The long days gave him ample opportunity to reflect on the lost years, and the stirring of the memories produced a miasma of depression that caused him to wake at night in a cold sweat. Cowardice, he decided. A fear of what he might find if he went in search of his mother and sister was really all that stood between him and reconciling himself with what was left of his family.
As he lay awake in the long, dark hours, he thought of the two women alone and unprotected since Kit’s death. Had they been left, like Agnes, prey to any man who purported to offer them protection? The resolution to avenge his father’s death and his own enslavement on Tobias Ashby began to waver.
‘This is Bromsgrove.’ Agnes’s voice jerked him out of his reverie. ‘Didn’t the landlord of the last inn tell us that the house we seek is not far from Bromsgrove?’
Daniel nodded. A mistake; twin anvils pounded behind his eyes. He had been out of sorts for a couple of days, waking with a headache and sore joints that he attributed to the poor beds and being too long in the saddle after years of not riding. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep.
‘Who is this Sir Jonathan Thornton?’ Agnes asked.
‘I told you. A friend of my brother’s.’
‘Your dead brother?’
‘I only had one brother.’
‘And did he die in the war?’
‘No.’
She studied him through narrowed eyes. ‘So how did he die?’
Daniel huffed out a breath, watching it cloud in the cold, damp air. ‘You ask a lot of questions, Agnes.’
She shrugged. ‘I’m a curious woman, Daniel.’
No point in hiding the truth when it was public knowledge. ‘If you must know, he was hanged five years ago for his part in a plot to kill Cromwell.’ He turned to look at her. ‘Agnes, do you mind another night in an inn? It’s too late in the day to go on to Seven Ways.’
Agnes nodded and pointed to a neat half-timbered inn. ‘The Black Cross. We can lodge there.’
Daniel saw the horses stabled and tramped into the inn. The landlady met him at the foot of the stairs.
‘Your sister’s already gone up. Leave yer boots, sir. I’ll have ‘em cleaned.’
Daniel sat down on the steps and pulled off the mud-encrusted boots. No doubt the good woman did not want mud tramped across her well-scrubbed floors.
‘Where are you bound?’ the woman asked.
‘I’m seeking a house called Seven Ways, near here, I believe. Can you give me directions?’
A grin lit the woman’s amiable, once-pretty face. ‘Seven Ways? Yer after the Thorntons?’
At Daniel’s affirmation she nodded. ‘Aye, I know the house well. An hour’s ride, no more. Take the Kidderminster Road and ye’ll not miss it. Red brick gates with round stones on the gatepost, and when you gets there tell Sir Jonathan that Sal at the Black Cross sends her love. Now, if you don’t mind me sayin’, you look dead on your feet, sir. I’ll have hot water and supper sent up to your room, if that suits you.’
Daniel ran a hand through his hair and nodded. Picking up the disreputable footwear, Sal bustled away in the direction of the kitchen. Daniel pulled himself to his feet. Turning he saw Agnes standing at the head of the stairs.
‘She’s right, you don’t look at all well.’
‘I’m fine. Just a little tired,’ Daniel said curtly.
He wanted his bed, not a conversation, but Agnes seemed not to notice and followed him into the bedchamber. Daniel set his bag down on the floor and collapsed into a chair by the cheerful fire and pulled off his damp stockings, setting them to dry on the hearth.
‘Please do me a favour and pass me my bag,’ he said.
Agnes complied and, handing him the bag, said, ‘Daniel. Is there anything … ’
‘I’m fine!’ he snapped. ‘Just tired. Leave me, Agnes, and tell the landlady I don’t want any supper. I would rather be well rested to meet with Sir Jonathan tomorrow.’
She studied him, her head slightly cocked to one side. She knew he lied. He was not well. Daniel knew the symptoms, knew what they presaged, and just prayed he would make it to Seven Ways the next day.
‘This Sir Jonathan, how well do you know him?’ she asked.
‘I met him once, a long time ago,’ Daniel replied. ‘Worcester … ’ he tailed off, remembering Colonel Thornton, a tall man with a lean, handsome face, leaning forward in the candlelight, his mouth a grim line, his eyes glinting with the reflection of the flame as he said:
“Daniel, war has nothing to do with glory and honour. Have you ever smelt the stench of death? Have you ever seen a man with his guts hanging out and still living, or a man with his face shot away? Have you watched a friend die of gangrene?”
