Kate caught the bitterness in his voice.
"If Richard still lived, would Sir Francis have named him his heir instead of Thomas?” she asked.
Jonathan nodded. “I think he would have done. Time has softened the edges of his anger and I believe my grandfather quite genuinely regrets the estrangement, Kate. Yes, he would have made peace with Richard."
"Then why not with his father? Richard was dead but David Ashley has only been dead this year past."
Jonathan shrugged. “I can't answer for my grandfather. It's my observation, no more, that the King's execution marked the final resistance for Francis. Nothing else seemed to matter if they could kill a king with such impunity."
Kate toyed with the food on her plate.
"Do you have time to come to Barton?” she asked. She looked up at him, hoping that the deepening shadows in the room would disguise the yearning she felt in her heart. “I'm sure Tom would love to have you to himself for a few more days,” she added hurriedly.
He shook his head. “I can't dally, Kate. The King is in Scotland and will be waiting on me and the letters I carry."
Impulsively Kate reached out and put her hand on his. “Don't go, Jonathan."
He looked down at her hand and before she could withdraw it, curled his fingers around hers. She felt the heat rise to her cheeks and pulled her hand back, burying it within the folds of her skirt as if it had been burnt. Without looking at him, she sensed his eyes on her face.
"I appreciate your concern, Kate,” he said at last, “but I am bound to the King. I must go to Scotland."
"And what awaits you in Scotland?” she asked, her heart tight within her bodice.
"I may be given a regiment of horse but,” he said with a shrug, “with the Scots calling the tune I may well be doing nothing. That is the soldier's lot.” There was an edge of bitterness in his voice.
Kate turned to him, her eyes creased with concern. “You will be careful?"
He smiled, a humourless smile not echoed by his eyes. “Kate, there is no one knows better than I how to look after myself. I have managed remarkably well up to this point in time."
Kate shivered. “As your sister said, you may well tempt fate once too often, Jonathan."
He looked at her, the hazel eyes searching her face, a slight frown puckering his brow. “And that worries you, Kate?"
"Yes,” she admitted. “As the fate of any
friend
would concern me,” she added.
Jonathan raised his glass. “Then let us drink to friendship, Mistress Ashley. A valuable commodity in these times."
She raised her glass in answer. “Friendship."
"Jonathan! You're not listening,” Tom exclaimed.
"Sorry, Tom. What did you say?"
They had entered York, and a multitude of thoughts had been running through Jonathan's mind, ranging from the elegant line of Kate's back as she sat her horse, to the imminent farewell and the long, lonely ride north to Scotland.
"I asked if you were going to stay at Uncle William's with us.” Tom's raised voice broke his reverie and he shot Kate a quick glance.
"Uncle William?” he asked.
Kate smiled. “My sister's husband. His house is just down this street, yonder.” Kate indicated a pleasant, half-timbered house. “He's been seeing to the wool sales, and the plan is that Tom and I will travel back to Barton with him. You would be welcome to stay.” Kate looked up at Jonathan. “William is a generous host."
Jonathan considered for a moment. A few more hours of Kate's company, a comfortable bed and cheap lodgings were hard to resist.
"If your brother-in-law has no objection, I would be honoured,” he replied.
The smile lit up Kate's face. “Oh no, I'm sure William won't mind."
"I have some business that I must transact first, Kate. If I could leave my horse, I'll go on foot."
"Of course. There are stables at the rear of the house. Dickon will see to Amber. Shall we expect you for supper?"
Jonathan shook his head. “I've no idea how long my business will take. Don't expect me."
The disappointment on Kate's face was plain to see. Jonathan resisted the temptation to reach out a finger and raise her face to look into her eyes, to kiss her. He took a steadying breath and cursed himself for forgetting, just for a moment, that his life allowed for no such distractions, beyond passing dalliances. Yet he had let his guard down with this woman, let her grey eyes into his soul and had, even more serious, let her form an attachment that, whatever he wished, could never have a future.
His business involved a wealthy merchant, probably not unlike William Rowe, who lived across the river. The rain had stopped and a broken sunlight dappled the narrow, muddy streets. After the long days in the saddle, Jonathan relished the chance to stretch his legs. He had been to York before and had a lingering affection for the ancient town with its magnificent minster, mercifully spared the ravages of a victorious parliamentary army by its commander, Sir Thomas Fairfax.
A bookseller with a tempting table of books caught his eye. It was no coincidence that he took the personae of a bookseller in his travels. He loved books and over the years had compensated for his indolent years at Oxford by becoming a voracious reader.
To his delight he saw a copy of Shakespeare's sonnets in pristine condition. He picked the book up and turned it over in his hands, gently flicking through the pages, handling it with the same care he would show a beautiful piece of glass. He wondered if Kate cared for the sonnets and in a brief flash of romantic fantasy, imagined himself reading them to her in a peaceful time that he knew did not exist.
A shadow fell across the table. Assuming it to be the bookseller, Jonathan said. “I'll take this volume—"
"Thornton!” The name fell onto the table like a fist.
Jonathan looked up in horror, his eyes meeting the cold, blue eyes of a man he knew too well, a man he had once called a friend.
The stocky man in the uniform of a parliamentary officer smiled without humour or warmth. “Thornton. God is with me this day,” he hissed with a barely aspirated voice
Jonathan dropped the book and threw the table over in one swift movement. He took off down the street crowded with the afternoon's shoppers, pursuit not far behind. The man he knew as Stephen Prescott gathered his men for the chase, and he could hear their feet pounding on the cobbles and their shouted exhortations for someone to stop the fugitive.
The shoppers parted before the running figure but despite the urging of the soldiers, none made to catch him. Twisting and turning down the narrow streets, Jonathan found himself unable to shed his pursuers. His heavy boots slipped on the wet, mired streets and made running hard. Almost spent, he heard Prescott behind him, urging his men on.
