By the Sword (11 page)

"Now!” Suzanne stood up. “I've sent Thomas home with William and I'll stay and see to this dangerous fugitive for however long I am needed. You, my dear, are going to bed."

Kate smiled faintly. “I will, I promise but first I must see him."

At the door to the bedchamber she hesitated. Memories of Richard's broken body and agonising death, which had driven her away before, were suddenly as sharp and clear as they had been seven years before.

This isn't Richard
, she told herself.
It isn't happening again.

She took a breath and opened the door.

Ellen sat by the fire, asleep, her mouth open, snoring gently. She'd sat with Jonathan most of the previous night and it had been as long a day for her as it had been for Kate; she realised, with a guilty pang, that Ellen must be exhausted.

She crossed to the bed and stood looking down at the man she had risked her life for that day. She could not tell whether Jonathan was unconscious or asleep. His right arm lay outside the bed covers. The other arm had been strapped uncompromisingly to his chest with fresh bandages, the shoulder heavy with padding and bandages, through which a bright star of fresh blood still managed to seep.

Kate picked up his right hand, noting the silver line of an old scar snaking its way down his forearm. The heavy gold signet ring he wore glinted in the candlelight and she turned it towards the light. Although well worn, she could still make out the leopard's head of the Thornton crest.

The movement woke him and life flickered back into the pale face. The hazel eyes, foggy with opium and pain, sought her out. She laid his hand back on the covers.

"Kate?” he whispered.

"It's late, Jonathan. I just came to say good night.” She forced herself to smile. “Promise me you'll still be here in the morning?"

He grimaced and closed his eyes. “I don't think I am going anywhere for a little while,” he said then with sudden urgency he tried to raise himself on his right elbow. “My letters?"

Kate turned to the table where his sword and baldric had been laid and picked up the thin pile of letters. They were tied together with a ribbon and stained dark in the corners. Blood, she thought with a shudder. If the King ever got these letters he would know the price that had been paid for them.

"They will have to wait,” she said quietly as she opened the heavy oak chest that stood at the foot of the bed and placed them inside.

"Mary!” Jonathan muttered as he turned his head in restless, feverish sleep.

Kate set down the tray she carried and crossed to the bed. “That name again,” she said to Ellen. “I wonder who Mary is?"

Ellen laid a damp cloth on Jonathan's forehead and shook her head. “Whoever she is,” she observed, “I durst think that they're happy memories."

Jonathan knocked the cloth aside and his eyes, bright with fever, flickered open. “Kate?” His voice sounded hoarse.

She smiled. “Bad dreams?"

He turned his head away, his breathing ragged. “Always,” she heard him whisper.

Ellen slid her arm behind his shoulders and held a cup to his lips. He drank thirstily.

"Another of your noxious potions,” he grumbled as he sank back on the bolsters. “I swear, Kate, this woman is a witch."

"And if you live, you can thank her properly,” Kate said. “Now try and sleep. I'll sit with you a while."

She sat down in the chair by the window and picked up the piece of embroidery she had been working on as a present for her niece. The door opened and she looked up as Suzanne entered.

"How is he?” her sister asked.

"No better,” Kate replied.

"You're worried?"

"Of course I am,” Kate said, dropping her voice, even though Jonathan seemed to be asleep, lost once more in his nightmare world of demons and a woman named Mary. “If the fever doesn't break...” She trailed off.

"I'll send for the chirrurgeon,” Suzanne said. “He should be bled."

Kate set the sewing down. “No!” she protested, trying to keep her voice low. “He's lost too much blood already."

Suzanne drew herself up to her full height, her mouth set in a line Kate knew only too well. If Jonathan survived it would be because Suzanne had determined he was not going to die.

The scent of roses mingled with the cool breeze from the moor. Kate looked up from her gardening and pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Jonathan sat on the stone bench with his back against the wall, his feet crossed at the ankles, reading a small book held in his right hand, his left arm firmly strapped beneath his shirt. He still had an invalid's pallor and dark grey smudges under his eyes, but the fine, warm day had brought him down from the bedchamber to join Kate in the garden.

