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Chapter Two
Lord Jackson Fisher, the Marquess of Thornton, twisted on the bed, clawing at the bedsheet. Sweat was oozing down his neck. He was back there again, in the sticky mud, with the smell of blood and decay lingering in the air, like some obscene miasma. That day upon the battlefield, when everything had changed…
Bloodcurdling cries as men fell like swatted flies around him. He was in the thick of it. The enemy were right there. He raised his bayonet, his heart pounding like a drum.
Something was wrong. Something happened that should not have happened, and he was suddenly exposed.
He didn’t see the bayonet coming. With a cry of surprise and pain, it sliced his flesh like a knife cutting into a ripe peach. The heat of the blood was a shock. Bewildered, he raised a hand, desperately trying to stem the flow.
His knees buckling beneath him, he fell headfirst into the mud, screaming. The blood washed into his eyes until it seemed like the whole world was a river of red…
Jackson reared up from the bed, his eyes flinging open. He couldn’t breathe. Where was he?
He raised a hand to his right cheek, half expecting blood to be flowing from it. But it wasn’t. He felt the raised, jagged flesh. The perpetual reminder of that day that his mind would never let him forget. Early morning light flooded through the curtains on the window. Another day at Thornbury Manor in this quiet patch of country England. A world away from the battlefield.
The bedroom door opened. Mr. Harris, the butler stood there, clutching a note within his hand. He was frowning.
“I apologise for disturbing you, my Lord,” he said, in a grave voice. “But a letter just arrived by urgent messenger from London.”
Jackson stared at the man, his heart flipping over in his chest. Somethingwaswrong. But it had nothing to do with the battlefield anymore.
* * *
Jackson leaned down over the sweating black stallion, spurring it on. He must be more than halfway on this desperate ride to London, surely. But he had made a spontaneous decision to take a back road at the crossroads a mile back, having heard that it was a short cut. And now he wasn’t at all sure he had made the right choice.
Droplets of rain drizzled upon him and there were many deep puddles, indicating much rain had fallen in this area not long ago. He squinted up at the sky. Ominous grey clouds hovered above him. He would be a drowned rat within seconds if it decided to bucket down again.
He grimaced, weaving around a puddle. He must be careful. He did not know this road and Cassius, his stallion, could break a leg in one of these potholes. Of course, he could have taken the carriage and ridden in ease and comfort, but a carriage could not go as fast as he could on horseback. And he must get to London before it was too late.
His father could be breathing his last, right at this very moment.
Jackson cursed under his breath. The letter that had arrived that morning by urgent messenger had been a summons. His father, the Duke of Merriweather, had taken a turn for the worse. There was mention of possible apoplexy. Jackson knew his father had been unwell for weeks, but it had been no cause for concern. Until now.
His heart lurched sickeningly. The summons had turned his whole world upside down. Up until that moment, he could have sworn that he did not care much if the old man lived or died. But hearing that he was on his deathbed had changed all that, in the blink of an eye. He had saddled Cassius within ten minutes and hit the road.
His eyes filled with helpless tears. He might be too late. This desperate flight to London might be for nothing, but he had to try. He could not live with himself otherwise.
Suddenly, Cassius neighed loudly, rearing back. A hare had scuttled across the horse’s path. Jackson controlled him with difficulty.
“There, boy,” he whispered into the horse’s ear, as soon as he was settled. He cast an expert eye over the stallion. Cassius’s coat was slick with sweat and his nostrils were flaring in distress. He had been riding hard for over three hours now and must have a break before he collapsed.
He squinted into the distance. He could just make out a large dwelling on the horizon. An inn, thank the Lord. He did not want to stop but he must. He would rest the horse and take an ale himself and be back on the road within half an hour. Hopefully, it would not make the difference.
* * *
Jackson pushed open the heavy door of the inn. A rusted sign at the front had declared its name The Blue Duck. He cast an eye around. A fire flickered in the hearth. There were perhaps a dozen men, spread out over the large room, all nursing drinks. He had already settled Cassius in the accompanying stable, giving the horse water. Now he needed some quick refreshment of his own.
“What’ll it be, squire?” asked the bulky man behind the counter, as he sat down on a stool.
“Ale,” said Jackson, tossing him a coin. “And make sure it’s cold.”
The man grunted, taking the coin. Within two minutes he had a glass of frothy ale in front of him. He drank greedily. He was thirstier than he had thought. He ordered another, drinking it in a more leisurely fashion, as he assessed the inn.
It was rundown, and shabby, probably built in Tudor times. The ceiling had low beams and the walls looked like they were packed with straw. The men drinking were all locals, judging by the cut of their clothing. The Blue Duck obviously did not get many travellers, on this desolate back road in the middle of nowhere.
He took a gulp of his second ale, turning back to the bar. The last time he had been in a place like this had been in Spain during the war. It had looked different, of course – the architecture, and the clientele. But it had been similar in other respects. A remote watering hole for locals, who often did not take kindly to strangers. He knew he must be careful in a place like this.
His mind lingered for a moment on that other inn. It had been five years ago, when he had been on short leave from the frontline. He had been bedraggled and exhausted, bleary from bloodshed, but with the sickening knowledge he must return soon. The endless battles to defeat the mad emperor Napoleon from extending his empire throughout the whole of Europe, and perhaps even England. He had thought he would never see his country or home again.
