There seemed no point denying it and he nodded.
"What's your name?” she asked.
"Jon,” he said simply. It would be better for the child not to know his full name.
She held the lantern up again and touched his bruised face, screwing her own up in response. “That looks awfully sore. Father didn't know about Hew,” she said. “Mother threw a trencher at him, when he told her what he'd done."
"Is your father the blacksmith?” It seemed incredible that such a burly man could produce such an elfin creature.
Sarah nodded.
It occurred to Jonathan that time was wasting in idle conversation. He turned himself so his back was to Sarah. “Can you undo these ropes?” he asked.
Obediently she set to work but her small fingers were no match for the skilful knots. Jonathan felt his small thread of hope beginning to evaporate. Every moment they delayed the soldiers would be coming closer.
A loud rustling from the direction Sarah had entered made them both start. An older boy of about twelve appeared from behind the boxes.
"Hurry up, Sarah,” he hissed.
"Owen,” she wailed. “They've tied him up and I can't undo the knots."
"Here, let me!"
The boy, Owen, crossed the floor towards them. His stronger, more skilful fingers made quick work of the knots. Jonathan sighed with relief as he shook out his cramped arms, trying to get some feeling back into the numb fingers.
"This way, sir,” Owen urged him, indicating the back of the cellar from where he had come. “There's a tunnel from here to the churchyard. It's very old and I don't think many people know about it. It's only ‘cause ma was born in the inn that she knew about it."
Behind the boxes Jonathan saw a small opening at ground level. He recoiled. His height gave him an illusion of being slight, but he knew he carried some breadth across the shoulders and the size of the opening gave him pause as weighed up the potential threat of death by slow suffocation against his fate at the hands of the soldiers.
"You'll fit,” Owen opined with considerable more confidence than Jonathan felt.
The tunnel proved a tight squeeze in parts and Jonathan began to have some sympathy with Giles and his fear of small, dark spaces. When they eventually emerged from beneath the church into the churchyard, he breathed the cool fresh air with gratitude, offering silent thanks to God for his deliverance from the tunnel.
"Sir, this way!"
A woman stood in the shadow of a large yew tree, holding the reins of a small horse.
"This is Mother,” said Sarah and by way of explanation added for her mother's benefit, “He's not the King. His name is John."
"There I told you, silly,” her mother said, her soft voice betraying a Welsh accent. She held the lantern up to him. “Oh, your poor face,” she said as Jonathan flinched away from her touch. “I was so cross with Morgan and when I told him that you had saved Hew he was proper sorry for hitting you."
"Do you have anything to drink with you?” he asked.
She produced a flask of small ale and he drank greedily.
Owen, who had taken up watch at the church gate, ran towards them. “I can hear horses,” he said.
"There's food in the saddle bag,” the woman said. “You must hurry. The soldiers will be here within minutes. The horse is for you. Morgan says it is the least he can do."
She handed him the reins of the horse. Sarah handed him his hat and cloak, which she had retrieved from the floor of the cellar, as he swung himself into the saddle.
He leaned from the saddle and kissed the woman's hand.
"Thank you, Mistress Morgan. I'll not forget this kindness."
"You owe us nothing, sir,” she said. “We will have Hew to remind us of our debt to you."
A loud clamour from the direction of the inn proclaimed that “Charles Stuart's” escape from the cellar had been discovered. With a backward wave at the two children, Jonathan kicked the horse into a canter and rode away from the village as fast as the horse would take him.
The walls of the lower parlour seemed to close in on Kate as the full import of the piece of paper she held in her hand hit her. She looked frantically from the smug, self-important face of Colonel Price, dressed for the occasion in buff coat and a sash with gold fringing, to the implacable, unreadable face of Major Prescott who leaned against the fireplace idly stoking the logs.
"The order is quite clear, my dear Mistress Ashley,” Colonel Price repeated. “The Committee has ordered that you surrender to me the livestock and produce listed as compensation for the losses I incurred at the hands of Charles Stuart's followers."
"These are our winter stores. We'll starve! What gives the Committee the right to make this order? It was not me who took your stores and livestock.” Kate tried to keep the panic out of her voice.
Colonel Price smirked. “Someone must pay for the ransacking of my home by Longley and Thornton. May I remind you, madam, regardless of the present ownership that this estate is still subject to considerable debts owing for the participation by its occupants in the late troubles."
"Surely those debts died with Sir Francis!” Kate grew desperate. She turned to Prescott. “Major Prescott, surely this cannot be right?"
Stephen Prescott shrugged. “The charge is on the land, regardless of ownership. I am sorry, Mistress Ashley, the order is valid, however morally reprehensible."
He cast a cold glance in the direction of the portly colonel and for a brief moment Kate almost liked him.
"I'm not the fool you take me for, Colonel. You think by this action you will beggar this estate into a position where we must sell?” Kate glared at him. “In that you are mistaken. I shall be writing to Master Freeman."
"It will avail you nothing, Mistress Ashley. Even Master Freeman lacks the power to overturn this order."
