"God's death, gentlemen, there has been enough fighting today without us fighting each other! Now get on your horses, both of you. We must be at Whiteladies before light."
Jonathan knew The Black Cross Inn at Bromsgrove from his earliest days. He and Giles had spent many evenings in the congenial warmth of the front parlour under the watchful but amused eye of the innkeeper, Joseph Bramble. Old Joseph had been dead many years now but his son, Harry, still ran the inn and Jonathan trusted Harry's loyalty implicitly.
He and the others had left the King in the hands of Lord Wilmot and the loyal Penderel brothers at a house called Whiteladies. The fewer who knew what plans were made for the King's escape the better. Buckingham had even begged the King not to tell them. With the King in safe hands, they had to concern themselves with their own safety and when night had fallen on the day after Worcester, they had gone their separate ways.
In the stillness of the night, Jonathan led his horse across the deserted stable yard into the stable and placed it in the furthest stall, well into the shadows. The other horses stirred and nickered but did not wake the stable lad, whose stentorian, drunken snoring came from one of the stalls
He looked around for a suitable place of concealment and decided the beams in the roof were strong enough to provide him with reasonable support—if somewhat lacking in comfort. He climbed up one of the stalls and swung himself into the beams. Slats had been laid between the beams to provide some storage for hay and he managed to make himself reasonably comfortable. Well concealed from a casual eye, he allowed himself the luxury of his first real sleep for days.
At daybreak, the stable boy came to life. He retched into the filthy straw and staggered out into the courtyard. Jonathan heard water being pumped and the sound of splashing before the boy began his morning chores. The presence of an extra horse did not seem to unduly alarm him and Jonathan's faithful mount shared the morning's rations.
The sight of the horse's feeding reminded Jonathan that he'd not eaten for some considerable time. He gritted his teeth and set himself to wait. It was well into mid-morning before a familiar face appeared at the stable door looking for the errant stable-hand who had fallen asleep again.
Harry's sister, Sally, had been a cheerful, pretty girl with flaming red hair. If she liked a man she had been more than happy to share her considerable favours and Jonathan had been sixteen when Sally had cast her eyes in his direction. He had been only too happy to follow where she had led. He knew by repute that she now had five children, all with different fathers, and presided over her brother's taproom—a loud, cheerful and formidable presence.
A few years older than Jonathan, time had not dealt kindly with her, but he still saw a trace of the girl in the large, frowzy woman who stood in the doorway.
"Sal!” he hissed from the rafters, not wanting to rouse the sleeping stable boy.
She looked up with a start, peering into the gloom but her surprise turned to a grin of delight as Jonathan slid off the rafters and landed ungracefully in the hay below. He stood up and brushed the straw from his clothes, shaking out his cramped limbs.
"I'm getting old, Sal,” he said ruefully.
"We all are, love but I'm right glad to see you,” she said, throwing her arms around him.
Jonathan suffered her embrace. For all her faults she had a heart of gold, and he still had an enormous affection for her.
"I need your help, Sal,” he said.
"Aye, I guessed that. I doubt that ‘ee would be hiding in my roof in the hope that it was my body you were after,” she said. “This wouldn't have anything to do with that scrap at Worcester the whole county's in a tizz about?"
He nodded.
"Well, you've picked a fine time to be skulking in my stable. I've a troop of Parliament horse in the front room,” Sal said, looking around as if she expected them to appear. “You need to stay put until it's a little quieter. I'll send my boy John out to you with something to eat and drink."
As Jonathan looked up at his perch in the rafters, a movement in the hay made them both start. His hand went to the hilt of his sword and he swung around on his heel. The stable boy, roused by their voices, cowered in alarm at the sword. Jonathan looked anxiously at Sal.
She smiled reassuringly. “Don't you mind Abel,” she said and tapped her head. “He's a bit daft but he'll not give you away. Will you?” She directed the last at the boy, who shook his head furiously.
