By the Sword (35 page)

She nodded and he rose to his feet. Holding his daughter's hand in his, they walked back up to the house together.

Jonathan stood in the shadows pondering the size of the boat on which he had bought a passage to Dieppe. It looked depressingly small and he silently prayed that the crossing would not be unduly rough. He'd got a good price for the horse and with the money Nathaniel had given him, for the first time in weeks he felt some prospect of a reasonable start to life in exile again.

The general buzz of activity around the small vessel indicated that sailing would not be long off so he stepped forward to take his place.

The master of the vessel surveyed him critically. “I was beginning to think you weren't coming."

"When do we sail?"

The master looked up and down the wharves, an anxious frown on his face. “Tide's on the turn. A few minutes, no more."

Jonathan tossed his satchel containing a few books and clean linen down into the boat where it was deftly caught by one of the crew. He made to grasp the ladder to step down but as he did so the master grabbed his arm.

"I need no assistance,” he began to say but the look in the man's eyes gave him warning and he twisted around to see soldiers, some six of them in the command of an officer, running down the docks towards them.

"I have him,” the master shouted exultantly, tightening his grip.

Jonathan tried unsuccessfully to shake his arm free of the master as the soldiers reached them. The officer stood panting slightly, the muzzle of his pistol pointed at Jonathan.

"What is the meaning of this?” Jonathan protested, finally wrenching himself free of the man's grip. “I'm a bookseller and I've appointments on the continent to buy books. Who can you possibly think I am?"

"You tell us,” the officer replied sarcastically.

"I've told you. I'm a bookseller. My name is John Miller. Search my bag if you like. You'll find naught but books in it,” Jonathan replied, trying to keep his voice calm and steady. “Now I will miss the tide if you do not desist."

"If you're a bookseller, why do you carry a sword?” the officer enquired.

Jonathan looked around the circle of soldiers who surrounded him, their swords drawn, and spread his hands. “Gentlemen, these are dangerous times."

"I tell you, he's Charles Stuart!” the master of the boat insisted. “I want that reward."

If the situation were not so serious, it could be considered laughable, Jonathan thought. This surely could not happen to him twice? Not now he was so close to escape.

He gathered his fraying nerves and addressed the officer. “My good sir, I assure you, I most certainly am not Charles Stuart. Here are my papers.” He handed over the papers, including letters of introduction to mythical book sellers in Amsterdam, purchased that afternoon from a forger in Fleet Street recommended by his uncle.

The officer perused the papers doubtfully in the dim light of the ship's lantern. “These look genuine enough,” he admitted, “but I think you'd better come with us."

"I'm not going anywhere with you. My papers are in order and I've appointments in The Hague that must be kept!” Jonathan tried to keep the edge of panic out of his voice.

"You'll come with us, sir. Your journey must needs be delayed while we verify the truth of these papers."

As the officer advanced on him, Jonathan threw his head back in a gesture of despair and frustration. He'd not spent the last five weeks on the run to be taken at the last minute. His choice was simple: go with this man and try and bluff his way out or throw caution to the wind and fight for his freedom. He narrowed his eyes as he weighed up the situation. The soldiers stood between him and the water. If he could fight his way through to the edge of the dock, he could always swim for it. One last reckless act, one last gesture of defiance; he did not intend to be taken without a fight.

With a swift movement that took the officer totally unawares, he knocked the pistol from his hand. Before any of the soldiers could react he had drawn his sword. For what seemed an eternity the soldiers eyed him until one, more daring than the rest, lunged forward. He took a sword point to the arm as a reward for his audacity and fell to the ground with a shriek of agony. That goaded the others to action. As a body they advanced on Jonathan. In the fast, furious fight that followed two more soldiers fell back, nursing painful but not fatal wounds. Jonathan felt his arm tiring with the old, heavy, cavalry sword. Sweat poured down his face and he seemed no closer to the water.

"Put up your sword!"

He turned sharply and found himself facing the pistol that the officer had retrieved and reprimed. At that range the officer could not miss.

