Garland of Straw (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 2)

by Stella Riley

  ‘I hear.’

  ‘Good. See that you remember it.’ Jack released his grip and stepped back. ‘God go with you,’ he said.

  *

  Gabriel rode towards the City at a pace dictated by the darkness and the state of the road. He was much later than he had meant to be but there was little point in running the risk of laming his horse. And he rather enjoyed riding alone at night. It gave him the chance to think.

  The last houses of Shoreditch fell away behind him, leaving him in a brief expanse of open country. Deciding to skirt the City, he turned right towards the windmills of Upper Moorfields. The rain filtered steadily through the trees and the moon disappeared behind a cloud.

  Afterwards, Gabriel was never sure if it was the sudden darkness that made him check his pace or whether he’d heard that first, betraying scrape of metal against metal. Whichever it was, however, the result was the same. In that single fragment of silence between one hoofbeat and the next, there came a furtive but perfectly audible whisper. Then the moon came out again just as a body dropped from the tree above him and bore him to the ground.

  Even as he fell, Gabriel was acutely aware of two things; the pair of shadows closing in swiftly from the road ahead and the knife approaching his throat. The first could wait. The second couldn’t. With a supple, violent twist, he managed to alter the moment of impact so that his assailant received the brunt of it; and before the fellow could recover his breath, he used the full force of his forearm to deflect the murderous blade. Then he brought his fist smashing back into the anonymous face.

  There was a distinct sound of splintering bone and the man howled. Not waiting to see how much damage he’d inflicted, Gabriel sprang to his feet. He snatched the knife from the slackened grip and, tearing his sword from its scabbard, turned immediately to face his other attackers.

  They were almost upon him – one holding a sword and the other a cudgel – and, as they advanced, they were moving gradually apart from each other. Gripping the purloined dagger firmly in his left hand, Gabriel let them arrive at a precisely-calculated point in front of him and then stopped them with a swift, double-sweep of his sword. Jack’s craftsmanship glinted maliciously in the light; thirty-five inches of steel with a cunningly-wrought gilt-bronze basket hilt. Anticipation sparked through Gabriel’s veins and his mouth curled in a chilly smile.

  ‘If you want me, you’ll have to come and get me,’ he said. And, without any warning, engaged the enemy blade in a savage assault which had just one aim.

  His only chance was to disarm or disable one of his assailants while he dealt with the other. It worked, but not quite as fast as he’d hoped; and, in the instant he achieved the exact position he needed to score the first man’s knuckles and send his sword spinning from his hand, the other fellow’s billet connected sickeningly with his left shoulder.

  The force of the blow sent him blundering awkwardly into the trunk of a tree and pain burned down his arm, rendering his left hand virtually useless and causing the dagger to fall silently into the grass. Instinct warned that he now had only seconds in which to deal with the cudgel-bearer before the other man retrieved his weapon. Sidestepping a second blow to his head and feeling the draught of it stir his hair, Gabriel thrust hard and accurately with his sword. The point passed cleanly through the fellow’s throat and he crumpled slowly, blood pumping from his mouth.

  Before he even hit the ground, Gabriel was already wheeling to meet the oncoming rush of the swordsman. The blades exploded together like bells on a Sunday, then slithered to a brief disengage before beginning again. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his left shoulder, Gabriel pressed a relentless attack which forced his assailant to give ground before him. A line of concentration marking his brow, he pursued a series of moves which eventually appeared to provide his opponent with an opening. Then, just as he was in apparent danger of sacrificing the tendons of his wrist, Gabriel made a perfectly-timed thrust past the oncoming blade and straight into its owner’s heart. Surprise registered briefly on the fellow’s face and he dropped like a stone.

  Very slowly, Gabriel expelled a long, weary breath and sheathed his sword – for once, without bothering to clean it. Now the danger was over, his shoulder had become a mass of screaming agony and he wondered distantly whether or not he would be silly to try riding on to Windsor. Then the matter was answered for him as a knife whistled through the air to take him just above his right elbow.

  He gasped and dropped to one knee, peering through the darkness at the man who’d unhorsed him and who now crouched beside a gorse-bush, blood black on his broken face.

