The Summer Fields

  Mr Barker has fetched the stretcher from the manger and put it on the floor next to Mordiford. She comes forward to help them lift him. She kneels down, laying a hand on Mordiford’s shoulder. He is drowsy with fever but he looks up at her. An understanding passes between them.

  ‘Stay your hand, Mr Barker,’ Dr Argyll says, pushing them both aside and peering down at the wound on the captain’s leg. ‘See! It crawls with maggots.’

  She looks at the leg and flinches. Patches of white have bloomed in the crater of the captain’s wound. It is as if a handful of seed has been sprinkled onto the glistening tissues, each tiny white seed pleating and straightening.

  ‘We cannot delay a moment longer,’ Mr Barker says. ‘Look at him. He is too sick to keep this leg, maggots or no maggots.’

  ‘Surely, sir, he is too weak to lose it and live,’ Elen says.

  The surgeon considers the dilemma and begins to nod slowly. ‘You may be right.’

  The hay rustles as Mordiford moves. ‘Could I trouble you,’ he says, ‘for a draught of water or am I to die of thirst before any of your theories have been proven?’

  His voice is weak but his words make her want to laugh out loud and say: there gentlemen – proof, if proof were needed, that Captain Mordiford is, without question, an exceptional man.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Dr Argyll says. ‘Miss Griffiths, are you up to the task of drawing some fresh water for the captain?’

  ‘I am, sir.’

  ‘Before you visit the well, please send a couple of orderlies down here with as much haste as possible. We must get Captain Mordiford away from this foetid shack as soon as we can.’

  As she gets to her feet, the captain twists his body, feebly trying to reach his wound. The doctor intervenes, laying a steadying hand on his arm.

  ‘Let me at it,’ Mordiford says. ‘It itches abominably.’

  ‘Your saviours have arrived, sir. You must leave them to do their work. It seems Harley’s corrupting influence has served you well on this score at least. Without a doubt, the presence of his cadaver has been instrumental in drawing the flies inside.’

  ‘Sir,’ she says urgently to the doctor, ‘we must never speak his name again.’

  ‘I stand corrected. You are right, Miss Griffiths. It must be assumed he was a French deserter chancing his luck. No one else will know his identity.’

  ‘There are no secrets between Mrs Barker and myself,’ says the surgeon, and Elen is glad of it. She would not want to keep a secret from Sarah.

  ‘She must be the only other person to know the truth of what occurred here last night,’ she says.

  ‘It is agreed. Now, my dear…’ The surgeon takes her by the elbow and leads her to the door. Once outside he says, ‘I want you to have no worries about the consequences of this terrible night. While the doctor and I ensure the anonymity of the deceased, I urge you to speak to Mrs Barker. Should you have sustained any injuries of a…’ The surgeon pauses and clears his throat. ‘…of an intimate nature following your ordeal, Mrs Barker is the woman to help.’

  ‘You must not trouble yourself on that score, Mr Barker. The captain despatched my attacker before anything truly unpleasant occurred.’

  ‘Ah, that is such a relief.’ Mr Barker’s face broadens and splits into a wide grin. ‘Capital. Excellent news. Now, hurry along my dear. The doctor and I have a small task to perform.’

  * * *

  When Elen returns with the water and the orderlies, Harley is lying on his back. The sword has been removed and where his shirt gapes open, she sees a black and bloodied hole in the centre of his abdomen.

  She remembers looking on that line of dark hair that marked the middle of his torso, remembers pressing her fingers on the skin where the hair swirled and thickened. She remembers the heady scent of cloves that rose up from his skin when she came close and she grieves, not for Ned, but for the days when men were whole and healthy, clean and free from wounds.

  As the orderlies heave the body from the floor, the limbs sagging loosely in their sockets, she turns away. Despite all that has passed, she does not want her mind branded with the image of a bloodied corpse where once there had been a dangerous beauty.

