By the Sword (28 page)

They encountered no one. Once outside, Prescott pulled the pistol from his belt, pressed it into Kate's ribs and pushed her ahead of him. She tripped and stumbled along the uneven path that led to the Long Barn.

Prescott opened the door of the barn and pushed Kate inside.

"Thornton?” he called, but there came no reply from the gloom. “Thornton? I have the woman. If you value her life, show yourself, now."

A small sound of tinder striking flint disturbed the silence. A light flickered in the dark and Jonathan stepped out of the dark, a drawn sword in his right hand, the lantern in his left. He set the lantern on a nail in a beam.

"Jonathan!” Kate breathed.

"I thought I told you to come alone. This is between you and me."

"I thought you might like to see your strumpet?” Prescott said, his fingers tightening on her arm, forcing her to her knees, the pistol at her head.

"Let her go, Prescott,” Jonathan said. “Kate knows nothing about it."

"Really? You mean she doesn't know how you debauched my wife, turned her mind against me? She doesn't know how you killed her with your bastard? Mistress Ashley, let me tell you how Mary comes to me at night, wringing her hands and crying out for vengeance, begging my forgiveness."

Kate twisted and looked up at him, her eyes wide in terror. Such bitterness, such hatred was beyond reason or logic.

"All for a bet, Mistress Ashley, all for a bet!"

Kate's eyes flicked to her lover. He stood quite still, his face immobile.

"You know that wasn't how it was, Stephen. Let the past go. Let Mary rest.” Jonathan sounded surprisingly calm.

Prescott shook his head. “No! Mary will not rest until I have seen you dead."

"Let Kate free, Stephen."

"Kate? Ah yes, Kate Ashley, pretending to be a godly and virtuous widow while all the time she was your bedmate, your paramour. You're probably wondering how I guessed, Mistress Ashley?” Prescott spat. He let go of her arm and wrenched the chain from her neck. “This,” he said, holding up the ring. “When I saw this I knew you for what were. Thornton's whore!"

Without warning he struck her across the face with the full force of his hand. Kate fell back in the hay, blood spilling from her nose. She lay without moving.

Jonathan's hand tightened on his sword.

"Rot in hell, Prescott!” he said between gritted teeth.

"Put the sword down Thornton.” Prescott replied, the long muzzle of his wheel-lock pistol pointing at Kate's head.

Jonathan took a slow, shuddering breath as he weighed up the situation. With as much contempt on his face as he could muster, he slowly and deliberately laid his sword on the ground at his feet.

"Now get down on your knees."

Prescott almost crowed with delight as Jonathan slowly fell to his knees, his eyes fixed without blinking on the older man's face.

Prescott left Kate and strutted over to the kneeling man. Saying nothing, he gripped Jonathan's left shoulder with his broad, powerful hand.

"You should not have escaped me last year,” he said, and the grip on the shoulder tightened. Jonathan gritted his teeth, determined not to show pain.

"My men thought you must have been in league with the devil to have vanished into thin air but I know you are real enough and the person you were in league with was not the devil, for all she may yet prove to be a witch.” Prescott continued. He looked over at Kate cowering in the hay. “It was her wasn't it? The virtuous widow Ashley.” His voice was sarcastic. “She has the power to make men disappear. I will have the greatest of pleasure in seeing her hang as a witch when I am done with you."

Jonathan looked at Kate. She moved and groaned and started to pull herself up. Distracted by Kate, Prescott loosened the grip on Jonathan. Taking advantage of the momentary lapse in Prescott's concentration, Jonathan lunged backwards with his right elbow. He hit Prescott in the knee. The unexpected force threw the man off his balance. Twisting, Jonathan jerked Prescott's legs from beneath him and both men fell to the ground. The pistol scudded into the hay beyond reach of either of them.

Although Jonathan was the taller of the two by at least a head, Stephen Prescott was solidly and powerfully built. While they grappled frantically, Kate rose unsteadily to her feet.

"Kate, the pistol!” Jonathan gasped.

Blood still dripping from her nose, she dropped to her knees, scrambling in the hay, for the elusive weapon.

"I have it!” she cried.

