Joan lay in a large bed, propped up by bolsters. A smile lit her thin face at the sight of him and she held out her hand to him. He took it gently, mindful of the swollen and crooked joints that pained her.
‘Adam, thank the Lord, you found Perdita and returned her to us safe and well.’
‘She’s had a bad knock to the head but nothing a few days rest won’t put right.’
Joan nodded. ‘Don’t fret over Perdita,’ she broke off, her eyes narrowing as she scanned his face. ‘Adam, is there something you’re not telling me?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing, Aunt. I am sorry I cannot stay longer. I am expected back at Warwick today.’
He bent his head and kissed her cheek, cool and dry beneath his lips. He breathed in the familiar scent of lavender that had been part of his earliest memories of this woman who had been his greatest friend and ally.
‘Joan,’ he whispered, leaning his forehead against hers. ‘Don’t leave me, not when I’ve only just found you again.’
‘Silly boy,’ she chided, resting her hand on his cheek. ‘Go, now. Duty calls.’
Chapter 7
Convoy from Gloucester
22 June 1643
The route between Gloucester and Warwick had become a vital supply route for the parliament forces in the Midlands and north, and of all the tedious jobs that fell to him, Adam most disliked convoy escort. Although it got him out of the stultifying tedium of garrison duty, the task could be at the same time both mind-numbingly boring and nerve- racking. Running so close to the king's headquarters at Oxford and the royalist garrison at Banbury, the convoys were under constant threat of attack, and in the shuffling campaigns of the early summer, the king’s troops were particularly active.
Adam had collected a convoy carrying cloth for much needed uniforms at Gloucester. He took the precaution of splitting it into three separate parties, sending two by different routes. If one were to be attacked, then there was a smaller risk of losing the entire shipment. However, it meant spreading his men across the three shipments and risking the defence of the wagons.
The rain that had begun as he left Warwick had been unforgiving and the roads had worsened under the continual soaking. Adam sat his horse, feeling rain drip from his helmet down the back of his neck as a wagon driver, mired up to his knees in mud, cursed and swore at the oxen who refused to move. They were still six miles from the relative safety of Stratford and he had no desire to be caught in the open by a superior force.
‘This is taking too long,’ he muttered to his sergeant.
The sergeant grunted in agreement. ‘You lads,’ he indicated three of the troopers. ‘Get down there and help that fool.’
The troopers looked at him with distaste. ‘In the mud, sergeant?’ one ventured.
‘Yes, in the mud, you pack of dozy milkmaids.’
Grumbling, the troopers dismounted and reluctantly went to the aid of the beleaguered wagoner.
‘Cap’n!’
Adam looked up as one of his scouts careened down the road towards them.
‘Soldiers, sir. King’s men,’ the scout announced, his breath coming in short gasps from his exertion. ‘About forty horse.’
‘Where, you fool?’ Adam had no time for such vague information.
‘There.’ The boy pointed with a shaking finger at the rise of the hill before them.
Adam cursed.
Adam’s troops were hopelessly outnumbered by at least two to one, and he cursed both his decision to split his force and his commander’s miserliness at not providing him with the extra troops he had requested. Brooke would have seen them well provided for, but Brooke had died at Lichfield only a few weeks after the affair at Stratford and his successor, Purefoy, lacked his drive or brilliance.
Adam had no time to think further on the vagaries of his commander. His opponent had probably counted on catching them as they crossed the small, swollen river that stood between their current position and the line of horsemen now spread out across the hill. However, he had misjudged his timing and Adam’s force was not in a bad position. The high hedges on either side of the road would hamper an attack by cavalry and the wagons provided an effective block. However, he barely had time to deploy his men into positions along the banks of the river before the King's men charged.
As the royalist troops approached, his heart sickened as he recognised the royalist commander. Denzil Marchant would have been unmistakable at any distance. He rode a tall, black horse and his scarlet and silver cloak, dark with the rain, flew out from his shoulders. Eschewing a helmet, he strongly resembled a Teutonic god bent on vengeance with his wild, red hair flying out behind him as he charged toward the waiting parliamentarians at a stiff canter. Fine sport for a summer’s afternoon.
