By the Sword (24 page)

Nell looked affronted.

"Please,” Giles said. “It concerns Jonathan and is a matter for Kate's ears alone."

Kate sat down on the edge of the bed and he took her hand in his.

"Kate, be very careful,” he said. “Prescott is a dangerous man."

"I know,” Kate said. “I also know he is the man who shot Jonathan in York. I saw him there."

"Do you know what lies between Jonathan and Prescott?” Giles asked.

"No,” Kate said. “Jonathan wouldn't tell me. Can you?"

Giles shook his head. “It's not for me to tell you. All I can do is warn you that Stephen Prescott will stop at nothing to revenge himself on Jonathan. He is here for one reason alone and that is because he probably thought to snare Jonathan."

Kate looked at Giles’ grim face, startled by the difference from the man she had first met, only a few short weeks ago.

"Why can't you tell me?” she demanded. “I'm so tired of these hints and half truths."

Giles grimaced. “Because I don't know the whole story,” he said.

"Has it got anything to do with Mary?"

Giles looked startled. “Mary? What has he told you about Mary?"

"I know Mary is the only woman he ever loved. I know she is dead. That is all."

Giles looked away, and she saw the indecision in his face. He looked back at her and said quietly. “Her name was Mary Prescott."

"Prescott's sister?"

"His wife."

Kate swallowed. “His wife?

"I'm sorry, Kate. That's all I can tell you. If you want more, only Jonathan and Prescott can tell you. It lies between them."

Kate shook her head. “In that case I doubt I will ever know,” she said, mustering a smile. “I'm very glad you're here, Giles,” she said with heartfelt honesty.

"Well I'm not good for very much, Kate.” He smiled faintly.

"You're a friend,” she said, “and more importantly a friend who understands about Stephen Prescott."

Giles chuckled. “It must have come as something of a shock to him to find you, instead of Jonathan."

"I'm sure it did!"

She stood up to leave.

Giles stayed her. “Kate, be careful. Prescott is no fool..."

Kate sighed heavily. “I will be careful, Giles. The Lord alone knows how careful I must be. Now I'll leave you to get some rest and organize our guests’ accommodation. I would like them to be sufficiently comfortable to keep to their own quarters."

Giles smiled, an echo of his normal bright smile. “You're a remarkable woman, Kate Ashley."

Prescott returned in the afternoon with his men. He and his officers seemed pleased with the arrangements. So they should be, thought Kate sardonically. They were no doubt considerably better billets than they were used to.

Mindful of the part she must play, Kate asked the officers to join her for dinner. They accepted with an alacrity that surprised her and presented at the appointed time, well scrubbed and tidy. Nell glowered at the other end of the table. She had her part to play too.

Prescott introduced his men: Captain Bennett, Lieutenants Fairbairn and Butters, and a young cornet whose name Kate didn't quite catch. A very long-winded grace was said over the food by Lieutenant Fairbairn, during which a few suspicious glances were directed at Nell, whose religious beliefs must have caused some comment among the soldiers.

As soup was served Prescott shook out his napkin.

"Your husband fought with Fairfax, I believe?” Prescott asked.

Kate nodded, adding for good measure that the Fairfax family were indeed close friends and allies of the Ashley family.

Prescott's eyes narrowed. “But your husband was a Thornton, Mistress Ashley?"

"His mother was a Thornton,” Kate replied. “Richard was a first cousin of Jonathan Thornton, but the family had been long estranged by more than just politics. And what of you, Major?” Kate deliberately steered the conversation onto risky ground. She wanted to understand this man better. “Have you a wife and family?"

Prescott shook his head. “Sadly my wife died some six years ago and we were not blessed with a child,” he said. “I've not remarried. My life is the Army and my master is our Lord God."

His face told her nothing and Kate had no reason to believe that he told her anything except what he truly believed. During the meal she watched him as he ate, noting the way his eyes glanced around the room as if taking in every detail. If he had thought to find Jonathan Thornton here, her presence must have proved a grave disappointment.