True to her word, John, a hefty lad of about fifteen, appeared with bread, cheese and a jug of ale and kept watch while Jonathan wolfed down the food. Without any great enthusiasm Jonathan resumed his lofty perch and waited. It proved to be a long day and a longer evening. Twice, soldiers appeared at the door of the stable and gave the place a cursory glance, even prodding half-heartedly at the larger piles of hay. Jonathan held his breath and prayed they did not think to look upwards.
It must have been past midnight before Sal appeared at the door of the stable with a lantern. Stiff, cold and hungry again, Jonathan stumbled into the large, warm kitchen of the inn where Harry Bramble, as large and cheerful as his sister, waited for him.
"It's good to see you safe, Sir Jonathan,” he said. “Parliament soldiers aren't leaving a stick unturned anywhere in the county. Gave us a few hairy moments today, didn't they, Sal? Anyway we thought it best to wait until the soldiers were long gone afore fetchin’ you in."
"I owe you both a debt of gratitude,” Jonathan said humbly. God alone knew what fate would befall the Brambles if he had been discovered in the stables. “Just give me something to eat and I'll be gone in within the hour."
"Well, you're going to get nowhere looking like that.” Harry cast a critical eye over Jonathan's unmistakably military appearance.
Sally picked up a wicked looking pair of shears.
"We'll start with your hair,” she said. “Needs roughenin’ up a bit."
With no great skill but plenty of enthusiasm, she wielded her shears. Jonathan's clothes were replaced with an old brown doublet of Harry's father's, a little short but large enough, and a greasy leather jerkin, his boots with a serviceable but uncomfortable pair of shoes. Reluctantly he added his sword to the discarded pile of clothes.
"What do you want us to do with ‘em?” Harry asked.
"Can you look after the horse and when the hue and cry has died down take them to Seven Ways?"
"I heard there's a new Mistress at Seven Ways and her sympathies may not be all that they should be,” Sal said doubtfully.
Jonathan nodded. “She can be trusted, Sal."
She looked at him knowingly and bundled the clothes and the sword into Jonathan's cloak.
Harry sat down and contemplated the transformation. “Not bad. What do you think, Sal?"
Sal laughed. “If your mother could see you now, I swear she'd not recognize you. Now I reckon you'll be needing this."
She completed the picture by clapping Jonathan's own, now somewhat battered beaver onto his head, pulling it down over his ears.
Harry leaned forward. “Tomorrow I will be taking a wagon of ale to my cousin in Ludlow. You can ride along with me. It may take us a couple of days and there'll be troops on the road."
"Harry, please don't take this risk for me."
Harry shrugged. “I only wish I could take you further, Sir Jonathan."
His mind raced ahead. From Ludlow he should be able to find a way into Wales, where a boat could be found for Ireland. That would do. The way north would be heavily patrolled, as would the road to London and the road south through Gloucestershire.
He looked at the two familiar friendly faces and smiled. “I cannot thank you both enough."
"Aye well, there'll be time enough for thanks later.” Harry said. “You can doss down on that mattress there and we'll be off at daybreak."
The victorious Parliamentary army had wasted no time, and it seemed as if their full wrath had descended on Seven Ways. The whole household had been assembled in the great hall while from all over the house came the sound of furniture being upended, beds scraping, and splintering wood.
Kate forced her attention onto Colonel Price, who watched her with malicious triumph. He wore a military uniform, but to judge by its pristine condition and his generally well-rested demeanour he had obviously seen precious little of the fighting, if any. Price, angered by the sacking of his own home, now sought the opportunity to revenge himself on the woman who had cheated him of Seven Ways.
He rubbed his hands together. “Well you must know why I'm here, Mistress Ashley."
"No? Tell me.” Kate's voice was cold.
"We're seeking traitors, escaped from the battle which the Lord in his mercy gave to us,” Price replied.
"Well you'll find none here, save old men, women and children,” Kate replied, indicating her household.
"Come, Mistress Ashley.” The gleeful smile widened. “It's common knowledge that those two malignants, Giles Longley and Jonathan Thornton were here before the battle."
"I'll not deny that they were here,” Kate said. “They, like you, came with armed men, and while I can hardly prevent Lord Longley from visiting his wife or Thornton, his sister—” she cast a sidelong look of displeasure in Nell's direction “—I made it abundantly plain to that ungodly man, that this house is no longer his and he is not welcome. Any of my household can bear witness to that conversation."
