Adam shook his head. ‘Simon must deal with his own conscience as I must deal with mine.’
‘I think he sees only glory and honour,’ Perdita said.
‘He will find the reality rather less to his taste,’ Adam spoke without thinking and instantly regretted his words.
‘What do you mean?’ Perdita asked.
Adam leaned his head against the warm neck of his horse, breathing in the reassuring, familiar smell of horse and leather. Sense told him to hold his tongue but he found the words already forming as the scenes of those battles he had fought came flooding back.
‘To ride into battle is to know real fear,’ he said. ‘Your bowels churn and your stomach is knotted hard. Your mouth is like dust. As the order comes to charge, you forget what cause it is you are fighting for because now the fight becomes your cause. Your fight is for survival. Around you men are dying in ways even your most harrowing nightmares could not have envisioned. There is smoke, confusion, and the smell of powder and of fear and blood and all around the screams of the dying. And when it is done, when you have survived and you are so tired you cannot even lift your head, then you want to weep. There is no honour in battle, no glory.’
‘And when the enemy may be the man with whom you supped only the week before?’ Perdita said.
Adam closed his eyes. ‘That is the tragedy of civil war.’
He pushed himself away from his horse, making a show of buckling his bag to the saddle. When he found the courage to look up, he found Perdita’s unblinking gaze fixed on his face, an unspoken grief written in her brimming eyes and tightly -held mouth. Shame at having been the cause of her distress washed over him. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss away the tears.
‘I’m sorry. I spoke without thought.’
‘No.’ Perdita straightened and looked away with an audible sniff. ‘You spoke the truth and I’m glad for it.’ She looked back at him and her brown eyes, fierce with understanding, held his for a moment. ‘God speed you, Adam Coulter.’
He led the horse out into the courtyard and swung into the saddle. He looked down into the face of Perdita Gray and smiled. ‘And God keep you safe, Mistress Gray.’
As he rode away from Preswood, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the immaculate lawns. He felt the cold shadow of premonition and shivered.
Chapter 4
Stratford Upon Avon
Friday 29 July 1642
‘So when is this war going to start?’ Bess asked blithely.
Simon, riding beside his sister, glanced at her. ‘My dear sister, it already has.’
‘Has it? How exciting.’ Bess looked around at the peaceful fields slumbering in the summer sunshine as if she expected a troop of enemy horse to descend on them at any moment.
Perdita kept her attention on the road ahead. She took no joy in this excursion to Stratford where the Earl of Northampton had ordered a muster of the local militias, and she cast Simon a quick, affectionate glance. He rode at the head of his raggle-taggle tenants-turned-soldiers, one hand on his hip, resplendent in a new, stiff buff leather coat, his sword hanging from a handsome baldric, embroidered by his sister and stepmother, his hat sporting a jaunty red feather. Far from looking military and imposing, he looked like a small boy playing at being a soldier.
Simon’s men plodded along in their wake, their voices lifted in the old soldiers’ marching song. The banner she and Bess had stitched fluttered above them while they sang.
‘Brave men in the field,
Their stout weapons wield,
With shining bright shields...’
In the same fields below Stratford where Lord Brooke had called a muster only a few weeks previously, Lord Northampton waited in a handsome marquee. Flags flew from the poles and a band played. Long trestle tables had been set up in the fields with abundant food for the men, and a sumptuous lunch had been promised for the officers and their ladies.
‘Clifford, dear boy. You’ve done well.’ The earl clapped Simon on the shoulder. ‘Your men look splendid.’
Even Perdita had to concede that Simon’s men looked the part in their uniform jackets of blue worsted, with the young blacksmith's son recently promoted ensign carrying the banner at their head. The boy proudly placed the colours with an array of others and the men dispersed for their lunch and to partake of the free ale on offer.
Heads turned as Bess swept into the main tent. She had announced to Perdita that she had dressed with the intention of turning every male head in Stratford and it would seem she had succeeded. In deference to Simon’s colours Bess wore a gown of peacock blue satin with a fine lace collar that barely disguised the low décolletage. Perdita's best gown of amber taffeta looked dowdy and puritanical in comparison.
