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London, February 1654

  Thamsine Granville had not begun the day with
the intention of killing Oliver Cromwell.
  In the midst of the jovial crowd that pressed
against the barricades determined to enjoy the
spectacle of the Lord Protector’s ride in State to
dine with the Lord Mayor of London, she had
eyes for only one man who stood across the road
from her, prevented from reaching her only by
the barricades and the red coated soldiers.
  His eyes fixed on her, a triumphant smile
crossed his handsome face and he raised his hand to his hat, doffing it as he inclined his head.
She saw him mouth her name and push his way towards the barricade. She only had a few moments to make good her escape through the press of people to her rear.
  The bells of London, silenced for so many years, rang out and the flags of the City Guilds flapped in the chill wind. A roar went up from the crowd as the coach bearing Cromwell approached.
  The Lord Protector clad in a musk-coloured suit embroidered with gold, inclined his head to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd with all the aplomb of a man born to such a station. There was no trace of the simple farmer he had once professed to be: Oliver Cromwell, Lord Protector, the false King. Unbeknown to him he was about to become Thamsine Granville’s personal protector.
  Impervious to his fate, Cromwell smiled, his right hand raised in a parody of benediction as if forgiving them their sins. At the sight of his face, solid and pudding like, framed by the open window of the carriage, she raised her arm and threw with all the strength that she could muster.
  The large chunk of broken brick, the only weapon she could find, hit the body of the coach barely inches from the open window. She got a brief impression of surprise on her intended victim’s face. The coach stopped, the horses rising in their traces, whinnying in alarm. The crowd stunned into silence, held its collective breath, every eye fixed on the ugly graze on the coach’s paintwork where the brickbat had struck.
  In the instant her fingers uncurled from the missile, someone grabbed her from behind. Strong fingers dug into her arm and drove her with force through the crowd that parted before them like the Red Sea. It had all been for nothing, somehow HE had reached her.
  She was only dimly aware of a commotion in the press around her. Soldiers yelled and a woman screamed. The world roared in Thamsine's ears and she could feel herself slipping into unconsciousness, only to be drawn back by a sharp, agonising tug on her arm as it was cruelly and expertly bent behind her.
  "Don't faint, don't you dare faint,” an unfamiliar man's voice hissed in her ear.
  She could have screamed with relief. It wasn’t HIM.
  "Now, unless you want to end your life on a gibbet on Tower Hill, you will co-operate fully in what we are about to do." 
  Her rescuer thrust her down a dark, noisome alley pressing her back against a wall. The rough brickwork dug into her spine as he pulled her around to face him, pinioning her arms at her side. 
  His body pressed against her and she closed her eyes bracing herself for the blow or whatever punishment was coming her way. She did not expect to be kissed. Her instinctive reaction was to resist but with her arms and her head immobilised, she was reduced to trying to kick her assailant. He responded by placing a booted foot firmly on her instep. She gave a muffled yelp of pain.
  "Who's down there, then?" 
  A voice from the entrance to the alleyway caused her assailant broke off, allowing Thamsine the luxury of taking a deep breath. The fingers holding her arm, tightened, digging painfully into her flesh. It was a warning not to move, not to make another sound. 
  There was a ribald whistle from the soldier. "Hey you. Got yourself a tasty piece then?" 
  In the shadows she saw her assailant turn his head towards the soldier. "Now then, sergeant. Can't a man get a bit of privacy around here?" he said in low and well modulated voice, with an unusual undertone to the accent that she could not place.
  "What's her charge?" the sergeant’s voice again.
  The firm and painful pressure on her upper left arm deepened and Thamsine kept her peace.
  "My dear Sir. There are some pleasures beyond price."
  "We’re looking for a woman,” the soldier’s voice became clipped and business like. "Just tried to kill the Lord Protector. Has she come this way?"
  "I doubt I would have noticed. I have been otherwise occupied these minutes past."
  Thamsine squirmed in the tight grasp. The easy, lascivious intonation of his voice made her want to slap him.
  "Well good day to you, Sir. I wish you joy of it."
  The sound of the pursuers moved away.
  "Let me go. You are hurting me,” Thamsine finally found her voice.
  "Hurting you? Is that gratitude for saving you from the gibbet?" The pressure on her arm eased and the boot was removed from her foot.
  She straightened, rubbing at the place where his fingers had pressed. "Maybe I didn’t want saving." 
  He stepped back and waved at the entrance to the alleyway. "Very well. No doubt you can catch up with the good sergeant, if that’s what you wish."
  To her embarrassment she had started to tremble with cold, with fright and with delayed shock, as the audacity and foolishness of what she had done began to sink in. She had tried to kill the Lord Protector.
  In her desperate bid to escape she had forgotten what penalty she may have had to pay had she been apprehended. She owed this man thanks for her deliverance but the words stuck in her throat.