The object of Stephen Prescott's presence at Seven Ways wrapped his cloak tighter around himself and sniffed morosely as a drop of rain dripped from his hat on to his nose. The tree under which he crouched provided poor shelter from the rain that seemed to have fallen continually since he had left Worcestershire.

Jonathan thought he had known the Marches reasonably well but he had to admit that he was lost, completely and utterly lost. As a result of evading the omnipresent soldiers, he had been forced to divert from his route to northern Wales and had lost all sense of direction. Furthermore he had been walking for two days and his feet in their ill-fitting shoes hurt.

He considered his situation. He still had sufficient coin, he hoped, to secure a passage to the Ireland, but it left nothing over for the basic necessities such as food or a bed. Despite careful rationing, the small parcel of food that Harry's cousin's wife had provided him with had long since gone.

The rain stopped and the sun appeared to mock the sodden fugitive. Jonathan stood up and shook out his cold, cramped limbs. It still lacked a few hours until nightfall and he needed to get some sense of direction or he could just end up walking in circles for days.

Distantly he could see the spire of a church. The rain had mired the roads but at least the sun had broken through with enough warmth to dry his damp clothes. He put his head down and set his teeth to endure the last mile or so to the village.

On the outskirts, Jonathan leaned wearily against a tree and observed the tranquil scene. It seemed impossible to believe that any place in England could still be this peaceful and seemingly oblivious to the turmoil that beset the entire nation.

In the late afternoon sun, a group of women gossiped by a door. A small knot of men, finished with their daily chores, gathered at the inn door, mugs of ale in their hands, talking and laughing. A sizeable stream ran through the village, widening into a deep, still millpond just beyond the inn.

Beside the pond a small group of boys played with rough boats of their own construction. A boy of about Tom's age leaned over with a long stick to retrieve his fragile craft that drifted out into the centre of the pond. The little boat floated tantalisingly out of reach and the child overreached himself, toppling into the pond with a loud splash. Beneath the still waters he seemed to get caught in a strong current that pulled him out of the reach of his friends’ grasping hands. From his wild splashing, he plainly could not swim, and his cries of distress alerted the men at the inn door. A woman, possibly the boy's mother, screamed.

Without stopping to think, Jonathan ran to the edge of the pond where he rapidly divested himself of his shoes, hat and the threadbare cloak. He threw himself into the cold, dark water without hesitation. It took him a while to find the boy, who had gone under as his struggles had become weaker. The child made no resistance as Jonathan dragged him out of the pond and threw him on to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

One of the men on the bank held out a hand, hauling Jonathan back onto dry land. Jonathan sat back on the grass and ran his hand through his wet hair as one of the villagers turned the apparently lifeless child onto his stomach. A splutter and a cough rewarded him and a stream of water came out of the boy's mouth.

A man hauled Jonathan to his feet, slapping him on the shoulders as another threw his abandoned cloak across his wet shoulder. A murmur of appreciation grew around him as he found himself escorted to the inn. There a mug of ale was pressed into his hand. He looked around for the child and saw him being carried off by his mother, shivering and tearful but alive.

Inside the inn a cheerful fire burned in the hearth. Steam rose from Jonathan's clothes as he sat in front of it, trying to get some warmth into his chilled bones. The innkeeper's wife produced some food and promised, looking doubtfully at Jonathan, to look for some dry clothes that might fit.

"'Ere, slow down,” she said as Jonathan gratefully shovelled the food into his mouth. “Anyone would think you'd not eaten for a week."

"Where are you from?” someone asked.

Jonathan paused. “Near London,” he said, slipping easily into a colloquial accent. “Come west looking for work."

"Harvest's near done,” one man said, “but I daresay we can find work for you."

Jonathan mumbled his thanks.

"Did ‘ee hear aught of the battle at Worcester?” another man asked.

Jonathan shook his head. “I've heard nothing."

"Soldiers were here a day or so ago. They reckons there's Scots and the like on the loose and that we're all to lock our doors."

"Aye, they say Charles Stuart's on the run and all."

Suddenly amidst the chatter a woman's voice rose shrilly. “What did those soldiers say?” Silence fell on the gathering as she continued, “A dark man over two yards high? Look at his hands, he bain't no labourer!"

