By the Sword (26 page)

When she had finished her ministrations, Jonathan rose to his feet. He inclined his head. “Thank you for the food, mistress. I must be on my way."

"Anne Griffith,” she said, placing herself in front of him, “My name is Anne Griffith. Please, there is no need to leave yet. As I said, you're quite safe here. You must surely be desperate for a night's rest and,” she added, pulling a face, “a bath would not go amiss."

He hesitated. He knew he stank to high heaven. A wash would have been pleasant and a bath even better. Also the prospect of a night in a bed could not be so easily dismissed. He looked at the girl's pretty face and the not unsympathetic face of the maid behind her and decided that even if he were to be betrayed, he was really past caring.

Kate saw Stephen Prescott coming across the garden. She straightened her back and sighed. She could not complain about his conduct towards her. He always treated her with courtesy and deference, and there were even occasions when she could have forgotten his history. That is until she looked into the depths of those cold, blue eyes and remembered York.

"Major Prescott,” she said to him in greeting. “What can I do for you? Have you come to take away any more of my estate, my tables and chairs perhaps?"

He flushed slightly at her sarcasm. “That was none of my doing, Mistress Ashley."

"Just your job to see the order carried out,” she said bitterly. “What do you want of me, now?"

"Nothing in particular, madam,” he said pleasantly. “I saw you hard at work and thought I would greet you."

She forced a smile. “Do you like gardens, Major?” she asked.

"I have lived all my life in a town, Mistress Ashley, and have little appreciation of gardens, although I can see that this was obviously once a very fine garden. Perhaps if you have a few moments you could show it to me?"

She could hardly refuse this pleasant overture. She took him up and down the paths, boring him with her plans for the reconstruction of the garden.

"These are fine roses,” he said pausing to smell the last of the blooms. “My wife was very partial to gardens. Her father had a garden in Oxford that was much admired."

"Are you from Oxford yourself, Major Prescott?” Kate asked, intrigued despite herself. Perhaps she could glean something of the story from this man, if not from Jonathan.

"Yes. Indeed I had a law practice there before the war,” he said.

"And do you intend to return to the law?"

He shook his head. “No, after my wife's death I have had little heart to return to Oxford. As I told you, Mistress Ashley, the Army is my life now. Although, God willing, the day will come soon when my usefulness will have been exhausted. Then I may consider marriage and a small estate in the country. I do have a reasonable private income, certainly sufficient to support a family. Do you have a mind to marry again, Mistress Ashley?"

Kate shook her head. “I cherish my independence, Major Prescott."

"I see,” he said and added. “Tell me, is that your husband's ring you wear around your neck?"

Kate's heart stopped beating and her hand flew to the chain on her neck. It must have come free of her bodice while she worked.

"It's the Thornton device, unless I am mistaken?” Prescott continued to smile. “Did I tell you I was acquainted with Jonathan Thornton in the days before the war?"

"No,” Kate said, “no, you didn't mention it."

"He wore a ring with that very device on it."

"My husband was a Thornton too, Major,” Kate said. “He treasured this ring and I took it from his finger, when he died."

"Indeed, my apologies for my curiosity, Mistress Ashley. You told me your husband's family and the Thorntons were estranged. Why then would he wear a ring with the Thornton coat of arms?"

"My husband and his cousin did try to appease the estrangement. If you knew Jonathan Thornton, is it possible you also knew my husband? They were, I believe, at Oxford at the same time. His name was Richard Ashley."

Prescott shook his head. “No, I do not recall anyone of that name.” He stopped and looked back towards the house. “It's growing late, Mistress Ashley, and I have kept you from your work.” He smiled and bowed. “Guard that ring well, Mistress Ashley. Who knows what stories it could tell?"

Kate's hand closed over the incriminating ring as she watched Stephen Prescott walk back towards the house. Did he recognize the ring as Jonathan's or had he believed her version of the tale? She felt her courage draining from her. So much depended on Stephen Prescott believing her to be loyal to the Parliamentary cause. She swallowed and walked slowly back to the house, her heart for the garden quite evaporated.