  Chapter 5

  ‘It is most important that the wound does not dry until all the dead flesh has been devoured,’ the doctor says to Elen before turning his attention to Mordiford who has been settled in an upstairs room of the farm cottage for the past few days. ‘I know you are feeling weak, sir, but we must hurry on to Nördlingen as soon as we are able. When the wind is from the west, you can smell the stench from the battlefield. It is quite overpowering. It will only worsen during the next few weeks. Besides, the Barkers and ourselves must go where we are needed.’

  ‘I am actually feeling a deal stronger,’ Mordiford says. ‘I have slept quite soundly for most of the day.’ He smiles up at Elen. He has lost that deathly pallor and those deep, dark rings beneath his eyes.

  ‘That is good,’ the doctor says. ‘It means the wound has already been cleared of some of the poison.’

  ‘Is it not painful?’ she says.

  ‘Painful?’ the captain says. ‘The whole leg is damnably painful, but perhaps a little less than before. But the devils irritate and itch. I have to use all my willpower not to knock them away. Lift that gauze, Argyll. I want to see them at work.’

  ‘I would not advise it, sir,’ she says.

  ‘You think me qualmish? Last winter I watched my whole body bubble and erupt. Do you imagine I will be unsettled to see these fellows at work?’

  The doctor shrugs then bends to peel back the moistened dressing. Several of the maggots have attached themselves to the fabric and drop, white and wriggling in their blindness, onto the bed.

  The wound scintillates as the maggots move within. She longs to snatch the pitcher from the floor and jet a stream of clean water deep into the cavity to knock them away.

  Mordiford cranes forward, the narrowing of his eyes betraying anxiety despite his own robust championing of his curiosity. He stares down at the deep crater in his shin and his face blanches. ‘Damn the bloody rood,’ he says. ‘That is the most…’

  ‘Incredible sight,’ the doctor interjects with enthusiasm. ‘Already the wound is free from the sickly smell of death,’ he says, pressing a cautious finger onto the edge of the gaping ulcer. ‘The surrounding skin no longer crackles with gas. The maggots will swell as they feed. By the time they pupate, I’ll be bound we shall see the most beautiful, pink and healthy tissue.’

  Dr Argyll bends forward, his nose inches from the wound and inhales deeply. ‘Aah, as sweet as a peach,’ he says. ‘Mr Barker’s excellent work on the operating table has been abetted by these capital little creatures.’

  Dr Argyll moistens the gauze in the pitcher on the floor. Before he lays the fabric back over the wound, he retrieves the fallen maggots and drops them back onto Mordiford’s leg. ‘Now, can I fetch you a little supper, sir?’ he says cheerfully.

  The captain swallows twice in quick succession before answering, ‘Perhaps I shall wait a few minutes longer.’

  ‘That was foolish,’ Elen says after the doctor has left.

  ‘Maybe. I own it was not the sight I expected. But it looks so unlike a part of me that it is more bearable than my imagination. Why do you smile so?’

  ‘You have reminded me of the night you found the looking glass.’

  ‘Ah, that. I remember that night well, as I do all the nights you sat with me.’ He lays his head back and smiles. ‘I know I spent my days baiting you…’

  ‘You were trying to drive me away for the best of reasons.’

  ‘Not always, I think.’

  ‘You do not mean that.’

  ‘There were times when your flawless complexion and implacable patience filled me with resentment.’

  ‘Do you have to remember the past with such remorseless accuracy? I prefer to think your behaviour sprung from concern.’

  The captain shrugs. ‘Do you? I ho
pe so, but I was only just rising to the surface back then. A man cannot turn himself around on a farthing.’

  She wonders how completely he has turned himself around. The keepsake still rests in her pocket. She knows she should ask him to explain why he carries it with him, but the very thought makes her heart drum. She is not prepared for the wrong answer.

  If she has no intention of challenging him, she should return it to his pocket forthwith. Is she waiting to see if he misses it? Every day that passes when he does not search for it should reassure her that it means nothing to him, but instead her insecurity strengthens. Sooner or later she is bound to speak.

  Mordiford has shown a courage that she lacks. He dreaded what he would see in the looking glass when he had the pox, and again just now, beneath the gauze covering his leg, but still he acknowledges that his imagination may be worse than reality. She must make the same leap of faith or her imagination will poison the well of understanding between them.

