Page 89 of By the Sword
‘I see,’ he said and added. ‘Tell me, is that your husband’s ring you wear around your neck?’ He leaned forward and lifted the chain. ‘It’s the Thornton device unless I am mistaken?’
Kate’s heart skipped a beat and her hand flew to the chain on her neck. It must have come free of her bodice while she worked.
Prescott continued to smile. ‘Did I tell you I was acquainted with Jonathan Thornton in the days before the war?’
Panic coursed through her veins.
‘No,’ Kate said, ‘no, you didn’t mention it. My husband was a Thornton too, Major. He treasured this ring greatly. I took it from his finger when he died.’
‘I recall you telling me your husband’s family and the Thorntons were estranged. Why then would he wear a ring with the Thornton coat of arms?’
She felt the betraying heat rising to her cheeks and turned away to look up at the house. ‘It was all he had of his mother.’
Prescott followed the line of her gaze. ‘It's growing late, Mistress Ashley, and I have kept you from your work.’ He smiled and bowed. ‘Guard that ring well, Mistress Ashley. Who knows what stories it could tell?’
She watched Stephen Prescott walk away, her heart hammering beneath her bodice. So much depended on him believing her to be loyal to the Parliamentary cause. Her courage drained from her and her hand closed on the incriminating ring. It seemed to burn like a brand.
Chapter 31
The imposing tower of the Worcester Cathedral rose from the surrounding countryside just as it had done barely a few weeks earlier. From a distance, it seemed nothing could have occurred to disturb the serene vista of cathedral and town, but the air of tranquillity proved superficial. The traveller did not have to look far to see the broken earthworks and the churned fields or smell the unmistakable stench of death rising from the mass graves Jonathan passed on his way into town.
Mistress Elizabeth must have been saving for an exotic gown, as the money she had given him proved sufficient to allow Jonathan comfortable accommodation for the journey. He had also been able to purchase a clean shirt and sufficient books to give credence to his once familiar alias as John Miller the bookseller.
He had been stopped and questioned, but as he rightly surmised, a traveller heading in the direction of Worcester excited considerably less suspicion than one going in theopposite direction. With his cropped hair and plain but respectable clothes, he did not need further disguise. To account for his black eye and lack of papers, he had concocted a story of being attacked and robbed by renegades from the battle.
He suppressed a shudder as he approached Sidbury Gate. The Commandery, now garrisoned by Parliament troops, lay on his right. Ahead the gate stood open, no longer impeded by the bodies of the dead who had lost their lives in their frantic efforts to gain the safety of the city. He wondered how many of his friends lay in the charnel pits: Kit Lovell and his idealistic brother, Daniel? Giles?
The soldiers on the gate accepted his tale and, two weeks after he had fled the town, he re-entered Worcester, hoping that he would not be recognized by the townspeople. He pulled the hat down low over his eyes and hunched over the saddle to disguise his height but no one cast a second glance at the plainly dressed man on the solid little horse.
He took a room at one of the inns on a side of town where he thought it most unlikely he would be known. With the company of one of his books and a decent bottle of wine, he took his meal in the parlour. After he had eaten he sat by the fire and tried to read.
The clatter of cavalry boots on the flags announced the arrival of a weary young lieutenant of horse who drew a chair up to the fire beside Jonathan to warm himself. Jonathan set down his book.
‘Greetings, friend,’ Jonathan said. ‘May I buy you an ale? You look in sore need of one.’
The young man smiled gratefully. ‘Aye, I have just ridden from London and I plan to go no further tonight.’
‘Where are you bound?’ Jonathan asked.
‘My regiment is garrisoned near Kidderminster,’ the boy said. ‘I know I should be back there tonight but my horse can go nofurther.’ He added with a noticeable tightening of his lips, ‘I’ll just have to face Major Prescott’s wrath tomorrow.’
The breath stopped in Jonathan’s throat. ‘Prescott?’
The young man looked at him curiously. ‘Aye, do you know him?’
Jonathan attempted to cover his slip. ‘I am acquainted with a Nathaniel Prescott, is that the man?’
The officer shook his head. ‘No. My commander is Major Stephen Prescott, and a hard man he is too.’
‘Were you at the fight here?’ Jonathan asked, changing the subject.
His companion nodded. ‘Aye. It was a grim day, but God was with us. The Lord General calls it a crowning mercy.’
Crowning mercy indeed, Jonathan thought. Cromwell had fought a good battle that day.
‘And what are you doing at Kidderminster?’ he asked.
‘Rounding up the stragglers,’ the lieutenant said. ‘I’ve just returned from escorting some prisoners to London for trial. The Earl of Derby among them,’ he added with a note of pride.