To her gratification, a low murmur of assent from the assembled household, accompanied by nodding heads, bore out the truth of her words. The Thornton household had apparently, by dint of long practice, become accomplished dissemblers.
Price looked vaguely disappointed and began to bluster. The door of the great hall opened and another officer stood there with his hands on his hips surveying the assembled household with a cold, unsympathetic eye.
The newcomer was a man in his mid-thirties, fair-haired and not ill looking, despite a thinning pate. The cold, blue eyes, red rimmed with exhaustion, rested on Kate's face. With a flash of remembrance she saw again the stairs of her brother-in-law's house in York and those same eyes turned upon her—the eyes of Stephen Prescott.
She felt fear clutch at her heart but the house in York had been dark and she had carried no light. He would not have been able to see anything more of her than a shadowy figure in the gloom. To her relief she saw no recognition in his tired, still battle-stained face.
"Ah, Prescott.” Price turned to greet him. “Any success?"
Prescott joined the Colonel. “No,” he said, “no sign of the traitors, but we did find these."
He flung Nell's crucifix and rosary and her devotional missives to the floor in front of the women. Nell gave a sharp cry of distress.
"We seem to have unearthed a little nest of papists, Colonel,” Prescott remarked.
Colonel Price indicated Nell. “Indeed, Major. The papist is this lady—Lady Eleanor Longley, whose husband was with the traitor Charles Stuart and who is sister to Thornton. However this lady—” he indicated Kate “—is Mistress Katherine Ashley. Mistress Ashley is the widow of a Captain Richard Ashley of Fairfax's Regiment who, I am told, perished at Marston Moor. We have no reason to believe that Mistress Ashley is anything but loyal to our cause, despite having given food and lodging to the traitors.” He took a step towards Kate. “I will ask you again, madam. Have you seen either Giles Longley or Jonathan Thornton since the battle?"
Kate met his eye. “No, I have not seen either man since the battle. They know better than to come again to this house. It was enough that they saw fit to billet themselves here before the battle. I assure you I would have sent word to you as soon as they set foot here again."
Price gave a snort of exasperation. “Well, if you have finished, Major, we will leave this good lady for now.” He turned on his heel then as if struck by a thought, turned back to her. “We will be return, Mistress Ashley. I have every reason to believe either Longley or Thornton will try to make their way here. They have nowhere else to go."
"I have no doubt you will, Colonel,” said Kate evenly, “but it will avail you nothing. I will have no traitors in my house and you have my assurance that you will be the first to know if they arrive on this doorstep."
As the door closed and they heard the orders to depart barked through the house, Nell dropped to her knees, gathering the small icons of her faith in her hands. Kate walked slowly over to the window. She grasped the window ledge to stop her hands shaking.
She saw Prescott stride out into the courtyard and as he swung himself into the saddle, he turned and looked back at the house. She saw in his face, a wolfish malevolence that went beyond an enmity born of differing allegiances. She felt a cold chill run down her spine.
Clutching her crucifix and missives to her chest, Nell joined her at the window. “I'm sorry, Kate. I told you I would bring nothing but trouble."
Kate turned to look at her. “You know,” she said quietly, “before I met Jonathan Thornton I had never told a lie in my life. Now all I seem to do is lie, and so much seem to depend on how good a liar I can be."
She suspected Nell knew nothing about Prescott and whatever feud lay between him and her brother, but as she looked at her friend's strained, white face she knew that to make a confidante of Nell at this time would be a dangerous thing, so she kept her peace. Major Prescott's personal interest in this house and its inhabitants would have to remain her secret alone.
It took the rest of the day to restore the house to order. No chest had been left unemptied and no piece of furniture unmoved. The search had been thorough and destructive, but mercifully nothing seemed to have been plundered, not that there was much of value. It gave her some comfort that Price did not dare push her too far.
As evening drew on Kate sat in the parlour sorting through the pile of torn linen that would now require mending. She scarcely heard the timid knock at the door. When it came again she looked up with a start and saw Essie Barlow standing in the doorway.