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BY THE SWORD
Author:
Alison Stuart
Published:
7/20/2010 2:12:03 PM
Pages:
292
Keywords:
Battle of Worcester,Charles II,English Civil War,Historical Romance
Audience Level:
Mature
Genres:
Fiction / Romance / GeneralFiction / General / Historical
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England 1651: Since her husband's death, young widow, Kate Ashley has done her best to provide for and protect her son, Tom, from the reality of an England in the grip of civil war. Their comfortable life is shattered when Tom inherits the Thornton family estate in Worcestershire. The estate is impoverished and in shambles and Kate discovers that with the estate she is inherited trouble in the form of the last of the Thorntons, the fugitive royalist, Jonathan Thornton. Jonathan has returned from exile carrying with him the vain hopes of the young King Charles II and the demons of his own dark past. In the aftermath of the Battle of Worcester, Kate finds herself caught between Jonathan and the man who has hunted him down across the years, the dour Parliamentarian, Stephen Prescott. Jonathan must must face his nemesis and learn the price he paid for his long dead love, a secret that will change his life, and Kate's forever.
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$0“...An absolutely stunning historical romance that I just couldn’t put down, BY THE SWORD is must read for fans of richly textured, densely plotted and highly readable historical romances...” Ecataromance$0
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“...Sometimes a book is called the best of the best because it is simply that...the best...” Enduring Romance$0
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"...By The Sword was one of the most moving and powerful books I have read in a very long time...This book pulls at your heart strings and you hold your breath until the very end praying for these two characters." 5 CUPS:Coffee Time Romance$0
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Alison Stuart was born in Kenya and emigrated to Melbourne, Australia at the age of ten. She studied law at Melbourne University and has worked in a variety of areas as a solicitor and also as a legal officer in the military. In 2000 she moved to Singapore with her family and for three wonderful years she had the opportunity to pursue serious, full time writing. While in Singapore she was published in two anthologies of short stories, one of which appeared briefly in a best seller list and both of which are still available on Amazon. Apart from this minor success with short stories, she has been published in magazines, other short story anthologies and has been a contest finalist in a number of competitions, including the shortlist of the Catherine Cookson Fiction Prize and runner up in the Emma Darcy Award. She has published two full length novels set in the English Civil War, THE KING'S MAN and BY THE SWORD. BY THE SWORD, won the 2008 Eppie Award for Best Historical Romance. Alison still works full time as a senior executive and runs a household of men and cats.
$0To find out more about Alison and her writing please visit her website http://www.alisonstuart.com$0
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“Thornton!” The name fell onto the table like a fist.$0
Jonathan looked up in horror, his eyes meeting the cold, blue eyes of a man he knew too well, a man he had once called a friend.$0
The stocky man in the uniform of a parliamentary officer smiled without humour or warmth. “Thornton. God is with me this day,” he hissed with a barely aspirated voice$0
Jonathan dropped the book. He threw the table over in one swift movement and took off down the street crowded with the afternoon’s shoppers, pursuit not far behind. The man he knew as Stephen Prescott gathered his men for the chase, and he could hear their feet pounding on the cobbles and their shouted exhortations for someone to stop the fugitive.$0
The shoppers parted before the running figure but despite the urging of the soldiers, none made to catch him. Twisting and turning down the narrow streets, Jonathan found himself unable to shed his pursuers. His heavy boots slipped on the wet, mired streets and made running hard. Almost spent, he heard Prescott behind him, urging his men on, knowing that the man would not let up with his long sought quarry in such plain view.$0
Jonathan turned sharply down a street he knew led to one of the gates but was brought up short by a heavy ox cart, laden down with wool bales, taking the width of the passageway.$0
“Cornered, Thornton!” he heard Prescott’s breathless voice behind him and turned slowly to face his pursuers.$0
There was no mistaking the look of malicious triumph on Stephen Prescott’s face. For a brief moment Jonathan considered fighting his way out, but one look at the heavily armed troopers behind Prescott changed his mind and he raised his hands away from the hilt of his sword. At least with so public an apprehension, there might be some hope of fair trial, if not escape.$0
