Preswood Hall
15 December 1643
Winter came and the campaigning slowed, lost in mud, rain and snow, but at Preswood, a sense of anticipation had begun to build as the day of Perdita and Simon’s wedding approached. They had decided on the 20th of December with the hope that Simon would be able to stay long enough to enjoy Christmas.
With the cold, the women had abandoned the great parlour for the smaller, more easily warmed downstairs parlour where they passed the days when not busy with household chores. Joan kept to her own chamber and Bess confided that Joan was working on a painting, a wedding present, and was anxious to have it finished before the day.
Bess and Perdita were engaged on stitching a fine piece of linen Bess had found in an old chest to make a table cloth. The peremptory fall of the great brass door knocker made them both jump and even before Ludovic appeared at the door of the parlour with a mud-spattered courier, wearing the regimental blue of Simon’s regiment, Perdita knew he brought only bad news.
The soldier bowed and held out a letter.
‘I have a message for thee, Mistress Gray, from Colonel Compton.’
Perdita took the letter, her heart pounding beneath her bodice. She thanked him and told Ludovic to see that the soldier received refreshment in the kitchen.
Alone with Bess she stared at the letter in her hand, the blood red wax imprinted with Compton’s seal unbroken. A year of war had taught them that a personal letter from Simon’s commander at Banbury could only bring ill news.
‘Perhaps it is to say that he is coming to the wedding?’ Even Bess’s voice wavered.
Perdita looked up at her and shook her head. ‘No, Bess. It won’t be that.’
Bess’s hands going to her mouth as she stifled a sob. ‘Open it, Perdita,’ she instructed.
Barely able to control her trembling, Perdita broke the seal, the hastily penned words dancing illegibly across the page.
‘Read it! For the love of God, read it!’ Bess blurted out.
Perdita forced herself to focus, reading the missive aloud.
‘My dear Mistress Gray, I fear that this missive brings you bad news but not the very worst you could expect. Simon Clifford is, to the best of my intelligence, alive and well when last seen. Sadly for your happy plans, an event to which we were all looking forward, a week has passed since Captain Clifford was taken by the forces of parliament and is, I believe, immured in Warwick Castle. No doubt the foul fiends will be looking for some sort of ransom to deliver him safely to your hands as they have in the past. I have written personally to the Governor of Warwick Castle putting your case and I pray yet that we can secure his release forthwith in time for your wedding. Yr Faithful Servant W. Compton.’
Perdita set the letter down on the table and looked at Bess. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘Adam Coulter is at Warwick.’ Bess enunciated the name, her eyes bright with hope. ‘Perdita he owes you his life. Go to him and secure Simon’s release.’
A thousand turbulent emotions poured into Perdita’s heart. In the months since he had ridden away from Preswood, there had been no word from Adam. While she told herself that she had no wish to see him, the memory of that stolen embrace, that shared moment of intimacy still haunted her dreams.
She had no choice. He was the only hope that she had.
She took the letter and went in search of Joan, making sure she announced her presence in time for Joan to secure her secret project.
Joan read the letter, her mouth tightening.
‘At least we can thank God Simon is still alive,’ Joan said. ‘Bess is right, Perdita. You must go to Warwick and speak with Adam. His debt is to you, not to Bess nor I.’
Joan rose stiffly from her chair and unlocked a heavy wooden chest that stood beneath the window. She withdrew two small leather pouches, weighed them thoughtfully in her hand and without looking at Perdita said, ‘What price a man’s life, Perdita?’
‘Joan. I have some coin. I don’t need yours.’
Joan shook her head and pressed the bags into Perdita's hand. ‘This is Simon’s inheritance. I have no need of it. Take it. Simon’s life and happiness is worth more to me than gold.’
Adam sighed and drew another piece of paper towards him. Another claim for compensation from an aggrieved landowner that differed only from the previous ten he had read in the details.
‘The 12th day of May Ano Dni 1643 one Creed Hopkins and Boovey attended with a troop of horse and men under the command of Captain Joseph Hawkesworth came to the house of ye said Edward and then and there took out of ye stable there these horses following…’
Then followed a long list of items and amounts. Adam leaned back in his chair considering what to do with the claim. He could spare no money to settle this or any of them. He had no money to pay his own soldiers.
He did not even look up at a firm knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ he said abstractedly.
The door opened and Adam lowered the paper to see who had entered.
‘Mistress Gray...Perdita!’ he said, scrambling to his feet.
‘Captain Coulter.’ She responded only with a small bob and no smile of greeting. Her lips were blue and her hair hung in damp rats’ tails from beneath the hood of her cloak, soaked from the sleeting rain outside.
When Perdita hesitated, casting a longing glance at the cosy fire that burned in the hearth, Adam rose and took her elbow, propelling her to the warmth.
Her teeth chattered and her gloved fingers fumbled ineffectually with the sodden knot that secured her cloak. He pushed her hands away and undid the cloak, laying it over a chair to dry. He placed a hand on her shoulder, easing her into a well-cushioned chair. She sat bolt upright staring into the fire with unseeing eyes.
