Exile's Return (11 page)

‘Only those who have died peacefully in their beds,' she admitted.

Taking a deep breath, she hefted the man's feet as Daniel lifted him by the shoulders. As they moved him, the corpse let out a groan.

Agnes screamed and dropped the man's feet.

‘It's only air escaping his lungs,' Daniel said. ‘Pick up his feet again.'

‘You have obviously had more experience with corpses than I,' Agnes said hotly, lifting the man's muddy and disgusting feet again.

‘Too much,' Daniel agreed. ‘This'll do. Behind this fallen log. I'll mark the place.'

Agnes removed her gloves and wiped the muddy objects on the damp verge as Daniel laid the dead footpad straight, covering the corpse's face with the man's own jacket. He carved a cross into the bark of a nearby fallen tree to mark the spot.

Returning to Agnes, he hefted her back onto her horse and led the animal along the road. They encountered the black horse munching peacefully on a sweet patch of grass a hundred yards away. At his touch the horse obediently raised its head, allowing Daniel to swing into the saddle. Sensing that it was not going to be made to go back the way it had come, the black horse turned with its ears pricked, pulling at the bit.

Daniel glanced around at Agnes. ‘Do you suppose that beast of yours can move faster? This one wants to stretch its legs.'

‘You mean a race?' Agnes felt the same thrill of the challenge she had felt when George had issued it. She had been the better rider and George knew it, but it never stopped him trying to best her. It would be interesting to see if Daniel Lovell was made of sterner stuff. She pulled her hat from her head, securing it under her leg and with a whoop kicked the mare into action. Too surprised to resist, the mare took off at a hard canter. They passed the black gelding and she heard Daniel's answering ‘Huzzah!' and the thunder of hooves behind her.

She drew rein at the next crossroads with Daniel half a length behind her. He drew level with her, laughing.

‘What did your mother call you?' he asked breathlessly.

‘A hoyden,' she replied, fishing out her crushed hat and restoring it to her head.

They glanced at each other, and for a brief moment the look they exchanged said nothing else, except that they were both young and the hard ride had been fun and a chance to forget the cares that they carried with them.

They stopped at an inn for the night and Daniel reported the encounter with the footpads, although he failed to mention the man he had allowed to escape. In the inn parlour, the story of their adventure provoked much shaking of heads and comments about the state of the roads these days, with so many disaffected soldiers taken to brigandry.

Daniel's coin bought Agnes a bed for the night in a communal room and a meal. As she pushed the unspeakable mess that passed for some sort of stew around her trencher, she ruminated on the day's events.

‘Do you suppose the story he told was true?' she wondered aloud.

Daniel shrugged. ‘It rang true to me.'

Agnes sighed. ‘I've led a sheltered life, it seems.'

He tipped his head to one side. ‘Not so very sheltered. Few women of my acquaintance would know how to handle a pistol.'

Agnes felt a flush of pleasure rise to her cheeks at the unexpected praise, if that's what it was.

‘But what of your parents?' Daniel asked.

‘My father was killed at Naseby and my mother died two years later,' Agnes said. ‘It was just George and I … until Worcester.'

He paused in skewering a piece of unidentifiable meat. ‘Worcester?'

‘George had been restless for a long time,' she said. ‘He was only seventeen when Father died. Too young for the responsibility of my mother and I and also too young for the war.'

‘And your sister?'

‘She married James before Father's death. After the King's murder, George sent me to live with Ann and James and sold off the estate to pay his debts.'

‘And George went to Worcester,' Daniel said in a hard, flat voice.

‘Yes, and never came back. He escaped to the continent.'

Daniel quirked an eyebrow in an unspoken “And?”

‘He died there. Drank himself to death I was told, although the truth is that he passed out in a drunken stupor on the side of a road one winter's night, caught lung fever, and died within the week.' She sighed. ‘He was long lost in drink before he went abroad.' She bit her lip, the grief at her brother's end long since resolved into a dull ache. ‘No better than that poor wretch today. What about you, Daniel?'

