Page 28 of By the Sword
A real bookseller with a tempting table of books caught his eye. It was no coincidence that he took the persona of a bookseller in his travels. He loved books, and over the years had compensated for his indolent years at Oxford by becoming a voracious reader.
To his delight, he saw a copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets in pristine condition. He picked the book up and turned it over in his hands, gently flicking through the pages, handling it with the same care he would show a beautiful piece of glass. He wondered if Kate cared for the sonnets and in a brief flash of romantic fantasy, imagined himself reading them to her in a peaceful time that he knew did not exist.
A shadow fell across the table. Assuming it to be the bookseller, without looking up Jonathan said, ‘I’ll take this volume–’
‘Thornton.’ The name fell onto the table like a fist.
At the sound of the familiar voice, Jonathan looked up into the cold, blue eyes of a man he knew too well, a man he had once called a friend, and his blood froze in his veins. The book dropped from his nerveless fingers back onto the table.
The stocky man in the uniform of a Parliamentary officer smiled without humour or warmth.
‘God is with me this day,’ Stephen Prescott said as he reached for the pistol he carried in his belt.
In that moment of hesitation, Jonathan threw the table over in one swift movement and took off down the street crowded with the afternoon shoppers. Behind him, he heard his name bellowed as Prescott gathered his men for the chase. Heavy feet trampled the slimy cobbles and loud voices shouted exhortations for someone to stop the fugitive.
No one paid them any heed. The shoppers simply parted before the running figure and despite the urging of the soldiers, none made to catch him. Twisting and turning down the narrow streets, Jonathan found himself unable to shed his pursuers. His heavy boots slipped on the wet, mired streets and made running hard. Almost spent, he heard Prescott behind him, urging his men on, knowing that the man would not let up with his long-sought quarry in such plain view.
The man thought he had God on his side.
Jonathan turned sharply down a street he knew led to one of the gates but was brought up short by a heavy ox cart, laden down with wool bales, taking the width of the passageway.
‘Cornered, Thornton. Turn around and face me like a man.’ Prescott’s breathless voice came from behind him and he turned slowly to face his pursuers.
There was no mistaking the look of malicious triumph on Stephen Prescott’s face. He had seen it before in a town square in Devon six years ago. Nothing but Jonathan Thornton’s death would give this man rest.
‘While I live I hope,’ the late King had said, and Jonathan had escaped Stephen Prescott before. He raised his hands away from the hilt of his sword. At least with so public an apprehension, there might be some hope of a fair trial, if not immediate escape.
A fascinated crowd pressed back against the shops as Prescott swaggered towards him. The man stopped some fifteen yards from Jonathan, breathing heavily, savouring the moment. Jonathan held the man with a cold, hard gaze, determined that Prescott would see no fear in his eyes.
‘No escape this time, Thornton. You stand tried and convicted.’
Prescott straightened and raised his heavy pistol in a slow deliberate movement. In the brief moment before the reportof the pistol echoed from the houses, Jonathan saw his death written in the man’s eyes.
Surely it would be better to die now than at the end of a rope?
The watching crowd gasped as the pistol ball smashed into his shoulder. The force knocked him backwards, and he fell to his knees in the mud.
He looked up and saw Prescott accepting a second pistol from one of his soldiers. He would not remain here waiting to be shot like a dog in the streets of York with Stephen Prescott his judge, jury and executioner.
‘Scurvy Roundhead.’ An angry voice broke the silence.
‘Kill a man in cold blood?’ Another voice cried out.
‘We’ll not have that. Not here…’
From somewhere in the crowd a missile flew through the air, striking the Roundhead officer squarely on the chest. Prescott staggered, dropping the pistol.
‘Who threw that?’ he demanded.
‘Murderer.’
The rest of the crowd joined in the fray, hurling whatever missile came to hand at the unpopular troopers. Forced to defend themselves, the troopers retreated from the fury of the crowd that now interposed itself between Prescott and the fallen man.
Jonathan mustered his scattered thoughts. He had been given the chance and he took it. There had been no time for pain and, heedless of his injury, he rolled under the cart, scrambling away from the growing melee. On the other side of the cart, he rose to his feet. The world roaring in his ears, he stumbled forward, to be caught by a pair of strong hands.
‘This way,’ a man’s voice hissed in his ear.
Reality blurred and faded as his rescuer half-carried and half-dragged him down narrow streets, pushing him through a dark shop entrance and bundling him into a space that seemed nobigger than a large cupboard. The door shut and he heard furniture being moved in front of it.
