Page 20 of By the Sword
The rain had set in on the second day after they had left Seven Ways and now three days later they were all tired, wet and muddy.
‘I see a light ahead.’ Ellen’s nephew Dickon, riding ahead with Ellen on the pillion saddle of the sturdy cob, rose in his stirrup and pointed ahead at the tiny glimmer of light in the gloaming.
‘Pray God it’s an inn,’ Kate muttered between clenched teeth.
Her prayer answered, they turned into the lonely travellers’ inn. The lights from the windows beckoned and the prospect of a dry bed and some warm food immediately cheered the party.
Kate left the horses in Dickon’s care and swept into the inn with what dignity she could muster in her damp, mud-spattered clothes and asked for the best room and hot water. The accommodation she was offered was clean and comfortable and the landlord set a fire going in the hearth and promised hot food would be coming.
As Ellen fussed over Tom, pulling off his muddy boots and setting them to dry in front of the fire, a maid knocked on the door and entered, bearing a bowl and jug of warm water.
‘I have a message for thee, madam.’
The girl handed Kate a small square of folded paper. Kate took the paper and unfolded it, peering at the unfamiliar scrawl.
Mistress Ashley. I would esteem it an honour if you would dine with me tonight. We are, I believe, old acquaintances. Yr servant, J. Miller.
‘Who is this Master Miller?’ Kate asked the girl.
The girl shrugged. ‘A traveller like yourself, madam. Arrived not long afore you. Said you would find him in the parlour.’
‘For the life of me I can recall no man by the name of Miller,’ Kate said to Ellen, as the girl closed the door behind her.
‘You’re surely not going to meet him?’ Ellen protested. ‘It wouldn’t be proper. Should I come with you?’
Kate shrugged. ‘Believe me, I want nothing more than a hot meal and a warm bed, Ellen, but I’m curious. I’ll present myself and then retire gracefully. Find me some clean petticoats. You stay here with Tom.’
Ellen dug clean petticoats and a bodice out of the luggage, crumpled but a definite improvement on her mud-spattered travelling clothes. Kate straightened her collar in front of an old, smoky and speckled mirror and kissed her son, who was too intent on the rabbit pie he had ordered for his dinner to pay her much attention.
Few travellers braved the road in this weather and apart from a table of local men, to judge by their rough clothes, the parlour seemed quiet. Kate peered into the gloom of the cosy room, lit only by a single brace of candles. A lone man sat beside the fire, his legs propped on a firedog, spectacles pushed to the end of his long nose, too deeply absorbed by his book to notice her entrance.
‘Master Miller?’
He jumped up from his seat, hastily removing the spectacles. ‘Mistress Ashley. I’m delighted you could join me.’
She took a breath as she recognised the tall figure. ‘Jon–’ she began, but he interrupted her, holding out his hand.
‘John Miller, indeed the same. I was a friend of your husband’s, you may recall? It has been some years, I realise, but as soon as I saw you arrive I thought I should make myself known. Come and sit by the fire. This weather is the very devil. You would think it mid-winter, not mid-summer.’
She took the seat he indicated sending a maid for glasses and a bottle of the house’s best Rhenish.
‘Take that look off your face, Kate.’ Jonathan Thornton leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘I assure you I’m real enough.’
‘How do you come to be here?’ Kate found her voice at last.
He shrugged. ‘I’m travelling in the same direction as you.’
‘How is it we have not seen you on the road?’ Kate challenged.
A smile twitched the corners of his mouth. ‘I passed you when Tom’s horse cast a shoe this morning and you were at the blacksmith’s. I had to see someone this afternoon and hazarded a guess that this would be your stopping place for the night.’
The maid reappeared with a jug of wine and two glasses. Jonathan took them from her and poured the wine, handing a glass to Kate.
‘So who is John Miller?’ Kate settled back in the chair, the welcome glass in her hand.
‘John Miller is a bookseller from London, travelling to York to purchase a rare volume of Spenser.’
‘He is an old friend?’ Kate observed.