Panting heavily he looked back at the remaining soldiers and conceded defeat. His sword fell to the ground with a clatter as he raised his hands in surrender. The officer advanced cautiously, placing the muzzle of his pistol under Jonathan's chin.

"Now, I'll ask you again,” he said. “Are you Charles Stuart?"

Jonathan laughed contemptuously. “No, I'm not Charles Stuart. To begin with I am nearly ten years older and at least a couple of fingers shorter. I assure you, sir, I bear no resemblance to the King."

"Charles Stuart is no King in this country,” the officer spat contemptuously. “So, if you are not Charles Stuart, then who are you?"

Jonathan's eyes flashed. “If you don't know then I am damned if I'll tell you. Find out for yourself."

"I tell you, he's the King. I claim the reward.” The master of the boat jumped up and down in impotent fury.

"You've done well, Captain!"

The speaker was an immaculately dressed man of early middle age whom, it was widely rumoured, was destined for an important post in the new administration. A man to keep on the right side of, the captain had recently decided. He allowed himself a small smile of self-satisfaction.

"Only one problem, sir,” the captain conceded with a frown, “the man refuses to tell us who he is. Do you think he could be Charles Stuart?” he added hopefully.

John Thurloe crossed the room. Through a carefully concealed hole in the panelling, he could quite clearly see the man in the next room. Jonathan sat at a table, his heavily manacled hands resting on the solid oak surface, defeat written in the slump of his shoulders.

John Thurloe smiled. “Oh no. He most certainly is not Charles Stuart, but he is a most elusive quarry for whom we have been searching for quite some years. I wager that you have snared Sir Jonathan Thornton."

The name meant nothing and the captain frowned. “How do you know that, sir?"

"Oh, I am acquainted with Colonel Thornton, Captain. We met a long time ago of course, before the war when his family had some hope of turning him into a lawyer. We have Sir Jonathan to thank for the London trained bands. He did a fine job with them. Pity he turned for the King."

The captain brightened. “Decent reward, sir?"

John Thurloe glared at him. “You get no reward for doing your duty,” he snapped.

"Well, what do you want doing with him?” the captain asked sulkily.

Thurloe crossed to the table and picked up his pen. “Convey him with all speed to the Tower, Captain. I have plans for the good Colonel Thornton but it would serve me well to lose him for a little while if I am to make him see sense."

The captain stumped back into the dark, cheerless room and looked down at his prisoner with a supercilious smile. “Well, John Miller, or whatever your name is, your appointments in The Hague will have to wait. You're to be our guest for some time."

Jonathan looked up. “With what am I charged?"

The captain slapped a handful of seditious pamphlets on the table. “With selling these."

"I was not carrying those and you know it."

A nasty smile crept across the officer's face. “My orders are clear, John Miller, bookseller,” he said.

"And my trial?"

"Trial?"

"Did we not fight a war to ensure there could be no imprisonment without trial?"

"Oh, is that what it was about?” The captain smirked and leaned closer. Jonathan could smell stale wine on his breath. “No one knows we have you and we'll make sure you have no way of alerting any of your friends, if you have any, to your predicament. You'll not be seeing the light of day for some time."

Jonathan abandoned all pretence at bravado. “My name is not Miller. I am Colonel Jonathan Thornton of His Majesty's Lifeguard. I fought at Worcester and I demand my rights as a prisoner of war."

The officer looked at him. “I don't care whether your name is Charles Stuart, John Miller or Jonathan Thornton, I have my orders, and they are to convey you to the Tower of London forthwith. You are to neither receive or to send any messages and you are to remain manacled hand and foot for the duration of your incarceration."

It was not until the heavy cell door had slammed shut that the full enormity of his position hit Jonathan. The cell walls closed around him and, in despair, he slid down the wall to the floor. Ignoring the clank of the two feet of chain on his manacles, he pushed his hair out of his eyes and surveyed the small, cell containing only a narrow bed with a couple of threadbare blankets, a small table, a stool and the ubiquitous bucket.

