Page 47 of By the Sword
His forehead puckered with concern, Giles knelt down and hauled Jonathan’s mired riding boots off.
‘Lovell’s right, you look terrible,’ he said.
‘Nothing a few days rest won’t fix,’ Jonathan said, his voice muzzy with exhaustion. ‘Cromwell must have most of his army between here and Yorkshire.’
He stared into the fire, feeling its warmth steal into his chilled bones, and gratefully accepted the cup of wine Giles had poured for him.
‘Sorry to disturb your sport,’ Jonathan said in a voice heavy with sarcasm.
Giles wiped the traces of the whore’s paint from his face and straightened his crooked collar. ‘There’s precious little else to do here. May as well have some fun when I can.’
‘God’s death, Giles, do you not spare a thought for your wife?’ Jonathan had little patience with Giles’ philandering ways and routine unfaithfulness to Nell.
Giles looked offended. ‘Of course I do. I think of her continually but thinking of her is hardly solace to the urgency of the moment and anyway,’ he added, ‘what right do you have to start preaching at me about such matters? You’re hardly a saint.’
Jonathan looked at his friend. ‘I do not have a wife and what’s more your wife is my sister,’ he reminded him. He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I’m sorry. I’m bone tired and my patience is short.’
Giles shrugged as if to indicate no offence had been taken and, pouring himself a cup of wine, he sat down opposite his friend.
‘On the subject of my wife, did you see Nell?’
Jonathan nodded and fumbled in his jacket for the bundle of letters. Those for the King had waited this long; a few morehours would not hurt. The letter from Nell to her husband could not wait.
Giles took it and held it up between thumb and forefinger, his eyes widening. He glanced at Jonathan.
‘Blood?’
‘Mine,’ Jonathan said. ‘I was recognised in York. Our old friend Prescott.’
Giles lifted an eyebrow at the name. ‘Ahh,’ he said slowly.
‘He put a ball through my shoulder,’ Jonathan continued, rubbing his aching shoulder. ‘I’m afraid all my correspondence is similarly stained.’
‘How –’
A knock at the door interrupted Giles. The surly innkeeper entered with the tray Giles had been expecting. Giles paid him and served up some of the gelatinous stew that was the best on offer. It was as good a meal as Jonathan could have hoped for, and he ate gratefully.
Revived by the warmth and the food, Jonathan looked up at his friend as he pushed the empty platter to one side.
‘So, what’s happening here?’
‘Precious little,’ replied Giles, pulling a face. ‘David Leslie is playing catch-as-can with Cromwell and we’re here, twiddling our thumbs and being forced to listen to endless sermons from these bloody Covenanters. Sweet Jesu, Jonathan, even at dinners they carry on as if they were in the pulpit. The food is appalling when hot and inedible cold.’ He used his knife to push aside a gristly piece of unidentified meat on his platter. ‘The King will want to see you. His spirits are very low.’
‘I doubt that anything I can say to him will improve them,’ Jonathan remarked bleakly.
He sat drowsing in the chair by the fire as Giles read through the pages that Nell had written to him.
Giles laid down Nell’s letter and prodded Jonathan with the toe of his boot. ‘Who is this Kate Ashley that Nell writes so affectionately of?’
‘My cousin Richard Ashley’s widow,’ Jonathan replied, schooling his face to reveal nothing. ‘You may recall she has a son? Grandfather has named him his heir.’
‘Has he indeed. So Seven Ways stays in the family? Clever Sir Francis.’ Giles chuckled. ‘And you, my friend? I take it you’ve not been lying untended in the streets of York for the last two months. What fair creature took you in to bind your wounds and stroke your fevered brow?’
Jonathan scowled. He was in no mood for Giles’ teasing and his few weeks with Kate were still too precious to share with the world at large.
‘Another time, Giles.’
Giles’ face sobered. ‘You’re dead on your feet, Thornton. Take the bed. We’ll talk more in the morning.’