  Stupid, thought Gabriel dizzily. Stupid and careless. Another knife. You should have checked. Then, summoning every ounce of will to shut out the pain as he forced his left hand to move, he made one final, excruciating effort and managed, somewhat messily, to drag the dagger free of his protesting flesh.

  It was all the man by the bush had been waiting for. He had seen how efficiently the Colonel had despatched his two friends and had shot his last bolt – ineptly, it seemed. Now he did the only thing left to him. He fled.

  Gabriel watched him go with grim relief, spared a moment to marshal his departing senses and then set about trying to remove his sash so that he could use it to stem the flow of blood that was already darkening his sleeve. This, due to the grinding torment in his shoulder, took some time but he eventually achieved it and hauled himself to his feet. The business of getting back on his horse was even more difficult and left him feeling extremely sick. Then, thanking God that his Jenny was well-trained, he turned her slowly back in the direction of Shoreditch.

  It was a seemingly endless ride but he finally arrived in the Morrells’ yard and was able to slide gratefully from the saddle. A soft glow of light showed at the parlour windows, suggesting that - despite the lateness of the hour – someone was still up. Praying that it was Jack, Gabriel tapped lightly on the door and waited, slumped against the architrave.

  The door opened a crack and a face peered out. It wasn’t Jack. It was Venetia, still wearing the simple blue gown she’d worn that afternoon but with her hair tumbling wildly down her back. Just for an instant, she stared at him incredulously; then she flung the door wide, offered her arm and said rapidly, ‘Come - before you collapse.’

  ‘That,’ he murmured vaguely, accepting her support, ‘sounds like a good idea.’

  Once in the parlour, he lowered himself with care on to one of the settles beside the fire and Venetia followed with a branch of candles. Light spilled over him, revealing the ghastly pallor of his face and the blood-soaked sash wound inexpertly about the upper part of his right arm.

  Venetia set the candles down with a bump.

  ‘You look dreadful!’

  ‘And feel it.’ He managed something that was meant to be a smile. ‘In case you’re wondering, Jack keeps the brandy in the corner-cupboard.’

  Again, she did not hesitate but crossed the room to return with a hefty measure in a pewter mug. Then, placing the bottle beside him and briskly stripping off her cuffs, she said, ‘What happened?’

  Gabriel took half the brandy in one swallow and felt its warmth invading his veins.

  ‘I was set upon by three men.’

  She looked sharply at him and then continued rolling up her sleeves.

  ‘Footpads?’

  ‘It would be nice to think so. What are you doing?’

  ‘What does it look like? I’m going to see to your arm.’

  ‘Which one?’ he asked wryly. Then, meeting her eyes, ‘The blood probably looks worse than it is. What really hurts is my other shoulder. And, in either case, I think you should call Jack.’

  ‘Why? Are you afraid I might faint?’ She smiled grimly. ‘Don’t be. I’m not exactly a novice at this. How do you suppose I spent my time in Oxford during the war? Sit still while I find what I need.’ And she left the room without waiting for an answer.

  Gabriel drained the mug, managed not without difficulty, to
fill it again and let his head drop back against the settle. By the time Venetia returned with a bowl of hot water, cloths and various pots of salve, the brandy was beginning to take effect and he was able to smile more successfully and say, ‘Don’t tell me. You want me to take my clothes off.’

  ‘Some of them,’ she agreed calmly. ‘And it’s not likely to be nearly as much fun as you think.’

  It wasn’t. Getting out of the buff-coat brought about a resurgence of raw anguish in his shoulder and set his arm bleeding copiously again – with the result that Venetia simply took a pair of scissors to his shirt in order to remove it. Then, apparently unworried by his naked chest, she knelt at his side and set to work cleaning the knife-wound.

  ‘How is it?’ asked Gabriel presently.

  ‘Deep. And you did some damage when you got the knife out. I take it that one of the men you don’t think were footpads stabbed you?’

  ‘More or less.’ The grey eyes, kept carefully blank with rigid self-control, rested on her reflectively. ‘Why shouldn’t I think they were footpads?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. It’s just the impression I got.’

  He sighed and then winced as she touched a particularly vulnerable spot.

