Page 41 of By the Sword
Whatever political difference stood between them, Jonathan owed this man his life. Rowe could have simply turned him over to Prescott but he had chosen to risk his own life in getting him away from York.
William nodded and took a deep drag on his pipe. He scrutinised Jonathan with brandy-bleared eyes. ‘He was a good lad, Richard. You’ve quite a bit of the look of your cousin about you, for all he was as fair as ye’re dark.’
Jonathan sighed. No one in his entire life had ever described him as a ‘good lad’.
Like his brother, Ned, he doubted he could never live up to the ghost of this paragon. Dead heroes would forever haunt him.
William stretched his legs out, disturbing the dogs, one of which gave an indignant woof before settling into a newposition. ‘Now that’s a fine grey mare you have. My man brought her in from York for ye. She’s in my stable.’
‘Thank you, I have been intending to ask what became of her. She’s the only thing of value I own.’ He set his pipe down. ‘I want you to know I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me. I don’t know how to repay you.’
William took the pipe from his mouth. ‘It was done 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. I saw her face that night you collapsed in my kitchen. 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 of his shoe. ‘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. When Jonathan came to stand the room tipped and swayed. He hadn’t been this drunk in years. He staggered and caught the back of the chair. William, 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? I tell you, Rowe, the bloody Scots are good for an interminable sermon. They think they have the monopoly on God.’
‘Aye, well, perhaps they do,’ William remarked as they wove across the room in the direction of the door.
‘I think,’ Jonathan philosophised drunkenly, ‘that God has a better sense of humour than the Scots give him credit for.’
Finding the door, they staggered and lurched up the stairs. William deposited his guest on his bed and mumbled goodnight. Jonathan could hear him pitching down the corridor singing brokenly. For some time he lay flat on his back, looking up at the bed hangings that pitched and swayed like a boat 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 needed 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. 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 jacket.’
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.’
‘I am glad it will not be your head on my shoulders in the morning. Come here.’
He edged over towards her. She knelt up on the bed and undid the fastenings. She helped him out of the jacket and unlaced his 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.’
