The Summer Fields

She leans forward and whispers, ‘With all my heart.’

  Mordiford lies back in the cart and smiles up at the heavens.

  In fact, they do not leave much before noon. For the early part of the journey, the convoy travels through open countryside. The crops near to where the battle was fought have been left to spoil, but as they move north, the scars of war lessen.

  Men are out in the meadows, mowing with long scythes while women stook the corn. They break the journey after a couple of hours to rest the animals and eat some luncheon. The captain shuffles around on his good leg, aided by a stout support that the surgeon has made for him, slipping pieces of sausage and cheese into his pockets when no one is looking.

  ‘How is that leg faring?’ Mr Barker says.

  ‘Sound as a bell, but my rump feels punched to a board after a couple of hours in that cart.’

  ‘This army life has made you crude, sir,’ Elen says.

  ‘It is the company, I am afraid, Miss Griffiths. You know what these medical men are like.’

  The journey resumes. Sarah, who had spent the first part of the drive peering over her shoulder to check the pony and cart, settles herself on top of a pile of bedding, facing backwards. From this new perch she gives Elen a coy wave and a good-natured look of warning. Within minutes however, the combination of hot sun, wine at luncheon and the rocking of the ox cart has a somnolent effect on the surgeon’s wife. She loosens the lacing on her bodice, snuggles deeper into the pile of linen, and is soon fast asleep.

  By late afternoon, the convoy has entered the dappled shade of a woodland. The track meanders around outcrops of rock and dense vegetation and it is not very long before Elen begins to lose sight of the ox cart. Momentarily it appears, only to vanish again, as it drops down an incline or turns another corner on the twisting track. The jingling of the tack and clanging of the cooking pots becomes fainter until soon they are barely audible.

  ‘Very sound work,’ Mordiford says quietly behind her. He has pulled himself sideways on the platform of the cart to watch the track ahead. ‘I believe you have lost them altogether.’ She turns and he smiles raffishly at her. ‘There,’ he says. ‘Take that track on the right. Let’s see where it leads.’

  ‘We will get lost.’

  ‘It is no matter. The evening is fine, the woods are deserted, I have pockets full of provisions and I see you have managed to stow enough wine to slosh a whole company of men.’

  The pony plods her way between the trees but after ten minutes of travelling, she pricks up her ears and begins to move with renewed focus.

  ‘She seems to know where she’s going,’ Mordiford says as the cart rattles and jumps between the potholes. Elen hears the hollow cry of a water bird echoing through the trees and all of a sudden, the cart breaks into a large clearing filled with a tranquil body of water, edged all around by a fringe of rustling reeds.

  The pony trots across the shingle and drops her head into the water, her lips breaking the glass-like surface into rippling rings, which gently rock the rafts of lily pads.

  ‘She was thirsty,’ Elen says.

  ‘She was inspired. She has found an enchanted lake for us.’ Mordiford pulls himself a little higher behind her. ‘Elen, is this not the most perfect place for us to be? Help me down. We must set up camp for the night.’

  ‘The night?’ she says, coming round to the back of the trap. ‘I thought we were stopping for a picnic supper before going on to Nördlingen.’

  Mordiford has pulled himself to the edge of the platform, his body twisted so that the splint is supported as his good leg swings over the edge. He reaches out and holds her gently by both hands.

  ‘That was before we found this. I had imagined a field beside the track, a few stolen hours, not this beautiful haven, tucked away in this bewitching wood.’ He gazes up at the canopy of trees above their heads. ‘It is like a cathedral of green, the boughs arching over to protect us. Elen, Elen, surely this was meant to be. Let me have this one night with you under the stars, let me lie with you in my arms as I have lain so many times in my dreams.’

  She feels giddy with desire but Mordiford misreads her hesitation. He crosses his finger on her lips as if he fears her argument will steer him away from his plan. ‘I promise you on my honour that nothing will pass that you need ever regret in the future. Even were I free of this elaborate mechanism that Mr Barker has bolted to my leg like a crusader’s chastity belt, I would not take advantage of you. My single purpose in life is to be in concord with you, in everything we say and do.’ A cautious smile opens up his face and he says, ‘You want us to stay, do you not?’

