"He told me the child was dead!” Kate could not disguise the hurt and anger in Kate's voice. “And all the time she has been here? Why did he lie to me?"
Henrietta frowned. “He didn't lie to you, Kate! Tabitha has only been with us since Jonathan brought her here last year. He told us that he had only recently discovered the child was alive and he went to look for her in Oxford after he left you. She was in the care of her great-grandmother. The poor child had been ill used. When he brought her to us she bore the marks of a terrible beating. Oh Kate, you should have seen the little mite. He could not have left her!"
"Why didn't he bring her to me?” Kate felt tears of hurt prick the back of her eyes. She would have taken the child to her heart, kept her safe and loved until her father came back to them both.
Henrietta shook her head. “He felt he had brought enough trouble upon you and to return to Seven Ways presented too much of a danger. We agreed to take care of her until such time as it was safe for her to go to Seven Ways. He intended to write and tell you. Of course we had thought to hear from him before now so we have waited..."
Kate frowned. “What I don't understand is how he came to find her? He would not have willingly risked going to Oxford, where he is known, unless he knew she was there?"
Henrietta shook her head. “That he wouldn't tell me, but for some reason the knowledge that she existed had come to him only recently."
Suddenly a memory, so painful that Kate had willed herself to obliterate it, came flooding back and she saw Long Barn again and the two shadowy figures circling each other and heard their voices, low and menacing.
"Prescott!” she whispered more to herself than to Henrietta. “All the time the child lived."
"Sorry, dear, I didn't hear that.” Henrietta leaned towards her. “My hearing is not what it was."
Kate recovered herself. “It doesn't matter,” she said. “The child is here now and safe."
Henrietta smiled indulgently. “Nathaniel and I have grown very fond of her but not a day goes by when she does not remind us of Jonathan's promise to write to her. It breaks the child's heart. What can we tell her?"
"He would not break that promise, Mistress Freeman, unless he had to..."
The two women looked at each other, their fear written in their eyes.
Henrietta grasped Kate's hands and said urgently, “All we can do is pray that Nathaniel can find her father."
The news Nathaniel Freeman's efficient clerk presented to his master looked promising. He had found someone on the dock who remembered the night in October when a tall, dark-haired man had been taken away by the soldiers. The wherryman remembered it particularly because there had been talk that it was the King himself who had been taken.
Nathaniel Freeman pressed the ends of his fingers together and thought hard. His first and greatest fear had been allayed. Jonathan had not been lost at sea but it gave rise to a greater question. If he had been taken prisoner then where was he and why had he made no attempt to contact Nathaniel? Whoever had him captive held him close and in Nathaniel Freeman's acquaintance he could think of only one person who would have reason for doing that: John Thurloe.
He stood up and looked at the window of Thurloe's offices across the Whitehall courtyard. He waited until he saw Thurloe himself cross the courtyard with a bundle of papers under his arm.
Thurloe's clerk, at work at his desk, looked up as Nathaniel approached. “Master Freeman?"
Nathaniel made a show of looking at Thurloe's open door. “I see I have missed Master Thurloe?"
"He has a meeting with the Council of State. I expect he will be gone a couple of hours. Is there anything I could be of assistance with?"
Nathaniel shook his head. “No, I doubt it.” He made a move towards the door. “Well perhaps ... do you, perchance, hold a list of prisoners detained immediately following the affray at Worcester?"
"I do."
Nathaniel sent a quiet prayer of thanks to the ever-methodical John Thurloe. The clerk produced a paper.
"Anyone in particular?” the clerk enquired with complete trust.
"John Miller is the name I seek."
"Miller?” The clerk scanned the list with an ink-stained forefinger. “Ah yes. John Miller, bookseller. He has been in the Tower since October for selling seditious pamphlets. Is that the man?"
"It is. Thank you."
"Shall I tell Master Thurloe you called?"
Nathaniel was halfway out of the door. “No need to bother him."
But he knew the clerk would make the report.
In the calm of his office, Nathaniel leaned against the door. He only had a couple of hours before Thurloe would learn of his interest in John Miller. Thurloe knew Freeman's relationship to Jonathan Thornton. He had to move fast.