His few possessions, his sword and what little money he had were all gone. He had no way of ameliorating his condition and even if he had there seemed to be small chance of any request being heeded. Utterly defeated, Jonathan rose and sat down on the stool by the small, rickety table. He bowed his head on his manacled wrists and wondered at the severity of his treatment. In the greater order of things, he represented no great prize. Surely he was only a minor player in the drama. So why this solitary confinement in the Tower?

He sighed and looked up at the damp, grey, mildewed walls and the small window set high in the wall that admitted neither light nor air to any great effect. Whoever held the key to this hellhole knew his identity quite well and was evidently powerful enough to ensure that Jonathan Thornton disappeared from the face of the earth.

He had to acknowledge that this time he was well and truly caught and escape would require nothing short of a miracle.

Was it really only seven months since I left Barton?
Kate wondered as she stood beside her sister looking out across the courtyard of Barton Hall. Outside in the courtyard, William sat patiently astride his horse waiting for Giles to conclude a long and passionate farewell to Nell.

In contrast to Kate's own life, nothing in Yorkshire seemed to have changed, except Suzanne's shape. She had used the need to return for Suzanne's confinement as the solution to getting Giles away from Seven Ways. Giles’ reaction to her scheme had not been entirely favourable. When he had heard the plan, he had looked helplessly from the implacable face of his wife to that of Kate but found no quarter or mercy to be shown in either of their faces.

"I'll not wear a skirt!” he announced with feeling.

Kate looked sternly at him. “The plain fact of the matter is, Giles,” she said, “your knee is not sufficiently healed for you to sit astride a horse and there is no other way to move you about the country."

"God's blood, Kate, I will make a pretty poor woman,” he said miserably, sensing defeat.

"On the contrary,” Kate said, “Nell and I are quite of the opinion that once the beard and moustache have gone, with the aid of a mask you'll make a pretty fine woman. You're not overly tall or particularly solidly built. Just a fine, strapping wench. Is that not so, Nell?"

"And there is a certain amount of poetic justice in it,” muttered Nell under her breath.

Giles did not hear what she said but Kate did and smiled. She looked at Giles’ long face and actually felt sorry for him. Things had come to a pretty pass when Giles Longley, the most debonair of cavaliers, had to escape England dressed in petticoats.

Happily their journey had been uneventful, marred only by one unfortunate incident when a drunken tapster had taken a fancy to the strapping “Gillian". He had been rewarded by a hefty right hook and was probably still nursing a broken jaw.

Now at Barton, with his knee healed and disguised now as William's servant, the time had come for Giles to leave. William had agreed to take him to Hull and put him aboard a ship of wool bound for the continent, posing as William's agent to the merchants in Amsterdam.

"Is he faithful to his wife?” Suzanne asked suddenly.

Kate looked at her in surprise. “Not for a moment,” she replied honestly. “He'll be seeking out company as soon as he arrives at The Hague. What makes you ask?"

"Oh, the glint in his eye. I know a rogue when I see one. Poor Nell."

"Strangely, I think Nell understands,” Kate said. “She told me once that Giles was a man who loved women and Jonathan was a man whom women loved..."

Her sister gave her a quick sideways glance. “And Jonathan. Is he safe?"

Kate's lips tightened. “I've heard nothing. It's nearly six weeks since he left and I had expected some word by now.” She forced herself to smile. “But he's no letter writer. I can only assume that no news is good news and he is safe on the continent. Giles has promised to send word as soon as he arrives in Amsterdam."

Suzanne straightened her aching back she turned away from the window. Kate caught the grimace on her sister's face.

"Is it close?” she asked

Suzanne nodded. “Tonight perhaps,” she said as she lowered herself unsatisfactorily into her chair.

Kate stayed by the window, watching Nell as she waved her husband off, dabbing decorously at her eyes with a lace-edged kerchief. Nell's slender figure still betrayed no sign of the child she carried.

Kate silently and inexplicably envied her. Her own disappointment at finding she was not with child had taken her completely by surprise. She surely had not wanted to explain a bastard child to the curious world? Yet she envied Nell her child, the part of herself that belonged to her and Giles. She had nothing of Jonathan except memories of snatched moments of intimacy. Even the ring he had given her had disappeared on the night it had betrayed her.