A Place Called Freedom - Ken Follett [96]
One of his men saw him in trouble and swung the butt of a musket. The blow hit McAsh on the ear. For a moment his grip slackened, then it became tighter than ever. The soldier swung again. McAsh tried to duck, but he was not quick enough, and the heavy wooden stock of the gun connected with a crack that could be heard over the roar of the battle. For a split second McAsh’s stranglehold increased, and Jay struggled for air like a drowning man; then McAsh’s eyes rolled up in his head, his hands slipped from Jay’s neck, and he slumped to the ground, unconscious.
Jay drew breath raggedly and leaned on his sword. Slowly his terror eased. His face hurt like fire: he was sure his nose must be broken. But as he looked at the man crumpled on the ground at his feet he felt nothing but satisfaction.
23
LIZZIE DID NOT SLEEP THAT NIGHT.
Jay had told her there might be trouble, and she sat in their bedroom waiting for him, with a novel open but unread on her knee. He came home in the early hours with blood and dirt all over him and a bandage on his nose. She was so pleased to see him alive that she threw her arms around him and hugged him, ruining her white silk robe.
She woke the servants and ordered hot water, and he told her the story of the riot bit by bit as she helped him out of his filthy uniform and washed his bruised body and got him a clean nightshirt.
Later, when they were lying side by side in the big four-poster bed, she said tentatively: “Do you think McAsh will be hanged?”
“I certainly hope so,” Jay said, touching his bandage with a careful finger. “We have witnesses to say he incited the crowd to riot and personally attacked officers. I can’t imagine a judge giving him a light sentence in the present climate. If he had influential friends to plead for him it would be a different matter.”
She frowned. “I never thought of him as a particularly violent man. Insubordinate, disobedient, insolent, arrogant—but not savage.”
Jay looked smug. “You may be right. But things were arranged so that he had no choice.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sir Philip Armstrong paid a clandestine visit to the warehouse to speak to me and Father. He told us he wanted McAsh arrested for rioting. He practically told us to make it happen. So Lennox and I arranged a riot.”
Lizzie was shocked. It made her feel even worse to think that Mack had been deliberately provoked. “And is Sir Philip pleased with what you’ve done?”
“He is. And Colonel Cranbrough was impressed by the way I handled the riot. I can resign my commission and leave the army with an unimpeachable reputation.”
Jay made love to her then, but she was too troubled to enjoy his caresses. Normally she liked to romp around the bed, rolling him over and getting on top sometimes, changing positions, kissing and talking and laughing; and naturally he noticed that she was different. When it was over he said: “You’re very quiet.”
She thought of an excuse. “I was afraid of hurting you.”
He accepted that and a few moments later he was asleep. Lizzie lay awake. It was the second time she had been shocked by her husband’s attitude to justice—and both occasions had involved Lennox. Jay was not vicious, she was sure; but he could be led into evil by others, particularly strong-minded men such as Lennox. She was glad they were leaving England in a month’s time. Once they set sail, they would never see Lennox again.
Still she could not sleep. There was a cold, leaden feeling in the pit of her stomach. Mack McAsh was going to be hanged. She had been revolted to watch the hanging of total strangers the morning she had gone to Tyburn Cross in disguise. The thought