffled into line. Watching from his vantage point beside his drummer, Captain Stephen Prescott, resplendent in the scarlet uniform of the New Model Army, scanned the line of men, seeking out the face of his nemesis.

Little distinguished Jonathan Thornton from his men, except his height. He staggered forward with his head bowed. Only as the trooper behind him pushed him to the end of the row did he lift his head; Prescott smiled with vicious satisfaction at the sight of the bruised and battered face, the legacy of the savage beating his prisoner had received the night before.

Prescott's eyes flicked away from Jonathan Thornton to the fresh-faced boy, barely old enough to grow a beard, who stood beside him. Despite a defiant expression on his face, the boy's hands shook with more than just the cold and the rain. Prescott summarily scanned the rest of the line and gave a curt nod of his head. The drummer rested his sticks on his drum and stared straight ahead, his face expressionless.

A trooper stepped forward. In his hand he held pieces of straw that he fanned out with all the visible ends even. A restless murmur of dissent rose from the prisoners. The fragile pieces of straw were all that stood between them and the gibbets.

The trooper moved slowly along the line of prisoners. The first two prisoners were lucky but their quiet self-congratulation was short lived as the third drew his straw. He gave a strangled cry but the trooper had moved on, slowly down the line. Four short straws were drawn. He reached the young cornet, one straw left in his hand. Jonathan Thornton would not have to draw. The boy hesitated, turning frightened eyes on the tall figure of his captain beside him.

Jonathan looked up at Stephen Prescott, disbelief in his eyes.

"Surely not the boy?” he said.

Prescott stared back at him, his face inscrutable. “Draw,” he commanded the trembling boy.

Jonathan stepped in front of his cornet. “Not the boy!"

Two burly troopers moved forward and seized Jonathan, roughly pulling him away.

Prescott's cold, blue eyes fixed on the boy. “Draw!"

Cornet Williams stared in vacant disbelief, first at Stephen Prescott then at Jonathan. With a shaking hand he reached out, knowing even before he drew it that it would be his death. He stared at the fragile piece of straw in his fingers and began to weep, not out loud but with silent tears that ran down his face, leaving tracks in the dirt.

The drum began its pitiless beat again.

Thrrm. Thrrm
.

The onlookers expected the five chosen men to go to the gibbet screaming and protesting, but the absolute silence was more chilling. The men stood quietly while their hands were bound and they were forced up onto the stools, brought out from the inn, to serve this grim purpose. The lips of a couple of the condemned men moved in silent prayer as the ropes were placed around their necks.

Cornet Williams turned one last, despairing glance towards Jonathan, who stood firmly held in the grip of two troopers. Jonathan met his eyes and held them. To turn away would have been cowardice. The cornet's gaze did not flinch as one by one his companions’ stools were kicked away from underneath them. He was the last.

As the five innocent men danced their last, macabre dance of death, Jonathan Thornton stood motionless, forcing himself to take in every last, dreadful detail, fixing it in his memory forever.

Only when it was over, did he turn again to look at Stephen Prescott, whose eyes had not left him through the whole ordeal. The Roundhead officer smiled a grim, humourless smile of triumph. He gave a nod and the troopers released their grip. Jonathan dropped to his knees in the mud and wept for the five innocent lives that his own actions had bought so dearly.

Barton, Yorkshire

February, 1650

In the stone-walled garden of the little manor house a battle was taking place. Robert's well-aimed snowball caught his cousin Thomas Ashley squarely on the head, knocking off his hat. Unbalanced, Thomas fell back into the snow and lay there, helplessly laughing while his cousins stood around. Tom recovered his feet and brushed off the fine, powdery snow. He and Robert were now pitted in a fierce war against the two girls. Although the same age as Robert, he stood nearly a head taller and his dark hair made him instantly recognizable amongst his red-headed cousins.

The darkening sky threatened more snow, and Kate Ashley leaned out of the window to call the children in.

"Look, Mother!” Tom called cheerfully, “Robert and I are General Fairfax and General Cromwell and Amy and Janet are the King's men. We're winning of course!"

Kate flinched inwardly. How easily the games of adults could be mirrored in the innocent games of children, and war was all any of these children had known. They had all been born into a country torn apart by a struggle between a King and his Parliament. Tom's legacy of the war was a father of whom he had no memory.

"Kate!” Her sister's voice recalled her to the room. “You're not listening. I asked what you intend to do about this letter."

Kate looked around at her sister as she pulled the casement shut.

"I intend to do nothing,” she said. “I will not go all the way to Worcestershire just so an old man can clear his conscience before he goes to the Lord!"

"Kate!” Suzanne scolded. “The Lord teaches us to forgive."

"I've nothing to forgive,” Kate said. “As far as I am concerned the quarrel with the Thorntons died with Richard's father."

"I think you should go,” her sister responded, “Tom is after all his great-grandson. He has a right to know his father's family."

"Suzanne!” Kate found it hard to keep the exasperation from her voice. “It is thirty years since Elizabeth Thornton eloped with David. In all that time there has been not one word from her family. Whatever rights Francis Thornton had, were long since forfeit."

"I think you are unduly harsh, Kate."

"Am I, Suzanne? It's not a matter of being harsh. It is simply of no consequence to me. We don't need the Thorntons. We've never needed the Thorntons.” Kate turned back to the window. “Just look at that sky. It will snow again before nightfall."

She rapped on the glass, summoning the children in from the cold. They tumbled into the warm parlour, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the well-polished floor. Kate's maid, Ellen, brought a tray of honey cakes and with only the scantest regard for manners, the hungry children made short work of the food.

Tom's head bent close to that of his cousin and best friend, Robert, talking in whispers. The two had been inseparable companions from birth, Tom being the older by only a few days. However, there the resemblance ended. In Robert's face and in his uncertain health was a fragility that was not found in his sturdy cousin or in his own siblings. The two sisters never spoke of it, but Kate, watching Suzanne's impassive face, knew she feared her beloved child might not see manhood.

Suzanne packed away her sewing, and standing, she eased her aching back. Heavily pregnant with her sixth child, she found sitting difficult.

"Come, children,” she announced, “we must be home before that snow."

There were howls of disappointment from the children as they were bundled into cloaks, hoods and gloves and distributed between the varieties of mounts they had brought with them. Suzanne and her husband, the sturdy William Rowe, lived at Barton Hall barely one mile distant. The children moved easily between the two houses and Kate did not grudge Tom the company of his cousins. The life of an only child could be very solitary.

"Let me know what you decide,” Suzanne said, leaning down from where she sat pillion behind one of her grooms. “I'm sure William will look after things for you, should you decide to go."