  ‘I do – you must know that I do.’

  It takes a good half hour to unbridle the pony, rub her down and give her a bucket of oats for her supper. As Elen works, Mordiford hobbles around the margin of the lake, gathering firewood under one arm and laboriously limping back with small loads to the spot he has chosen beneath the boughs of a sweet chestnut tree. The evening is warm and balmy, the surface of lake disturbed only by the scudding water boatmen and the occasional fish rising to the surface to claim an insect. A column of gnats climb and fall along the margin of the water, the sinking sun illuminating them as it drops towards the horizon of trees.

  By the time the fire is lit and crackling merrily, the sun has sunk out of sight, but its last rays shine through the vegetation on the opposite bank of the lake, bathing the shore in an olive glow. They dine on smoked sausage and bread which they skewer on sharpened sticks and toast in the fire. Food has never tasted so good nor wine so sweet. They talk in hushed tones, not wanting to bring dissonance to this peaceful place. As darkness falls and a slender moon rises above the trees, they sit before the glow of the embers in companionable silence.

  ‘Is there not something intensely sensual about the heat?’ Mordiford says unexpectedly. ‘I sometimes wonder if it is that which so seduces me, but then I remember how my heart burned with fire for you when we journeyed over the cracked ice of Radnorshire, and I know it is nothing to do with the seasons.’

  She does not answer for she does not want to break the spell that has fallen on them. Instead, she leans against his body resting her head on his shoulder.

  ‘But heat is seductive,’ he says presently. ‘Even the countryside cannot help but respond. It builds itself up and when it can no longer stand the pressure, it bursts its clouds and thunders around the hills, flashing lightning in its ecstasy.’

  He twists to face her, his eyes reflecting the light of the fire. ‘So it will be between you and me.’ He reaches out and draws her hands towards his chest where he clasps them against his heart. ‘In the heat of summer the smells are stronger, every touch is vibrant and trembling. I want to slip my skin and curl myself around you. I want our bodies to slide against one another until we are as close as two human beings can be. I want to be locked within you, surrounded by you, flowing into you.’

  ‘Stop. I beg you,’ she says. ‘You promised I would be safe. How can I be safe when you say words to me that move me as intensely as if you were making violent love to me?’

  He lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses her fingers one by one.

  ‘How dearly I wish I could,’ he says, drawing her towards him.

  As they kiss, she clutches at his shoulder to anchor herself for she is gripped by a sense of profound disorientation. Slowly, he lies down, drawing her across his body.

  ‘You are as light as the finest goose down,’ he murmurs in her ear, his breath on her neck sending spasms of pleasure through her. His hair is fragranced with the spice of wood smoke and his skin smells of fresh water, but beneath the clear, mineral scent throbs a musk as strong as the blossom that filled the nights at the farm.

  She wants to sate herself on him. She hardly knows how, so intense is the longing as he caresses her hair and lets his lips slip wet across hers. His shirt has fallen open, her bodice has loosened. As their skin presses against one another, she thinks she will go mad. She knows that had he been
fit and free from the splint, she would be powerless to stop him. In fact, he would be powerless to stop her.

  Chapter 9

  Elen wakes at dawn. Mordiford sleeps, one arm encompassing her shoulders, the other lying heavy across her waist. She feels the regular rise and fall of his rib cage, his face resting on her hair. All around them she hears the chatter of birds in the trees, the knocking of wings on water as birds take flight from the surface of the lake.

  Carefully, she slides her arm back to raise herself onto her elbow. She wants to gaze on his sleeping face. He stirs as she moves, shifting his body a little and turning his head away. She studies the generous sculpt of his mouth. The fingers of his hand twitch as he sleeps and she wonders why she has never noticed how beautiful a hand it is. The skin across the back is burnished a golden brown from his days in the sun, here and there, a flat freckle lies as companion to a dipped white scar where once a pox had been. This is the hand that cupped her cheek to draw her in, the stout fingernails that ran tenderly across the skin on the inside of her arm. These thoughts alone reignite the passion she felt the night before and she knows she cannot heed Sarah’s advice.