Her fingers closed around the butt and she withdrew it, checking with trembling fingers to see that it was still primed. Her hand shook as she brought the weapon up. Momentarily breaking free from Jonathan, Prescott grabbed at her, catching her ankle and pulling her foot from underneath her. The pistol discharged harmlessly into the air as Kate fell backwards, striking her head on a post.

Regaining his feet, Prescott had time to draw his second pistol from his belt while Jonathan dived towards his discarded sword. Without hesitation, Prescott drew the hammer back and fired. Nothing happened. In the breathless pause that followed, Jonathan's hand closed on his sword. Prescott lunged at him, bringing the butt of the pistol down. It caught Jonathan on the forehead and with a low moan he crumpled to the floor.

Above him he dimly heard Prescott's heavy breathing, then felt a boot in his ribs. The world went black.

Kate felt someone tugging at her arm. She struggled to open her eyes and saw Prescott standing over her.

"Thornton can wait,” Prescott said more to himself than her. “Now, Mistress Ashley, I am going to do to you what he did to my Mary and when I am finished, I assure you he'll never want to touch you again just as I could not bear to touch her."

"Jonathan!” Kate sobbed as Prescott pulled her away from the post where she had fallen. In the shadow thrown by the light of the lantern, he knelt over her like a dark, malevolent monster and threw off his sword belt. With a malicious grin of anticipation, he began grappling at her skirts. Instinctively Kate gathered the last of her strength, lashing out at him with her fists.

"Lie still!"

He caught her wrists in one hand then struck her across the face again. She subsided, sobbing, into the straw.

As silent tears coursed down her face leaving a trail of fire, he lowered himself on top of her and she could feel his hand clawing at her breast, while he forced his mouth down onto her bruised and battered face. She tried to throw her head from side to side but his weight defeated her and she could feel her strength waning. She closed her eyes, bracing herself for the inevitable, brutal conclusion to the events of the last few weeks.

"Get up, you bastard."

The deadly, unrelenting point of a sword just below Stephen Prescott's left ear snapped him back to reality, and he rolled off Kate.

"Go on, get it over with.” Prescott was no coward. He rightly saw his death written in Jonathan's eyes.

"At this moment I cannot think of a death that would be slow or painful enough to make amends for your work today,” Jonathan spat at him in anger.

The sword point did not waver as he looked down at Kate. She lay quite still; only the faintest rise and fall of her breast indicated that she still lived. Jonathan moved the point of the sword away from Prescott's throat and stepped back.

"Get up,” he said. “Let's finish this.” He stooped to collect Prescott's sword belt and threw it to him.

Prescott needed no further invitation. He rose to his feet and drew his sword, while Jonathan wiped the blood away from his eyes and shrugged off his jacket. The two men faced each other in the faltering light of the lantern.

They circled each other warily, both summing up the other's ability. Jonathan knew without a doubt that he was the superior swordsman but physically Prescott probably had the advantage. He had not suffered the privations of the last few weeks.

"She was telling the truth, Stephen,” Jonathan said. “She's not been hiding me."

"So who was the little bitch protecting?"

"Does it matter?” Jonathan played for time, sizing up the mettle of his opponent.

Stephen Prescott laughed. “You should have killed me while you had the chance, Thornton,” he said. “It will give me the greatest pleasure in making your motherless bastard an orphan."

His words had the desired effect: the point of Jonathan's sword wavered slightly. “What the hell do you mean?” he growled.

"Your bastard in Oxford. Old Woolnough tried to palm it off on me but I'd have no truck with it.” Prescott clearly relished this sudden rush of power.

"You said the child was dead,” Jonathan responded, his voice low and quiet.

"Did I? I must have been mistaken."

Prescott lunged and Jonathan parried. Being taller, Jonathan had the advantage of reach, and as the swords parted, Jonathan lunged. He was surprised to find himself effortlessly parried.

"You've been practicing, Stephen,” he noted sarcastically.

"I had good reason to,” Prescott replied.

"Oh, I don't believe for one minute you ever planned to meet me over a sword. What death did you plan for me, Stephen? Hanged? No, you had that opportunity didn't you? A nice drawn-out and grisly death perhaps? This must be a grave disappointment to you."

Anger flashing from his eyes, Prescott lunged again. To Jonathan's surprise, the blade came within a whisker of his arm, slicing through his shirt sleeve. The two swords clashed again and again, making sparks in the gloom of the barn.