‘Perdita, you are half-frozen. Have you ridden from Preswood?’
She nodded and he hunkered down in front of her and pulled off her gloves, laying them on the hearth. He took her icy fingers between his hands and gently chaffed them. She winced and pulled her hands away, shaking them to restore the circulation.
‘Now your boots.’
‘I can…’ she began, but he had already begun to pull off the mired riding boot. He looked up at her, holding one small, cold, damp foot cupped in his hand.
‘Your stockings are saturated. Your feet will never warm. Take them off and set them before the fire.’
A faint colour stained her cheeks but she bent and removed her stockings, affording him a tantalising glimpse of ankle and well-turned calf before she drew her bare feet up underneath her. He fetched a blanket from his bed and swaddled her in it before bellowing to a servant to fetch some warm soup.
‘What in God’s name brings you here in this weather?’ he chided.
‘I had to see you on an important matter. I received—’ She broke off as Adam’s servant entered bearing a tray with soup, bread and wine which he set down on the table.
Adam dismissed him cursorily and turned back to Perdita, pleased to see a little colour returning to her face.
‘Get this inside you.’
He handed her the bowl and spoon and she supped the soup, taking a couple of grateful gulps from the cup of wine he poured for her. Satisfied he had done all he could to make her comfortable, Adam flung himself into the chair opposite her. Resting his elbow on the arm of the chair, he leaned his face on his hand and regarded her thoughtfully.
‘Better?’
She managed a faint smile. ‘Much, thank you.’
‘I trust you’ve not come alone?’
She shook her head. ‘I left Ludovic at the inn and came straight here. They kept me waiting at the gate for simply ages before they let me in and I think that was only because they thought I was visiting you for entertainment.’ A small smile touched the corners of her lips.
Adam smiled in response. ‘There goes my reputation and yours.’ His brow furrowed. ‘So, what brings you here that is of such importance? It’s not bad news? Joan?’
Perdita shook her head. ‘No, everyone is well enough. And you, Adam? You have recovered?’
He shrugged. ‘My leg troubles me in this weather and those damned ribs ache in the cold but otherwise I’m fine.’
‘You sound like an old man.’
‘In truth there are times when I feel like one, Perdita .’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘There are too many young men about who make me feel like the old and grizzled veteran that I am.’
That small smile appeared again and a glint shone in her eye. ‘Rest assured, you do not look old and grizzled.’
‘Thank you for saying that, but I can see for myself that there are grey hairs at my temple. So if it is not bad news and you are not here merely to enquire after my health, I will ask you again, what has brought you to Warwick in this foul weather, Perdita?’
Any trace of humour slipped from her face. Her grave, brown eyes rested on his face. ‘You have Simon.’
‘Simon? What do you mean, I have Simon?’
Her eyes widened and the brown eyes flashed. ‘You’re no fool, Adam, as deputy governor of this castle, you must know who you have immured in your dungeons.’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve been in London these last few weeks and did not return until yesterday.’
Perdita stood up and took two leather pouches from her skirts. They clinked as she laid them on the table on top of the sheaf of papers he had been considering.
‘There is your ransom. Please restore Simon to me.’
He rose to his feet and stood quite still, staring down at the two bags of coin. What sort of man did she think he was? In an angry gesture he swept the coins to the floor where they landed with a thunk.
He looked up at her, hurt and indignation seething in his chest. ‘God’s death, Perdita, who do you take me for?’
Her gaze met his, her brown eyes wide with anger and her colour high. ‘One of the foul fiends of Warwick Castle who hold men’s lives for ransom I think is how Colonel Compton put it.’
She may as well have slapped his face. He took a step back.
After all they had been through together, she should think him no more than a ‘foul fiend’?
He bent and picked up the moneybags, handing them back to her. ‘I’ll not take your money for Simon Clifford’s life.’
Her fingers closed on the coins and she quivered. ‘Are you refusing to release him to me, Adam?’
He shook his head. ‘I told you once I owed you for my life, Perdita Gray. I will gladly restore Simon to you, without the need for recompense.’ He glanced at the window. ‘It’s getting late and I need to find him. Come back in the morning. If he is indeed here I will give him to you then.’
Perdita looked away. Her shoulders rose and fell in a silent sigh. ‘Thank you. We are to be wed in four days.’
A cold hand clenched Adam’s heart. ‘About time.’ He forced the words out between stiff lips.
He looked away as Perdita pulled on her damp stockings and boots. Pausing only to collect her cloak and gloves, she left his room without a backward glance.
Adam sank back into his chair, staring at the door as it slammed shut behind her. He remembered the feel of her in his arms, the touch of her lips on his, and reminded himself that once again he had done the unthinkable, fallen in love with a woman who belonged to another man. This time he would make no mistake.
