By The Sword

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  Wings ePress, Inc

  www.wings-press.com

  Copyright ©2007 by Alison Brideson

  First published in 2007, 2007

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  By The Sword

  "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.

  Other Works From The Pen Of

  Alison Stuart

  The King's Man

  In the dark days of Cromwell's rule, Kit Lovell and Thamsine Granville are drawn into an underworld of espionage and plots where the price for betrayal is death.

  Short Background Note

  The Thornton and Ashley families are entirely fictional but they move in and around the people and events of their times. The battle of Worcester is among the last battles ever fought on English soil and the reminders of that time are still very much to be found around that lovely city. The story of Charles II's unsuccessful attempt to regain his throne and his flight from the battle of Worcester has been the subject of many books, both fact and fiction. It is a tale so full of near misses and unbelievable courage that no mere fiction writer could ever have imagined it!

  "Seven Ways” itself bears a very close resemblance both in appearance and location to Harvington Hall near Kidderminster in Worcestershire, a place that held a special significance to my grandfather, who took great pleasure in showing me all the priest holes—including the one in the study that is much as described! However, unlike many old houses in that part of Worcestershire, there is no recorded history of the fleeing Charles II taking refuge there.

  Alison Stuart

  Wings

  By The Sword

  by

  Alison Stuart

  A Wings ePress, Inc.

  Historical Romance Novel

  Wings ePress, Inc.

  Edited by: Leslie Hodges

  Copy Edited by: Sara V. Olds

  Senior Editor: Leslie Hodges

  Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

  Cover Artist: Richard Stroud

  All rights reserved

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Wings ePress Books

  www.wings-press.com

  Copyright © 2007 by Alison Brideson

  ISBN 978-1-59705-255-9

  Published In the United States Of America

  September 2007

  Wings ePress Inc.

  403 Wallace Court

  Richmond, KY 40475

  Dedication

  To my grandfather ALST

  Prologue

  Devon

  1646

  Thrrm. Thrrm.

  The beat of the drum, as steady and relentless as the rain, was the only sound in the village square as the wretched group of men staggered out of the church. Dirty, unshaven and reeking, they still wore the tattered vestiges of a once-proud blue uniform—the shabby remnants of the King's army. Blinking in the light and oblivious to the rain, they stared in bewilderment and disbelief at the five hastily erected gibbets that faced them.

  The stony-faced drummer continued his steady cadence as the prisoners shuffled into line. Watching from his vantage point beside his drummer, Captain Stephen Prescott, resplendent in the scarlet uniform of the New Model Army, scanned the line of men, seeking out the face of his nemesis.

  Little distinguished Jonathan Thornton from his men, except his height. He staggered forward with his head bowed. Only as the trooper behind him pushed him to the end of the row did he lift his head; Prescott smiled with vicious satisfaction at the sight of the bruised and battered face, the legacy of the savage beating his prisoner had received the night before.

  Prescott's eyes flicked away from Jonathan Thornton to the fresh-faced boy, barely old enough to grow a beard, who stood beside him. Despite a defiant expression on his face, the boy's hands shook with more than just the cold and the rain. Prescott summarily scanned the rest of the line and gave a curt nod of his head. The drummer rested his sticks on his drum and stared straight ahead, his face expressionless.

  A trooper stepped forward. In his hand he held pieces of straw that he fanned out with all the visible ends even. A restless murmur of dissent rose from the prisoners. The fragile pieces of straw were all that stood between them and the gibbets.

  The trooper moved slowly along the line of prisoners. The first two prisoners were lucky but their quiet self-congratulation was short lived as the third drew his straw. He gave a strangled cry but the trooper had moved on, slowly down the line. Four short straws were drawn. He reached the young cornet, one straw left in his hand. Jonathan Thornton would not have to draw. The boy hesitated, turning frightened eyes on the tall figure of his captain beside him.

  Jonathan looked up at Stephen Prescott, disbelief in his eyes.

  "Surely not the boy?” he said.

  Prescott stared back at him, his face inscrutable. “Draw,” he commanded the trembling boy.

  Jonathan stepped in front of his cornet. “Not the boy!"

  Two burly troopers moved forward and seized Jonathan, roughly pulling him away.

  Prescott's cold, blue eyes fixed on the boy. “Draw!"

  Cornet Williams stared in vacant disbelief, first at Stephen Prescott then at Jonathan. With a shaking hand he reached out, knowing even before he drew it that it would be his death. He stared at the fragile piece of straw in his fingers and began to weep, not out loud but with sil
ent tears that ran down his face, leaving tracks in the dirt.

