He brought his full attention to her. Looking her up and down, no doubt wondering if she was another doxy anxious to follow the soldiers. His sandy eyebrows rose as he scanned her from her well-polished shoe to the white linen coif beneath a wide brimmed hat.
‘If Purefoy has granted you permission then I cannot stop you. Do you mind me asking what your business is that takes you north?’
Perdita saw no reason to lie and, raising her voice over a tremendous cheer from the crowd which had gathered to watch the two brawling women, she said, ‘I am seeking Captain Adam Coulter.’
But the attention of the young man had swung back to the brawl. Two of his troopers had intervened, physically picking up the two spatting women.
‘I beg your pardon, did you say, Coulter?’ He looked back at her. ‘Good heavens Mistress Coulter! I had no idea that you would be joining us or even…’
He had plainly misheard her and Perdita opened her mouth to refute the notion that she was Adam Coulter’s wife, but the young man had already turned and walked away.
‘Please follow me, Mistress Coulter. I will see what we can offer in the way of some small comfort.’
Perdita hurried after him, desperate to correct the misunderstanding. ‘Please Captain, I…’
But his stride was too long and she could not make herself heard above the noise of the baggage train moving off. Towards the rear, a wagon with three women lumbered past. The officer stopped it.
‘Here, mistress. There is room for one more. You there, Peg, make room for Mistress Coulter. She will be travelling with us to the north.’ He bowed. ‘I’ll leave you with these ladies, and if you are free for dinner tonight, I hope you will join me. I shall ensure that there is suitable accommodation found for you.’
He turned and strode away, calling for his horse.
A red-haired woman leaned out of the wagon, holding out her hand.
‘Come aboard, lass.’
Perdita threw her baggage into the wagon and grasped the woman's hand, landing ungracefully on the sacks of grain.
‘Well, well. It looks like we’ve a lady here!’ the red-haired woman remarked to her companions as Perdita settled herself into a corner.
Perdita looked around at her travelling companions, apart from the large red-head, there was a slim dark-haired girl in scarlet petticoats and a sensible matronly woman with a sallow, wrinkled face.
Peg leaned forward. ‘And what business do you have in the north?’
‘I…I’m seeking Adam Coulter. I’ve been told he left the Warwick garrison in January.’
‘You his wife? I heard Burns call you Mistress Coulter,’ the matronly woman said.
The seed of the lie had been sown. What did it matter if these people thought her Adam’s wife? It gave credence to her tale. Perdita nodded and in that moment she became Adam Coulter’s wife in the eyes of her three companions.
If she had said she was the wife of King Charles himself, she could not have produced a more shocked response. All three women stared at her open-mouthed.
‘Adam Coulter has a wife?’ the girl in the scarlet gown said at last.
Perdita met the girl’s astonished gaze. ‘You know my husband?’
Peg nodded and looked around at the other. ‘Aye, we know your ’usband well.’
Red skirts winked. ‘There are several women who can say that.’
Appalled by the implication, Perdita stared at the women in horror, provoking a laugh.
‘No need to look like that, mistress,’ Peg said. ‘You can be assured that while many of us may have fancied a night or two in Adam Coulter's bed, none to my knowledge ever made it there. Didn’t I say, Hetty, that he was a faithful one?’
‘Aye, and a waste of his fine eyes, I did say.’
‘’Twas not his eyes I was thinking of.’ Red skirts gave her companions a lascivious grin. ‘So what’s he like in bed, love?’
Perdita swallowed, saved from a response by a peal of laughter from the woman.
‘You’re right, Peg. We’ve got a real lady here.’
The matronly woman, Hetty, regarded her through narrow eyes. ‘So what brings you to this pass, Mistress Coulter? The soldiering life is no place for a lady such as yourself. What’s your business with him?’
‘My business is just that, my business,’ Perdita snapped.
The woman shrugged and turned to the other two, ignoring Perdita who settled herself as comfortably as she could and prepared herself for a long, uncomfortable journey. She had the uneasy feeling that she knew very little of the man whose wife she now professed to be. She’d been a fool to let the misunderstanding go unchallenged, to have allowed a myth to perpetuate, but now it seemed she had to live with it.
