Page 111 of By the Sword
Bet nodded in silent agreement. She would ensure Jonathan a good head start. He shut the door and locked it, gently placing the key within reach. He returned to the parlour where Tabitha waited for him.
Jonathan held out his hand. Looking up at him with her trusting eyes, Tabitha placed her small hand in his.
Chapter 39
Agust of icy wind, laced with sleet, whipped through Jonathan’s sodden cloak. He had wanted to put as many miles as he could between himself and Oxford and he had ridden hard for the morning. Although he had slowed the pace in the afternoon, as the drear evening closed in his horse shivered underneath him, head drooping in exhaustion as it plodded onwards.
His daughter lay limp and unresponsive in his arms. She had borne the long day with great fortitude and even chattered to him through the morning but now as night closed in her eyes had closed, the lashes dark on her damp, ashen cheeks.
The child whimpered and Jonathan held her closer.
‘It’s all right, just a little further,’ he said.
London lay just a few miles away, tantalisingly within his grasp. It could wait. For now, he had a refuge closer at hand.
He looked up at the familiar gateposts and sighed. Beyond the open gates, a light burned in a downstairs room of the pleasanthouse that had been more nearly a home to him than Seven Ways had ever been.
Throwing himself on the mercy of this house would probably mean the end to any hope of reaching the continent, but he was beyond caring about himself. The child needed rest and shelter and here he could be assured she would get it. For Tabitha’s sake, he had to take the risk.
He turned the weary horse into the forecourt of the familiar neat, half-timbered house that stood on the banks of the River Thames, just outside the village of Putney, only a few miles from London.
No one had heard him arrive and no groom came out to take his horse. He dismounted awkwardly and, hefting the child in his arms, he knocked on the door.
He stepped back as a small, portly man opened the door. Holding up his candle, the man peered out into the dark, cold night.
‘Who’s there at this hour?’ he demanded of the darkness.
‘It’s me, Uncle.’ Jonathan moved into the thin circle of light thrown by the candle.
Nathaniel Freeman thrust the candle upward and peered into the face beneath the dripping brim of the hat.
‘My God,’ he declared in surprise, a response that prompted a wry smile from Jonathan. ‘Is this madness, boy?’
‘Of a kind,’ Jonathan said. ‘We need shelter for the night.’
‘We? What do you have there?’ Freeman gestured at the bundle in Jonathan’s arms.
‘My daughter.’
‘Your daughter? Come in, come in…’
His uncle stepped back to let him pass and followed him into the house, shutting the door behind him.
Knowing the house well, Jonathan headed for the well-lit study where he could see a fire burning in the hearth.
Freeman fussed in his wake. ‘What’s this about a daughter? I didn’t know you had a daughter? Put her by the fire. That’s it.’
‘What’s happening? Nathaniel? Who was that at the door?’
A plump, diminutive woman, dressed in a woollen robe pulled on over her nightgown, appeared at the door.
Jonathan looked up at her, and she gave a small squeal of pleasure, her hands going to her mouth.
‘Surely not? Is that Jonathan? Oh, my dearest boy. What brings you here?’
Her husband frowned at her. ‘No time, Hen. He says he has his daughter with him, and by the look of her, he’s nearly killed the child.’
‘His daughter? What daughter?’ She came closer, her face crumpling with concern. ‘The poor little lass.’
