By The Sword

by Alison Stuart

  Tobacco being a luxury Jonathan rarely indulged in, he lit his pipe and drew in, deeply and thankfully, savouring the indulgence. William did likewise and they sat in companionable, masculine silence for a while before William took the pipe from his mouth.

  "They're grand lasses, both of them,” he said. “Young Kate's a worry though,” William continued, without waiting for Jonathan to respond. “Too set in her ways. A lass like that should not spend her life fretting away over a husband six years in his grave. Don't you agree, lad?"

  Jonathan spluttered an incoherent response on the unaccustomed tobacco smoke.

  "Young Richard were a nice lad, but he were too interested in books. Could never get him out with the hounds. Do you hunt, lad?"

  "I used to, years ago, before the war of course,” Jonathan said, grateful for the turn in the conversation away from Kate.

  "Good hunting down your way?” William inquired.

  Jonathan shook his head. “Not any more. The forests have been cleared for wood and the wildlife decimated."

  "Aye, much the same round here,” agreed William regretfully. “I suppose you've naught much time for my sort?"

  "What sort is that?” inquired Jonathan, thinking his words sounded a little slurred.

  "Those of us who had naught to do with fighting,” said William.

  "You had your reasons, I suppose,” Jonathan mused, holding out his glass gratefully as William slopped more brandy in to it.

  "Aye and I was right glad I'd no sons old enough to fight. Old David Ashley, he tried to get me to come along with him but I have a gammy leg, from a hunting accident ye know.” He took another sip of his brandy. “I'll not hide it from you, lad. Parliament had my money when they asked.” He looked across at Jonathan. “I thought I should tell you, just so's you know how I stand."

  Jonathan shook his head. “I like to think I'm a better judge of a man than that, Rowe."

  William took a deep drag on his pipe. “David Ashley never did get over young Richard's death.” He scrutinised Jonathan with brandy-bleared eyes. “Aye, you've quite a bit of the look of him about you, for all he was as fair as ye're dark."

  William stretched his legs out, disturbing the dogs, one of which gave an indignant woof before settling into a new position. “Now that's a fine grey mare you have. My man brought her in from York for ye. She's in my stable."

  "I'm grateful, Rowe. Indeed for everything you've done for me."

  William took the pipe from his mouth. “I've done it for Kate,” he said. “She seems to have become a might attached to ye and I'd have hated for her to mourn another man."

  "What do you mean?” Jonathan suddenly felt cold and sober.

  "I mean, lad, that the heart's not always summat that can be governed by the head. She, and ye, will deny to my face that there's aught between you, but I'm no fool, lad. All I'm saying is don't ye dare break her heart or ye'll have me to answer for."

  Jonathan tapped the pipe on the heel on his shoe. “I ... I will be gone soon,” he said. “She'll forget me."

  "Aye, and my name's Oliver Cromwell,” William scoffed. “I'll say no more on't subject. Here lad, your glass is empty..."

  They talked amiably about hunting, hounds and horses and the brandy bottle slowly emptied as the night drifted by. Only when Jonathan came to stand did he realise he was totally inebriated. He staggered slightly and caught the back of the chair. William, similarly affected but a little more steady on his feet, caught him.

  "Time we were abed,” he grumbled. “There'll be hell to pay if I fall asleep during Parson's sermon tomorrow."

  "Sermons!” sympathised Jonathan, throwing his good arm companionably across William's shoulders. “Do you suppose God has to listen to sermons? The bloody Scots are good for an interminable sermon. Then they think they have the monopoly on God."

  "Aye, well, perhaps they do,” William remarked, staggering slightly under Jonathan's weight.

  "I think,” Jonathan philosophised drunkenly, “that God has a better sense of humour than the Scots give him credit for."

  They staggered and lurched across the hall and up the stairs. William deposited his guest on his bed and mumbled goodnight. Jonathan could hear him pitching down the corridor singing brokenly. He lay flat on his back, looking up at the bed hangings that pitched and swayed like a boat, for some time until he decided he really should get undressed. Sober and single-handed, the fastenings on David Ashley's old-fashioned jacket were difficult; drunk, they were impossible. He swore and decided he better find someone to help him.