‘Hold your ground,’ Adam yelled and his men, whom he had spent the better part of the winter and spring training, obeyed, rattling off a volley of musket fire that brought down several of the enemy.
The impetus of the charge stalled and Denzil’s men hesitated long enough for Adam’s men to reload and get off a second volley.
Denzil, his teeth bared and his eyes wild, shouted something unintelligible and put his heels to his horse. The remaining men came after him and they hit the parliamentarians with the force of a hammer. Denzil at their forefront slashed down at the men on foot with his sword like a demon possessed. It was to Adam's credit that his men stood their ground before the force of numbers became too great and they fell back, despite Adam’s attempts to rally them. He understood his men were not prepared to sacrifice themselves for wagons of cloth whatever its worth to their superiors and, recognising that a hasty retreat could also be in his own best interests, Adam turned to follow them.
As he wheeled, he heard the report of a pistol at close quarters. Florizel screamed, rearing, his front legs paddling the air in agony as a second pistol discharged. Adam disengaged his feet from the stirrups and managed to throw himself clear as the horse fell to the ground. The fall knocked the wind from his lungs with the sickening crack of ribs.
Florizel continued to scream, with an almost human intensity and heedless of the figure on horseback looming over him, Adam’s fingers scrabbled in the holster of his fallen mount. His second pistol, primed and unfired, was in his hand as Denzil shouted above the melee.
‘Lay down your weapon.’
Adam forced air into his tortured lungs. ‘My horse,’ he said, and ignoring his brother, turned to his beloved bay gelding, which lay quivering in agony, his eyes rolling in terror and pain.
‘Sorry, old boy,’ he whispered in his ear as he put the pistol to Florizel’s head, ending the animal’s pain.
He stroked the animal’s neck until the last of the life slipped away, and only then did he turn to face his brother, letting the pistol fall as he tried to stand.
To his surprise, his left leg refused to work. He fell back against the body of his horse and slid to the ground, his back against the dead animal. With curious detachment, he looked down at the blood welling darkly from a wound in his right thigh. He couldn’t even recall being hit but now the pain flashed across his eyes in a red mist.
He looked up into Denzil’s flushed and triumphant face.
‘You always were a damned poor shot, Denzil,’ he said as the world started to close in on him. Before he passed out, he thought he heard Denzil call his name.
When he came back to his senses, he lay flat on the ground. Someone had removed his helmet and rain spattered his face. He groaned as sensation in the form of a burning brand on his leg returned. He tried to sit up but a firm hand pushed him back down again.
‘Lie still, damn it. You'll start bleeding again.’ It was Robin’s voice, annoyance masking a genuine concern.
Adam opened his eyes and swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat. ‘Where's Denzil?’
‘Counting his spoils,’ Robin said. ‘Our intelligence said twenty wagons and there are only six here. I take it you split the convoy?’
&nb
sp; Adam managed a grim smile between gritted teeth. ‘Now that would be telling.’
‘Well, well. Adam Coulter.’ Denzil's voice boomed from above him. ‘A bloody rebel. Why am I not surprised.’
He squatted down and Adam saw no mercy or quarter in his brother’s eyes. ‘What am I going to do with you?’
‘You're going to get him to a chirurgeon,’ Robin interposed.
‘Now, Rob, no need for haste. Adam is a damned sight tougher than he looks. He’ll make it to Oxford before we need to bother with the surgeons. But before then he can tell us where the rest of the convoy is.’
Denzil rose to his feet and when Adam didn’t respond, a well-aimed boot caught Adam’s wounded leg. He rolled over, retching in pain.
Robin rose to his feet. ‘Christ, Denzil. No prisoner should be treated that way.’
‘He’s the only one who can tell us where the rest of the convoy is.’
‘Who cares? We have six wagons of stout cloth.’
‘We wanted twenty.’
‘Then send the men out to look for them. They can’t be too far behind.’
‘You are coming perilously close to insubordination, lieutenant.’
