Chapter 12
Although they encountered no further trouble, the weather closed in and rain and icy sleet turned the roads into 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 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. Fear of what he might find if he went in search of his mother and sister was 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 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?”
Daniel had dreamed of glory and honour but 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.