  He tried the door catch of the room opposite and stumbled into the chamber, tripping on a carpet. He cursed and tried to make out the bed in the dim light. He heard the rattle of bed hangings, and to his relief, Kate's voice in the dark.

  "Jonathan!” she scolded. “What are you doing?"

  He put his finger on his lips. “Shh! You'll wake the whole house."

  He staggered towards her and sat down with a bump on the edge of her bed. “It's all right, Kate. I am not after your virtue. I can't get out of this damned doublet."

  She gave a splutter of laughter.

  "What's so funny?” he demanded.

  "You are,” she replied.

  "I'm not funny!” he said indignantly. “Normally I am a very serious drunk."

  "Well, I am glad it will not be my head on your shoulders in the morning. Come here."

  He edged over towards her. She knelt up on the bed and skilfully undid the fastenings. She helped him out of the doublet and undid the shirt.

  "Thank you,” he said. “You did that very well. Christ, my shoulder hurts."

  "Don't blaspheme,” Kate said primly. “You don't get any sympathy from me. To smell you, I suspect you have drunk enough brandy to deaden the pain for a week."

  "Don't be such a Puritan,” he said archly. “By the way, I like your brother-in-law. He has excellent brandy."

  He looked across at her, just making out her features in the dim light. Suddenly sober, he reached out to touch her face. She did not draw back.

  "You're very beautiful,” he said. “Has anyone ever told you that?"

  "Many times,” Kate replied. “I am not without suitors, you know."

  "Really? Is there someone special?"

  He held his breath in the pause before she replied. “No,” she said. “Now go to bed."

  "Yes, bed,” he said, looking doubtfully towards the door. “I don't think I can make it."

  "Well, you are not staying here. My reputation is probably in tatters as it is."

  Kate slipped off the bed and hauled him to his feet. Putting his good arm across her shoulders, they staggered back to his own bedchamber. She pulled off his boots and rolled him still half dressed under the covers. Jonathan heard the door close behind her and lay for a moment while the world spun dizzily around him.

  "Kate! Kate Ashley, I love you,” he whispered to the dark.

  * * * *

  Suzanne smiled maliciously when Jonathan eventually made an appearance the following morning.

  "You and my husband make a fine pair,” she remarked.

  Kate looked up from her book as Jonathan collapsed into a chair by the window.

  "You should both be ashamed of yourselves,” Suzanne continued. “On the Lord's day as well!"

  William managed a weak grimace of indignation. “Yon lad didn't have to endure Parson's sermon this morning."

  "Did I miss much?” asked Jonathan with a sideways glance at his fellow sufferer.

  A grunt was all the reply he got. William sat in his a large chair, his hands folded across his stomach and his eyes firmly closed. Jonathan closed his eyes as well and let the warmth of the sun wash over him.

  Kate set down her book. “Suzanne, I think I should take Jonathan for a walk. He seems in need of fresh air,” she said.

  Jonathan opened his eyes and sighed, “Kate, have some pity!"

  Kate snorted and held out her hand. “Come on, Sir Jonathan Thornton. It is
a beautiful day and the Barton garden is a particularly fine one."

  "I think your sister disapproves of me,” Jonathan said once they were clear of the house.

  Kate smiled. “Small wonder! You and William drank yourself into quite a state last night. But don't take it to heart. She only teases. William has a very comfortable approach to religion which does not always accord with the Puritan streak in poor Suzanne."

  "And how is your Puritan streak? Mortally offended by my improper behaviour last night?” he asked with a grimace of remembrance.

  She smiled. “Mortally offended! Indeed I'm actually surprised you can remember last night!” She gave him an impish look. “How is your shoulder this morning?"

  Jonathan shrugged his good shoulder. “Tolerable. William says he has Amber in his stables. Can we walk around to check on her?"

