By the Sword (14 page)

He silenced her with a kiss and his hand moved slowly down her body. Kate shivered under his gentle touch.

"You're quite lovely, my dearest Kate,” he whispered.

Made bold by his loving patience, she reached out and ran her hands through the dark hair on his chest, her fingers lightly tracing the ugly, barely healed scar which disfigured his shoulder before moving downward, wanting to remember every part of him. Slowly, as if they had all the time in the world and not just one night, they explored each other with fingers and lips, until long-suppressed passion and desire overcame them.

Kate wondered firstly how many other women Jonathan had known and secondly if she was being somehow unfaithful to Richard's memory. Both thoughts flickered momentarily and were extinguished as she allowed herself to be led to a world she did not know existed. A lifetime ago she had come eagerly to her marriage bed, a virgin wedded to a virgin. Their happy but inept coupling bore no comparison to the skill that allowed her to soar to unimagined heights.

Much later, Kate lay asleep, curled within the circle of Jonathan's right arm, her head resting on his chest. Jonathan watched the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders and smelt the faint scent of rosemary from her hair. He thought that he would hold this moment in his heart for eternity, to be taken out like a valuable treasure and remembered before it had to be consigned once more to a part of his life that could never be touched by the reality of his world. Just for a few short hours he could forget the past, forget the future and just live this present.

Perth, like most Scottish towns, in Jonathan's opinion, presented itself as cold, grey and cheerless. There had been moments in the past two weeks when he had despaired of ever reaching this far north. Several close encounters with the soldiers of Cromwell's army had forced him to sidetrack. Inevitably he had lost his way and found himself in the sullen, unfriendly little hamlets of the Scottish highlands with no money and no friends.

He had found the King's Lifeguard at Kinross but Giles was not among them and after enquiries he discovered the King was said to be in Perth. Jonathan, with his letters to deliver, pushed on to Perth. The weather had closed in on him the further north he had gone, and he could feel the heavy hand of the fever recurring. If he did not find shelter and rest soon, he had no doubt that he would be in for a relapse.

Amber hung her head, her own weariness reflecting his. All that drove him on was the thought of a dry bed and some food. He raised a weary head and saw the unprepossessing, grey stone inn where Giles, according to the guard on the gate, lodged. He saw Amber stabled, fed and groomed and, after making terse enquiries of the tapster, dragged himself wearily up the crooked stairs to Giles’ chamber.

He knocked and in response to the mumbled “Come in” from the other side of the door, opened it and saw with some distaste that Giles was preoccupied with a half-dressed drab, no doubt picked out of the gutters of Perth. Unlike himself, Giles never seemed overly fussy about such matters.

His friend had evidently been expecting food. He did not even look up to see who had entered but waved a free hand in the direction of the table.

"For God's sake put it down over there and get out,” Giles said.

Jonathan leaned wearily against the doorjamb.

"Giles, get rid of her."

"Jesus Christ!” Giles leaped to his feet, the woman falling in an ungainly heap on the floor.

Jonathan forced a wry smile. “Not quite."

"We'd given you up for dead!” Giles said.

"Believe me, Giles, there have been times in the past few months, when I have too,” Jonathan observed, heaving himself off the doorjamb.

Giles tossed the woman a coin and indicated for her to leave, which she did, muttering unintelligible Scottish curses in the direction of Jonathan as she pushed past him. Fumbling at the cord on his cloak, Jonathan stumbled wearily towards the fire where he collapsed gratefully into the chair vacated by Giles.

"You look bloody awful,” observed Giles. “Let's get those boots off."

He knelt down and hauled the mired riding boots off.

"Nothing a few days rest won't fix,” Jonathan said wearily. “Cromwell must have most of his army between here and Yorkshire."

He stared into the fire, feeling its warmth steal into his chilled bones, and gratefully accepted the cup of wine Giles had poured for him.

"Sorry to disturb your sport,” Jonathan said acerbically as he drained the cup.

Giles wiped the traces of the whore's paint from his face and straightened his crooked collar. “There's precious little else to do here. May as well have some fun when I can."

"God's death, Giles, do you not spare a thought for your wife?” Jonathan asked with a more than noticeable trace of acrimony.

