Page 85 of By the Sword
‘Price and his bullies have just stripped this manor bare of its winter supplies because you decided to liberate the wine cellar at Longley Abbey. Your actions have ensured we may well starve this winter.’
Nell gasped and looked at her husband.
Giles, to his credit, looked appalled. ‘Kate, I’m truly sorry. It never occurred to me that he would take his revenge on you. If I had it in my power to make amends I would here and now.’
The anger ebbed and Kate sat on the nearest chair and looked down at her hands.
‘What am I going to do?’ she asked no one in particular.
Nell sat down next to her. ‘Could we not borrow the money?’
She looked up. ‘From whom?’
‘Your family?’ Nell ventured.
Anger surfaced again, and Kate glared at her. ‘My family? Why should my family lend us the money? They counselled me not to take on this venture. They warned me that I would be dealing with trouble and now I have it, enough for a lifetime of misery.’
She stood up and stormed out of the room, slamming the door to her bedchamber behind her. She stood for a moment, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps that gave way to despair as the enormity of the situation closed in on her.
This is what comes of throwing your lot in with Jonathan Thornton, she railed into the bolsters of her bed.
Where is he now? Where is he when I need him?
Chapter 29
What made the life of a fugitive unbearable, Jonathan reflected, was not so much the discomfort, the lack of sleep, the rain or the cold. It was hunger. At least the horse could eat grass, but for over two days Jonathan had little except a rabbit he had caught and cooked on a fire and what wild berries he could find.
His purse had been taken by the ungrateful villagers before they had thrown him into the cellar. The little mare, which he had named Morgan in gratitude to his liberators, was the only thing of value he now possessed, and although he could have sold the horse for a good price, he remained wary, skirting the towns and villages. Conscious now of his distinctive looks, not improved by the black eye and days of beard growth, he travelled mostly at night, resting during the day in whatever shelter the woods and coppices could provide.
Hunger gnawed at him and he knew that unless he ate soon, he would not have the strength to go much further. With that inmind, he had been watching an isolated manor house for most of the day, wondering about the wisdom of begging some food from the kitchen. The lonely house clung to a riverbank, its solid grey stone walls stout defence against weather and marauders.
As he watched a woman came out of a side door holding a basket. She knelt beside one of the vegetable beds and began to pull up carrots. Jonathan’s stomach knotted. Aware of the alarming appearance he presented he brushed the worst of the grass and dust from his clothes but nothing he could do could lessen his ruffianly appearance.
Looping the reins of his horse over his arm he limped down the hill toward the house. The woman looked up at his approach, her eyes widening in alarm. She jumped to her feet and began backing away, holding up the garden fork as if it would provide her with some protection.
‘Get away.’ she said. ‘Before I summon my man.’
He held out his hands to show he was unarmed. ‘I’m sorry to startle you, Mistress. I mean no harm. I just wondered if you could spare some bread.’ He made no pretence of his accent. He was beyond that.
Something in his voice and bearing must have allayed her fears, for her face softened. Jonathan could see how very young she was, and from the quality of her clothes, he concluded that he had stumbled upon the daughter of the house. She lowered the garden fork, and even in his exhausted state, Jonathan could appreciate a pretty face when he saw it.
‘When did you last eat?’ she asked.
‘Two, three days ago.’
Jonathan took a step towards her, but to his mortification, the world began to spin and ten days of near starvation and fatigue caught up with him. He slid to the ground in a graceless heap.
When he came round, the girl knelt over him, her face full of concern.
‘Sir,’ she said, ‘are you hurt?’ She reached out to touch his eye.
He winced at her touch and struggled into a seated position, trying to regain a modicum of dignity.
‘Thank you, Mistress,’ he said. ‘I’m not hurt, just damnably hungry.’
‘Are you…are you an escaped Royalist?’ she asked, her eyes wide.
He surveyed her with narrowed eyes, looking for some indication of her loyalties. As if reading his thoughts, she added, ‘You’re quite safe in this house. My husband’s son was killed fighting for the King.’ She frowned. ‘Are you one of the Scots?’
