Page 95 of By the Sword
Jonathan moved the sword to the underside of the man’s throat, scoring a thin bloody line in the soft skin.
Prescott looked up at him without flinching and without fear.
‘Get it over with,’ he said with a twist of his mouth.
‘I cannot think of a death that would be slow or painful enough to make amends for your work today.’ Jonathan struggled to keep control of the anger in his voice.
Jonathan lifted the sword away and stepped back.
‘Unlike you, I’ll not kill a man in cold blood. Get up and let’s finish this. Draw your sword.’
Prescott needed no further invitation. He rose to his feet and drew his sword, while Jonathan wiped the blood away from his eyes and shrugged off his jacket.
The two men faced each other in the faltering light of the lantern.
They circled, both summing up the other’s ability. Jonathan knew without a doubt that he was the superior swordsman and Prescott had never been much of a swordsman. However, physically Prescott probably had the advantage. He had not suffered the privations of the last few weeks.
‘She was telling the truth, Prescott,’ Jonathan said. ‘She’s not been hiding me.’
Prescott’s eyes narrowed. ‘She’s been hiding someone. Lying to me. Does she have another lover, Thornton?’
When Jonathan did not respond, Stephen Prescott laughed. ‘You should have killed me while you had the chance’ he said. ‘It will give me the greatest pleasure in making your motherless bastard an orphan.’
Motherless bastard? Did he imply that the child had lived? Mary’s child–his child?
This time his words had the desired effect. The point of Jonathan’s sword wavered.
‘What the hell do you mean?’ he growled.
‘Your bastard in Oxford. Old Woolnough tried to palm it off on me but I’d have no truck with it.’ Prescott drew his lips back in a wolfish grin, clearly relishing this sudden rush of power.
‘They told me the child was dead,’ Jonathan found his voice.
‘And why do you suppose they would say that? You put a cuckold’s horns on my head, Thornton and brought shame to her family.’
Prescott lunged but Jonathan parried. Being taller, he had the advantage of reach and experience, but Prescott was equal to the challenge.
‘You’ve been practising,’ he noted with a deliberate note of sarcasm as he found himself parried again.
‘I had good reason to,’ Prescott replied. ‘I thought– I hoped–we would meet again in these circumstances.’
‘I don’t believe for one minute you ever wanted to meet me over a sword. What death did you plan for me, Stephen? Hanged? No, you had that opportunity, didn’t you? A nice drawn-out and grisly death perhaps? This must be a grave disappointment to you.’
Anger flashing from his eyes, Prescott lunged again. To Jonathan’s surprise, the blade came within a whisker of his arm, slicing through his shirt sleeve. The two swords clashed, again and again, making sparks in the gloom of the barn.
Prescott managed to slip out from Jonathan’s blade and he repositioned himself just out of reach. Jonathan dashed the blood from his face away with his sleeve. It was running into his eyes and he did not need to have his vision impeded.
Both men were tiring. The contest was proving more evenly matched than Jonathan had anticipated. His shoulder hurt like the devil from Prescott’s earlier ill-treatment and the pain distracted him, but Prescott had begun making mistakes. Jonathan’s superior swordsmanship and his lighter and more agile build had begun to tell on the dour cavalry officer.
Prescott backed off, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps and the sweat standing out on his forehead and running down his nose.
Panting heavily, Stephen Prescott said, ‘I could have been a good husband to her.’
‘She wanted more than a good husband, Stephen. Mary needed love. You don’t know the meaning of the word.’
That had the effect he sought and with a cry of rage, Prescott lunged wildly. Jonathan saw his advantage and closed in for the kill. Their swords locked, and in a quick, practised motion, Jonathan flicked Prescott’s sword from his hand. It went spinning into the hay and this time Jonathan did not waste the opportunity.
It should never have come to this, Jonathan thought as the sword, honed to a razor-sharp point pierced Prescott’s heart.
