“Think, man,” he urged himself and briefly considered the knife in his boot.Hardly a match for the Frenchmen’s bayonets, at only the length of his hand, handle to tip, using his knife would mean getting very close and probably fighting in hand-to-hand combat.Not ideal at this stage after a few days of starvation.Thus, he could think of only one way to win his freedom — blunt force.
By the moonlight beaming into the cellar, he sifted through the remains of the wine crate, now mostly a pile of worm-eaten timber.Testing one piece of wood after the next, he finally chose the longest, sturdiest piece, a two-foot-long slat, which he decided was still solid enough to serve a singular purpose.
Now all he could do was rest.Keeping the poor excuse for a weapon by his side, he thought of Lise, wondering what she would say upon learning the truth about her intended.Assuming, Jonathan thought,that he lived to tell her.
If he didn’t, should this gambit fail ...
He winced at the imagined scene of his parents receiving word of his death.Ashworth would curse him for a fool while secretly being not at all surprised that a civilian, a pampered nobleman, had died trying to complete his mission.
Jonathan startled awake to the sound of footsteps above his chamber.He recognized the pattern and listened for what he knew would come next.Sure enough, those boots stomped down the stairs to the passage way on the other side of the cellar door.
Jumping to his feet, he steadied himself in the watery light of sunrise.The French might’ve learned something that meant his swift execution at dawn, or perhaps the guard dragging him upstairs at an early hour was yet another tactic to weaken him for the next interrogation.
Regardless, Jonathan got into position beside the heavy oak door.With no plan other than the immediate need to create for himself an opportunity to escape, he raised the piece of wood and waited.In the next instance, he heard the scrape of boots on the flagstone and the key in the lock.
Pressing himself flat against the dark, dank wall, he breathed quietly.The door swung inward, almost striking him while also concealing him.A soldier entered carrying a lantern, its light cutting through the dimness.He was alone as usual and barely heeding his surroundings, a mistake born of growing accustomed to a compliant prisoner who seemed too feeble to pose a threat.
The guard took three steps into the cellar before realizing no one was in front of him, lying on the cellar floor.By then, Jonathan was already moving, bringing the narrow board down hard against the man’s head with every ounce of strength.His second quick hit slammed against the guard’s shoulder, sending the lantern crashing to the floor.The flame guttered but didn’t die, casting wild shadows as the Frenchman staggered in a circle of pain, trying to get his bearings.
But Jonathan wasn’t going to do this by half measure.Striking again, he slammed the stick across the man’s neck before jabbing it into his spine while bringing his boot hard against the back of his knee.
The soldier went down heavily with a grunt of pain, sprawling on the stone floor.At least for the moment, he was groaning and motionless.
Jonathan ought to use his knife and finish him off to postpone the swift revelation of his escape.But he wasn’t a killer.Bolting through the open door, he charged up the stairs, his weakened legs protesting every step.No noise yet from behind him as he entered the service corridor beside the kitchen.Footsteps caused him to duck into the scullery.From there, he watched a soldier go by, heard his feet on the stairs going down.
The jig would be up in seconds.Running for the nearest exit, out into the back, the sight of soldiers standing around, drinking their breakfast beer and smoking, halted him.Damn!
Whirling around, he was back inside when he heard a shout from the cellar.The manor house erupted with activity.Doors flew open.Boots pounded on wooden floors.Jonathan careened through an unfamiliar corridor, desperate to find an exit.
Regrettably, he got funneled into another servant’s passage with a soldier at the end of it.The devil take them both!
Before the man turned, Jonathan dodged into a narrow stairwell, leading up rather than out.His pursuers would expect him to remain on ground level, not be traipsing through the upstairs passageways like a servant with a tea tray.
Finally, Fortuna turned her face in his direction.There was a window, blessedly large enough for a man to fit through with no one around guarding it.Jonathan ran for it, fumbling with the latch.
“Get hold of yourself,” he muttered, and the double-hung sash yielded to his efforts, sliding up and allowing him to stick his head out.A sloped roof was perhaps six feet below.
Without hesitating, he climbed through and dropped onto the tiles.They were slick with night dew, and his boots struggled for purchase.After sliding several feet, he caught himself against a chimney.
All the shouting was still below him, in the house.Getting his bearings, he realized he was now over the side of the manor.If he continued, at least he wouldn’t end up sprawled in the middle of the back garden amidst the soldiers.Although by the sound of it, they were all in the house searching for him.
Recalling the one and only time he’d bedded a married woman, barely finished spending between her thighs before her husband’s footsteps were heard on the main staircase, he did what he’d done that night.Sliding down the remainder of the roof, he reached its edge.Below lay the manor’s kitchen garden, shadowy in the dim light of dawn.It was a drop of perhaps ten feet.Enough to break an ankle if he landed wrong, but there was no time for caution.
In exactly the way he’d done a year ago to escape a duel over a woman’s honor, when clearly she had none, he jumped.
When he hit the soft tilled earth, crushing yet cradled by overgrown, fragrant tomato plants, the impact drove the air from his lungs.As far as he could tell, he had broken nothing on his body.In fact, the fall was a damn sight easier than onto the London pavement.He’d rolled to absorb the shock and fled an angry baron’s house.The bruising had kept him out of sight for a week.
Here, he had no such grace period.Jonathan caught his breath and came up running.The garden gave way to an orchard, and beyond that, he could see the dark mass of a forest.He ran for it as the first musket fire cracked behind him.A ball whistled past his ear, and then the trees swallowed him.
Of course they would pursue, but for the moment, the shots fell silent.Nothing to be gained by shooting blindly from a distance.Instead, they would swiftly organize a pursuit and come after him on horseback.
He spared a thought for his two horses and his surveying equipment.All lost.The French already had the last of his maps and his identification papers.The latter would make it more difficult to get out of northern Europe, but that concern was in his future.He knew he had mere minutes to put distance between himself and the manor with nothing for protection except the clothes on his back and a knife barely bigger than his palm.
Jonathan ran until his lungs burned and his legs threatened to give out.The forest was his friend.It was old growth, difficult to ride horses through.When the sunlight became stronger, filtering through the trees, only then did he slow to a walk, still listening for sounds of pursuit as he got his bearings.
Hearing nothing but his own ragged breathing and the morning songs of birds, he made sure he was heading north.Toward Eutin.Toward Lise.He was hungry, thirsty, and now sore, but determination kept him moving.That and the knowledge that Friedrich Albrecht was a French collaborator.
On foot, the journey that would have taken four hours at most by horse would consume the next grueling ten hours of his life.Most likely more, since he had to stay off the roads.Moving quickly while staying hidden seemed an impossible combination, yet he had no choice but to try.