Jonathan awoke with a start. He had slept so deeply that for a few moments, he had no sense of time or place. Beyond the window, he saw the sun was high and as memory returned he was vaguely surprised that he had not been betrayed. He lay for some time with his right arm behind his head, just relishing the sensation of being clean and lying between clean, sweet-smelling sheets.

The click of the door latch caused him to turn his head sharply. Anne Griffith carried a pile of clothes in her arms. He cast a glance around the room but saw no sign of his own ragged, dirty, clothes. She laid the clothes on the bed and smiled at him.

"I thought you would sleep forever,” she said. “It's nearly midday."

Jonathan sat up, pushing the dark, tangled hair from his eyes. She sat down on the bed beside him and her eyes flicked over his naked chest. Unaccustomed to being perused in so bold a fashion, he self-consciously pulled the bedclothes a little higher. Her lips parted slightly and Jonathan found his own eyes resting again on the inviting swell of her breasts beneath the fine lawn of her collar.

"What did you do to your shoulder?” she asked and with a look of concern reached out to touch his left shoulder.

Involuntarily he shivered against her light touch, and he grasped her wrist, drawing her closer. “It's nothing,” he said huskily, her scent enveloping him. “Just an old wound."

"It doesn't look all that old.” She looked at him from under her long lashes. “You know,” she said in a low voice, “my husband has gone to London. I don't expect him back for some considerable time. You could stay here for a little longer. Regain your strength."

The look in her eyes and the gentle pout of those luscious, red lips made her meaning clear. She leaned towards him, expectantly, with her eyes half shut. He drew her closer. An hour or so lost in the pleasures she was so blatantly offering him would be a salve to his bruised and battered soul. As he felt the touch of her lips on his, a sudden repulsion sprang into Jonathan's mind. It was not so much the thought of cuckolding the absent husband or adding the ravishing of lonely wives to his list of crimes; he could not be unfaithful to Kate no matter how great the temptation.

He dropped her wrist and gently pushed her away. She sat back, and he saw that her eyes brimmed with tears. Involuntarily he reached out and brushed them away. She leaned against his hand.

"You're very lovely, Mistress Anne,” he said softly.

"Why don't you want me?” Her voice trembled.

"Because we both know it would not be right,” he said firmly. “You have a husband, and for my part I have a wife and two children,” he lied.

Her eyes widened.

"A wife and children?” she exclaimed.

It had obviously not crossed her mind that renegade royalists had domestic responsibilities.

"Do you love your wife?” she asked.

Jonathan nodded.

"And your children?” she asked. “Tell me about them?"

"A boy aged nine and a girl of four."

"Do they look like you?"

"The boy does, the girl is like her mother,” Jonathan replied, drawing on Thomas and Ann for inspiration.

The girl looked down at her hands. “I wish I had children,” she said. “That would please my husband. He wants a son to replace Matthew."

"Is that why he married you?” Jonathan asked gently.

She nodded, and a tear dropped onto her hands. “I do not think he even notices me,” she said.

Jonathan tucked a curl of fair hair behind her ear. “Then he is a fool,” he said.

He could see her situation only too clearly. The woman, so young he had taken her to be the daughter of the house, tied irrevocably, like a brood mare, to an aging widower desperate for a son. Trapped in a loveless and lonely marriage, it was little surprise that she turned to the first attractive man who crossed her path.

As he stroked her hair she looked up at him and smiled a wan little smile. The boldness had quite gone from her eye.

"Thank you, sir, you are very kind. Your wife is a fortunate lady to have such an honourable man as you for her spouse."

"And I, her,” Jonathan said. “Now, Mistress Anne, I really must be gone. My clothes?"

She stood up. “We burnt your clothes, they were quite beyond repair."

Jonathan tried unsuccessfully to suppress his irritation. She caught his expression, and a surprisingly stubborn look crossed her face, a strength of character he had not noticed before.

"Sir, if you are to wander the country in disguise, you make a pretty poor beggar. Even in rags any fool could see you were a gentleman. If you are to disguise yourself, disguise yourself as a gentleman."

She had brought with her an old-fashioned doublet and breeches of dark grey wool, a clean shirt and stockings and a serviceable cloak.