  She must run away with him, stay on the Continent until he is well. They can live as man and wife for as long as possible. When it is no longer possible, she will sacrifice herself and release him. She would rather face that agony than never experience the ecstasy a true union with him could bring.

  She stands up and walks down the shingle to look out across the lake. A mist rises from the water, light tendrils playing along the surface. It flows in the opposite direction to the puffs of seed heads, drifting by, drawing her eye along the margin of bulrushes on the opposite bank. Suddenly a jolt of horror makes the tips of her fingers tingle with fear.

  A figure stands motionless in the mist, staring across at her, hunched and brooding. A terrible chill runs through her. For one appalling moment she fancies it is the spirit of Ned Harley, come to exact a supernatural revenge. But then the mist thins revealing a heron.

  Her fear subsides, but still she watches the bird with a stifling prescience of doom. The bird’s stooped back and sickle-sharp beak remind her powerfully of the grim reaper. The black eye stares unblinkingly across at her, lifeless but intense in its unwavering glare.

  Slowly it steps nearer to the edge of the water. She wants to shoo it away, to make it take flight and remove its malevolent presence from this beautiful place. The bird seems to respond to her movement by tipping its head and elongating its neck. She thinks it is about to fly but suddenly it stabs down with incredible velocity. The sound of a high-pitched and terrible scream echoes around the trees. A tiny rabbit is thrashing around in its beak.

  Mordiford wakes with a start and tries to struggle to his feet. The screams of the kit increase in pitch. The heron tosses it and catches it again by the paw. Still it twists violently. Still it screams. Elen rushes back to Mordiford and grasps him by his shoulders. ‘You’ve got to stop it,’ she says. ‘It will die.’

  ‘It is dead already,’ he says.

  ‘It is not. Still it screams.’

  ‘But it will die before we reach it. There is nothing we can do.’ He holds her head, his hands over her ears, and cradles her face against his chest, muffling the screams. By the time they stop she is sobbing against him.

  ‘It is over now, my darling one,’ he says, raising her face.

  On the other side of the lake the heron, its throat disfigured by the body of the poor kit, stares back at her impassively before taking a leggy step into the water, followed by another as it insolently picks its way through the shallows at the foot of the tributary.

  ‘There,’ Mordiford says, ‘he is moving off now. It is all done.’

  ‘It was horrible, horrible.’ Still she clings to him. ‘It is a premonition, a warning,’ she says.

  ‘Hush, my darling girl. It is nature, nothing more or less.’ He strokes the hair away from her face, kissing her gently but the magic has been shattered. As if by a mutual consent, they silently gather their things and make ready to leave.

  When the pony is harnessed and the malbruch loaded, she helps Mordiford up onto the platform. Before he pushes himself towards the back, he takes her face in his hands. ‘Are you sad because we are leaving?’

  ‘I’m afraid, Mordiford.’

  ‘There is nothing to be afraid of any more.’

  As the pony picks her way back towards the main track, Elen feels the chill of autumn in the air. Dew beads the webs that the spiders have thrown between the trees. The track is littered with fallen leaves. She can hear Mordiford humming a little tune to himself but she does not feel the same good cheer. The end of the summer always produces a wistful melancholy in her but this is different. She is gripped by a sense of loss and foreboding that confuses her.

  After nearly two hours of travelling, the traffic along the route increases. They overtake carts laden with harvest bounty, and in the distance, she sees the towers of a city breaking the skyline.

  ‘That must be Nördlingen ahead. I think we are nearly there,’ she calls behind.

  Mordiford reaches through the back of the driver’s bench and weaves his fingers between hers. ‘How cold your hand is,’ he says. ‘Stop the cart for a little while and let me warm it for you.’

  ‘We should not. I am already anxious of the reception that awaits us.’

  ‘I would gladly face court marshal and flogging if I could spend another night with you by that lake.’

  ‘I was thinking of far worse than a flogging – Sarah.’

  Mordiford chuckles and flings himself back onto the luggage.

  ‘Were we really there?’ he says. ‘Did we really do all those things? I am amazed. Stunned. You are shining in me.’