In the ensuing silence, Adam opened his eyes to see his brothers standing toe-to-toe over him. To his surprise, Denzil backed down first, turning on his heel and striding off, barking orders as he went. Robin squatted down beside him again.
‘Damn it,’ he muttered. ‘The wound’s bleeding again.’
‘Is it bad?’ Adam took a shuddering breath. It felt bad.
‘The ball’s lodged quite deep, I think. Heaven alone knows what it took with it. There’s nothing more I can do. You really do need a surgeon.’
Adam grasped his brother’s sleeve and hauled himself into a sitting position, wincing as he realised he had several cracked ribs to add to his misery. He leaned back against his dead horse.
‘You’ve already done more then you needed. Denzil will do what he wants and neither you nor I can sway him. If he means to make me ride to Oxford, there is nothing I can do to persuade him otherwise. Except maybe die.’
Robin shrugged and sat down next to his brother with his arms across his knees. ‘Damned weather,’ he said. ‘I thought the rain would let up by now, but I think it’s just getting heavier.’
Denzil appeared again, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. ‘The king will be happy with this little lot,’ he said. ‘On your feet, Coulter.’
‘I have a musket ball in my thigh, Denzil,’ Adam pointed out.
‘You’re awake and talking so it can’t be too bad,’ Denzil said. ‘Find him a horse, Rob. There are a couple of your men, Coulter, who won't be needing theirs anymore.’
‘Denzil…’ Robin protested.
‘What are you waiting for, Rob? Go and find a horse.’
As Robin stomped away, Denzil crouched down beside his brother, studying Adam’s face.
Adam sucked in his breath. His leg burned like the devil and he wondered how Denzil expected him to sit a horse.
‘If I’d known it was you, I may have taken more trouble with my aim,’ Denzil said. ‘Louise will certainly not be pleased that I missed.’
‘I don’t doubt that. How is your wife, Denzil? Still generous with her favours?’
Denzil’s eyes narrowed. ‘Louise and I have an understanding.’
Adam was tempted to laugh but he knew that would hurt his injured ribs, and if he pushed his brother too far on the subject of his wife he risked another boot to his leg.
Further banter was spared by Robin, leading a dispirited nag that had no doubt belonged to one of Adam’s troopers.
‘All right, on your feet,’ Denzil said.
Adam closed his eyes and willed himself to comply but his head spun at the thought of putting any weight on his injured leg, filling him with dread. He braced himself for another well- aimed boot from his brother, but it was Robin who bent down and, with his arm around Adam's shoulders, pulled him to his feet.
Upright, every nerve in Adam's body protested and the world began to lurch in an alarming fashion, but he forced himself straight despite the shafts of pain that suffused his body from his leg and the cracked ribs. He set his jaw. He would not give Denzil the satisfaction of seeing him fail.
He shook off Robin’s arm. ‘I’ll be fine, Rob.’
‘No, you’re not,’ Robin said, catching him as he stumbled. ‘You’re stubborn that’s all. Denzil, he can’t ride like this.’
‘Ride you will, Adam, even if I have to tie you to the saddle,’ Denzil replied. ‘It will be dark in a few hours and I would like to close some miles between here and Oxford. Now on the horse.’
Adam surveyed the unprepossessing mount Robin had found. He had no choice it seemed. He set his mind to endure what would be a hellish few hours and, with Robin’s help, managed to straddle the beast without falling off the other side. Winding his fingers into the animal’s mane, he gritted his teeth and let it do the work.
Mercifully, the weather confounded Denzil's plans. The conditions worsened, dumping cold, soaking rain on the party. Soaked to the skin and so cold he couldn’t contain his chattering teeth, Adam gave up the unequal struggle and slumped across his horse’s neck, the harsh hair of the mane resting against his face. He sensed someone ride up beside him and felt a hand on his shoulder. From a distance he heard Robin’s voice.
‘Denzil, this is ridiculous. He can’t go any further and it’s gone dark. We’re only a couple of miles from Preswood. Take him there. We can rest for the night.’
Denzil grunted and muttered something that sounded like agreement and Adam closed his eyes with relief.