Glory and honour …
Jonathan Thornton had been right. By the end of the following day, Daniel had seen all of those things and had cause to wish more than anything else that he had done as his brother had told him, and stayed at home.
Chapter 6
Seven Ways, Worcestershire
12 November 1659
‘This must be it,’ Agnes said. ‘Red brick gateposts and round things?’
The landlady of the Black Cross had been correct in her description, although the red brick gateposts had clearly seen better days and one of the finely carved stone balls had fallen off its lopsided support and lay on the verge of the road with long strands of dying grass winding around it. Two iron gates hung drunkenly from the leaning supports, the coat of arms that had once been painted on a central oval long since faded and flaked away.
Agnes glanced at Daniel. He had turned breakfast away when it was offered and she knew he had not eaten the night before. His face had a sallow hue, his eyes sunken, the whites tinged with yellow. He shivered and hunched his shoulders, drawing his cloak tighter around him.
‘Daniel, you are … ’
‘I’m fine,’ he interrupted her. ‘Didn’t sleep well. Let’s get this over with. Just want to deliver these letters and we’ll be on our way.’ His words sounded slurred and she glanced at him in alarm.
They turned their horses onto a weed-infested, potholed driveway that curved around through trees concealing a long, low, red bricked manor house surrounded by a moat from the road. Smoke curled cheerily from a couple of chimneys and as they approached, a groom came out from under the gatehouse, gesturing for them to cross the bridge. He took the reins of the horse and Daniel slid from the saddle, reaching up to assist Agnes down from her mare. His steadying hand on her elbow shook and she scrutinised his ashen face, her anxiety about his condition growing with every minute.
‘How may I be of assistance?’ The thin reedy voice of an elderly man came from the main door.
Daniel turned to face him. ‘I have business with Sir Jonathan Thornton,’ he said, his voice sounding oddly hoarse.
‘May I say what the business concerns?’
Daniel ran a hand across his eyes and enunciated each word with almost deliberate care, as if the act of speaking had become an effort. ‘It is with Sir Jonathan alone.’
The steward stood his ground and Agnes took a step toward Daniel, as he swayed forward, catching himself with a shake of his head.
‘At least give me your name, sir,’ the steward persisted.
‘Lovell … ’ Daniel began. ‘ … Oh, curse it.’
He slid to the ground in an ungainly heap.
Agnes and the steward stared at Daniel’s crumpled body for the beat of several seconds before Agnes dropped to her knees, her hand going to his forehead.
‘He’s burning with fever,’ she said and, looking up, addressed the elderly steward. ‘Get help now.’
‘I’ll be fine in a moment. Just need a rest.’ Daniel murmured without opening his eyes. She lifted his head on to her lap and stroked his forehead.
‘You’re not fine. How long have you been unwell?’
‘It’s been threatening for the last day. I hoped to be … ’ A shudder convulsed his body.
A rus
tle of skirts announced the arrival of help; two women, one the lady of the house, to judge from her gown of fine blue wool and lace-edged collar and cuffs, and an older woman in plain russet.
Agnes’s mind ran through all the possible ailments that matched Daniel’s symptoms.
The steward said it for her, in a tone heavy with certainty. ‘Plague, m’lady.’
Everyone around her recoiled and Agnes looked up into the anxious faces of the strangers on whose doorstep Daniel had just collapsed. ‘We’ve just come from London but there’s no plague there. At least I don’t think so.’
Daniel opened one eye and another shudder shook him.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he managed. ‘It’s marsh fever. I’ve had it before.’
Everyone visibly relaxed. Able-bodied servants were summoned, and with an almost practiced efficiency Daniel was carried into the house and up two flights of stairs. The servants deposited him on a large feather bed in what was clearly a guest bedchamber. The two women followed the strange procession, with Agnes bringing up the rear and another servant carrying their bags.
The older woman went straight to the bed and leaned over Daniel, untying his cloak strings.
‘What’s yer name, lad?’ She spoke with a strong northern accent.