Jonathan turned sharply down a street he knew led to one of the gates but was brought up short by a heavy ox cart, laden down with wool bales, taking the width of the passageway.
"Cornered, Thornton!” he heard Prescott's breathless voice behind him and turned slowly to face his pursuers.
There was no mistaking the look of malicious triumph on Stephen Prescott's face as he saw he had his quarry trapped. For a brief moment Jonathan considered fighting his way out, but one look at the heavily armed troopers behind Prescott changed his mind.
Slowly he raised his hands away from the hilt of his sword. At least with so public an apprehension, there might be some hope of fair trial, if not escape.
The fascinated crowd pressed back against the shops as Prescott swaggered towards him. The man stopped some fifteen yards from Jonathan, breathing heavily, apparently savouring the moment. Jonathan met his eyes, determined that Prescott would see no fear in them.
Prescott straightened and slowly and deliberately raised his heavy pistol. Jonathan saw his death written in the man's eyes and did not flinch as the report of the pistol echoed from the houses.
The watching crowd gasped and Jonathan felt a blow to his shoulder. The force knocked him backwards, and he fell to his knees in the mud. There was no time for pain as he looked up and saw Prescott accepting a second pistol from one of his soldiers. A horrible sense of inevitability crossed Jonathan's mind as he knelt, waiting to be shot like a dog in the streets of York. Stephen Prescott: his judge, jury and executioner.
"Scurvy Roundhead!” An angry voice broke the silence.
From somewhere in the horrified crowd, a missile flew through the air striking the Roundhead officer squarely on the chest. Prescott staggered, dropping the pistol, wildly looking around to see who had thrown the missile. The rest of the crowd, sickened by the shooting of a man in cold blood, joined in the fray, hurling whatever missile came to hand at the unpopular troopers. Forced to defend themselves the troopers retreated from the fury of the crowd that interposed itself between Prescott and the fallen man.
Jonathan mustered his scattered thoughts. He saw the chance and took it. Heedless of his injury, he rolled under the cart, scrambling away from the growing melee. On the other side of the cart he rose unevenly to his feet and, the world roaring in his ears, he stumbled forward, to be caught by a pair of strong hands.
"This way!” a man's voice hissed in his ear.
Reality blurred and faded; his rescuer half-carried and half-dragged him down the narrow streets. He felt himself pushed through a dark shop entrance and bundled into something that seemed no bigger than a large cupboard. The door shut and he heard furniture being moved in front of it.
Alone in the pitiless dark, his heart thumping behind his ribcage, Jonathan took a long, slow shuddering breath and bit his lip against the sudden fierce and terrible pain in his shoulder. It would be more than his life was worth to utter a sound. He put a shaking hand to the injury, his fingers feeling the warm stickiness of blood. He clutched his left arm to his chest and closed his eyes, trying to control the shock and muster his thoughts as the dark air of the cupboard closed in on him.
He came back to his senses, lying on a none-too-clean floor while someone poured brandy into him. He spluttered on the burning liquid. A bearded face came into view and strong hands hauled him into a sitting position.
"Ye can't stay here,” the man said. “The soldiers have already been and I've a wife and bairns upstairs. Have ye friends in York?"
Jonathan found his voice. “Petergate. The house of...” The instinct of his profession overcame his fuddled senses. “Just get me as far as Petergate."
The beard nodded. “Aye, I can do that for ‘ee. Now on your feet."
Despite being a good head shorter than Jonathan, his saviour was solid and took the weight of the taller man with ease. Winding their way through the back ways and alleys of the city, they made a faltering progress to Petergate.
"Just around the corner is the minster. I'll leave you ‘ere,” the man said. “The wife will be wondering where I've gone."
"Thank you,” Jonathan muttered, struggling to keep a grip on consciousness. “I owe you my life."
"Aye, well I've no love for them troopers, particularly not when they take to shootin’ unarmed men in't street."
He melted away into the dark. Jonathan leaned against the wall, breathing heavily but determined not to faint. It was just a little way to the tenuous safety of William Rowe's house.
Kate sat back in her chair and smiled affectionately at her brother-in-law as William Rowe poured another glass of wine and belched with satisfaction.
"Damned good meal,” he said. “Made all the better for your company, my dear."
Kate laughed. “Don't tell me that. I know you relish escaping from Suzanne for a few days. I've probably ruined your plans for a game of cards tonight."
"Aye well, mayhap you have,” William agreed. “But truth is we've all missed you, my dear. The farm's doing well. Young Phillip's done you proud.” He looked at dark sky outside the window. “Now when's this cousin of Richard's turning up? Lookin’ forward to meeting him. Does he play cards?"
"He does and rather better than you I suspect, William."
"Never! Don't ‘ee durst tell thy sister but I'm a dab hands at cards."
Kate smiled and William continued. “So these Thornton relatives of yourn have been hard done by?"
Kate shook her head. “They've nothing left, William, but a run-down estate and their pride. The price for supporting the King has been heavy."
William nodded. “Aye, well, they're not alone there, lass. There's many here in Yorkshire that has suffered the same fate. What is it, Mistress Gates?"
William's housekeeper hovered in the doorway.
"Please, sir. I'd not disturb you but there's a man in my kitchen asking for Mistress Ashley.” Indignation flashed into the woman's face. “Bleedin’ all over my clean floor he is."
William rose to his feet but Kate had already gone, running down the corridor and the stairs to the kitchen.
Jonathan stood by the door or rather leant against the wall, holding his left arm, his face ashen and, as Mrs. Gates had observed, dripping blood from his left hand onto the immaculate floor.
"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.