  ‘My unfortunate sense of humour again. Dare I say that hurts?’

  ‘I’d be amazed if it didn’t.’ Venetia looked up briefly, recognised that he looked more than a little sick and went grimly on with her task. ‘And, strange as it may seem, I’m not doing this for my own amusement.’

  ‘Why, then?’

  ‘Silly question. I’m here and it needs doing.’

  ‘Ah.’ He paused and kept his mouth tightly shut while she applied some thick green paste from a pot beside her. Then, drawing a careful breath, he said, ‘All right. Sensible question. What are you doing still up at this hour?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep.’ She laid a pad neatly over the wound and began binding it into place. ‘If you want the truth, I was thinking of the conversation we had earlier and the fact that, although I set forth my position, we never established yours.’

  ‘With regard to what?’

  Venetia pushed the shining fall of silver-gilt hair unceremoniously behind her ears and leaned forward to tear the bandage between her teeth. Then, tying the twin strips into a business-like knot, ‘Everything.’

  Distant humour touched his expression.

  ‘As Wat would say – you don’t want much, do you?’

  ‘Look on the bright side.’ She set the bowl of reddened water on the hearth, stood up and poured him another drink. ‘At least it will give you something else to think about while I inspect the rest of the damage.’

  ‘There’s sense there somewhere, I suppose.’ Gabriel eyed the brandy dubiously. ‘You realise that if I drink this I’m going to be totally cupshot?’

  ‘That is the general idea. Turn round slightly to face the hearth.’

  He did not move but instead, said, ‘You could do with some of this yourself, by the look of you.’

  ‘I could indeed – but not yet. Turn around.’

  He did so and her breath caught. A livid bruise was spreading from well below his arm up to some point beneath the long, dark hair and the whole area was hideously misshapen. Venetia bit her lip and considered her options.

  ‘As bad as that, is it?’ asked Gabriel prosaically.

  ‘It’s not good. How much can you move your arm?’

  ‘Without crucifying myself, scarcely at all.’

  ‘Can I touch it?’

  ‘If you don’t mind me swearing.’

  He broke into a cold sweat as she manipulated his arm but kept his tongue firmly between his teeth. Then, when it was done, he said raggedly, ‘Well?’

  ‘I think it’s dislocated.’

  ‘So do I. You’d better get Jack.’

  ‘Will he know what to do?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. But if it requires brute force, he’ll manage.’

  ‘It doesn’t.’

  Still trying to regulate his breathing, Gabriel said, ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ She swallowed. ‘I’ve seen it done a couple of times.’

  ‘Well, that’s probably twice more than Jack.’ He drained the tankard and let it drop to the floor. Then, swivelling back so that he could read her face, ‘How is it done?’

  ‘By … by sort of rotating the joint until it pops back in,’ she replied, trying to disguise the fact that the mere thought made her feel sick.

  ‘Ah.’ He hesitated and then, setting his jaw, said, ‘I don’t suppose you feel like trying? I wouldn’t ask … only it hurts like hell.’

  She started to refuse and then the look in his eyes coupled with the white shade bracketing his mouth unlocked something behind her neat, blue bodice. She said slowly, ‘Are you sure? If it hurts now, that’s nothing compared to how it will feel if I get it wrong.’

  ‘Just do your best. Please?’

  And that, for some obscure reason, settled it.

  ‘You’ll need to brace yourself against something,’ she said, looking around the room. ‘If you could kneel in the doorway and grip the frame against your body with your other arm, it would put you at the right height and keep you steady.’

  Somewhat woozily, Gabriel stood up and aimed for the kitchen door.

  ‘If you just want to see me on my knees, you only had to say.’

  ‘One good push now and I’ll have you flat on your face,’ she retorted, helping him across the room and into the position she’d dictated. ‘Stop trying to be witty – and swear if it helps.’

  The next few minutes were singularly unpleasant for both of them. Having seen Kit’s shoulder replaced after a riding accident and that of a youthful lieutenant in Oxford following some skirmish or other, Venetia knew roughly what had to be done. Doing it, however, was a different matter altogether.