  The drum began its pitiless beat again.

  Thrrm. Thrrm.

  The onlookers expected the five chosen men to go to the gibbet screaming and protesting, but the absolute silence was more chilling. The men stood quietly while their hands were bound and they were forced up onto the stools, brought out from the inn, to serve this grim purpose. The lips of a couple of the condemned men moved in silent prayer as the ropes were placed around their necks.

  Cornet Williams turned one last, despairing glance towards Jonathan, who stood firmly held in the grip of two troopers. Jonathan met his eyes and held them. To turn away would have been cowardice. The cornet's gaze did not flinch as one by one his companions’ stools were kicked away from underneath them. He was the last.

  As the five innocent men danced their last, macabre dance of death, Jonathan Thornton stood motionless, forcing himself to take in every last, dreadful detail, fixing it in his memory forever.

  Only when it was over, did he turn again to look at Stephen Prescott, whose eyes had not left him through the whole ordeal. The Roundhead officer smiled a grim, humourless smile of triumph. He gave a nod and the troopers released their grip. Jonathan dropped to his knees in the mud and wept for the five innocent lives that his own actions had bought so dearly.

  One

  Barton, Yorkshire

  February, 1650

  In the stone-walled garden of the little manor house a battle was taking place. Robert's well-aimed snowball caught his cousin Thomas Ashley squarely on the head, knocking off his hat. Unbalanced, Thomas fell back into the snow and lay there, helplessly laughing while his cousins stood around. Tom recovered his feet and brushed off the fine, powdery snow. He and Robert were now pitted in a fierce war against the two girls. Although the same age as Robert, he stood nearly a head taller and his dark hair made him instantly recognizable amongst his red-headed cousins.

  The darkening sky threatened more snow, and Kate Ashley leaned out of the window to call the children in.

  "Look, Mother!” Tom called cheerfully, “Robert and I are General Fairfax and General Cromwell and Amy and Janet are the King's men. We're winning of course!"

  Kate flinched inwardly. How easily the games of adults could be mirrored in the innocent games of children, and war was all any of these children had known. They had all been born into a country torn apart by a struggle between a King and his Parliament. Tom's legacy of the war was a father of whom he had no memory.

  "Kate!” Her sister's voice recalled her to the room. “You're not listening. I asked what you intend to do about this letter."

  Kate looked around at her sister as she pulled the casement shut.

  "I intend to do nothing,” she said. “I will not go all the way to Worcestershire just so an old man can clear his conscience before he goes to the Lord!"

  "Kate!” Suzanne scolded. “The Lord teaches us to forgive."

  "I've nothing to forgive,” Kate said. “As far as I am concerned the quarrel with the Thorntons died with Richard's father."

  "I think you should go,” her sister responded, “Tom is after all his great-grandson. He has a right to know his father's family."

  "Suzanne!” Kate found it hard to keep the exasperation from her voice. “It is thirty years since Elizabeth Thornton eloped with David. In all that time there has been not one word from her family. Whatever rights Francis Thornton had, were long since forfeit."

  "I think you are unduly harsh, Kate."

  "Am I, Suzanne? It's not a matter of being harsh. It is simply of no consequence to me. We don't need the Thorntons. We've never needed the Thorntons.” Kate turned back to the window. “Just look at that sky. It will snow again before nightfall."

  She rapped on the glass, summoning the children in from the cold. They tumbled into the warm parlour, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the well-polished floor. Kate's maid, Ellen, brought a tray of honey cakes and with only the scantest regard for manners, the hungry children made short work of the food.

  Tom's head bent close to that of his cousin and best friend, Robert, talking in whispers. The two had been inseparable companions from birth, Tom being the older by only a few days. However, there the resemblance ended. In Robert's face and in his uncertain health was a fragility that was not found in his sturdy cousin or in his own siblings. The two sisters never spoke of it, but Kate, watching Suzanne's impassive face, knew she feared her beloved child might not see manhood.

  Suzanne packed away her sewing, and standing, she eased her aching back. Heavily pregnant with her sixth child, she found sitting difficult.

  "Come, children,” she announced, “we must be home before that snow."

  There were howls of disappointment from the children as they were bundled into cloaks, hoods and gloves and distributed between the varieties of mounts they had brought with them. Suzanne and her husband, the sturdy William Rowe, lived at Barton Hall barely one mile distant. The children moved easily between the two houses and Kate did not grudge Tom the company of his cousins. The life of an only child could be very solitary.

