Page 81 of By the Sword
‘Your husband fought with Fairfax, I believe?’ Prescott asked.
Kate nodded, adding for good measure that the Fairfax family were indeed close friends and allies of the Ashley family.
Prescott’s eyes narrowed. ‘But your husband was a Thornton, Mistress Ashley?’
‘His mother was a Thornton,’ Kate replied. ‘Richard was a first cousin of Jonathan Thornton, but the family had been long estranged by more than just politics. And what of you, Major?’ Kate deliberately steered the conversation onto the risky ground. She wanted to understand this man better. ‘Have you a wife and family?’
Prescott shook his head. ‘Sadly my wife died some six years ago and we were not blessed with a child,’ he said. ‘I’ve not remarried. My life is the army and my master is our Lord God.’
His face told her nothing and Kate had no reason to believe that he told her anything except what he truly believed.
During the meal she watched him as he ate, noting the way his eyes glanced around the room as if taking in every detail. If he had thought to find Jonathan Thornton here, her presence must have proved a grave disappointment.
Chapter 27
Jonathan wrapped his cloak tighter around himself and sniffed as a drop of rain dripped from his hat onto his nose. The tree under which he crouched provided poor shelter from the rain that had fallen continually since he had left Worcestershire. He thought knew the Marches reasonably well but in evading the omnipresent soldiers he had lost all sense of direction and had to admit that he was lost.
He considered his situation. He still had sufficient coin, he hoped, to secure a passage to Ireland, but it left nothing over for the necessities such as food or a bed. Despite careful rationing, the small parcel of food that Harry’s cousin’s wife had provided him with had long since gone. Furthermore, he had been walking for two days and his feet hurt in the ill-fitting shoes.
The rain stopped and the sun appeared to mock the sodden fugitive. Jonathan stood up and shook out his cold, cramped limbs. It still lacked a few hours until nightfall and he needed toget some sense of direction or he would just end up walking in circles for days.
Distantly he could see the spire of a church. The rain had mired the roads but at least the sun had broken through with enough warmth to dry his damp clothes. He put his head down and set his teeth to endure the last mile or so to the village.
On the outskirts, Jonathan leaned wearily against a tree and observed the tranquil scene. It seemed impossible to believe that any place in England could still be this peaceful and seemingly oblivious to the turmoil that beset the entire nation.
In the late afternoon sun, a group of women gossiped by a door. A small knot of men finished with their daily chores, gathered at the inn door, mugs of ale in their hands, talking and laughing.
A sizeable stream ran through the village, widening into a deep, still millpond just beyond the inn. Beside the pond, a small group of boys played with rough boats of their own construction. A boy of about Tom’s age leaned over with a long stick to retrieve his fragile craft that drifted out into the centre of the pond.
The little boat floated tantalisingly out of reach and the child overreached himself, toppling into the pond with a loud splash. A strong current, running beneath the still waters in the direction of the mill wheel, quickly pulled him out of the reach of his friends’ grasping hands.
From his wild splashing, he plainly could not swim, and his cries of distress alerted the men at the inn door and a woman screamed.
Without stopping to think, Jonathan ran to the edge of the pond where he divested himself of shoes, hat and the threadbare cloak. He threw himself into the cold, dark water without hesitation. It took him a while to find the boy, who had gone under as his struggles had become weaker. The child made noresistance as Jonathan dragged him out of the pond and laid him on the ground.
As one of the village men tended to the child, Jonathan sat back on the grass and ran his hand through his wet hair. The boy spluttered and coughed, spewing out a stream of water and the remains of his last meal. Another man hauled Jonathan to his feet, slapping him on the shoulders as another threw his abandoned cloak across his wet shoulders. A murmur of appreciation grew around him as the crowd escorted him to the inn. He looked around for the child and was relieved to see him being carried off by his mother, shivering and tearful but alive.
Inside the inn, a cheerful fire burned in the hearth. The innkeeper’s wife produced food and promised while looking doubtfully at Jonathan, who towered nearly a head taller than most of the men in the room, to look for some dry clothes that might fit.
A mug of ale was pressed into his hand and the room was made by the fire. Steam rose from Jonathan’s clothes as he sat in front of it, trying to get some warmth into his chilled bones and he took the platter of stew with thanks.
‘’Ere, slow down,’ the goodwife said as Jonathan shovelled the food into his mouth. ‘Anyone would think you’d not eaten for a week.’
If only she knew, he thought, wondering where his next meal would come from.
‘Where are you from?’ someone asked.
Jonathan paused. ‘Near London,’ he said, slipping an appropriately colloquial accent. ‘Come west looking for work.’
‘Harvest’s near done,’ one man said, ‘but I daresay we can find work for you.’
Jonathan mumbled his thanks.
‘Do you have news of the battle at Worcester?’ another man asked.
Jonathan shook his head. ‘Bin on the road. I’ve heard nothing.’
‘Soldiers were here a day or so ago. They reckon there’s Scots and the like on the loose and that we’re all to lock our doors.’