A sharp jab in the ribs pulled Jonathan painfully back to reality. He cursed and pulled his cloak and the rough, threadbare blanket closer around him.
"You've company."
The turnkey jabbed him again and Jonathan forced himself to straighten up. The mere act of moving caused him to cough. He put a hand to his chest as if the touch would stop the pain but he knew it would not. The cough had been getting steadily worse and the movement of his arm irritated the suppurating sores on his wrists where the manacles had rubbed.
"Orright. In you go,” he heard the turnkey say.
"Dear God. Is that really you, Jonathan?"
Jonathan uncurled stiffly and peered at the shadowy figure by the door, scarcely daring to hope. “Nathaniel?” he gasped. “Are you a vision?"
"No, lad, I'm real enough."
Nathaniel stepped forward into the cell until he drew level with the huddled figure on the bed. He sat down on the rickety stool and, squinting in the gloom, examined his nephew.
"Christ!” he blasphemed. “What have they done to you, boy? Have you been tortured?"
Jonathan gave an ironic snort of laugher. “They've done nothing to me, Uncle Absolutely nothing. Just left me here to rot.” The chains clanked as he swept his hand around the small room.
"Have you been manacled the whole time?"
Jonathan nodded. “How did you find me?"
"Something of an educated guess. Do you know John Thurloe?"
Jonathan frowned. “Thurloe? I know that name?"
"A lawyer. You met him when you worked with me. Thurloe has a particular interest in the security of the realm."
"So he knows who I am?"
"I presume he does."
"So why has he kept me like this?"
Nathaniel shook his head. “I can only guess that he may have a use for you, and this little interlude is to make you more receptive to his proposal."
Jonathan tried to speak but the effort just made him cough. Nathaniel reached for the jug of fetid water on the table and poured it into the cup, handing it to his nephew.
"How long have you had that cough?"
Jonathan drank the water and raised his head, shaking back the tangled hair. “A few weeks. I don't know. I don't even know what date it is. It's been getting worse. How did you find me?"
"Your Kate Ashley,” Nathaniel said. “She came to me because she was concerned that you had apparently vanished off the face of the earth."
Jonathan felt his pulse quicken.
"Kate is here? In London?"
"Staying with Henrietta and me. I've not told her anything yet. I needed to be sure that you were at least alive."
"Barely."
"Nonsense. You always had a capacity for overdramatising!"
Nathaniel's familiar, pragmatic voice brought a smile to Jonathan's mouth. “Tabitha?” he asked.
In the gloom Nathaniel smiled indulgently at the mention of Jonathan's daughter. “You wouldn't recognize her, Jon. A different child."
Jonathan closed his eyes. “I failed her again, Uncle. I promised I would write..."
Nathaniel put a hand on his shoulder. “Jon, you're alive. That's all we need to know."
"I couldn't even send you word. They have me guarded closer than a nun in a cloister in here.” He looked at his uncle. “Are you able to help me?"
The key turned in the lock and the turnkey appeared in the doorway. “Time's up. Got word himself is coming, and he'll be none too pleased to find you here, Master Freeman."
Nathaniel stood up. “I must go. Thurloe won't know I've been. The turnkey has been well paid, and he'll see you have some modicum of comfort provided. Promise me you won't die in the next twenty-four hours and I'll see what I can do.” He put a hand on Jonathan's shoulder. “A little more patience, lad. John Thurloe is not an easy man to get around."
The door slammed behind Nathaniel, and for the first time in nearly six months Jonathan allowed himself a small glimmer of hope. He leaned back against the wall and drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping cloak and blanket tightly around him. The cold, grey walls closed in on him and he shut his eyes, forcing his mind to turn away from his present predicament to Seven Ways and the memory of Kate standing by the gate, her hair dishevelled and her face flushed from a day at the harvest, smiling up at him, loving him.
Jonathan's eyes flickered open at the sound of the door opening. The light from the lantern showed a man standing in the doorway a kerchief pressed to his nose.
"He's not well, sir,” the turnkey whistled through his teeth. “Reckons as he'll be lucky to see out the month."
"I see. Why was I not informed of his condition earlier?"
"Well you said...” the turnkey began but a wave of the man's hand cut his protestations short.
"Wake him."