  "Let me know what you decide,” Suzanne said, leaning down from where she sat pillion behind one of her grooms. “I'm sure William will look after things for you, should you decide to go."

  "You needn't trouble William,” Kate replied. “I have no intention of going."

  Suzanne looked at her knowingly. “Perhaps it is not a matter for you to decide alone,” she said. “It seems to me that perhaps Tom should be consulted."

  Kate waved her sister off and stood in the shelter of the porch watching their departing backs and considering her sister's words. It seemed inappropriate to involve a nine-year-old boy in such weighty decisions. He had never asked about his grandmother's family and Kate would not have known what answer to give if he had. She and Richard had only discussed the Thorntons on a couple of occasions, and in all the years she had shared a house with Richard's father, she had never heard David Ashley speak of them.

  How dare Richard's Thornton grandfather choose this moment to write!

  She looked up as the first swirl of snowflakes drifted down from the bulging clouds. She let them fall onto her face, cold and stinging, and turned to the warmth of the house

  "Did your grandfather ever talk to you of the Thorntons?” Kate began as she sat on the edge of her son's bed that night.

  Tom regarded her thoughtfully from her under his heavy, dark fringe. “No. Who are the Thorntons?” he asked.

  "Well...” Kate took a deep breath and dredged her memory. “Your grandmother, Elizabeth, was a Thornton."

  "Was she?’ Tom did not look particularly interested.

  Undeterred by her son's disinterest, Kate continued, “She married your grandfather against her father's wishes."

  "Really?” Curiosity began to spark in Tom's eyes. He liked a good story.

  "Her father, Sir Francis Thornton, swore he would never have anything to do with her again."

  "So what happened then?"

  "Well, as far as I know the story, your grandmother died when your father was born. And we have heard nothing from the Thorntons ... until now.” Tom sat up expectantly and Kate continued, “I've had a letter from your great-grandfather, Sir Francis Thornton. He heard that your grandfather died and he has invited us to visit."

  "Really?” Tom's eyes were bright with interest now. “Where does he live?"

  "At a house called Seven Ways in Worcestershire,” Kate replied.

  "Worcestershire?” Tom's eyes widened. He had never been further than York. He frowned. “Seven Ways is a funny name for a house."

  Kate dredged what little Richard had told her of his mother's family from the depths of her memory.

  "Ah! I do recall your father once told me it was called Seven Ways because one of your ancestors was told the King would be passing by and he constructed seven entrances to his property to make it easier for the King to find him."

  "And
did he?” Tom asked.

  Kate laughed. “I have no idea!"

  "Seven Ways?” Tom tried it out. “I suppose Sir Francis is very old?"

  Kate shrugged. “I suppose he must be,” she agreed.

  Tom thoughtfully pushed his thick hair out of his eyes and looked up at his mother. “Do you think we should go, Mother?"

  "I think perhaps if your grandfather were still alive he would want you to go,” she admitted. “For all he never talked of them, I doubt he would prevent you from seeing them. He was not a man who held a grudge."

  "What else do you know about them?” Tom hugged his knees.

  "Tom, I know nothing more than what I have told you."

  "Then let's go, Mother. Shall we?” Tom looked up her. “It will be an adventure."

  Every instinct within Kate screamed resistance. She had no need of adventures in her life. Instead she leaned over and kissed her son gently on the forehead.

  "If that's what you want, Tom. I will see what can be arranged. Now sleep. You've had a busy day."

  Tom lay down and closed his eyes. “Seven Ways,” he murmured drowsily. “It is a funny name for a house."

  Kate drew the curtains around the bed to keep out the cold draughts and crossed to the window. The snow had passed, obliterating the signs of the afternoon's battle and laying a fresh, white crust on the trees and the walls. She looked out across the garden, lit by the cold light of the winter moon, to the dark shapes of the hills and woods beyond.

  Seven Ways, she thought, echoing Tom's comment. It is indeed a very strange name for a house.

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  An ache of homesickness, every bit as physical as her sore, weary muscles, clawed at Kate's heart as she looked from the long, low window of the pleasant bedchamber across the unfamiliar Worcestershire countryside. She thought longingly of her own parlour and the little garden, bursting with spring life, she had left behind. Kate fought down the tears that welled in her eyes and knew she must feign some sort of cheerfulness while she prepared herself and her son for their first meeting with the mysterious Thorntons.