  Her first attempt ended in failure and caused Gabriel to curse under his breath. She let him rest for a moment and then, gritting her teeth and telling herself that it was now or never, made a second more positive approach.

  Gabriel’s arm slid unerringly back into its socket and he gave an involuntary, shuddering groan, allied with a word rarely used in mixed company. Then he slumped down on the floor, his head resting against the door-frame. His breath came hard and erratically and his back was slick with sweat.

  Venetia stepped back and realised that she was shaking. She said, ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. No. I think I’m going to be sick.’

  She shot past him into the kitchen, grabbed the first receptacle that came to hand and dumped it on the floor beside him. Then, turning away, she said, ‘Take your time and try to breathe. I’m going to make a poultice.’

  By dint of sheer will-power, Gabriel managed to overcome his sudden nausea – aided by the fact that he would sooner have bled to death than throw up in his wife’s presence. And when he was fairly sure he had himself under control, he rose awkwardly to his feet and stumbled back to the settle. Grateful to be alone for a moment, he shut his eyes and concentrated on re-assembling his faculties. Although his shoulder was still on fire, the grinding torture of the past couple of hours had gone and the relief was indescribable.

  Venetia finally returned bearing a steaming, malodorous concoction wrapped in muslin. Gabriel regarded it dubiously and she said flatly, ‘Don’t ask. Just accept that, if you still hope to ride North on Thursday, this is the best chance I can offer you.’

  ‘After everything you’ve done so far, I’m not about to start quibbling now.’ He flinched as she laid the poultice carefully in place and then, meeting her eyes, said, ‘I really can’t thank you enough, you know.’

  ‘Then don’t try.’ She picked up his discarded mug, crossed the room in search of a second cup and then reached for the brandy bottle. ‘You probably shouldn’t drink any more but a sip or two will settle your insides and make me feel less guilty for having some myself. I don’t touch it as a rule and Mother would undoubtedly have a fit. But then, Mother�
�s idea of dealing with illness and injury is taking flowers to the sickroom.’

  Gabriel laughed and immediately regretted it. He took the tankard from her and watched her sink down on the far side of the hearth. Then he said quietly, ‘Why, Venetia? Why go to so much trouble - for me, of all people?’

  ‘You mean I should have left you to suffer so you wouldn’t be fit to go fighting the Scots?’

  ‘Something like that, yes.’

  ‘And what good would it have done?’ She sipped her brandy and looked wearily across at him. ‘You didn’t want this war … and we may all regret it before it’s done. To put it bluntly, I decline to compound my mistakes.’

  Respect had stirred once before only to die stillborn. Now it came suddenly into full bloom, bringing with it the very first seeds of liking. Gabriel accepted and absorbed them. Then he said, ‘And if the King wins?’

  ‘If he does, I may feel differently. But will he?’

  ‘As things stand, I suspect not – but anything is possible. It will depend largely on the level of active support he can raise here in England and how long it takes the Lieutenant-General to subdue Wales.’

  Venetia observed that a little colour had returned to his face. She also noticed, as she had not done before, that the breadth of his shoulders and the well-defined musculature of his chest and abdomen were undoubtedly spectacular. She felt the warmth of colour stealing into her own cheeks and said abruptly, ‘Do you like Cromwell?’

  ‘I admire his military skill,’ came the dry response, ‘but I don’t care for his outpourings of emotion and his conviction that God is on his side. I also suspect that, without Ireton to direct his hand, he’d be revealed as a much less capable administrator than he currently appears.’ Gabriel paused, staring down into his mug. ‘But he still knows how to appeal to the common troopers – and they’ll follow him in the field even though, deep down, they no longer completely trust him to serve their interests in other matters.’

  ‘I see. It’s not much of a recommendation, is it?’

  ‘Possibly not. But, for what it’s worth, I think he will try to preserve the existing order as long as he can.’ Gabriel shifted his position and grimaced slightly. ‘I hope he does. Because if Parliament’s dissolved and the King deposed, all that will be left is the Army with nothing to balance against it. And military rule will never work. What’s needed is a practical, universally acceptable compromise built on the foundations we already have. And that is what a good many people have spent a good deal of time trying to find – so far without success.’