‘My father and my brother are dead. As to the rest of my family, our home was largely destroyed in '48. My mother, sister, grandfather and I were reduced to living in a few habitable rooms. I am hoping they are still there,' he added.

‘But why do they believe you to be dead?' Agnes searched his face.

Daniel shrugged. ‘I was taken prisoner after Worcester and sent to Barbados. They would have good reason to think me dead.'

‘Why?'

His eyes flashed in her direction. ‘Because no one returns from Hell.'

She lowered her gaze. ‘They would have mourned you,' she said. ‘I envy you, going home to a family who loves you.'

She thought of the only family she had left in the world, Henry and Lizzie, and felt the now-familiar tears prick the back of her eyes. She pushed back her chair and excused herself to take solace in the cold dark of the communal bedchamber. Mercifully, there were few travellers at this time of the year and she had the verminous bed to herself. She curled into a ball and, clasping the locket, she allowed the silent tears to fall.

***

Although they encountered no further trouble, the weather closed in and rain and icy sleet turned the roads to a muddy bog. The inns they stayed in were verminous, the food often inedible, and sodden cloaks and boots did not dry overnight. Even the horses seemed fed up as they trudged along the lanes, cloying mud past their fetlocks, their heads lowered.

To Agnes's credit she had not uttered one word of complaint, but after the encounter with the footpads she seemed lost in her own thoughts and they travelled mostly in silence. Her silence suited Daniel. She had already proved herself too curious about his past and his reasons for being back in England.

The long days gave him ample opportunity to reflect on the lost years, and the stirring of the memories produced a miasma of depression that caused him to wake at night in a cold sweat.
Cowardice
, he decided. A fear of what he might find if he went in search of his mother and sister was really all that stood between him and reconciling himself with what was left of his family.

As he lay awake in the long, dark hours, he thought of the two women alone and unprotected since Kit's death. Had they been left, like Agnes, prey to any man who purported to offer them protection? The resolution to avenge his father's death and his own enslavement on Tobias Ashby began to waver.

‘This is Bromsgrove.' Agnes's voice jerked him out of his reverie. ‘Didn't the landlord of the last inn tell us that the house we seek is not far from Bromsgrove?'

Daniel nodded. A mistake; twin anvils pounded behind his eyes. He had been out of sorts for a couple of days, waking with a headache and sore joints that he attributed to the poor beds and being too long in the saddle after years of not riding. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep.

‘Who is this Sir Jonathan Thornton?' Agnes asked.

‘I told you. A friend of my brother's.'

‘Your dead brother?'

‘I only had one brother.'

‘And did he die in the war?'

‘No.'

She studied him through narrowed eyes. ‘So how did he die?'

Daniel huffed out a breath, watching it cloud in the cold, damp air. ‘You ask a lot of questions, Agnes.'

She shrugged. ‘I'm a curious woman, Daniel.'

No point in hiding the truth when it was public knowledge. ‘If you must know, he was hanged five years ago for his part in a plot to kill Cromwell.' He turned to look at her. ‘Agnes, do you mind another night in an inn? It's too late in the day to go on to Seven Ways.'

Agnes nodded and pointed to a neat half-timbered inn. ‘The Black Cross. We can lodge there.'

Daniel saw the horses stabled and tramped into the inn. The landlady met him at the foot of the stairs.

‘Your sister's already gone up. Leave yer boots, sir. I'll have ‘em cleaned.'

Daniel sat down on the steps and pulled off the mud-encrusted boots. No doubt the good woman did not want mud tramped across her well-scrubbed floors.

‘Where are you bound?' the woman asked.

‘I'm seeking a house called Seven Ways, near here, I believe. Can you give me directions?'

A grin lit the woman's amiable, once-pretty face. ‘Seven Ways? Yer after the Thorntons?'

At Daniel's affirmation she nodded. ‘Aye, I know the house well. An hour's ride, no more. Take the Kidderminster Road and ye'll not miss it. Red brick gates with round stones on the gatepost, and when you gets there tell Sir Jonathan that Sal at the Black Cross sends her love. Now, if you don't mind me sayin', you look dead on your feet, sir. I'll have hot water and supper sent up to your room, if that suits you.'