Robin’s fingers tightened on him, shaking him awake. ‘Stay with us, Adam. We’re nearly at Preswood.’
They’re taking me to Perdita, he thought. Perdita, with her stillroom and her calm efficient manner that had saved the lives of the men he had brought to her after Edgehill. Perdita, whose slender body he had held in his arms on the ride back from Stratford. Perdita, whose brown eyes drifted unbidden into his dreams as they did even now.
Every step the horse took echoed her name. ‘Perdita, Perdita, Perdita.’
Through the fog of semi consciousness, the horse came to halt. Denzil could be heard arguing with a woman, but at first he couldn’t make out any words. The squabbling voices came closer and the woman said, ‘How dare you presume on us like this, Denzil Marchant.’
Joan he thought, giving Denzil a scolding just as she did when he had been a boy. The memory made him smile.
‘Perdita, thank heavens you are here,’ Joan said. ‘Denzil has a wounded man with him. See what needs to be done.’
A gentle hand touched his knee. ‘Sir, where are you hurt?’
Adam raised his head and turned toward the voice, blinking in the light of the lantern she held up to his face.
‘Perdita. I’m sorry to be a trouble.’
Her hand slipped from his knee and she took a step back. ‘Adam.’
Joan’s voice again, strident with fury. ‘Adam? Your prisoner is Adam? And what pray do you intend to do with him?’
‘He’s going to Oxford to be tried as the traitor that he is,’ Denzil boomed back at his aunt.
‘If he lives,’ Perdita said.
‘Oh, I’m not going to die just yet,’ Adam tried to say but he didn’t think anyone heard him.
‘Enough talk. We have to get him inside.’ Robin touched his arm. ‘Adam? This is going to hurt but there’s no easy way to get you off this horse. Ludovic, help me here.’
Robin tugged at his belt and Adam slid sideways off the horse in a blinding dissonance of pain.
His brother’s arm around his waist stopped him sliding to the ground.
‘I can stand,’ he muttered.
‘Fine. Stand then.
Robin let go of him and as Adam’s knees buckled, hauled him up again.
‘I have him, sir.’
Before Adam could argue Ludovic had picked him up
like a child and carried him across the forecourt and into the house.
Perdita trailed Ludovic into the house, ignoring the Marchant brothers. She had no time for the niceties of hospitality. Joan or Bess could take care of that.
Ludovic deposited Adam in a corner of the heavy oak settle in the Great Hall. Adam leaned his head back against the oak and closed his eyes as Perdita fumbled with the sodden cords of his cloak. His face felt like ice to her touch and she took his hands in hers, chafing them in a futile attempt to instill some warmth back into him.
His eyes flickered open and he raised his hand to touch her hair, which hung in damp cat’s tails around her face.
‘Perdita, you’re soaked.’
She managed a tight smile. ‘I’ll dry but we need to get you out of these sodden clothes before you take lung fever. What was your brother thinking dragging a wounded man across the country in this weather?’
‘I think he is trying to kill me,’ Adam said and his eyes closed.
‘How is he?’ Joan hovered over her.
Perdita did not need to ask where Adam had been hurt. An orange sash, now died a watery red from blood, had been roughly tied around his left thigh. She looked up at Robin.
‘Ball or sword?’
Robin flicked back his rain darkened hair and frowned. ‘Pistol ball. I think it’s still in there,’ Robin replied.
Denzil’s shadow loomed behind her and he boomed in her ear, ‘Well, Mistress Gray? How long will it take to patch him up so he’s fit to ride?’
She rose to her feet and faced Denzil, the rage only just below the surface. ‘What were you thinking forcing a man with a leg wound to ride any distance in this rain? You will be lucky if the wound doesn’t kill him, then lung fever will. I need to get him to a bed and tend the wound properly.’
Denzil shrugged. ‘Do what you must. We’ll be gone in the morning and you need trouble yourself no more.’
‘If your brother lives the night.’ Perdita responded.
She turned to the sea of concerned faces surrounding her, seeking out the one she needed.
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