"Why, Stephen?” Jonathan asked breathlessly as they locked at close quarters. “Why such hatred? Was it for Mary or just to avenge your honour?"

Prescott managed to slip out from Jonathan's blade and he repositioned himself just out of reach. Jonathan impatiently dashed the blood from his face away with his sleeve. He did not need to have his vision impeded as the blades engaged.

Stephen Prescott parried and moved out of the line of attack. “I loved her, Thornton. I could have been a good husband to her."

"She wanted more than a good husband, Stephen. Mary was a person who wanted, who needed, to be able to love. You don't know the meaning of the word."

Both men were tiring. The contest was proving more evenly matched then Jonathan had anticipated. He shoulder hurt like the devil from its ill treatment and the pain distracted him, but Prescott had begun making mistakes. Jonathan's superior swordsmanship and his lighter and more agile build had begun to tell on the dour cavalry officer.

Prescott backed off, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps and the sweat standing out on his forehead and running down his nose.

Jonathan saw his advantage and closed in for the kill. Their swords locked, and in a quick, practiced motion, Jonathan flicked Prescott's sword from his hand. It went spinning into the hay and Jonathan did not waste the opportunity. The last thing Stephen Prescott saw was something that looked like regret in his opponent's eye as Jonathan's razor-sharp sword slid with ease into his body.

For a moment Prescott tottered in disbelief. Then his eyes glazed over, blood-stained flecks appeared in the corners of his mouth and he crumpled into the hay. His cold, blue eyes stared sightlessly at the roof of the old building.

Jonathan stood over him, his sword lowered, panting heavily.

"Well you seem to have everything under control.” The voice came from the doorway.

"Giles! Your timing is, as always, impeccable,” Jonathan remarked wryly.

Behind Giles, Jacob Howell stood in the shadows, taking in the scene.

Giles limped over to the crumpled figure at Jonathan's feet. He felt for a pulse and finding none looked up at Jonathan's taut, strained face.

"This always was a bad business, Jonathan,” Giles said quietly.

Jonathan dropped his sword into the hay and turned away to where Kate lay crumpled in the hay. He knelt down and gently took her in his arms. He held her close, stroking her bruised and bloodied face. At his touch her eyes, blank and uncomprehending, flickered open and her body began to shake.

"Tom!” she muttered. “He took Tom."

"Tom?” Giles leaned over her. “Tom's quite safe, Kate. He's been out with Peter Knowles all day and forgot the time. He came back this evening."

"He said he had him!” Kate gave a strangled sob and closed her eyes.

"Hush! He would have said anything, Kate, if he thought it would get your cooperation.” Jonathan held her to him, kissing her gently as she sobbed.

Jonathan looked up at Giles. “How do you get to be here?"

"Ellen told me this morning you were back. Then she came to me this evening, ranting some tale about Prescott having taken Kate off and we found this in the Lower Parlour.” He handed Jonathan the note Jonathan had left for Prescott in the dead of the night, propped up on a table in the soldier's quarters.

"What were you thinking, Jon!” Giles’ eyes blazed. “Did you really believe he would meekly walk up here? You must have realised you were putting Kate into the gravest danger."

Jonathan's shoulders tensed. “I had to end it, Giles."

"And in doing so, you nearly destroyed us all!” He glared at his friend. “Bravo, Thornton. Act without thought. Follow your heart. Surely we could have dealt with this another way?"

Jonathan set Kate down and rose to his feet. He crossed to Prescott's body and stood looking down at the man's face.

"Giles, tell me, am I really any better than he was?"

Giles shrugged. It was a question that he could not answer.

Nell waited at the door when they returned from the Long Barn. Jonathan carried Kate, who lay in his arms, limp and broken and by the look of her bruised face barely conscious. Jonathan looked ghastly; his face and his shirt were covered in blood apparently from a nasty cut above his eye. Giles, supported by Jacob Howell, leaned against the door favouring his leg, his face grey and drawn.

Nell looked from one to the other in helpless bewilderment.

"Our blessed Lady!” she exclaimed. “What has happened here tonight?"

"Is Tom all right?” Jonathan asked.

Nell nodded. “He's fine. We've put him to bed and Ellen gave him a stern talking to about staying out so late."