  * * *

  As the malbruch nears the city, the weather begins to change. Clouds mass along the horizon and a chill wind shakes the loose oilcloths covering the luggage.

  ‘It looks like rain,’ Elen says. ‘You had better cover yourself or you will be soaked to the skin before we make it to Nördlingen.’ Mordiford tugs the oilcloths across himself, pushing one forward for Elen. She pulls it over her head as the first few spots of rain begin to patter onto the cart. Before long a fine drizzle is falling, muddying the potholes and blurring the distant landscape.

  Ahead on the road, she notices a lone horseman coming in their direction. He slows as he reaches each of the vehicles travelling towards the city, peering at the passengers and exchanging a few words with the occupants before raising his hat with a bow of thanks and moving on to the next cart.

  As he nears, she recognises the uniform of a dragoon. ‘There’s a soldier riding this way,’ she says.

  ‘That is of little surprise.’

  ‘He is a dragoon.’

  Mordiford grasps the back of the driver’s bench and hauls himself higher, squinting into the rain. ‘He is a horseman – from Wood’s Regiment by the looks of it. I cannot quite recognise his face yet.’ Mordiford raises his tricorn above the cart and waves it over Elen’s head. ‘I see him now. It is Lieutenant Adair. I know him well.’

  The dragoon spurs his horse into a canter and comes alongside the malbruch.

  ‘Captain Mordiford,’ he says, ‘we have been waiting over a day for your arrival.’

  ‘And you do not have to wait another minute, for here I am. How far to the city?’

  ‘Less than half an hour but you must hurry. News has arrived from England and I have been sent out to search for you.’

  ‘News? What news?’

  ‘I know not, sir. I have been riding this stretch of road hourly for the last day in the hope of finding you. All I have been told is that I must escort you to the city hospital with immediate haste.’

  ‘Very well, Lieutenant. Lead on and we shall follow.’

  Lieutenant Adair spurs his horse back in the direction he has come, shouting at vehicles to make way. Elen slaps the reins onto the pony’s rump and trots after the dragoon, her a
nxiety from this morning increasing in her chest.

  ‘What can it be?’ Mordiford calls over the rattle of the cart. ‘Does Marlborough need reinforcements sent to Landau to support the Margrave? The duke clearly has a highly inflated confidence in Dr Argyll’s skills if he imagines I am already fit enough to ride out and join him. But, no, it cannot be that. Adair says that news has come from England.’

  ‘We will find out soon enough.’

  Presently they pass into the shadow of the city gates. Within the city walls, houses rise on either side, four, sometimes five storeys high. Their steeply sloped roofs are covered in red tiles, the gable ends elaborately stepped and decorated. The cart rumbles over the flint cobbles, the pony’s hooves echoing between the buildings.

  Up ahead she sees Lieutenant Adair dismount in front of a large, stone hospital building and hurry inside. By the time their wagon reaches the entrance, Dr Argyll has come out and is waiting in some degree of agitation.

  ‘Good heavens, child,’ he cries, grabbing hold of the pony’s bridle. ‘Where have you been? We have been searching up and down the country for you.’

  Before she has an opportunity to reply there is a commotion at the entrance to the building. A small crowd push out into the rain and a voice calls, ‘Has the earl arrived? Is he here? Let me through.’

  As the people part, a vision of pale cream taffeta topped with a travelling cloak of the softest dove grey stands out between the drab taupe of the crowd. A delicately dressed girl rushes past Elen, the hem of her gown soaking up the mud from the street, the fur-trimmed hood of her cape falling back as she picks her way hurriedly to the back of the cart with a rustle of stiff underskirts.

  Her hair is blonde and piled up at the nape of her neck, the escaping ringlets bobbing as she moves. If she had deigned to glance her way, Elen knew her eyes would be pale grey, matching the colour of the lover’s eye on Mordiford’s jewelled keepsake.

  ‘Crispin! Oh, is it really you?’

  ‘Arabella? What in the world are you doing here?’ he says, pushing the oilskins away and hauling himself to the edge of the cart. Arabella reaches up and clasps his hands.