~ By The Sword ~

by

Alison Stuart

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.”