Captain Burns remained polite and deferential, even procuring a small, hardy pony for her to ride in preference to the wagons. The convoy made a slow, ponderous journey north. The days stretching into a second week before Burns rode up to her one morning.
‘Mistress,’ he said. ‘My orders are only to go as far as Leeds. You must make the rest of the way by yourself.’
Perdita’s heart skipped a beat. Leeds was still miles short of York, if that’s where Adam could be found.
‘How am I to find him?’
Burns looked at her and shrugged. He had the grace to look concerned. He had taken very good care of her and they had enjoyed several evening meals together.
He shook his head. ‘Those are my orders. Perhaps I can spare a man to take you on to the next garrison. After that you must find your own way.’
Relief flooded Perdita. ‘Thank you, Captain. That will be fine. I am sure to find someone who will take me further.’
‘I hope you find Coulter without too much trouble.’ The captain’s doubtful frown belied his smile. He stared off into the distance before bringing his gaze back to her, all trace of humour gone from his eyes.
‘Forgive me speaking plain, mistress, but once your business with your husband is done, I would suggest you turn for home. It is no gentle war we are fighting any more, but harsh and bloody. No place for you. I’ll be returning to Warwick by week’s end. If you can return before I leave, I will see you safely home.’
‘Thank you, Captain,’ Perdita replied, her heart warmed by the offer. ‘You’re not the first to warn me of the dangers. Please do not trouble yourself about me.’
‘Very well, mistress.’ He still looked troubled as he bowed from the saddle, before turning his horse and cantering away.
At Leeds the next day a dour corporal presented himself. He said little to Perdita but every inch of his body was stiff with indignation. Evidently, he did not appreciate being nursemaid to a woman.
They rode in silence and toward evening encountered a body of infantry. The corporal rode up to the officer at their head and saluted sharply. They conducted a conversation out of Perdita’s earshot and she sat her plump little mare uncomfortably aware of the gesturing and sharp glances in her direction. Satisfied, the corporal turned and trotted back to her.
‘I'll leave you with these men,’ he said. ‘They're Lord Fairfax’s men and they can take you closer to York. Chances are your man's thereabouts.’
‘Thank you for your help, Corporal,’ Perdita said to the man's back as he gratefully put his spurs to his horse to return to Leeds. The officer fell in beside her.
‘Coulter? Is he with Black Tom?’
Perdita frowned. ‘If that’s what they call Sir Thomas Fairfax?’
The man grinned. ‘It is, mistress. Coulter? Aye, I recall the name. He was with us at Nantwich, was he not, Sergeant?’
The sergeant who rode beside him nodded. ‘Aye, fought like the devil at Nantwich from what I hear tell. He’ll be outside York with Black Tom’s men.’
‘You’re welcome to ride with us, lady, and we can take you as far as our encampment. Someone else can take you on from there.’
It had begun to rain as she jogged along behind the soldiers. Never having been a rider, she felt every musc
le in her body. So far from home, in the company of these rough men, Perdita admitted to herself that she was alone and very afraid.
For the next two days, she passed from camp to camp in her efforts to find Adam. At least the parliamentary forces of the north were largely in one area, hunkered down staring at the walls of York. It made the distances to be travelled easier but food and beds were scarce and the rain persisted. Her personal resources were sadly dissipated. She seemed to be permanently wet and for the last couple of days her head throbbed as if a thousand blacksmiths worked at it.
It seemed forever before she at last encountered someone who knew that Major Coulter could be found at Fulford, a little village a few miles south of York. Perdita's thanks were heartfelt. With no one to escort her, she rode the last few miles alone in the drizzling rain, her body craving nothing more than a soft bed and oblivion.
Outside Fulford she was stopped by soldiers and once more she had to explain that she sought Major Coulter, that she had family business with him. They let her through without further question, directing her to the inn which stood on the main road, a comfortable stone building bearing the sign of the Moor’s Head.
