"Kate. I'm so sorry...” he began but did not finish as he slid down the wall to the floor, leaving, Kate observed in horror, a trail of blood against the whitewashed wall.
She knelt down beside him, her hands hovering helplessly over his shoulder where the jacket was blackened and sodden with blood.
"Good God, lass. Who's this?” William, puffing heavily, had followed Kate into the kitchen.
"Jonathan Thornton,” she replied without looking around. She put a hand to his icy forehead. “Jon, what happened?'
"I was recognised."
Jonathan grimaced as Kate fumbled with his jacket, as gently as she could, peeling it back to reveal the injury. Her stomach lurched as she took in the extent of the damage, and she gave an inadvertent gasp.
"It's all right, Kate. It's not fatal,” Jonathan muttered, his right hand closing on hers. “I should be grateful for inaccurate cavalry pistols."
"It may not be fatal but it looks bad enough,” Kate observed.
Mistress Gates, keeping her distance, handed Kate a cloth and she held it to the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding.
William bent over them.
"Who did this to you, lad?” He sounded indignant.
"Stephen Prescott...” he began then looked up at the faces around him. “He'll turn the town upside down ... I'm putting you all in danger..."
He tried to rise to his feet but Kate pushed him back down again.
"I won't ask why, for it's none of my concern, but if ye're kin of Kate and young Tom, then ye're safe enough here,” William declared stoutly.
Kate looked up at her brother-in-law. “He needs a doctor, William."
"Aye, well, that's obvious,” William agreed. “Mistress Gates—"
Jonathan raised his right hand in protest. “No. He knows I'm hurt. There'll be men watching the doctors."
William looked down at the wounded. “Who's this Prescott?"
But William's question went unanswered.
Kate rose to her feet. “Ellen will know what to do. She's nursed wounded before. I'll fetch her."
Ellen had earned a formidable reputation among the wounded who had come to Barton after the battle that had taken Richard Ashley's life. There may have been nothing she could do for Richard, but there were plenty of others who owed their lives to her practical and skilled hands.
Kate left Jonathan in the care of a reluctant, and obviously squeamish, Mrs. Gates and went to fetch Ellen, who would be waiting in the bedchamber for Kate to retire. She reached the top stairs and stopped, her hand on the banister, her heart beating behind her bodice, at an authoritative knocking on the door.
William himself answered it, opening the door to an officer, distinguishable by the gorget around his neck and two troopers wearing helmets. The officer removed his hat. From Kate's vantage point all she could see was a thinning pate of fair hair.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, sir,” the officer sounded suitably deferential. William, after all, enjoyed a comfortable reputation in the town. “I'm Major Prescott of the town garrison. There is a notorious delinquent loose in the town and a curfew has been declared until we apprehend him. Would you please ensure neither you nor your household go abroad tonight?"
A cold hand clawed at Kate's heart. Major Prescott ... Stephen Prescott? The man who had shot Jonathan?
"Is this man dangerous?” William asked.
"Any desperate man is dangerous,” Prescott replied. “Have no fear, Master Rowe. I have sealed the gates. He won't get away.” Prescott returned his gaze to William. “I'll bid you goodnight, Master Rowe.” Even though Kate had not moved, he raised his eyes, fixing on her. “Mistress."
He gave a cursory bow and turned on his heel, the two troopers following.
William shut the door behind them and bolted it. He looked up at Kate, and she read the concern in his usually bluff, cheerful face.
* * * *
From somewhere above him, Jonathan could hear people whispering. For a brief moment he had no sense of time and place. Only when he tried to move did memory come flooding back in a rush of pain; he swore volubly.
Kate's anxious face came slowly into focus.
"Jonathan. Can you hear me?"
"Kate,” he whispered. As her face wavered above his, he reached up to touch it. “Kate, I found a copy of Shakespeare's sonnets. I...” He struggled to remember the events of the evening. “...I must have dropped it."
She smiled. He liked the way her mouth curled up when she smiled.
"Another time, Jonathan,” she said.
He could sense the tension in her voice and wondered if she thought he would die. He wanted to reassure her but the words didn't seem to be there. He swallowed. His mouth felt uncomfortably dry and he drank thirstily when a cup of sweet, unfamiliar liquid was held to his lips. Laudanum, he supposed. Someone stroked his hand. Kate? The opium began to take effect and the world began to spin and dance in a surreal fashion.
