By The Sword

by Alison Stuart

  "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.

  He took a room at one of the inns on a side of town where he thought it most unlikely he would be known. With the company of one of his books and a decent bottle of wine, he took his meal in the parlour. After he had eaten he sat by the fire and tried to read.

  The clatter of cavalry boots on the flags announced the arrival of a weary young lieutenant of horse who drew a chair up to the fire beside Jonathan to warm himself. Jonathan set down his book.

  "Greetings, friend,” Jonathan said. “May I buy you an ale? You look in sore need of one."

  The young man smiled gratefully. “Aye, I have just ridden from London and I plan to go no further tonight."

  "Where are
you bound?” Jonathan asked.

  "My regiment is garrisoned near Kidderminster,” the boy said. “I know I should be back there tonight but my horse can go no further.” He added ruefully, “I'll just have to face Major Prescott's wrath tomorrow."

  Jonathan's heart skipped a beat. “Prescott?"

  The young man looked at him curiously. “Aye, do you know him?"

  "Indeed, I am acquainted with a Nathaniel Prescott, is that the man?” Jonathan covered his slip smoothly.

  The boy shook his head. “No, Stephen Prescott, and a hard commander he is too."

  "Were you at the fight here?” Jonathan asked, changing the subject.

  The lieutenant nodded. “Aye. It was a grim day, but God was with us."

  "And what are you doing at Kidderminster?"

  "Rounding up the stragglers,” the lieutenant said. “I've just returned from escorting some prisoners to London for trial. The Earl of Derby among them,” he added with a note of pride.

  "Indeed?"

  Poor Derby, Jonathan thought. It would not be long before his head adorned London Bridge. Someone had to pay the price for the battle of Worcester.

  "I hear that Charles Stuart still roams the countryside,” Jonathan said.

  The boy nodded. “Vanished into thin air, but we'll get him, sir, and he'll meet his father's fate."

  The grim determination on the soldier's face made Jonathan shiver.

  "So, where did you say you were garrisoned?” he asked, returning to Stephen Prescott.

  The young man leaned back in his chair and sipped his ale appreciatively. “We are billeted at a house which has the strange name of Seven Ways,” he said. “The major says it used to be the home of a notorious family of malignants but the lady who is there now seems godly enough. In fact I swear she must sleep with her Bible under her pillow. Her conduct of prayer meetings would make the regimental parson proud."

  Jonathan schooled his face to remain neutral, although his heart raced. He should have known that Prescott would go straight to Seven Ways in search of him. Kate—Kate conducting prayer meetings meant that she had to be in the gravest danger.

  The lieutenant continued. “If you ask me, the Major's a bit sweet on her."

  Jonathan's unease doubled. “The Major has a partiality for such godly women?” Jonathan asked.

  "Well, I've not seen him look twice at a woman before but he seems in no hurry to leave!” The boy sniggered.

  Jonathan summoned another ale and stood up. “Well, my friend, I'll leave you to your ale. I wish you well with your commander in the morning."

  Alone in his room Jonathan flung himself full length on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He had learned to live with the enmity Stephen Prescott bore for him but that long-standing bitterness now threatened his family in a way it had never done so before and the one person who mattered most to him in the world appeared to be the object of Prescott's attentions. Those attentions could only serve one purpose, the exacting of the price for Jonathan's folly.

  He clenched his fists in impotent rage, although he could not have said whether he directed his anger at Prescott or himself. His family were in the gravest danger. He had no choice, it seemed, but to return to Seven Ways and finish this business with Prescott for all time, even at the cost of his own life.

  * * * *

  Not normally a man given to profanity, Jacob Howell swore volubly when he opened the door to his cottage and found Jonathan standing on his doorstep. Without waiting for an invitation, Jonathan stepped into the cottage, divested himself of his wet cloak and hat and stood in front of the fire. As steam rose from his damp clothes he smiled at his gawping bailiff.

  "You look like you have seen a ghost, Jacob."

  Before he closed the door, Jacob peered anxiously into the damp gloom of the autumn night. “Where's your horse?"

  Jonathan lifted the lid on the stew pot.

  "I've left her in the old quarry. She'll be safe enough there. Have you anything to eat? I'm starving."

  "You must be addled to come back now.” Jacob spooned the last of the stew he'd made for his supper into a trencher. “The house is full of Roundheads."

  Jonathan took the proffered trencher and spoon and said calmly, “So I hear and that is exactly why I have came back, Jacob.” He sat down on a stool by the fire and stretched his legs out towards the fire. “Now tell me, what has happened?” he asked between mouthfuls, adding, “And why is the quarry full of livestock?"

  Jacob resumed his chair and picked up his discarded pipe. He poked at the tobacco and took several sucks on the long stem before he said, “That Colonel Price, he came by with an order to sequester the bulk of the harvest and the stock. I managed to get some of the best beasts away, but he drove off the rest and took most of the harvest, too."