She left her horse in the care of the ostler and dragged her leaden feet into the inn. A neat maid directed her to a small parlour where three men sat smoking their pipes and talking amongst themselves. She hesitated in the door and they leaped to their feet on seeing her. A wave of disappointment swept over her when she saw that Adam was not amongst them.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ she said, their curious faces wavering before her eyes, ‘I’m seeking Major Coulter. I’m told he lodges here.’
The older of the men, a solid man with a hard face, replied in a heavy Yorkshire brogue that in Perdita's befuddled state she could barely decipher.
‘I’m sorry, Mistress. Ye’ve just missed him. He’s gone to Fairfax and we don't expect him back much before tomorrow or’t next day.’
Betraying tears pricked the back of Perdita’s throat. She had come so far only to have missed him?
‘But I must see him.’
The officer looked at her with narrowed eyes. ‘May I ask what it concerns?’
She hesitated, but after the two weeks on the road the lie came quickly to her tongue, ‘I am his wife. I will wait for his return.’
Three stunned faces stared back at her for a long moment before the older officer cleared his throat. ‘His wife, is it? I’ll get the landlord to show ’ee to his room.’
Relief flooded over her. If it meant a wait, she had at least found Adam.
The headache had been steadily growing like a band around her head and she could barely keep her eyes open.
‘Thank you, I...’ She stumbled into the room, groping for a chair like a drunken man.
‘Are ye quite well, mistress?’ One of the younger men caught her arm, guiding her into a chair.
‘No,’ she admitted and added, ‘in fact I think I am going to be sick.’
A bowl was thrust into her hands and to her shame she was violently ill. Through her misery she could hear the firm voice of the Yorkshireman.
‘The lass has a fever. You, Williams, fetch my wife. Brown, help me take her up to the major's room.’
Too weak and too sick to protest, Perdita felt herself lifted like a child and carried up the stairs. They laid her on a bed and she turned her face gratefully towards the clean, linen bolster while the world swam and lurched about her.
‘Now then what's to be done with thee?’ A woman's voice this time, laced with the same thick Yorkshire brogue as her rescuer.
‘Just a little tired,’ Perdita said.
A firm, cool, hand pressed on her forehead. ‘Ye've a fever and no doubt of that. Now sit up.’
As limp as a rag doll, Perdita allowed herself to be hauled into a sitting position and, despite her feeble protests, her clothes were swiftly removed and a cool, clean shift slipped over her head. The movement caused the nausea to rise and she was ill again, a bowl firmly held under her chin. Her nurse laid her back on the bed, pulled the bed clothes up and laid a cold cloth on her forehead.
‘Now ye sleep, lass. I'll sit by ye and if ye’ve a yen to be ill again, just you say.’
‘So tired.’ Perdita's eyes closed and her world became one of demons who mocked and taunted her from the bed hangings. Simon came and stood beside her. She reached out for him, only to feel him melt away at her touch with a slow, sad smile.
‘Ye’re awake then?’
Perdita turned her head and opened her eyes to see a small, red-faced woman standing over her. The woman placed a hand on her forehead.
‘Cool too. That’s good. Now drink this.’
Perdita swallowed. Her head and body no longer ached and the world no longer lurched and swam but her mouth tasted like the vats of hell and she doubted she had the strength to raise her head.
The woman slipped her arm under Perdita's shoulders and helped her to sit up, placing a mug to her lips.
‘Let’s see if ye can hold it down.’
Perdita drank the thin gruel and the woman set her back on the bolster.
‘How long have I been here?’ Perdita asked.
‘This is the second day,’ the woman replied, busying herself with plumping the bolster and smoothing down the bed clothes.
Perdita looked around the room, probably one of the best rooms the inn provided. The bed was comfortable and a fire burned in the hearth.
Adam's room. Of its occupant, she saw little evidence, save a wooden chest on which a pair of well-polished shoes stood, a pile of papers, a couple of books and a pen stand on the table. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, seeking some scent of him but all she could smell was dust and beeswax polish mingled with the rank smell of sickness.
‘Is Adam Coulter returned?’ Perdita forced herself to ask.
