Page 34 of By the Sword
‘You take Thomas and go home, William,’ Suzanne replied, already unbuttoning her collar and cuffs. ‘I’ll stay and help with…who is this man, Kate?’
Kate turned a pale, strained face to her sister. ‘Richard’s cousin, Jonathan Thornton.’
Suzanne opened her mouth to say something but seeing her sister’s face, a look of concern creased her brow. ‘Kate, what is it?’
Whether it was exhaustion or strain or something else, Kate’s hands shook and her heart felt as if it would leap straight out of her chest. It was happening all over again: The same room, the scent of blood…of death.
The memory of Richard’s last horrific days overwhelmed her.
‘I can’t…Suzanne, I can’t…’ She began to back away.
Suzanne put a sisterly hand on Kate’s arm. ‘Go to your room, Kate. I’ll send the maid to light the fire and bring you some supper. Ellen and I will do what must be done.’
Kate turned and as she fled she heard her sister say to her husband, ‘You great fool, don’t look like that. This is the room Richard died in, or have you forgotten?’
***
It seemed a long time before Suzanne found Kate, hunched in front of the fire in her bed-chamber, her arms wrapped around her knees.
‘You silly girl,’ she chided, looking down at her sister and the tray still laden with the cold, congealing meal beside her. ‘You’ve not changed out of your damp clothes, nor eaten…’
Kate looked up at her sister, flinching at the blood smear on her sister’s cheek. Suzanne knelt beside her and took her in her arms as the tears that were the result of the strain of the last twenty-four hours finally came flooding out.
‘Kate,’ Suzanne stroked her hair as she had done when Kate had been a child, ‘he’s not Richard. His wound is bad but with Ellen’s care and God willing, he’ll live.’
Kate managed a small watery smile and grasped her sister’s hand. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
‘Now,’ said Suzanne in her normal, brisk fashion, ‘perhaps you can tell me what this is about, Kate? Who is this Jonathan Thornton.’
‘Richard’s cousin. He…he travelled with us some of the way from Worcestershire.’ She stopped and took a deep breath, ‘I…we…oh, Suzanne, that awful man shot him.’
‘What awful man and why would he shoot Jonathan?’
‘Jonathan is a fugitive; there is a price on his head.’
‘I suppose that would be a good reason for someone to try and shoot him,’ Suzanne observed in her practical fashion. ‘What on earth were you thinking involving yourself in his business?’ Shenarrowed her eyes and looked at her sister. ‘Kate, you’re surely not in love with this man?’
Kate looked away from her sister’s appraising gaze. ‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘It’s just the shock…’ To her mortification, the tears began again.
Suzanne waited patiently, holding her close, until the tears subsided into dry sobs and Kate sat up, frantically dabbing at her eyes with a sodden kerchief.
‘Enough of this wallowing.’ Suzanne stood up. ‘I’ve sent Thomas home to the Hall with William and I’ll stay and see to this dangerous fugitive for however long I am needed. You, my dear, are going to bed.’
Kate smiled faintly. ‘I will, I promise, but first I must see him.’
At the door to the bedchamber, she hesitated. The memories of Richard’s broken body and agonising death, which had driven her away before, were suddenly as sharp and clear as they had been seven years before.
This isn’t Richard, she told herself. It isn’t happening again.
She took a breath and opened the door.
Ellen sat by the fire, asleep, her mouth open, snoring gently. She’d sat with Jonathan most of the previous night and it had been as long a day for her as it had been for all of them. She was no longer a young woman and Kate realised, with a guilty pang, that Ellen must be exhausted.
She crossed to the bed and stood looking down at the man she had risked her life for that day. His right arm lay outside the bed covers. The other arm had been strapped uncompromisingly to his chest with fresh bandages, the shoulder heavy with padding and bandages, through which a bright star of fresh blood still managed to seep. She could not tell whether he was unconscious or asleep and only the slight rise and fall of his chest gave any indication that he still lived.
Kate picked up his right hand, noting the silver line of an old scar snaking its way down his forearm. The heavy gold signet ring he wore glinted in the candlelight and she turned it towards the light. Although well worn, she could still make out the leopard’s head of the Thornton crest. She frowned, recognising it as the ring Sir Francis had worn.
His fingers tightened on hers and life flickered back into his pale face. The hazel eyes, foggy with opium and pain, sought her out.