"What are you reading?” Kate asked.

He looked up. “John Donne,” he replied. “Do you know his work?"

Kate nodded. “That was one of David Ashley's favourite books."

"Your father-in-law had excellent taste."

Jonathan set the book down and eased his wrist, still encased in a neat white bandage, the legacy of the bloodletting Suzanne had insisted upon when his fever had been at its height. Suzanne had been adamant it would ease the fever, and whether the bleeding or just the course of time had eased the fever, Kate didn't know, but the combination of both had left him pale and weak.

"They're particularly fine roses,” he said.

Kate sat back on her heels. “Elizabeth's legacy,” she said. “David lavished such care on them that I am afraid they will die in my hands!"

"Mother! I'm home!” Tom came scampering out of the house with Robert on his heels.

Kate stood up, smoothing her skirts as her sister followed the boys. The two women kissed, and Suzanne turned to face Jonathan, her hands on her hips.

"Should you be out of bed?” she demanded.

Jonathan looked up at her, shielding his eyes against the sun. “Stay inside on a day like today?” he said.

"I brought you some broadsheets.” Suzanne laid the papers on the bench next to him.

"Who's this?” Jonathan looked at Robert, who smiled shyly.

Suzanne laid a maternal hand on the boy's shoulder. “My son, Robert,” she said.

Robert whispered something in his cousin's ear.

"You ask him!” Tom responded, but Robert shuffled his feet and turned a bright shade of pink.

"What does he want to know?” Jonathan asked.

"He wants to know if it hurts being shot?"

Jonathan's mouth twitched in wry amusement. “Yes,” he said, “quite a lot, actually."

Robert whispered in Tom's ear again.

"He wants to know if you really knew Prince Rupert?” Tom interpreted again.

"I knew him well,” Jonathan replied.

Suzanne made a disapproving click of her tongue, but catching Jonathan's quick glance kept her peace.

"We have something to show you,” Tom said and with a conspiratorial glance at his cousin, both boys raced inside the house.

"They're quite different,” Jonathan commented.

"Aye, as were you and your cousin, no doubt,” Suzanne observed.

"True, but Richard and I were not the boon companions those two are."

"Robert is the older by two months,” Kate said.

"Really?” Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “I'd have never guessed."

"Robert has always been...” Suzanne cleared her throat. “...a little less robust than Thomas."

The boys had returned with a bundle held tightly in Tom's arms.

"What have you got there?” Kate asked.

Tom looked up at his aunt, who had the grace to look shamefaced.

"William's best bitch whelped recently and he promised Tom one of the pups,” Suzanne said. “I should have mentioned it earlier, but—” she cast a significant glance at Jonathan “—you have been a little pre-occupied."

Tom set the puppy down on the grass. It wagged its tail, the entire rear end going into spasm as it let out small, delighted baby yaps. Kate crouched down and held out her hand. The little animal bounded over to her, covering her fingers with doggy kisses. She felt her heart melt.

"What are you going to call him?” she asked.

"Rupert,” Tom said.

Jonathan gave a snort of laughter that he unsuccessfully tried to disguise with coughing.

"The Prince had a dog,” he said. “He called him Boy and he followed him into battle."

Suzanne gave him a disdainful glance. “You, I suspect, are not a good influence on this household, Jonathan Thornton."

Jonathan returned her look with equanimity. “Alas, Mistress Rowe, I fear I am never a good influence."

Suzanne nodded at the broadsheets. “I read there's a handsome reward for the capture of a notorious delinquent, recently escaped from York,” she said.

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “Indeed? Tempted?"

Suzanne sniffed. “I have too much of an investment in seeing a certain notorious delinquent stays in good health,” she said. “Robert?"

"Mama!” Robert protested.

"He can stay, Suzanne,” Kate said.

"Be home by supper,” Suzanne chided her son. “Sir Jonathan.” She dropped Jonathan a curtsy with a mocking twinkle in her eye.

"Mistress Rowe.” He inclined his head.

Kate walked her sister to the front gate.

"Your patient is looking much improved,” Suzanne observed.

"Irritable and bored,” Kate said with a smile.