‘That dress is immodest,’ Simon muttered as he took his sister’s arm.
Bess turned innocent blue eyes on him. ‘It’s the latest fashion.’
‘Well I don’t approve and don’t flirt like that.’
But Simon may as well have tried reproving the trees for all the notice Bess took of him. She intended to be the centre of attention and Simon had little choice but to abandon her to the droves of interested young men who circled her. Perdita sought refuge in a quiet corner and Simon went to fetch her a glass of wine.
‘Stop smiling, Perdita. My sister is a disgrace,’ he said, handing her the glass.
‘Your sister is a lovely young woman who should be allowed a rare opportunity to enjoy herself,’ Perdita replied. She took a sip of the wine and glanced down at the ruby liquid. Lord Northampton was clearly intent on impressing.
‘Shall we circulate?’ Simon suggested.
Privately Perdita just wanted to mount her horse and return home. The thought of having to make polite conversation with so many strangers filled her with dread, but she dutifully tucked her hand into the crook of Simon’s arm and smiled and muttered polite inconsequential conversation with the other newly commissioned commanders and their ladies.
When Simon’s turn came to speak with the earl, he left her with a final remonstrance to act as his sister’s chaperone. She caught Bess’s eye and gestured for her to rejoin her. With smiles and pretty waves, Bess shook off her admirers.
Bess scanned the room with a bright, excited gaze. ‘Don’t the men look fine?’
‘They do,’ Perdita conceded looking around the gathering of bright plumes and gold braid.
‘What is it about men about to do battle that makes them seem so heroic?’ Bess wondered aloud.
Before Perdita could reply she heard her name called and turned to see an unmistakable figure dressed in chartreuse satin, his hair curling past his shoulders and the beginning of a moustache on his upper lip, pushing his way through the throng. The other young men paled in comparison to Robin Marchant’s good looks and Bess let out an audible sigh.
‘Close your mouth. You look like a fish,’ Perdita murmured.
‘Do I look all right?’ Bess fussed with her collar.
‘You’re perfect,’ Perdita assured her.
Robin swept the ladies a deep bow and they both responded with a polite curtsey. As he straightened, Perdita realised how tall he was. Although she would have described Adam Coulter as well above middle height, she recalled now that when she had seen them together, Robin had topped his older brother by several fingers.
‘Mistress Clifford, Mistress Gray, what a pleasure to see you both here,’ he said with a smile, his gaze only for Bess.
‘What brings you here?’ Perdita enquired. ‘I didn’t think you were with Northampton?’
Robin tore his gaze away from Bess and glanced around the gathering.
‘Denzil is here to talk with Northampton. I can’t see him for the moment.’
‘You must introduce us,’ Bess said. ‘We would dearly love to meet your brother.’ She glanced at Perdita with a sweet smile. ‘We’ve heard so much about him.’
Robin turned to peruse the crowd. ‘Ah, there he is.’
&
nbsp; As Robin gestured, a man pushed through the crowd towards them. Perdita saw at once where Robin got his height. Denzil Marchant was a big man both in height and breadth. His long, strawberry-fair hair bristled around his face like a mane and he affected a fashionable beard and moustache in emulation of his royal master.
Adam Coulter bore little or no resemblance to either of his brothers. Joan had described him as the cuckoo in the nest with some justification.
‘Rob. I’ve been looking for you,’ Denzil boomed at his brother. ‘My apologies, ladies. I didn’t see you there.’
Robin turned to the women. ‘My brother, Lord Marchant, may I introduce Aunt Joan’s stepdaughter, Mistress Clifford, and kinswoman, Mistress Gray.’
‘How does my aunt?’ Denzil asked after the courtesies had been exchanged.
‘She’s very well at the present,’ Perdita replied. ‘Although, as you probably recall, her health can be uncertain.’
Denzil frowned. ‘She still suffers from that rheumatic fever?’ When Perdita nodded, he said, ‘I must pay a visit to her.’ He looked around the company. ‘Is your brother here, Mistress Clifford?’