The turnkey moved to the bed and prodded Jonathan. Jonathan, his breath rattling in his chest, pulled himself into a sitting position and pushed the hair away from his eyes to face the man responsible for his misery. He looked over at the man by the door and forced his tired mind to concentrate. So John Thurloe had come in person. Jonathan recognized him now and remembered him as an ambitious young lawyer. He gathered his scattered wits and prepared for battle.
"Turnkey, remove those manacles."
The turnkey obeyed, removing the ankle chains as well. Jonathan raised his wrists in gratitude. This one act of compassion in all the months of imprisonment should have been enough to make him profoundly grateful to this man.
"Leave us,” Thurloe commanded and the door shut behind the turnkey.
"Stand up, Thornton."
Not without difficulty Jonathan complied with the order. The movement brought on a bout of coughing and he found he had to lean against the wall to keep himself upright. Thurloe looked him up and down and he wondered what Thurloe saw behind the filthy, bearded prisoner. A man whom he had broken? A man who could be made to see reason?
"My name is John Thurloe,” Thurloe began.
"I know. You were a friend of my uncle's,” Jonathan coughed. “Why are you here? What do you want of me, Thurloe?"
Thurloe smiled. “You're direct, Colonel. It is Colonel, is it not?"
Jonathan gave an ironic snort of laughter. “For what it was worth!"
"You, Jonathan Thornton, are the singular possessor of a number of personal properties that could be of great value to me."
"I have nothing of value!"
"You have no family, no ties."
Jonathan resisted the urge to smile. The man's information was not as accurate as he no doubt thought.
"Secondly, you have no money."
That at least was true.
"And thirdly you are a close personal friend of Charles Stuart."
"So?"
"I am prepared to offer you your freedom."
"And in return?” Jonathan asked, already guessing at the answer.
"Information,” Thurloe replied. “Your plausible escape from your present predicament can be arranged. Your friends in Paris will of course greet you with open arms and there you will be in an ideal position to provide me with regular information of use to the Commonwealth."
Jonathan gave a hollow laugh. “Why don't you just say the word ‘spy’ and be done with it, Thurloe?"
"Very well, I want you to spy for me. Direct enough?” Thurloe looked around the cell. “You must admit that at this point in time you have nothing to lose."
"Only my life!” Jonathan coughed again.
"Do sit down, Colonel. Your health is obviously of some concern. Had I known you were ill I would have—"
"Done what? Absolutely nothing, Thurloe. Be honest!” Jonathan subsided on to the cot. “What is to prevent me taking your offer of freedom and then ... withdrawing my co-operation?"
Thurloe's eyes narrowed. “My reach is long, Colonel. I already have agents in the exiled court. Information can be easily verified, and if you are found to be playing me false ... accidents can be arranged."
Jonathan rose to his feet again and paced the short distance to the opposite wall before turning to face the Secretary of State.
"Master Thurloe, I'd not be lying if I said that in my present circumstances, your offer is not extremely tempting but—” he paused for breath “—in this world I serve two masters: the lawful King of England and my own conscience. I can't be loyal to both if I have sold my soul to you."
Thurloe turned to face him. “I take no offence at the analogy, Colonel Thornton. Indeed it's refreshing that, despite your present condition, you still feel that way. There are others who would not be quite so obstinate. Personally, I think you a fool, so think on it. The offer remains open. A simple yes, and in a few days, a comfortable bed in Paris and money in your purse—” He crossed to the door and banged loudly. “Turnkey!"
"And if I do not change my mind?” Jonathan asked, leaning against the damp, mildewed wall.
Thurloe turned to look at him once more. “You will be dead within a week or so, with no intervention from me. Good day to you, Colonel Thornton."
Jonathan slid down the wall as the door slammed shut.
"Damn you, Thurloe. Damn you to hell!” he forced his tortured lungs to scream at the impervious oaken door and solid stone walls.
His only hope now rested with Nathaniel Freeman.
Nathaniel Freeman did not waste the opportunity presented by a chance encounter with John Thurloe in the corridors of Whitehall. He grabbed the Secretary of State by the arm and firmly pushed him into an empty room. He had known Thurloe a long time and had a great respect for his talents but this time the man had exceeded himself and Nathaniel Freeman was angry, very angry.