"Ah, a true convalescing male,” Suzanne replied. “I swear when William broke his leg, I considered administration of something more powerful than laudanum.” Her eyes narrowed with the memory. “Anyway, dearest, bring him to dine with us next week, if he is well enough of course."

"I have never met anyone more determined to be well,” Kate said ruefully, keeping unvoiced her belief that Jonathan would be away to his king in Scotland, as soon as he could sit a horse.

She kissed her sister and returned to the garden where Jonathan appeared to have the boys enthralled in another story of Arthur and his knights. While the puppy gambolled around her, she returned to her roses, listening to the tale of magic and enchantment.

When the tale was done and the boys, accompanied by the excited puppy, had left to return Robert to Barton Hall, Kate turned to look at Jonathan. He sat back against the wall, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his right hand resting on the little volume of John Donne.

"You're tired,” she observed.

He smiled. “Leave your labours, Mistress Ashley, and come and sit down for a little."

She wiped her hands on her apron and sat down beside him. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

He turned his head to look at her. “Why do women always ask that?” he asked. “I was, since you are so interested, thinking about young Robert."

"Ah.” Kate looked down at her hands. “William calls him the ‘runt of the litter'."

Jonathan held her eyes and the unspoken words passed between them. They both knew, as Suzanne did but had never acknowledged, that Robert would not live to see adulthood.

Kate broke the contact and picked up the volume of verse. “Which is your favourite?” she asked.

"True Plaine Heartes,” he replied without hesitation.

She flicked through the well thumbed pages and read:

"My face in thine eye, thine in mine appeares,

And true plaine heartes doe in the faces rest,

Where can we finde two better hemispheares

Without sharpe North, without declining West?

What ever dyes, was not mixt equally;

If our two loves be one, or, thou and I

Love so alike, that none doe slacken, none can die..."

She trailed off. “That's beautiful,” she said.

Jonathan looked out beyond the walls of the garden to the blue of the sky above the moors where a pair of hawks danced.

"I taught someone else to love Donne,” he said softly.

"Mary?” she asked, conscious of a harsh edge to her voice.

He looked back at her, his eyes hard and cold. “How do you...?"

"Your fever,” she said.

His eyes took on a shadowed, haunted cast. “Ahh ... What did I say?"

Flustered, Kate stammered, “Nothing ... just called her name ... I thought you must—” her voice caught in her throat “—you must love her..."

"She's dead, Kate,” he said in a hard, flat voice. Without meeting her eyes, he rose to his feet. “You're right, I'm tired. Please excuse me."

She watched him walk towards the house and put a hand to her mouth to stifle the half sob that rose unbidden in her throat.

Upstairs in the bedchamber, Jonathan paced the floor. By the bed he stopped and leaned his head against the bedpost.

"You fool!” he said out aloud.
You fool
, he said to himself and closed his eyes.

He had seen the hurt in Kate's eyes but knew there was nothing he could do to prevent it. The small, reproachful ghost that haunted his nightmares would always be there, would always stand between him and any hope of another life, another love. And, he told himself, how could he have begun to even think there could be another life or another love?

This should never have happened. He should never have let Kate Ashley come so close. No, that was wrong. He should never have let himself come so close. The scent of roses and the smell of rosemary in her hair had stirred a quickening in his blood he had not felt for a long time.

He sank down on the edge of the bed and sighed. He had to get away from Barton, get away from her before they both did something they would regret.

A knock at the door made him start. “What!” he snapped.

"It's me, Jonathan.” Tom poked a timorous head around the door. “I ... I wondered if you would like to play chess?"

He saw the boy carried a wooden board under his arm and a box in his hand.

"Sorry, Tom, I didn't mean to sound so cross,” Jonathan said, ashamed that he had obviously alarmed the boy. “I'm just a little tired."

"If your shoulder is sore, we can play again another day..."

His shoulder was sore and he was tired but he needed to make up to the boy.

"It's fine. Set the pieces out and we'll play."

Tom chattered as he set up the board. “This was Grandfather's board,” he said. “He was teaching me to play when he ... when he died. Mother said she would play but she is always too busy."