The fascinated crowd pressed back against the shops as Prescott swaggered towards him. The man stopped some fifteen yards from Jonathan, breathing heavily, apparently savouring the moment. Jonathan met his eyes, determined that Prescott would see no fear in them.$0
Prescott straightened and slowly and deliberately raised his heavy pistol. In the brief moment before the report of the pistol echoed from the houses, Jonathan saw his death written in the man’s eyes. The watching crowd gasped and Jonathan felt a blow to his shoulder. The force knocked him backwards, and he fell to his knees in the mud. $0
There was no time for pain as he looked up and saw Prescott accepting a second pistol from one of his soldiers. A horrible sense of inevitability crossed Jonathan’s mind as he knelt, waiting to be shot like a dog in the streets of York. Stephen Prescott: his judge, jury and executioner.$0
“Scurvy Roundhead!” An angry voice broke the silence.$0
From somewhere in the horrified crowd, a missile flew through the air striking the Roundhead officer squarely on the chest. Prescott staggered, dropping the pistol, wildly looking around to see who had thrown the missile. The rest of the crowd, sickened by the shooting of a man in cold blood, joined in the fray, hurling whatever missile came to hand at the unpopular troopers. Forced to defend themselves the troopers retreated from the fury of the crowd that now interposed itself between Prescott and the fallen man.$0
Jonathan mustered his scattered thoughts. He saw the chance and took it. Heedless of his injury, he rolled under the cart, scrambling away from the growing melee. On the other side of the cart he rose unevenly to his feet and, the world roaring in his ears, he stumbled forward, to be caught by a pair of strong hands.$0
“This way!” a man’s voice hissed in his ear.$0
Reality blurred and faded as his rescuer half-carried and half-dragged him down the narrow streets. He felt himself pushed through a dark shop entrance and bundled into something that seemed no bigger than a large cupboard. The door shut and he heard furniture being moved in front of it.$0
Alone in the pitiless dark, his heart thumping behind his ribcage, Jonathan took a long, slow shuddering breath and bit his lip against the sudden fierce and terrible pain in his shoulder. It would be more than his life was worth to utter a sound. He put a shaking hand to the injury, his fingers feeling the warm stickiness of blood. He clutched his left arm to his chest and closed his eyes, trying to control the shock and muster his thoughts as the dark air of the cupboard closed in on him.$0
He came back to his senses, lying on a none-too-clean floor while someone poured brandy into him. He spluttered on the burning liquid. A bearded face came into view and strong hands hauled him into a sitting position. $0
“Ye can’t stay here,” the man said. “The soldiers have already been and I’ve a wife and bairns upstairs. Have ye friends in York?”$0
Jonathan found his voice. “Petergate. The house of...” The instinct of his profession overcame his fuddled senses. “Just get me as far as Petergate.”$0
The beard nodded. “Aye, I can do that for ’ee. Now on your feet.”$0
Despite being a good head shorter than Jonathan, his saviour was solid and took the weight of the taller man with ease. Winding their way through the back ways and alleys of the city, they made a faltering progress to Petergate.$0
“Just around the corner is the minster. I’ll leave you ’ere,” the man said. “The wife’ll be wondering where I’ve gone.”$0
“Thank you,” Jonathan muttered, struggling to keep a grip on consciousness. “I owe you my life.”$0
“Aye, well I’ve no love for them troopers, particularly not when they take to shootin’ unarmed men in’t street. ”$0
He melted away into the dark. Jonathan leaned against the wall, breathing heavily but determined not to faint. It was just a little way to the tenuous safety of William Rowe’s house.$0
$0“Thornton!” The name fell onto the table like a fist.$0
$0Jonathan looked up in horror, his eyes meeting the cold, blue eyes of a man he knew too well, a man he had once called a friend.$0
$0The stocky man in the uniform of a parliamentary officer smiled without humour or warmth. “Thornton. God is with me this day,” he hissed with a barely aspirated voice$0
$0Jonathan dropped the book. He threw the table over in one swift movement and took off down the street crowded with the afternoon’s shoppers, pursuit not far behind. The man he knew as Stephen Prescott gathered his men for the chase, and he could hear their feet pounding on the cobbles and their shouted exhortations for someone to stop the fugitive.$0