Jonathan looked up sharply but before he could react, his arms were seized and pinioned. The men hauled him to his feet. At six feet he towered above the majority of the villagers.

The mood of the crowd swung violently. Someone grabbed his hands. He flinched as they twisted his injured hand. Despite the long years as a soldier, there was no disguising the long-fingered, swordsman's hands. Calloused though they were by long hours holding reins, they were not the hands of a common labourer.

"What did they say the reward was?” someone else shouted.

"One thousand pounds!” came the answer.

One thousand pounds for the King—a fortune to these people, Jonathan thought with a growing sense of panic.

A bearded face thrust itself into Jonathan's. “Be you Charles Stuart?"

Jonathan denied it, but plainly the villagers were in no mood for his denials. They dispatched someone called Ezra to fetch the soldiers from the nearest garrison. All memory of Jonathan's selfless act of courage had been forgotten and despite his protestations of innocence, all they could see was the rich reward.

Jonathan's eyes flicked around the now hostile faces, looking for an escape. The grip on his arms had slackened in the general excitement and he seized his chance. Throwing off his captors, he dived into a gap in the crowd only to be brought up short in the door of the inn by a solid man in a leather apron, clearly the blacksmith come late upon the scene. Before he could dodge, a mighty fist flashed out, catching him squarely under the left eye. The blacksmith's grinning face was the last thing he remembered seeing before the world went black.

He came back to his senses with a raging thirst, matched only by a thudding headache. Slowly he took stock of his situation. He lay face down on a cold, noisome stone floor. No chances had been taken; his hands and feet had been firmly and securely tied. With difficulty he managed to manoeuvre himself into a sitting position with his back against some barrels of wine.

A low evening light filtered through a small window, high up in the wall, illuminating his prison. To judge by the barrels and the sacks against which he sat, his prison must be the cellar of the inn. A set of well-trodden stone steps led up to the stout oak door that he supposed would be firmly barred on the outside.

He licked his dry lips and thought longingly of the wine in the barrels. With grim humour he told himself this must be some sort of hell where one could die of thirst in a cellar of wine barrels. He called out for some assistance but his shouts went unheeded. He concluded the inn's occupants must be toasting their success and dividing the reward between themselves.

If Ezra had ridden for the soldiers, he probably only had a couple of hours before they showed up to take him away. His only consolation in the whole sorry affair was that the ungrateful villagers would be lucky to get any reward.

He allowed himself some ungracious thoughts about his captors as he shivered in his damp clothes. With his arms twisted behind his back, his fingers had begun to lose feeling and the muscles cramped. His shoulder hurt like the devil and he could tell that his eye would be closed by morning. As the last streaks of light faded from the small window he shut his eyes against the thumping pain in his head and shoulder and drifted into an uncomfortable and fitful doze.

He woke with a start and strained his eyes against the uncompromising blackness of the cellar. A scrabbling noise came from behind a pile of barrels in the corner of the cellar. It seemed to be made by an animal, but something considerably larger than a rat. Silence descended and he thought he must have imagined it.

As he allowed himself to relax, the scrabbling noise came again, only this time a small, wavering light could be seen above the barrels and a child, holding a small lantern, crawled out from behind the debris at the very back of the cellar. She stood and held up the lantern, illuminating a thin, pointed face. For a brief moment Jonathan wondered if was conjuring up delirious visions of fairy folk.

She tiptoed across the floor and crouched down in front of him. “I've come to rescue you,” she said gravely.

Jonathan would have laughed at the idea of this tiny child rescuing him from his present predicament, but clearly the girl had access into his prison from somewhere above the ground and that gave him hope.

"What's your name?” he asked.

"Sarah Morgan,” she said. “It was my brother, Hew, you saved today.” She paused and held up the lantern, examining his face with open curiosity. Her eyes were as round as plates in her small face.

"Are you really the King?"

Jonathan shook his head. “No, Sarah, I'm not the King."

She sighed. “Mother said you weren't. She said you were too old.” Then her face brightened. “But are you an escaped Royalist?"