Page 105 of By the Sword
Tom unwrapped the bundle and held up the Order of St George that the King had given him on the night of the battle.
‘Jonathan, can you give this back to the King?’ the boy asked.
Jonathan took the precious George from the boy and shook his head. ‘No. I think Giles should have custody of it,’ he said.
‘Why would it be any safer with me?’ Giles enquired.
Jonathan shook his head. ‘I just think it would be.’
Kate caught a conspiratorial look that passed between the two men and her heart skipped a beat. Surely Jonathan had nothing else planned that would put him further into danger?
‘Do you have to go?’ Tom asked Jonathan.
Jonathan nodded. ‘I do, Tom. You know that.’
Tom grimaced. ‘What will you do? Will you fight for Prince Rupert again?’
Jonathan pulled a face. ‘I think not. When last I heard, the noble Prince had taken to the sea as commander of the King’s navy, and I have no great desire to join Rupert on his aquatic adventures.’
‘You will write and tell us your adventures, though?’ Tom moved beside his mother and suffered her to put an arm around his shoulders.
‘Of course.’ Jonathan swung up into the saddle. He had become once again, John Miller, in a plain grey, woollen jacket and breeches beneath a dark cloak, his much-battered hat on hishead. In his luggage, he carried Jacob Howell’s short, serviceable sword, a pistol and sufficient books to cover his alias.
Kate crossed to the horse and he bent from the saddle to kiss her, a chaste public kiss on the cheek, not that anyone in the household would be in any doubt about the true nature of their relationship. They had abandoned any pretence in the few short days they had together.
‘God speed,’ Nell said and lifted her hand.
Jonathan looked down at Kate and smiled.
‘Don’t cry,’ he said in a low voice.
‘I’m not,’ she lied, sniffing back the tears.
He straightened in the saddle and with one last wave, put his heels to the horse, riding out beneath the gatehouse without a backward glance.
Chapter 37
The last time Jonathan had seen Oxford, it had been the King’s headquarters and the streets had thronged with soldiers and courtiers. It would take more than six years to obliterate the massive earthworks and other evidence of the important role the city had played during the war but superficially, at least, it seemed to have returned to its peaceful role as a place of learning.
Despite his promises of absolute honesty, he’d not told Kate of Prescott’s revelation. He’d only confided his intentions of visiting Oxford to Giles and Giles had, quite rightly, tried to dissuade him from this venture–folly he had called it. But the thought that he may have a child yet living had played continually on Jonathan’s mind until it had become a familiar tune.
He needed to discover the truth before he shared this last and greatest secret from his past.
Jonathan stabled his horse at an inn just outside the city wall and strolled unchallenged through the gates. Outwardly Oxford had become once more the pleasant, dreamy city of Jonathan’s dissolute youth. Students in gowns, their heads bent against the cold, wet weather, mingled in the streets with the townspeople, just as they had done for hundreds of years.
The Woolnoughs’ house in Turl Street had remained unaltered in the six years since he had last seen it. He almost expected to see Mary’s face at the parlour window, watching the street for his arrival, but the lower windows were shuttered and the house looked cold and impenetrable.
The rain that had fallen persistently since he had left Seven Ways continued to fall on Oxford. The cold, autumnal drizzle penetrated his heavy cloak and ensured that the streets of the town were largely deserted. He gave the house one last look but dared not loiter. Instead, he slipped into a warm hostelry from which he could just see the house, bought himself an ale and waited.
The afternoon slipped by, and he had been considering abandoning his watch when he heard a familiar voice.
‘Now then, do stop thy complaining. We’re nearly home, see?’
Bet, Mary’s loyal and devoted maidservant, had stopped just outside the door. Jonathan’s heart lurched. Bet held a child by the hand. The child, too heavily bundled in a cloak for Jonathan to even see what sex it was, complained in a high, fretful voice.
The blood in his veins quickened and Jonathan picked up his hat and stepped outside the door just as Bet, pulling her unwilling charge by the hand, had started towards the Woolnough house.
‘Bet.’