"These were all Matthew's,” she said. “He was quite tall, so they should fit. See, I even have shoes.” She held them up for his inspection.

"A mirror and razor would not go astray,” Jonathan said, ruefully rubbing the ten days growth on his chin.

The clothes were an excellent fit and by the time he had shaved he felt quite presentable. The mirror had confirmed his worst fears. Even without the villainous growth of stubble, his face looked pinched and drawn. His left eye was surrounded by a lurid combination of blues, purples and greens but at least the swelling had gone down. He wondered, as he scrutinized his face in the mirror, what Mistress Anne could possibly have found attractive in his ruffianly appearance.

He sought her out in the kitchen, where she was engaged in sorting herbs with Maggie. She clapped her hands in delight when she saw him.

"There, Maggie,” she exclaimed. “You would not think this was the same person."

Maggie smiled. “Quite an ‘andsome gentleman under all that dirt,” she said approvingly. “There you go, sir,” she said, setting a meal down on the table.

After he had eaten Anne set to work on tidying his hair in a much more expert fashion than that displayed by Sal and her shears. When she had finished she had one last surprise for Jonathan. With something of a flourish she produced his beloved beaver hat, which had miraculously survived the worst of his adventures. Anne had steamed and cleaned it, and it looked quite respectable.

Morgan too, looked fed, clean and rested. Jonathan cast an expert eye over her, checking hooves and fetlocks. She had done well for a little pony.

"She's not really your size,” observed Anne.

Jonathan shrugged. “Beggars, Mistress Anne, cannot be choosers."

"There is one last thing,” she said, suddenly serious. “You need money."

Jonathan opened his mouth but before he could speak she pressed a bag of coins into his hand

"Take it. I was saving up for a new gown. It can wait."

"Thank you,” Jonathan said. “Your generosity has been overwhelming. I would be grateful for directions towards the coast."

She shook her head. “From what I hear tell, every port is guarded, sir."

Jonathan ran a hand down Morgan's neck while he considered his position. Perhaps, he considered, the answer was to go where you were least expected. He would turn back in the direction of Worcester then strike out for London. It sounded, even to his tired mind, a desperate and reckless plan, but it was the only one he had for the moment.

She looked up at him expectantly and Jonathan put a hand on the girl's shoulder, drawing her closer. He took her in his arms and kissed her, a lingering, loving kiss of gratitude, mingled with unsated lust.

"It is strange, sir,” she said as they drew apart, “but I never knew your name."

He gave her the benefit of what he knew was his most disarming smile. “Perhaps, Mistress Anne, we will leave it at that."

The imposing tower of the Worcester Cathedral rose from the surrounding countryside just as it had done barely a few weeks earlier. From a distance it seemed nothing could have occurred to disturb the serene vista of cathedral and town, but the air of tranquillity proved superficial. The traveller did not have to look far to see the broken earthworks and the churned fields or smell the unmistakable stench of the three thousand Scottish dead that hung over the mass graves where they lay buried.

Mistress Anne must have been saving for an exotic gown, as the money she had given him proved sufficient to allow Jonathan comfortable accommodation for the journey. He had also been able to purchase a clean shirt and sufficient books to give credence to his familiar alias as John Miller the bookseller.

Jonathan had been stopped and questioned, but as he rightly surmised, a traveller heading in the direction of Worcester excited considerably less suspicion than one going in the opposite direction. With his cropped hair and plain, but respectable clothes, he had no need of further disguise. He concocted a plausible story of being attacked by renegades from the battle. This credible tale accounted for his black eye and his lack of papers.

He suppressed a shudder as he approached Sidbury Gate. The Commandery, now garrisoned by Parliament troops, lay on his right. Ahead the gate stood open, no longer impeded by the bodies of the dead who had lost their lives in their frantic efforts to gain the safety of the city. He thought of the friends he had lost that day and wondered, not for the first time, if Giles had managed to make good an escape from that terrible slaughter.

The soldiers on the gate accepted his tale, and two weeks after he had fled the town, he re-entered, hoping that he would not be recognized by the townspeople. He pulled the beaver hat down low over his eyes and hunched over the saddle to disguise his height but no one even cast a second glance at the plainly dressed man on the solid little horse.