Daniel ran a hand through his hair and nodded. Picking up the disreputable footwear, Sal bustled away in the direction of the kitchen. Daniel pulled himself to his feet. Turning he saw Agnes standing at the head of the stairs.

‘She's right, you don't look at all well.'

‘I'm fine. Just a little tired,' Daniel said curtly.

He wanted his bed, not a conversation, but Agnes seemed not to notice and followed him into the bedchamber. Daniel set his bag down on the floor and collapsed into a chair by the cheerful fire and pulled off his damp stockings, setting them to dry on the hearth.

‘Please do me a favour and pass me my bag,' he said.

Agnes complied and, handing him the bag, said, ‘Daniel. Is there anything … '

‘I'm fine!' he snapped. ‘Just tired. Leave me, Agnes, and tell the landlady I don't want any supper. I would rather be well rested to meet with Sir Jonathan tomorrow.'

She studied him, her head slightly cocked to one side. She knew he lied. He was not well. Daniel knew the symptoms, knew what they presaged, and just prayed he would make it to Seven Ways the next day.

‘This Sir Jonathan, how well do you know him?' she asked.

‘I met him once, a long time ago,' Daniel replied. ‘Worcester … ' he tailed off, remembering Colonel Thornton, a tall man with a lean, handsome face, leaning forward in the candlelight, his mouth a grim line, his eyes glinting with the reflection of the flame as he said:

“Daniel, war has nothing to do with glory and honour. Have you ever smelt the stench of death? Have you ever seen a man with his guts hanging out and still living, or a man with his face shot away? Have you watched a friend die of gangrene?”

Glory and honour …

Jonathan Thornton had been right. By the end of the following day, Daniel had seen all of those things and had cause to wish more than anything else that he had done as his brother had told him, and stayed at home.

Seven Ways, Worcestershire
12 November 1659

‘This must be it,' Agnes said. ‘Red brick gateposts and round things?'

The landlady of the Black Cross had been correct in her description, although the red brick gateposts had clearly seen better days and one of the finely carved stone balls had fallen off its lopsided support and lay on the verge of the road with long strands of dying grass winding around it. Two iron gates hung drunkenly from the leaning supports, the coat of arms that had once been painted on a central oval long since faded and flaked away.

Agnes glanced at Daniel. He had turned breakfast away when it was offered and she knew he had not eaten the night before. His face had a sallow hue, his eyes sunken, the whites tinged with yellow. He shivered and hunched his shoulders, drawing his cloak tighter around him.

‘Daniel, you are … '

‘I'm fine,' he interrupted her. ‘Didn't sleep well. Let's get this over with. Just want to deliver these letters and we'll be on our way.' His words sounded slurred and she glanced at him in alarm.

They turned their horses onto a weed-infested, potholed driveway that curved around through trees concealing a long, low, red bricked manor house surrounded by a moat from the road. Smoke curled cheerily from a couple of chimneys and as they approached, a groom came out from under the gatehouse, gesturing for them to cross the bridge. He took the reins of the horse and Daniel slid from the saddle, reaching up to assist Agnes down from her mare. His steadying hand on her elbow shook and she scrutinised his ashen face, her anxiety about his condition growing with every minute.

‘How may I be of assistance?' The thin reedy voice of an elderly man came from the main door.

Daniel turned to face him. ‘I have business with Sir Jonathan Thornton,' he said, his voice sounding oddly hoarse.

‘May I say what the business concerns?'

Daniel ran a hand across his eyes and enunciated each word with almost deliberate care, as if the act of speaking had become an effort. ‘It is with Sir Jonathan alone.'

The steward stood his ground and Agnes took a step toward Daniel, as he swayed forward, catching himself with a shake of his head.

‘At least give me your name, sir,' the steward persisted.

‘Lovell … ' Daniel began. ‘ … Oh, curse it.'

He slid to the ground in an ungainly heap.

Agnes and the steward stared at Daniel's crumpled body for the beat of several seconds before Agnes dropped to her knees, her hand going to his forehead.

‘He's burning with fever,' she said and, looking up, addressed the elderly steward. ‘Get help now.'