‘Daniel Lovell,’ he murmured in response.
‘Aye well, ye’ve quite a fever on you. Marsh fever, you say.’
He gave a quick inclination of his head, grimacing.
‘Ellen, I’ve some feverfew in the still room,’ her mistress said. ‘And sorrel … ’
The older woman looked up at her mistress. ‘We can try, Mistress, but if it’s marsh fever the only remedy is Jesuit Bark and we’ve nought any of that. A king’s ransom won’t buy us enough.’
Daniel clutched at the arm of the older woman. ‘I have Jesuit Bark. Agnes … ’ He raised his head, looking around the room as if searching for something. ‘It’s in my bag.’
Standing at the end of the bed, feeling utterly useless, Agnes jumped at her name. Daniel’s back arched as a spasm of fever went through him, and the two women turned to look at her.
‘What does Jesuit Bark look like?’ she asked.
The older woman gave her a withering glare. ‘It looks like what it is, bark of a tree. Hurry, lass.’
Agnes went through Daniel’s leather satchel, scattering his few possessions around her until she found a parcel wrapped in oiled cloth at the bottom of the pack The other women gathered around her as she unwrapped it.
‘I’m sorry, I have not introduced myself. I am Lady Katherine Thornton,’ the woman in the blue dress said. ‘And this is Ellen Howell.’
‘Lady Thornton?’ Agnes looked up and the woman nodded. ‘I’m sorry we had to arrive in so dramatic a manner. It would not be how Daniel planned it.’
‘And you are?’ Lady Thornton prompted. Like the older woman, her voice bore traces of a northern origin.
Agnes felt the heat rise to her cheeks. ‘Agnes Fletcher – Daniel’s … ’ she was going to say “sister”, as she had said at every inn for the past days. She shook her head. ‘Daniel’s friend … travelling companion … ’
Lady Thornton smiled. ‘There will be time enough for explanations later.’ She held up what looked to Agnes to be sticks of dried bark. ‘So this is Jesuit Bark.’ She turned back to the bed. ‘You are fortunate to be carrying it, young man.’
‘Always have it … never know when the fever will hit … ’ He squeezed his eyes tight shut as another tremor ran though his long body.
Lady Thornton handed the sticks to Ellen. ‘You know what needs to be done?’
The woman nodded. ‘I’ll go and prepare an infusion,’ she said.
‘And we will make our patient more comfortable. Mistress Fletcher, will you help me strip him?’
Daniel’s eyes shot open and he clutched at his jacket fastenings with shaking hands. ‘Not Agnes.’
Agnes regarded him, with her hands on her hips. ‘I’ve seen a naked man before.’
‘But not me … ’ Daniel protested, with a clarity that belied his fevered state.
Lady Thornton looked across at Agnes, her lips tight with compressed laughter. ‘If you’re going to be coy, Master Lovell,’ she said, ‘Perhaps Mistress Fletcher had better leave the room.’
The man beneath her hands stilled. ‘Please. I can see to myself … ’
‘With these tremors?’ Kate picked up one of his hands. ‘We’ll make do and mend. Mistress Fletcher, perhaps you can find Ellen and bring up water and cloths. She will be in the still room. Go down the stairs to the ground floor, and the still room is just before the kitchen.’
Agnes hurried down the stairs. As she reached the next level a door flew open, and a tall man in his late thirties stood in the doorway, his hands on his hips. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and a smudge of ink ran across the bridge of his long nose, as if he had been scratching it with the wrong end of a pen.
‘What is all this commotion?’ he demanded and, seeing Agnes, he frowned. ‘Who are you?’
Agnes dropped a curtsey. ‘Agnes Fletcher – and you are Sir Jonathan Thornton?’
‘Yes, but … ’ He ran a hand through his dark hair, the light catching silver strands. ‘My apologies, Mistress Fletcher, I am working on the accounts and it makes me forget my manners.’ He rolled the cuffs of his shirt down. ‘I wasn’t aware we were expecting guests. What brings you to Seven Ways?’
Agnes glanced at the stairs. ‘My friend, Daniel Lovell … ’
He started at the name. ‘Lovell? Daniel Lovell, did you say? Good God. Where is he?’