  The day has been hot and sultry. All the windows of the building are thrown open, but instead of cooling the rooms, the panting heat has stolen in and sucked moisture from the walls, making the air thick and heavy.

  Swallows scream and dive in the yard below, feasting on a banquet of insects, which tumble in the sweltering air. The rich smell of wood smoke drifts in through the windows from the cooking fires. Now that evening is falling, the sky has become overcast and a breeze begins to flicker the leaves of the poplars along the margin of the yard, which flash white as they twist. A barely perceptible rumble in the low hills to the north accompanies the wind and makes the dogs out in the meadow bark. ‘Could that be cannon fire?’ she says.

  ‘I think not. Thunder, I should imagine.’

  ‘I hope we have rain.’

  ‘Run away with me.’

  Another rumble rolls in the distance. She stares back at him, unsure if she has heard him correctly. Although his eyes glow as if a blue light shines behind them, his smile confuses her. She has seen that smile before. She knows what it heralds. She goes over to the window and looks out at the darkening sky. Without turning she says, ‘You must be recovering well to begin teasing me again.’

  ‘I am not teasing you.’

  ‘You are, sir.’

  She hears him sigh. ‘Elen, Elen. I can call you Elen, can I not?’

  ‘If you wish.’

  ‘I have called you Elen in my mind for so many months. Does it sound so strange to you?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘How do you address me in your thoughts?’

  ‘Mordiford, always Mordiford.’ She turns away from the window and back to face him, her heart bumping beneath her rib cage. When he sees her expression, a hesitant frown passes across his brow.

  She takes a deep breath to steady herself and says, ‘And how does Lady Arabella address you?’

  Mordiford pushes himself higher up in the bed and stares at her. ‘How did we get here?’ he says presently. When she does not reply, he sighs and says, ‘She calls me Crispin, as a matter of fact, a name I cannot abide, for it is one favoured by my father.’

  ‘Why do you not tell her that you dislike it so?’

  ‘Because I have not communicated with her for many months.’

  ‘But she is clearly never far from your thoughts.’

  A gust of wind blows a dead leaf in through the window and rattles it across the floorboards.

  ‘This is a curious game, Miss Griffiths.’

  ‘It is no game, sir.’

  ‘A minute ago I imagined we had an understanding with one another.’

  ‘I understand you very well.’

  ‘Then you have the advantage.’

  ‘I know you have feelings for Lady Arabella.’

  Mordiford shakes his head as if to clear it. ‘Feelings of affection towards a friend, nothing more.’

  She reaches into her pocket and retrieves the keepsake, closing her hand around it and holding it to her chest. ‘I have something here which proves that to be a lie,’ she says.

  Mordiford pushes himself higher and peers forward. ‘I cannot see what you have.’

  ‘Something you carried into battle.’

  ‘Something you stole from my pocket?’

  ‘No. Sarah handed it to me, she meant it as a warning to me.’

  ‘A warning? A warning of what?’

  ‘That you still have feelings for another.’

  Mordiford gives an impatient sigh and sinks back on his pillows. ‘I do not have feelings for another.’

  ‘I know you lie,’ she says, brandishing her closed fist towards him.

  ‘Then come here and show me. For pity’s sake, I cannot come to you.’

  She cannot tell if he is genuinely ignorant or intentionally disingenuous.

  ‘If you have feelings for none other, what is the explanation for this?’ she says, thrusting the keepsake at him.

  He strains to sit further forward. ‘Bring it here,’ he says. ‘I still cannot see it.’ She steps forward and recognition registers in his expression. He reaches out to take it from the palm of her hand. ‘Oh, that,’ he says. ‘It is a pretty thing. I had quite forgot it.’

  She expected a number of reactions – a denial perhaps or an angry defence at being caught out. With neither to parry, she is at a loss as to what to say next. Another growl of thunder comes through the open window.

  ‘Why do you carry it?’ she says.

  ‘Because it was given to me.’ He turns the jewel over in his fingers, studying it with a half-smile on his face, before laying it on the table at the side of the bed and looking up at her. ‘I see by your expression, that we have some kind of worriment here.’