  Kate gave a shrug of acquiescence and tucked her hand into his elbow as they strolled across an elegant expanse of lawn towards a high, stone wall.

  "It's a lovely view,” Jonathan observed, pausing to look down the slope of the garden to the rolling lands beyond the wall. “You must have known a very happy childhood here, Kate."

  "My mother died when I was seven and my father when I was nine, Jonathan. Suzanne was just eighteen and a new bride when I came to live here. William is a dear man, and he was as good as a father to me, but I don't think one ever really recovers from early death of parents. What about you? You never talk about your parents or your brother,” she observed.

  Jonathan stopped to pick up a stick. He flicked at the bracken with it as he said, “What is there to say? My parents were blessed with the perfect son in Ned. He was charming, intelligent, handsome, loyal and courteous. They adored him."

  "And you?"

  "I tried hard but I was everything Ned was not. I seemed to be continually in trouble and I was well beaten for it.” He paused, adding with a trace of bitterness in his voice, “until I got taller than Father, then we just used to quarrel."

  "Your grandfather did not seem to think so badly of you,” Kate observed.

  He smiled. “No, I suspect Grandfather saw himself in me and, as he was not my father, he could afford to be indulgent. Indeed if it had not been for my grandparents I think my childhood would have been considerably more miserable."

  "It is never easy being a parent,” Kate commented.

  Jonathan smiled bitterly. “I know I was not an easy son. My parents thought I should go into the church of all things.” He laughed and stopped in the path, holding out his good arm as if inviting Kate to look at him. “Can you seriously see me as a bishop?"

  Kate smiled and shook her head, and Jonathan continued. “After they had abandoned their notions about the church as an appropriate calling for their second son, they sent me off to my mother's brother, Nathaniel, in London, to learn to be a lawyer."

  "I can no more see you as a lawyer,” Kate put in.

  "Well, in truth, I did not learn much law.” Jonathan laughed. “I spent all my spare time with training the London militia. It is the ultimate irony that they should so skilfully defend London in the name of Parliament. I must have done a good job! Anyway the war, when it came, was heaven-sent. Father raised his own regiment and assumed command of it with good old Ned as his second-in-command. I pointed out, with a lamentable lack of tact, that I was the only one in the family who actually knew anything about the military. I had a terrible quarrel with my father and in the end I refused to have anything to do with him and went off to join Prince Rupert and the cavalry."

  "And Ned died at Edgehill?"

  "A musket ball straight between the eyes.” Jonathan flinched at the memory. “He would never have known what hit him. Father was devastated, of course, and I don't think my mother ever really recovered."

  He frowned and leant against a tree, looking beyond Kate to the unhappy past.

  "I somehow think if it had been me, their grief would not have been quite so overwhelming."

  Kate saw the old hurt in the set line of his jaw.

  "Jon, how can you say that?” she asked

  "It's the truth,” he replied pragmatically. “The family would have seen it as my well-earned fate. Anyway, after Ned's death Father did try to make peace with me but it was too late. The last time I saw him was just before Naseby, and as usual we quarrelled. He wanted me to ride by his side under the Thornton colours, and I refused...” He paused, squinting into the distance. “I often think that if I had gone with him, maybe I could have saved him."

  Kate stood facing him. She took his hand and twisted her fingers around his.

  "And maybe,” she said, willing him to look at her, “you would both have died."

  "Maybe,” he said and added, “perhaps I should have."

  "Why would you think something like that?” Kate asked, horrified by the bitterness in his voice.

  "Because of what happened later ... after Naseby,” he said quietly.

  Kate hesitated. Instinctively she sensed the key to this man—the woman, Mary, and the enmity with Stephen Prescott—lay in the events that had occurred after Naseby.

  "What happened?” she asked softly.

  He looked down at her, his eyes returning to the present. “It's all in the past, Kate."

  She wanted to push him, to protest that it was not in the past but a very real part of his present, but he had caught her hand up in the crook of his arm again and had begun striding purposefully towards the stables. The moment had passed.