‘He is. He has raised a company of men for Lord Northampton,’ Bess replied.
‘Good to hear.’ Denzil’s face darkened. ‘Now what’s this Robin tells me about my scapegrace brother taking Parliament’s shilling?’
‘We believe he’s with Lord Brooke at Warwick,’ Bess said.
Denzil’s moustache twitched, a crease deepening between his shaggy eyebrows. He shook his head. ‘Brooke? So, it’s true.’
Robin shrugged. ‘I told you I had it from his own mouth, Denzil. Both these ladies were present.’
Denzil snorted. ‘He’s no blood of mine. I’ll shed no tear when he’s hanged as a traitor. Well, if you’ll excuse me ladies, I have work to do. Robin, to me if you will.’ He swept a bow and was gone, pushing his way through the crowd like a ship broaching the waves.
Robin glanced after his brother. ‘My apologies, ladies. I am afraid that I too must abandon you.’
‘So soon?’ Bess could not hide her disappointment.
A smile lit Robin’s face. ‘I promise we will meet again soon, Mistress Clifford.’
He bowed low over Bess’s hand, turned on his heel and disappeared into the press of people.
Bess sighed. ‘Do you think he likes me, Perdita?’
Perdita laughed. ‘I’m no judge of these matters, Bess.’ She looked at her cousin’s anxious eyes and smiled. ‘But since you ask, yes, I do think he likes you.’
And why should he not? Perdita asked herself as a faint flush of pleasure rose in her cousin’s face. Bess and Robin were both attractive people of the same age and station in life.
‘There you are.’ Simon, his face flushed and his collar askew, joined them. He fanned himself and huffed out a sigh. ‘Warm in here. It’s getting late and I must see you two safely home before dark.’ As they walked back to the place they had left the horses, he asked, ‘Have you had a pleasant afternoon?’
‘Wonderful,’ Bess said with feeling.
‘What about you, Simon?’ Perdita tucked her arm into his.
Simon turned a grave face to her. ‘I will be marching with Lord Northampton in the morning.’
‘So it begins?’ Perdita said quietly.
He looked down at her. ‘I fear so.’
Chapter 5
Edgehill
23 October 1642
Bess leaned her elbows on the bench of the stillroom, half-heartedly plucking the leaves off a stem of rosemary as she gazed up at the faded murals on the wall.
‘Bess.’ Perdita chided. ‘Hurry up. I need those leaves.’
‘Can you make love potions, Perdita?’
‘Love potions? What nonsense are you talking? Would you have me burned as a witch?’
Bess sighed.
Perdita set down her pestle and regarded her friend. ‘If you’re thinking of Robin Marchant, I don’t see any need of love potions there.’
Bess turned to look at her and Perdita had to smile at the bright, lovelorn eyes.
‘Do you really think he likes me?’ Bess asked, yearning in the droop of her mouth and anxious blue eyes.
Perdita laughed and shook her head.
Robin had ridden by two days previously with talk of battle and a wild look in his eye. Bess had given him a ribbon to wear as a favour. A blind woman could have seen that love potions were quite unwarranted.
The news he had brought was not quite so welcome. After raising his standard at Nottingham in August and an unsuccessful attempt to garner support in the north, the king had made his base in Oxford. That much Perdita had gleaned from Simon’s regular, but brief missives.
‘With the king based at Oxford, surely that brings this part of the country into great danger?’ Perdita had asked Robin.
Robin shrugged. ‘It won’t be for long. The king intends to push through to London as soon as he can. Rest assured once he takes London that will be the end of it.’
‘And what is there to stop him?’ Bess had asked.
Robin shrugged, his eyes shining. ‘The only thing between the king and London are the rebels at Banbury, but the Earl of Essex is marching as fast as he can to stop him. We expect fighting any day now.’
With that he had gone.
That night Perdita had studied a map in Simon’s library. As her fingers traced the road to London and stopped on Banbury, she realised that their quiet corner of Warwickshire stood in the way. The fighting when it came would be on their doorstep.