  She looked up at him. In the gloom of the alley, it was hard to make out his appearance. He wore a wide brimmed hat that hid his face, but she could see that he was clean-shaven, his hair, dark and rough cut, skimming an immaculate, white collar.
  "You do realise what you just did?" he asked.
  She nodded. 
  "May I ask why?"
  "Because I wanted him dead,” she said without much conviction in her voice. It was not the Lord Protector she had wanted dead.
  "Well I’m sure there are plenty who would share that sentiment but hurling brickbats at a coach is hardly the best way to accomplish that end."
  She drew herself up to her full height, "And what do you care?"
  "I don't,” he answered. "I really don't care at all.  I have enough problems of my own without rescuing dim witted whores who choose to hurl brickbats at the Lord Protector."
  “I’m not a whore.”
  He touched his mouth. “Well, you certainly kiss like one.”
  She raised her hand but he caught her wrist. “Now, now, mistress. I apologize for calling you a whore. Perhaps you prefer ‘failed assassin’?”
  He let her wrist go and her arm fell to her side.        
  “I have nothing more to say to you, Sir,” she said stiffly. “Thank you for saving my neck from the gibbet. I bid you good day.”
  He made no attempt to stop her, standing aside to let her pass. As she did so, he bowed. “Good fortune to you, mistress.”
  She gave him what she hoped was a withering glance and stepped back on to the street. It seemed unnatural that the crowd had resumed its normal bustle. Soldiers mingled with the passers by, occasionally stopping a person to question them. Thamsine, in her threadbare cloak and patched and faded dress, attracted no attention.
  Slowly she traced the familiar way to the dreary rodent infested hovel on the outskirts of Blackfriars where she had lodged for the last few months. Hunger gnawed at her. She had not eaten since yesterday and even that had been no more than a morsel of stale bread and a thin broth bought with her last coin.
  If she wanted to eat, if she wanted to keep a roof over her head, she had only one choice. He had called her a whore and she, with her last shred of dignity, had denied it. She could never deny it again. She had sold everything worth selling and now she had only one thing left to sell.
  A couple of streets away from her lodging she stopped in a boarded up doorway. She loosed her hair and shook it out. With shaking fingers she unlaced her bodice a little way, displaying a hint of her almost flat chest. She hitched one side of her skirts to show what she hoped was a tantalizing glimpse of ankle above the cracked shoes. It was not, she thought, a very alluring picture but it would have to do.
  She took a deep breath and stepped back into the street, tossing her cloak back over her shoulders and adopting the hip-swinging saunter she had observed others of her newly adopted profession use.
  Prospective customers should be in no doubt as to what trade she was plying. What they would not see was the way her heart hammered fiercely against her ribs and her stomach had become a hard ball of fear and self-loathing. The part of her that still remembered who she was and where she had come from, hoped and prayed that the men who frequented the dismal streets of Blackfriars would pass her by without a second glance.
  A hand grabbed her shoulder and she gave a small yelp of alarm as she turned to face the man who had accosted her. A bearded face scrutinized her closely, his fingers digging painfully into her wrist.
  “What’s yer charge?” His breath smelt as if it came directly from the pits of a hell charged with rotten teeth, onion and stale wine.
  Her eyes widened. "Charge?"
  "For your body." His hand grasped her breast with such ferocity that she cried out in pain and pulled back.
  The fingers tightened drawing her towards him.
  “Half a crown.” Her attempt at bravado sounded pathetic even to her ears.
  He gave a guffaw of laughter. “Half a crown for a tight, skinny little arse like yours? Six pence is all you’ll get and count yourself lucky!”
  Six pence? It would buy a wedge of stale bread and thin broth.
  Thamsine nodded.
Barton, Yorkshire - February 1650

  In the stone walled garden of the little manor
house a battle took place. A well-aimed snowball
from Robert 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,
white 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.
  There were moments, Kate thought, watching her son who sat on the hearth with his arms wrapped around his knees, when she could discern Richard behind the boy’s hazel eyes. Tom had the same quiet thoughtfulness that had been a trait in Richard she had always loved. 
  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 which 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 that this 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 the farm 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 David Ashley, she had never heard him mention 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 on to 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?”  Interest 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 frowned thoughtfully, dredging 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?”
  Kate shrugged. “I think perhaps if your grandfather was 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 about them then 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. Instead she leaned over and kissed her son gently on the forehead.
  “If that’s what you want, Tom. 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 echoed Tom in her mind.  “It is indeed a very strange name for a house.”
 
BY THE SWORD
THE KING'S MAN
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