Giles looked offended. “Of course I do. I think of her continually but thinking of her is hardly solace to the urgency of the moment and anyway,” he added indignantly, “what right do you have to start preaching at me about such matters? You are hardly a saint!"

Jonathan looked at his friend. “I do not have a wife and what's more your wife is my sister,” he reminded him. He ran a hand through his hair. “I'm sorry, Giles, I'm bone tired and my patience is short."

Giles shrugged as if to indicate no offence had been taken and, pouring himself a glass of wine, he sat down opposite his friend.

"Speaking of my wife ... have you seen Nell?"

Jonathan nodded and fumbled in his jacket for the bundle of letters. Those for the King had waited this long; a few more hours would not hurt. That from Nell to her husband could not wait.

Giles took it and held it up between thumb and forefinger. “Blood?"

"Mine,” Jonathan said. “I was recognised in York. Our old friend Prescott."

Giles lifted an eyebrow at the name. “Ahh,” he said slowly.

"He put a ball through my shoulder,” Jonathan continued, ruefully rubbing his aching shoulder. “I'm afraid all my correspondence is similarly stained."

"How—"

A knock at the door interrupted Giles. The surly innkeeper entered with the tray Giles had been expecting. Giles paid him and served up some of the gelatinous stew that was the best on offer. However, with the fresh crusty bread, it was as good a meal as Jonathan could have hoped for and he ate gratefully.

Revived by the warmth and the food Jonathan looked up at his friend as he pushed the platter to one side. “So, what's happening here?"

"Precious little,” replied Giles, pulling a face. “David Leslie is playing catch-as-can with Cromwell and we're here, twiddling our thumbs and being forced to listen to endless sermons from these bloody covenanters. Sweet Jesu, Jonathan, even at dinners they lay about themselves as if they were in the pulpit. The food is appalling hot, inedible cold!” He used his knife to push aside a gristly piece of unidentified meat on his platter. “The King will want to see you. His spirits are very low."

"I doubt that anything I can say to him will improve them,” Jonathan remarked bleakly.

"Now—” Giles laid down Nell's letter “—who is this Kate Ashley that Nell writes so affectionately of?"

"My cousin Richard Ashley's widow,” Jonathan replied, schooling his face to reveal nothing. “You may recall she has a son. Grandfather has named him his heir."

"Ah! So Seven Ways stays in the family? Clever Sir Francis.” Giles chuckled. “And you, my friend? I take it you have not been lying untended in the streets of York for the last two months. What fair creature took you in to bind your wounds and stroke your fevered brow?"

Jonathan scowled. He was in no mood for Giles’ teasing and his few weeks with Kate were still too precious to share with the world at large.

"Another time, Giles."

He stumbled wearily over to the bed. Without bothering to undress, he was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

Charles Stuart, erstwhile King of England and newly crowned King of Scotland, stood by a window, staring out at the interminable drizzle of a bleak Scottish autumn. He did not even bother to look around as Giles and Jonathan entered the room.

Little Lord Wilmot, the King's friend and adviser, stood by the table with a couple of others Jonathan recognised, poring over a map. In a chair by the fireplace, George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, played patience with a stained and battered pack of card, his handsome face petulant with boredom.

He looked up, and seeing Jonathan, a malicious smile flickered across his lips. “Well, well, Thornton. Returned from the dead, it would seem to look at you."

Jonathan swept the Duke a bow more notable in its contempt than respect.

"My Lord Buckingham, I trust you are well?"

The King turned on his heel to face the room, a smile breaking the swarthy face.

"Sir Jonathan. We truly thought you dead or, as George has suggested more than once—” he gave Buckingham a significant look “—deserted. But I can see from your face that it is not either. I'm pleased to have you by my side again."

Jonathan bowed low over the King's proffered hand. “Your Majesty, it is my pleasure to be by your side again and on your own soil."

The King sighed deeply. “Ah, hardly ‘my soil’ yet. Do you have dispatches for me?"

With a trace of embarrassment Jonathan handed the stained documents over.

The King raised an eyebrow as he turned the documents over. “Am I right in assuming that you appear to have encountered some difficulty in bringing these to me?"