"Jonathan.” Kate's voice again, came from far away. “We've stopped the bleeding and Ellen has patched you up as well as any doctor. Try and sleep now. We will need you in the morning if we're to get you away from York."
Jonathan's fingers tightened on hers. He wanted to reassure her that all would be well.
"I'll be fine in the morning, you'll see,” he whispered as everything closed in around him and an all too familiar world of darkness and demons took over.
* * * *
"What are we to do?” Kate asked. “We must get him away from York, William. You saw that man Prescott, if he even begins to suspect...” Her voice tailed off.
William handed her the glass of his best canary and she drank the sweet wine gratefully, feeling her taut nerves begin to relax.
"Well, lass,” William said, slowly, “Prescott'll have the gates well guarded. I don't see as how it will be easy to get a wounded man past ‘em.” He sat back in his chair and toyed with the wine. “I bought the wool clip in on a wagon tha's got to go back to Barton. If we were to leave the city with it..."
Kate looked up at him. “What do you have in mind?"
William's eyes twinkled mischievously. “As long as your lad, Tom, can play along, I've a thought or two that might work..."
Together they conceived a fragile plan and at dawn Kate slipped into the small bedchamber where they had put Jonathan for the night. Ellen sat beside him, dozing in her chair. She looked up as Kate entered and stood up, easing her back.
"How is he?” Kate asked.
Ellen looked down at her patient. “Well as can be expected."
"He has to do better than that!” Kate said with determination. She leaned over the bed. “Jonathan. Wake up!"
He opened his eyes, still hazy with the after-effect of the laudanum.
"Jesus wept!” he swore, as he tried to move.
"Listen to me.” Kate waited until his eyes had focused on her face. “Do you think you can stand?"
He gave her a rueful smile. “Mistress Ashley, I'll do whatever you tell me."
"Good. Ellen, get him dressed and then pack. We leave within the hour."
"Leave?” Ellen looked surprised. “It'll be a miracle if he gets on his own two feet. He'll nowt sit a horse."
"We'll be using the wagon."
"E'en so...” Ellen protested.
"We can't stay here, Ellen. It's too dangerous.” She smiled at her maid with more reassurance than she felt. “There is a plan."
Ellen listened as Kate explained. She sucked her breath in through her teeth and shook her head dubiously.
"I don't know..."
"It's the best we can do.
Ellen nodded. “Aye well, tha's as well as maybe. Come on lad let's get ‘ee on thy feet."
They gathered in the hallway. Jonathan looked terrible, deathly pale beneath the dark stubble of his unshaven chin. Kate frowned. She needed him to have his wits about him, and he would have to endure the pain until she could get him back to Barton—if he ever reached Barton. She pushed that thought
to the back of her mind.
William clapped a hand on his nephew's shoulder. “So, young Tom. You've heard the plan. Are you up to a spot o’ play actin'?"
"I'm much better at pretending than Mother,” Tom pointed out. He looked up at Jonathan. “Are you going to be all right?"
Jonathan managed a watery smile. “Just fine.” he said. “You'll see."
* * * *
With orders to search everyone leaving the city, the guard on the west gate of the city of York anticipated an unusually busy day. News that a notorious delinquent had narrowly evaded capture the previous evening had spread through the garrison. There was even talk that witchcraft was involved and that the devil himself had spirited the man away.
The guard barred the way to a wagon driven by a well dressed, middle-aged man. An attractive young woman sat next to him. She would have been more attractive, the guard thought, had it not been for the rather sour expression on her face, which seemed to be directed at the man sitting on the other side of her. He leaned against her, wrapped in his cloak and with his hat pulled well down over his face.
"Your name, sir?” The guard enquired of the driver
"William Rowe of Barton Hall. My sister, her husband and my nephew,” he indicated a boy in the back of the wagon. “We are returning home from the wool sales."
"I've orders to search the cart, sir.” The guard said.
"Search away,” the woman said with a trace of petulance. “You'll find naught. We sold our wool and I swear my husband has drunk all the money away in celebrating."
"Here dwells a pretty maid whose name is Sis,” a rather slurred rendition of the popular drinking song issued from underneath the hat. “You may come in and kiss...” The song tailed off as the woman elbowed her husband's ribs, her lips set in a hard, tight line.
The guard smiled sympathetically. He could smell the ale fumes from where he stood. He dutifully checked the back of the wagon and found it empty except for some old sacking and cloth and a boy. He returned to the front of the wagon.
"On your way then, Master Rowe,” he said, giving the rump of the horse a firm slap. “With this rain, it'll be a slow road home today I wager."