  ‘Worriment? Now you do mean to antagonise me, sir.’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘You carry into battle a keepsake popularly called a lover’s eye.’

  He looks back at her with confused amusement on his face as if he thinks she may be mocking him. ‘I have said already, I had quite forgot it. Arabella had it made for me and sent it as a parting gift. It is perhaps a little mawkish and sentimental, but it was kindly meant and I am glad that I have not lost it.’

  ‘Glad?’

  His expression darkens and, as if in concord with his mood, the clouds rolling in from the fields beyond the window flash momentarily to herald the approaching thunder.

  ‘I have no stomach for a fight,’ he says. Another thunderclap rises to a crescendo, excusing her the need to reply. As the noise grumbles away across the distant hills, Mordiford says, ‘But I shall ask you again, how did we arrive at this? I had a notion to begin a conversation on quite a different subject altogether.’

  ‘Oh, I am sure you did.’

  ‘I meant to tell you that when I am well enough to quit Nördlingen, I thought to stay on the Continent through the winter. I had hoped I could persuade you to stay with me. I had a notion to travel to the Low Countries and enjoy a simple life free from duty in order to replenish our spirits in readiness for next season’s campaign. Instead, we end up like two fighting cocks squabbling over a nothing.’

  ‘It is not a nothing to me. You ask me to run away with you and yet you will not tell me the feelings you have for another.’

  ‘I thought I had. She gave me a gift. It was a kindness. I am glad I have not lost it.’

  ‘Why do you keep repeating the same words?’

  ‘Because you keep asking the same question.’

  ‘You are being intentionally obtuse.’

  ‘That is where our opinions differ. I believe I am being as clear as crystal.’

  ‘Have you no idea what words I want you to say?’

  ‘I have not or I would say them,’ he replies with rising exasperation. ‘Come, tell me what they are so that I may recite them and put an end to this oppressive atmosphere, which apparently needs more than a good storm of rain to clear it away.’

  They are cut short by the arrival of Sarah with a tray of food.

  ‘My, but it’s hot up
here,’ she says. ‘There you are, captain, beef and potatoes, as usual.’

  ‘Take it back down to feed another, Sarah. I have quite lost my appetite.’

  Elen takes the opportunity to quit the room and hurries down the narrow staircase, tears springing into her eyes. She crosses the yard and paces out into the meadow, breathing the freshened air while the grasses buck and ripple around her. The first speck of rain plops onto her shoulder, another taps on her hand. She turns her face up to the lowering sky and lets the drops cool her skin as the wind snaps her hair across her eyes.

  Why can she not be at peace? She had been so certain that their increasing closeness would bring nothing but joy. Instead she seems destined to follow the path Sarah mapped out, that of an unhappy future. She thought her life would lack for nothing if the captain lived, but every time a prayer is answered, a demon waits in the wings with another trial to test her contentment.

  ‘Damn you, Mordiford,’ she shouts above another roll of thunder, but as the sound tumbles away, so does some of her anger. Damn him for what? For wanting to run away with her? No, not that. She damns him because she wants to possess all of him, his past as well as his future, and she knows she cannot.

  Chapter 6

  ‘Elen,’ Sarah calls. ‘What are you doing out there? Come back under cover. You’ll be drenched to the skin.’

  As the rain quickens her friend hastens towards her, throwing a shawl around herself. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ she cries above the tempest.

  ‘Sarah, I have been so foolish.’

  ‘That’s allowed. Getting soaked and catching your death isn’t.’ Sarah tosses the shawl across both their heads and, grasping Elen by the shoulders, pulls her in a stumbling run towards the nearest shelter, a lean-to at the entrance of the yard.

  ‘Oh, but we need this rain. That is powerful cool,’ Sarah says, shaking the droplets off the shawl and running her hands through her hair.

  She sits down on one of the piled logs before threading an arm around Elen’s elbow and pulling her closer, as she is inclined to do. ‘You poor little pigsney. You look as miserable as a wet bee. Tell me how he has vexed you.’