$0The shoppers parted before the running figure but despite the urging of the soldiers, none made to catch him. Twisting and turning down the narrow streets, Jonathan found himself unable to shed his pursuers. His heavy boots slipped on the wet, mired streets and made running hard. Almost spent, he heard Prescott behind him, urging his men on, knowing that the man would not let up with his long sought quarry in such plain view.$0
$0Jonathan turned sharply down a street he knew led to one of the gates but was brought up short by a heavy ox cart, laden down with wool bales, taking the width of the passageway.$0
$0“Cornered, Thornton!” he heard Prescott’s breathless voice behind him and turned slowly to face his pursuers.$0
$0There was no mistaking the look of malicious triumph on Stephen Prescott’s face. For a brief moment Jonathan considered fighting his way out, but one look at the heavily armed troopers behind Prescott changed his mind and he raised his hands away from the hilt of his sword. At least with so public an apprehension, there might be some hope of fair trial, if not escape.$0
$0The fascinated crowd pressed back against the shops as Prescott swaggered towards him. The man stopped some fifteen yards from Jonathan, breathing heavily, apparently savouring the moment. Jonathan met his eyes, determined that Prescott would see no fear in them.$0
$0Prescott straightened and slowly and deliberately raised his heavy pistol. In the brief moment before the report of the pistol echoed from the houses, Jonathan saw his death written in the man’s eyes. The watching crowd gasped and Jonathan felt a blow to his shoulder. The force knocked him backwards, and he fell to his knees in the mud. $0
$0There was no time for pain as he looked up and saw Prescott accepting a second pistol from one of his soldiers. A horrible sense of inevitability crossed Jonathan’s mind as he knelt, waiting to be shot like a dog in the streets of York. Stephen Prescott: his judge, jury and executioner.$0
$0“Scurvy Roundhead!” An angry voice broke the silence.$0
$0From somewhere in the horrified crowd, a missile flew through the air striking the Roundhead officer squarely on the chest. Prescott staggered, dropping the pistol, wildly looking around to see who had thrown the missile. The rest of the crowd, sickened by the shooting of a man in cold blood, joined in the fray, hurling whatever missile came to hand at the unpopular troopers. Forced to defend themselves the troopers retreated from the fury of the crowd that now interposed itself between Prescott and the fallen man.$0
$0Jonathan mustered his scattered thoughts. He saw the chance and took it. Heedless of his injury, he rolled under the cart, scrambling away from the growing melee. On the other side of the cart he rose unevenly to his feet and, the world roaring in his ears, he stumbled forward, to be caught by a pair of strong hands.$0
$0“This way!” a man’s voice hissed in his ear.$0
$0Reality blurred and faded as his rescuer half-carried and half-dragged him down the narrow streets. He felt himself pushed through a dark shop entrance and bundled into something that seemed no bigger than a large cupboard. The door shut and he heard furniture being moved in front of it.$0
$0Alone in the pitiless dark, his heart thumping behind his ribcage, Jonathan took a long, slow shuddering breath and bit his lip against the sudden fierce and terrible pain in his shoulder. It would be more than his life was worth to utter a sound. He put a shaking hand to the injury, his fingers feeling the warm stickiness of blood. He clutched his left arm to his chest and closed his eyes, trying to control the shock and muster his thoughts as the dark air of the cupboard closed in on him.$0
$0He came back to his senses, lying on a none-too-clean floor while someone poured brandy into him. He spluttered on the burning liquid. A bearded face came into view and strong hands hauled him into a sitting position. $0
$0“Ye can’t stay here,” the man said. “The soldiers have already been and I’ve a wife and bairns upstairs. Have ye friends in York?”$0
$0Jonathan found his voice. “Petergate. The house of...” The instinct of his profession overcame his fuddled senses. “Just get me as far as Petergate.”$0
$0The beard nodded. “Aye, I can do that for ’ee. Now on your feet.”$0
$0Despite being a good head shorter than Jonathan, his saviour was solid and took the weight of the taller man with ease. Winding their way through the back ways and alleys of the city, they made a faltering progress to Petergate.$0
$0“Just around the corner is the minster. I’ll leave you ’ere,” the man said. “The wife’ll be wondering where I’ve gone.”$0
$0“Thank you,” Jonathan muttered, struggling to keep a grip on consciousness. “I owe you my life.”$0
$0“Aye, well I’ve no love for them troopers, particularly not when they take to shootin’ unarmed men in’t street. ”$0
$0He melted away into the dark. Jonathan leaned against the wall, breathing heavily but determined not to faint. It was just a little way to the tenuous safety of William Rowe’s house.$0
$0
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