The woman shook her head. ‘Not yet. Obadiah expects him today.’ She paused and smiled. ‘Ye’re probably wondering whom I am. Captain Obadiah Hewitson is my husband. I’m Mary Hewitson.’
Perdita expected that Obadiah Hewitson was the solid, unremarkable officer she had first encountered downstairs and in whose arms she had been so violently ill.
‘Thank you for your kindness, Mistress Hewitson. Both of you.’
She shrugged. ‘Praise be to God for your swift recovery. I must confess, Mistress Coulter, ye caused me no small concern. I feared ye may be carrying plague.’
Perdita started at the use of the stolen name. When Adam returned, she would be unmasked and she feared his wrath as much as the shame of the pretence.
‘Have ye come a long way?’ Mary enquired.
‘Warwickshire.’
The woman put her hands on her hips and regarded her. ‘And why, pray, have ye trekked half way across England, risking life and limb in these perilous times?’
‘I have family business with him.’
Mary narrowed her eyes. ‘Is it ill news?’
Perdita nodded. ‘The worst news.’ To forestall what she knew would be the next question, she added, ‘It is for his ears only.’
‘Well lass, I doubt that ye’d have risked coming here if it were good news,’ Mary remarked. ‘I must leave you. There’s a bowl beside the bed, should you have need of it but I think the worst has passed.’ She briskly tucked in the sheets around Perdita. ‘Now sleep. Ye’ll need yer strength for when yer husband returns.’
The door clicked shut behind her good Samaritan and Perdita let out a breath. In the days since she had left Warwick, she had rehearsed her meeting with Adam and what she would say. Flat on her back, reeking of recent illness, was not part of the plan but there was precious little she could do about it. Obedient to Mary Hewitson's instructions she let herself drift into a peaceful, untroubled sleep.
Adam slid off his horse's back, tossing the reins to the inn's ostler. Pulling off his gauntlets he strode into the inn.
‘Hewitson!’
His second-in -command rose from his chair by
the hearth, knocking the ash from his pipe. Adam threw his gauntlets on to the table, followed by his hat.
‘What news, sir?’ Hewitson enquired.
The tapster stood at Adam's elbow with a mug of ale which Adam quaffed without drawing breath, setting the empty mug on the table.
‘Rupert is marching on us to relieve York,’ he said at last. ‘Black Tom reckons he’ll join battle with us in the next week.’
Hewitson's eyebrows raised slightly, the only sign of emotion on his dour face. They both knew what that meant. Any battle fought with Rupert would decide who controlled the north.
‘And what does Black Tom say?’
Adam shrugged. ‘Fairfax’s confident and he has good men beside him. This time the ground will be of our choosing.’ He huffed out a breath and shrugged his stiff shoulders. ‘That’s why it’s taken so damn long. I’ve been on reconnaissance.’
‘And the ground, sir?'
‘Do you know the villages of Long Marston and Tockwith?’
Hewitson inclined his head. ‘Aye, good flat land.’
Adam shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’ He rubbed his leg. Denzil’s pistol ball had left the legacy of a nagging ache in cold and damp weather. ‘I for one intend a good night's sleep. I’ll see you in the morning, Hewitson.’
‘Aye sir.’ Hewitson picked his pipe up again, fumbling for his tobacco pouch as Adam scooped up gloves and hat.
As Adam turned towards the door, Hewitson said, ‘There’s one thing, Coulter...’
Adam turned back. ‘That is?’
Hewitson pulled his pipe from his mouth and pointed at the ceiling with the stem. ‘Your wife's upstairs. She's been right poorly but Mary’s seen to her and she’s on the mend.’
‘My wife?’ Adam stared at the man.
A frown creased Hewitson’s brow. ‘Aye, pretty lass with brown hair. Been halfway round the country trying to find you.’
Adam swallowed. ‘My wife?’ he repeated.
‘Aye, sir, your wife.’ Hewitson frowned with puzzled patience.
Adam swore under his breath and turned for the stairs. He took the steps two at a time, pausing outside the door to his chamber to gather his strength to deal with whatever doxy was passing herself off as his wife.
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