  Jonathan set the spoon down on the trencher and sighed. “Revenge, is mine, saith the Lord,” he said.

  "Aye,” Jacob agreed, “as if it weren't bad enough having that Prescott and his men up at the Hall."

  Jonathan looked up. “Now—Prescott! What has Prescott been up to?"

  Jacob frowned. “Hard to say. Sometimes he's here and sometimes he's not. Been asking a lot of questions about you."

  "Prescott and I have had a long acquaintance,” Jonathan said with a trace of bitterness in his voice. “I've no doubt I'm entirely the reason he is here. He hoped to find me skulking at home."

  "'Tis ‘45 all over again.” Jacob sighed. “You should've stayed away, sir. Mistress Ashley don't need you around to add to her woes!"

  "Ah, Mistress Ashley. How is she?"

  "Poor lady,” Jacob said with feeling, “beset all around she is, and having Lord Longley under the roof don't help."

  "Longley? Here?” Jonathan looked up sharply.

  "He's laid up with a twisted knee."

  "That's the best piece of news you've given me, Jacob."

  "Well he's not good for much,” Jacob conceded, “and a terrible worry for the poor lady."

  "Can you get a message to him?"

  Jacob shook his head. “Maybe. Prescott always leaves a guard on the house. They're used to me coming and going, but it mayn't look right if I starts traipsing through the house. If you needs message getting through to his Lordship, the lass, Ellen, she can be trusted."

  Jonathan nodded slowly. “Aye, Ellen can be trusted but on no account, Jacob, is she to say anything to her mistress.” He caught the flush that had risen to the bailiff's thin cheeks, and shot him a quick smile. “Sweet on her, are you, Jacob?"

  Jacob coughed awkwardly. “Not me, Sir Jonathan. Women bring naught but trouble in my experience."

  "You always were a poor liar, Jacob,” Jonathan said.

  Jacob smiled a crooked, self-deprecating smile. “She's a terrible, vexsome wench, that Ellen."

  Jonathan smiled. “I would agree with that!"

  Jacob knocked out his pipe on the heel of his boot and as he refilled it he looked up at Jonathan with a sly look. “If you don't mind me askin', sir, but it seems to me that you're more than a bit sweet on Mistress Ashley."

  A muscle twitched in Jonathan's cheek. “More than a bit sweet,” he conceded.

  "Then why don't you want her to know you're here?"

  Jonathan ran a hand through his recently cropped hair. “You said it yourself. I don't want to add to her worries, and I'd like to see what Prescott is up to before I decide my next move."

  "This Prescott, would he hurt her?"

  "If he saw her as the way to get to me, yes, he would."

  Jacob shook his head. “This is a bad business,” he said. “So what are you going to do?"

  "I don't know,” Jonathan conceded. “I need time to think. Do you have a weapon of any kind, Jacob?"

  Jacob indicated an old-fashioned musket propped up behind the door. “Just that."

  "That's not much use to me. I need a pistol."

  Jacob rose to his feet and rifled in a large wooden chest. He produced a long bundle and hande
d it to Jonathan.

  "This may be some help,” he said

  Jonathan turned back the wrapping and revealed a sword. He pulled it from the scabbard and held it up to the light. He recognized it as the serviceable weapon Jacob had carried in the late wars. Not a gentleman's weapon, but better than nothing.

  "Needs cleaning and sharpening,” Jacob observed.

  Jonathan nodded. “It'll do well. Thank you, Jacob."

  Jacob surrendered his bed for the night, but Jonathan lay awake for a long time, staring at the bed hangings. A house full of soldiers, Prescott, Giles, Kate ... the thoughts jostled together in his tired mind. The time had come to face his nemesis.

  * * * *

  Kate woke feeling as exhausted as she had when she went to bed. There seemed no respite from the tension, and every night she lay awake, waiting for the next calamity. Prescott alternated unpredictably between civility and outright hostility. Today he had insisted on yet another search, pulling the furniture away from the wall, tearing at the wainscoting in increasing ferocity.

  He didn't find Giles. She and Nell had insisted he remain in the priest hole while the soldiers were in the house. On days when they were away, they let him out, but never further than the study. With the strain of enforced confinement and the ever-present danger of discovery, tempers were fraying.

  She rose from her bed, wrapped a shawl around herself and walked over to the window and looked out at the grey, drizzly sky. She wondered had Jonathan made France or did he still roam the countryside under this same grey sky, still trying to make his way to a safe port? Outside on the forecourt, the morning patrol had assembled. She watched as Prescott briefed his lieutenant and the men ordered their horses. Wheeling together they turned for the road. She thought of Jonathan's motley troop of men. They would not have stood a chance against these hardened, well-equipped soldiers.

  Behind her, she heard Ellen enter the room and turned to look at her maid. Ellen looked unusually pinched and drawn. Like the rest of them, the strain had begun to take its toll, even on Ellen's dour reserves.