Bess straightened, the rosemary falling to the table as she turned her attention to the open window. ‘What’s that noise? Can you hear it, Perdita?’
Perdita stopped and listened. Through the open window, above the sounds of the birds in the trees, came a faint, distant boom, like thunder in the clear sky.
‘Cannon,’ she said quietly. ‘It must be cannon.’
Bess clutched at Perdita’s hand. ‘So close. I’m scared, Perdita.’
They listened and the sound came again. The ominous boom sounding like a knell on the peaceful life they had known.
Perdita thought of Simon, of Robin and, her breath stilled for a moment, Adam Coulter. Were they there on that field? Why would they not be?
She took a breath. ‘We will need bandages, Bess. Lots of bandages.’
‘What for?’ Bess asked.
‘Where there is fighting there will be wounded and with fighting so close I think we must be prepared.’
Bess stared at her as the reality of what the war could mean to them finally dawned on her.
‘Wounded? Here?’
‘Very likely. Don’t just stand there, Bess, go and find those old sheets we set aside and join me in the parlour.’
Bess swallowed and did not move. ‘Simon? Robin?’ Her blue eyes brimmed with tears.
Perdita put her arms around the girl and held her. ‘God will hold them safe,’ she said. Poor comfort but all she had.
Adam shifted in his saddle and cast a sideways glance at the boy beside him. The young man was sweating profusely, probably a combination of nerves and the weight of the unaccustomed armour.
As the lad reached for his water flask and put it to his lips, Adam laid a restraining hand on his arm.
‘Nay, lad. If you are thirsty, hold the water in your mouth and then spit it out. 'Tis not wise to go into battle with a full bladder.’
The boy looked at him with large, bright eyes and obediently took a swallow of water which he expelled on to the ground. He wiped his mouth and tightened his grip on the standard.
‘Is it normal to feel sick, sir?’ he asked at last.
Adam mustered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘Every man on this field would feel as you do.’
It had gone past noon and the whole morning had passed with both sides engaged in drawing up their forces on the slopes of Edgehill, near the village of Kineton. The king's forces had the advantage of the high ground, while parlia
ment, under the Earl of Essex, stood with their backs to the village of Kineton. Adam with the cavalry was on the right flank of parliament's forces.
Florizel tossed his head and pawed the ground as if he were impatient to be getting on with business.
‘Bloody amateurs.’ This gruff comment followed by a voluble spitting sound made Adam turn in his saddle to exchange a glance with his sergeant, like himself a veteran of the continental wars.
‘When did you last see action like this, sir?’ the sergeant asked.
‘Vlotho.’ Adam replied.
Vlotho had been four long—very long—years ago. On that day he had charged behind Prince Rupert, son of the Elector of Palatine, a brilliant and volatile boy of eighteen. Now the same Rupert, nephew of the king, faced him on the slopes of Edgehill. Enemies where they had once been friends.
‘I just wish something would happen.’
The boy beside him shifted awkwardly in his saddle. The sleeve of the arm holding the standard slipped back revealing a slender bracelet of plaited human hair, fair in colour.
‘You’ve a sweetheart?’ Adam asked to take the boy's mind off his increasing nerves.
The boy flushed. ‘Aye, Jenny’s her name. We were to be wed this autumn.’
Another wedding deferred by the war, Adam thought, thinking of Perdita Gray and Simon Clifford, whose betrothal he had walked in on. In the months since he had last seen Perdita he had willed himself not to think of her, but now the memory of the fall of her hair, the colour of age-darkened oak, set against the line of her long, pale neck as she bent over her book of receipts in her still-room, drifted into his mind.
‘Sir?’ The boy had asked him something and he had not heard.
‘I’m sorry, lad. What did you say?’
‘I asked if you had a wife, sir?’
Before Adam could answer, the ennui broke with the loud report of a cannon from the king's positions. An exchange from the parliament lines followed and the acrid smell of powder drifted across the field. The horses, unused to the noise, began to fidget, throwing their heads around and trying to back away.
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