Kate cast the man as cold and venal a look as she could muster, and with the two men following her, she swept from the room to issue the order to Jacob Howell. She watched helplessly as the hard-won sacks of grain were loaded onto carts and her sheep and cattle were driven away by ten of Prescott's men.
"What about the horses?” Price demanded.
To Kate's surprise, Prescott stood firm, barring the door to the stables. “I'm sorry, Price, but the order is satisfied without any necessity to take the horses. Unless you want to bring London down on your head, you would be advised not to provoke the situation any further."
Price's face turned scarlet but the threat of London, reminded him that the widow Ashley did indeed have some powerful friends. He drew his cloak around him and without acknowledging her presence mounted his horse. Prescott gave Kate a curt nod of the head and followed.
As the last of the soldiers rode off, Kate remained standing in the courtyard as the chill autumn wind whipped unheeded around her ankles. Jacob crept up beside her in silent sympathy.
"Mistress Ashley,” he said, “it's not all bad. I had some word of the Colonel's intentions, so we managed to hide the best of the horses and some of the livestock in the quarry."
She smiled sadly at him. “Thank you, Jacob, but I don't think that will be enough to get us through the winter."
"What will you do, Mistress?"
She shivered as the wind gusted around them. “I don't know, Jacob,” she said and, gathering her skirts in her hand, walked slowly back into the house.
Once inside her misery gave way to a rare and sudden anger. Without knocking, she burst into Nell's room. Nell sat by the fire, apparently alone.
"Have they gone?” she asked. “Kate?"
"Where's Giles?"
"In the priest hole,” Nell said. “We saw Price and thought it prudent."
Without waiting for her friend, Kate swept down to the study and opened the priest hole. Wincing, Giles eased himself out.
"You!” Kate jabbed an accusing finger at Giles. “This is all your fault."
Nell had followed Kate into the study and went to her husband's assistance.
"What do you mean?” she asked.
"Price and his bullies have just stripped this manor bare of its winter supplies, because
you
decided to extract your revenge on him while you had your chance. It's your liberation of the wine cellar at Longley Abbey that has ensured we may well starve this winter."
Nell gasped and put her hands to her mouth.
Giles looked ghastly. “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 down on a chair at the desk and looked at her friends. “What am I going to do?” she asked no one in particular.
Nell sat down next to her. “Could we not borrow the money?"
"From whom?” Kate said bitterly.
"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. She slammed the door to her bedchamber behind her and stood for a moment, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps that gave way to sobs.
What made the life of a fugitive totally 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 last coin had been taken by the villagers before they had thrown him into the cellar and even though this part of the country had always been loyal to the King and he could have sold the horse for a good price, he skirted towns and villages, conscious now of his distinctive looks, not improved by the black eye. 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 in mind 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 down beside one of the vegetable beds and began to pick what looked to be carrots. Jonathan's stomach knotted, and banishing his pride, he stood up, brushing the worst of the grass and dust from his clothes, uncomfortably aware of the alarming appearance he presented.
Looping the reins over his arm he limped down towards the house. Hearing the sound of the horse the woman looked up, her eyes widening in fright. Now he was up close, Jonathan saw how very young she was, and from her clothes, he concluded that he had stumbled upon the daughter of the house.
She held up the fork, defensively, 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. 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 had begun 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, only a matter of moments later, the girl knelt over him, her face full of concern. His first thought concerned her breasts that swelled alluringly over the top of her bodice. He quickly averted his eyes.
"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 his composure. “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 looked at her warily and she added quickly, “You're quite safe in this house. My husband's son was killed fighting for the King.” She paused and looked doubtful. “Are you one of the Scots?"
He shook his head. “English."
"Good,” she said, “I'm not so sure about the Scots. I've heard terrible stories of them. Come to the house, sir, and I shall see to some food. Can you stand?"
He nodded and she helped him to his feet. He leaned on her and allowed her to lead him into the kitchen. Although he didn't really need the physical support, the sympathy was pleasant. She seated him at a table and explained that her husband was away from home and the rest of the household was busy with the harvest. It seemed to be just herself and a woman she introduced as Maggie, who viewed the dirty, ragged stranger in her kitchen with obvious suspicion.
At her mistress’ instructions Maggie deposited a large bowl of hot stew, accompanied by bread and ale, in front of him. Without the slightest recourse to manners he downed the stew, and Maggie obligingly refilled the bowl.
"What day is it?” he asked when he had eventually eaten his fill.
"Friday,” she replied
Jonathan looked down at the table. Ten days since Worcester and he seemed no closer to escape.
The girl reached over and took his left hand.
"You're hurt!” the girl exclaimed.
With all his other difficulties, the savage cut across the back of his hand had just been another inconvenience and he had hardly thought of it, but the girl seemed concerned and bustled around finding bandages and salves. The tattered, filthy bandage Kate had tied so many days ago had become well adhered to the wound and the young woman had to soak it off. Despite the ill treatment the wound seemed to be healing without putrification. She salved and redressed the hand.