"Her whole, her whole, her whole estate is seventeen pence a year...” the drunken man concluded, as the cart lurched off in the direction of Barton.
The guard leaned on his musket. “I'll warrant he'll have more than a sore head tomorrow by the time she's finished with him,” he commented to his companion and they both laughed.
* * * *
"Kate? We're there."
Kate raised her head and looked up at William's sodden back. The rain dripped off her hat into her eyes. It had been a long and trying day. They were all soaked to the bone and exhausted by the strain.
Jonathan lay on the floor of the wagon, half covered by sacking to protect him from the rain while she supported his head in her lap to try and minimise the jolting of the cart on his injured shoulder. Tom, with the carefree abandon of youth, slept curled up beside her.
"I've never been so glad to see Barton's gates in my life,” William observed as he turned the wagon through the gates into the courtyard of the pleasant house.
"William! I'd not expected you home until the morrow."
Kate heard her sister's voice coming from the porch of the house.
"What are you doing here, lass?” William asked.
"I came to see the house was in order. Where's Kate and Thomas?"
"Here, Suzanne,” Kate spoke from the back of the wagon.
Her sister, her skirts gathered high in her hand and a cloak thrown hastily over her head against the rain, came around to the back of the wagon. Her eyes widened as she took in the trio huddled beneath the sacks. Kate raised a weary face to her sister.
"Who's that?” Suzanne enquired. “Is he dead?
Kate gently shifted Jonathan's unconscious weight and stretched her stiff, cold limbs.
Tom sat up, rubbing his eyes.
Suzanne looked at her sister. “Who's this man, Kate?” she demanded. “He smells like a brewery."
"Oh for the Lord's sake, Suzanne,” Kate blasphemed. “We doused him in ale as a ruse to get us past the gates.” She stopped herself from saying that it had been William's idea. “He's not drunk. He has a pistol ball in the shoulder and he's lost a lot of blood. Today's soaking won't have helped."
"Shot?” Suzanne stared in disbelief at her sister. “Who? Why?"
"Later, Suzanne.” William came around to the back of the wagon and took charge. “Now give me a hand here, Dickon. Take his legs. That's right."
Although Dickon and Ellen had left York after the others, they had caught up with the lumbering wagon a few miles out of York. Not without some difficulty, the two men managed to carry the barely conscious Jonathan up the stairs to the guest bedchamber. They deposited the injured man on the bed, and William looked around at his wife and her sister.
"Well, Kate, now what?"
Suzanne replied, already unbuttoning her collar and cuffs. “You take Thomas and go home, William. 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?"
Kate had begun to back out of the room. “I can't ... Suzanne, I can't..."
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, a blood smear on her cheek, found Kate.
"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 and Suzanne knelt down 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.
"Kate, Kate,” Suzanne said, softly stroking 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 smiled, 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?"
"Jonathan 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 Thornton?"
"Jonathan is a fugitive; there is a price on his head."
"Well, I suppose that would be good reason for someone to try and shoot him,” Suzanne observed in her practical fashion. She narrowed 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, stroking her sister's hair and holding her close until the tears subsided into dry sobs and Kate sat up, frantically dabbing at her eyes with a sodden kerchief.
"Now!” Suzanne stood up. “I've sent Thomas home 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. 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 he
rself. 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 Kate; she 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. She could not tell whether Jonathan was unconscious or asleep. 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.
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.
The movement woke him and life flickered back into the pale face. The hazel eyes, foggy with opium and pain, sought her out. She laid his hand back on the covers.
"Kate?” he whispered.
"It's late, Jonathan. I just came to say good night.” She forced herself to smile. “Promise me you'll still be here in the morning?"
He grimaced and closed his eyes. “I don't think I am going anywhere for a little while,” he said then with sudden urgency he tried to raise himself on his right elbow. “My letters?"
Kate turned to the table where his sword and baldric had been laid and picked up the thin pile of letters. They were tied together with a ribbon and stained dark in the corners. Blood, she thought with a shudder. If the King ever got these letters he would know the price that had been paid for them.
"They will have to wait,” she said quietly as she opened the heavy oak chest that stood at the foot of the bed and placed them inside.
Six
"Mary!” Jonathan muttered as he turned his head in restless, feverish sleep.
Kate set down the tray she carried and crossed to the bed. “That name again,” she said to Ellen. “I wonder who Mary is?"
By The Sword Page 8