"I had the great misfortune to be recognised, Your Majesty. Regrettably a ball in the shoulder slowed me down."

"As I imagine it would! That explains your absence. I trust that you are recovered? Do you wish Dr. Fraser to see to your shoulder?"

Jonathan shook his head. “It has been well tended. Time and rest will set it fully to rights."

"Well you should have ample of both,” the King remarked bitterly. “Has Longley told you what has befallen us since I landed?"

Jonathan nodded. “He's appraised me how things have gone with you and the Scots."

The King sat down heavily, his hands hanging between his knees, his shoulders slumped. He was barely twenty but in that moment looked like a man twice his age.

He took a deep breath and gazed around the gloomy room. “They promised me an army. They promised to make me King. What they didn't tell me was what it would cost me."

Jonathan said nothing. The King needed to talk. He needed a friendly shoulder on which to lay his troubles. Charles rose and walked over to the fire. He kicked a log back into place. It sputtered angrily, shooting a tongue of bright red flame up the chimney.

"Well, I paid the price they asked. I have sworn their Solemn League and Covenant. I have publicly renounced all that I believe in, everything my father died for.” He turned to look at Jonathan, his eyes hot with anger and perhaps even unshed tears. “Even that was not enough. They have now demanded I renounce my parents."

Jonathan shook his head in disbelief. “And the army they promised?"

Wilmot gave a snort of laughter. “Oh they provided an army, but only after the bloody covenanters had purged it of its best commanders."

"Leslie?"

"Leslie survived the purge, but he will have to do the best with what he has got. Don't you hope for a command, Thornton. If they won't have their own, they certainly do not want Englishmen."

"So what do we do?"

"We sit here, we listen to sermons, we drink too much and when the Scots aren't looking, we whore too much,” George Villiers said, swilling the wine in his glass, “and we play cards, don't we, Longley?"

Giles shrugged, and Lord Wilmot cast the Duke a look of pure dislike.

"Our only consolation is the weather,” Wilmot said as he walked over to the window and gazed out at the rain. “This lovely Scottish weather has dispirited the English troops. Their morale is low and Leslie is fighting on his own ground. Despite his problems, I believe he has the advantage.” Wilmot turned back to the table. “See, Thornton.” He jabbed a finger at the map. “Even now, Leslie has Cromwell trapped between the land and the sea at Dunbar. Leslie holds the high ground. I do not see how he can lose."

"Do not underestimate Cromwell,” Jonathan warned.

"Oh I don't.” The King joined them at the table. “In fact I would almost like to see him prevail if only to teach these damned covenanters the price they pay for my humiliation is a high one."

George Villiers stood up and stretched like a cat. “You've read Thornton's letters, Your Majesty? What news?"

Charles threw the letters down on the table and looked at Jonathan. “You know what they say?"

Jonathan nodded. “Largely, Your Majesty. You will find they are professions of love and loyalty but no promises of troops or arms or money."

"You nearly lost your life to bring me this ill news,” the King observed.

"I did the task you commanded of me, Your Majesty."

Charles smiled grimly. “I know. You have served me as loyally as you did my father, Thornton. I'll not forget that."

Villiers clapped Jonathan on his bad shoulder. Jonathan swore, apologised and glared at the Duke, who gazed back with a look of utter innocence.

"Your bad shoulder? I do apologise, Thornton. Now tell us of the wench who cared for you in your agony. There had to be a wench. No woman can resist a wounded hero."

"The wench of your imagination, George, was a raw-boned Yorkshire woman who should be properly hung as a witch for all the vile potions she made me swallow,” Jonathan snarled.

Buckingham pouted. “Oh you disappoint me, Thornton. With your accomplishments with the ladies, I imagined at least some young nubile squire's daughter with pert breasts and a sweet..."

"Take your fetid imagination, back to the gutter where it belongs...” Jonathan's hand went to the hilt of his sword.

Buckingham raised his hands. “Now, now, where is your humour, Thornton? I fear I must have touched a nerve..."

Fortunately an urgent knocking on the door broke the suddenly tense atmosphere of the room. At Wilmot's command a breathless and mud-stained messenger entered and ignored the company to fall at the King's feet.