  Seven

  Jonathan, windswept and flushed from riding, leaned against the door to Kate's bedchamber, slowly pulling off his gloves. Kate knelt on the hearth, where she had been drying her hair in front of the fire. Seeing him she stood up and threw back the mane of still damp, ungovernable hair. She looked for all the world like a wild, untamed thing and he thought he had never seen anything so beautiful. With difficulty he fought back the rising desire to take her in his arms and press his lips to hers, run his fingers through that thick, damp hair. He swallowed and straightened.

  "Your sister sent you those recipes you wanted.” He held out the papers to her.

  She took the papers without looking at them, her eyes fixed on his face. “You're going to tell me you're leaving,” she stated bluntly.

  "How did you know?"

  "It's in your eyes."

  He knew it was written on his face and in the ruthless way he had forced his arm back into use. Over the past weeks, he had pushed himself to the limit of his own endurance but his tenacity had paid off and although it was still not as strong as it could be, he did at least have the use of his arm again. He might never have full movement in the shoulder itself but it was a tribute to the long-suffering Ellen that the damage was nowhere near as bad as it could have been. However, if he was honest with himself, it still needed time; time, was something Jonathan did not have.

  "Is there nothing I can say to keep you here?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I must go, Kate. You know that."

  "Even though you know it to be a lost cause?"

  "My obligation is to the King. That is never a lost cause,” he replied stiffly. “I'll leave in the morning."

  She bit her lip, an unconscious gesture he had observed in the past weeks and found particularly endearing.

  "Will you tell Tom?” she asked.

  He nodded and turned away, closing the door behind him. He could not bear the pain in her eyes but he knew there was nothing he could say to make amends. He dreaded the long, bleak ride to Scotland hampered by a bad shoulder, but whatever his feelings for this woman, he owed a duty to the young King biding his time in Scotland and he was too long overdue.

  He found Tom in the parlour wrestling with Latin conjugations set by his tutor.

  "I don't see why I have to learn Latin. No one ever speaks it anymore,” Tom grumbled.

  Jonathan pulled up a chair and sat down opposite him. “But you will be able to read all the great classics,” he pointed out.


  "I suppose so,” conceded Thomas dubiously, “but I want to travel when I'm grown up and Latin won't be much good then.” He cocked his head. “What languages do you speak, Jonathan?"

  Jonathan considered for a moment. “By necessity I speak French, Dutch, a little Spanish and a little German."

  Tom looked impressed. “Can you teach me?"

  Jonathan looked down at the well-polished table and steeling his resolve he looked up at the boy again. “Perhaps one day, but not now. I'm leaving tomorrow, Tom, if the weather stays fine."

  Tom's face fell. “I thought you were going to stay. I thought you were going to marry Mother."

  "What made you think that?” Jonathan asked, genuinely surprised.

  Tom shrugged. “Amy said that you and Mother were in love..."

  "And what does a twelve-year-old girl know about love?"

  "She ... said she heard Aunt Suzanne talking to Uncle William...” Tom sighed and looked down at his work. He had not been watching his pen and it had left a large blot on the page.

  Jonathan tapped the table thoughtfully. “Tom,” he said quietly, “there is nothing I would like more in this world than to stay, but I am soldier. I have a loyalty to my King. I have to go."

  A curtain of hair obscured the boy's face and to Jonathan's distress a large tear dissipated the blot of ink.

  "Don't get killed,” Tom said softly, his voice choked. “Mother thinks I'm too young to remember but I do. I saw him, all covered with blood, and Mother was crying and crying."

  "Your father?” Jonathan asked quietly.

  The boy nodded. “I thought you were going to die too but you didn't and I thought that meant you would stay."

  The agony in the boy's voice pierced Jonathan's heart. He had never felt so hopeless. A man of less honour would stay here in this pretty house with the woman whom he had come to love and this boy he cared for as deeply as he would his own son. The decision to go was made harder by the knowledge that the King's cause was doomed even before it began. But, as he had told Kate, it was not the King's cause that held his loyalty but the King himself, and Jonathan had given him his word.