‘Unfortunately, he has been taken ill – I was just going to find Ellen.’
Thornton waved a hand in the direction of the lower floor while looking up in the direction from which Agnes had come.
‘She’ll be in the still room. Is Kate with him?’
Kate? Katherine …
‘Yes, she is,’ Agnes replied.
Thornton relaxed, and for the first time a smile lifted his lean face. ‘Then he is in good hands. A poor welcome I am afraid, Mistress Fletcher. You continue on your errand, I’ll not detain you.’
Despite the vague directions, Agnes found the still room. Dried hanks of herbs hung from nails in the ceiling and the walls were lined with shelves of jars and bottles. The room smelled of herbs and honey. It reminded her of her own mother’s still room from which had issued unguents and potions for all ailments and ills.
Ellen looked up from stirring a pot over a small fire. ‘Come for the brew, have ye?’ she said.
Agnes hovered uncertainly in the doorway while Ellen stirred the kettle. Anyone more like a witch it would have been hard to imagine.
‘I’ve come for water and cloths,’ she said.
Ellen’s sharp eyes appraised Agnes. ‘Don’t ye fret,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen worse.’
‘I’m not fretting,’ Agnes said, but her voice lacked conviction.
She couldn’t imagine herself being cast adrift from Daniel Lovell, not that he had given her the slightest encouragement to form any sort of attachment. She had clung to him because he had shown her kindness when she needed a friend, and he was her means of getting to Charvaley. Nothing more. He was all she had.
‘I’ve plenty of lasses come to me seeking the means to turn a young man’s head,’ Ellen said.
Agnes stared at her, aghast. ‘I’ve no need of love potions and no wish to use one,’ she said archly.
Ellen nodded and turned back to her work. ‘As ye wish. We need to bring the fever down. There’s cold water in that jug.’ She indicated a large clay jug sitting beside a metal basin. ‘Take those up, and ye’ll find some clean cloths in that cupboard. Tell Mistress I’ll be a while yet. It needs time to steep.’
The sound of voices drifted out of the half-open door as Agnes, balancing jug and basin and cloths, reached the guest bedchamber.
‘Have you seen his back?’ The voice was Jonathan Thornton’s.
Agn
es paused, her hand on the door, as Kate’s soft voice responded, ‘Dear God, who would do that to another human being?’
‘Ah, Kate. These are cruel times we live in. Have you forgotten how ill they treated me?’
‘No,’ Kate’s voice held a tremor. ‘I’ll never forget … or forgive.’
Agnes knocked on the door and opened it slowly. She had thought to allow the couple sufficient time to collect themselves but found them in an embrace, Kate’s head resting on her husband’s chest, his arms around her.
The tenderness of the gesture touched her. James had never been outwardly demonstrative with her, or indeed his wife, in public or private. Whatever rumours may have been rife in Charvaley, their public behaviour had never been anything less than entirely proper.
The man on the bed moaned and flung himself on to his side, the sheets tangling around his hips, exposing his back to her. Agnes recoiled, the metal bowl slipping from her grasp. It hit the floor with a deafening clang. Jonathan retrieved it and set it on a table. Recovering her composure, Agnes set the jug down.
She understood now what Daniel had not wanted her to see. James had once had a miscreant whipped for stealing fruit from the orchard and had made the entire household watch as a deterrent. The man had twisted and screamed under the lash but the result had been nothing like this.
The interlaced pattern of wheals and heavy scars across the hard muscles of Daniel’s back had been laid on with a vicious ferocity that should have killed him.
‘They used a whip with a metal end,’ Jonathan Thornton said, ‘It would have torn the flesh from his bones.’
Agnes tore her gaze away from Daniel and looked up at him. ‘How does anyone survive such a thing?’
Kate Thornton straightened. ‘Luck and a strong will. Where did this happen?’
‘It must have been Barbados,’ Agnes said.
Jonathan raised an eyebrow and gave a low whistle. ‘They sent him to Barbados? Good God, they may as well have given him a death sentence.’
As if aware of the audience gathered around him, Daniel rolled back on to his back and opened his eyes. He squinted up into Agnes’s face.
‘I thought I told you to go away,’ he mumbled.
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