Adam stared at the door that led down to the dungeons of Warwick Castle. They were old, probably older than the present structure that stood over them. Nothing had yet induced him to set foot beyond that door. The very thought of descending the narrow winding stairs below the castle made the sweat break out on the back of his neck and the breath tighten in his chest. It took very little to transport him back to Leipzig and the smell of unwashed bodies, and worse to bring back memories he saw only in his nightmares.
He hailed his sergeant who was supervising the mending and polishing of horse harness.
‘Sir?’
‘There is a prisoner below by the name of Simon Clifford. Bring him up for me.’
The sergeant saluted and without a moment’s hesitation disappeared into the bowels of the castle, leaving Adam standing on the damp, cold cobbles, hoping that his men did not notice how his hands shook.
He kicked at a loose stone, unable to shed the pall that thoughts of his own incarceration resurrected. He had little memory of how he had made his way from Leipzig to Paris, except that every day had been a desperate fight for survival. He had begged and he had stolen, and had occasionally earned a few honest pennies with his drawing, but there had been times he had despaired of ever seeing England again.
Mercifully in Paris he had found Marie, the plump, cheerful whore who had warmed his bed in the early days of his exile. She had since married, her friends at the bawdy house had told him. Married or not, she had taken him in, nursed him back to health and provided him with clothes and the money for a fare back to England. He had repaid the money but he would be forever in her debt as he was in Perdita’s.
I must have looked like that when they brought me back into the light, Adam thought as Simon Clifford stumbled out of the doorway assisted by a none-too-gentle shove from the sergeant. Simon gathered himself up and stood for a moment, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the grey, wintry light. He has only been down there for a matter of days, thought Adam.
Imagine three years, Simon Clifford.
Simon's gaze came to rest on Adam.
‘Coulter. I can’t tell you how good it is to see a familiar face. I asked for you, but they told me you were away from the castle.’
Adam bowed. ‘My apologies, Clifford. I’ve just returned from London. If I’d known of your incarceration I would have at least seen you somewhat more comfortably housed.’ He gestured at the gate. ‘As it is you are free to go.’
‘Free?’ Simon’s mouth fell open and his eyes widened.
‘I believe you have a wedding to attend. You will find your bride waiting for you by the postillion gate.’
Simon took two steps and stumbled. Adam caught his arm and stayed his fall.
‘Steady.’
‘Sorry, just a bit dizzy,’ Simon mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
A cold dread washed over Adam. He had received reports that in his absence the inevitable sickness had broken out among the prisoners and that a couple had died. The man’s colour seemed unnaturally high and his eyes bright with fever. What if Simon had contracted the prison fever?
He slipped his arm under Simon's shoulders.
‘It's all right.’ Simon’s words slurred. ‘It's just a headache. I can walk.’
‘You have a wedding in a few days,’ Adam said, steering Simon in the direction of the gate. ‘Perdita will make quite sure you are well by then.’
‘Oh yes, the wedding.’ Simon hefted a sigh and looked up at Adam, his eyes bright with more than just fever. ‘I love her so much, Coulter.’
‘I’m sure she knows that,’ Adam forced the words out.
‘She’s so beautiful. Don’t you think?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Adam. ‘She is the most beautiful woman I have ever met.’
‘I’m a lucky man.’
You don’t know how lucky, Adam agreed.
After the rain of the previous day, a heavy winter fog enveloped the castle, giving it the impression of a mythological Camelot, rising out of the marsh. Perdita and Ludovic had been waiting nearly an hour, stamping their feet and moving as much as they could to stop from freezing to the spot.
‘I see them, mistress,’ Ludovic said at last.
Out of the fog, two figures emerged from the postilion gate, one tall and straight, his dark head bare, his arm around a shorter stooped figure. Perdita picked up her skirts and ran up the causeway, calling Simon’s name.
Adam released his grip on the prisoner and Simon stumbled toward her. She took him in her arms, filthy and reeking as he was.
‘Perdita,’ he mumbled. ‘How good you smell.’
‘I wish I could say the same of you,’ she chided.
Over Simon’s head, she caught Adam Coulter’s cold, hard gaze.
Hypocrite, his eyes seemed to say. How can you profess to love this man when it is me you want?
Abruptly he turned on his heel, swallowed up by the shadows of the gatehouse. Perdita turned her attention back to her betrothed. He looked appallingly ill, nearly two week’s growth of beard could not hide the hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes, and a quick touch of his forehead confirmed her worst fear. He had a fever.
‘Simon, are you well enough to ride?
He smiled at her, his finger tracing the line of her cheekbone. ‘I’m all the better for seeing you, Perdita. It’s just a chill.’ He cast a quick glance up at the forbidding walls of Warwick Castle. ‘Come let us get away from this place. I have a wedding to attend, I believe.’
They were greeted at Preswood by Bess, who must have been watching for them. She ran to her brother’s side as Simon slid off his horse and leaned against the animal’s flank.
‘It’s good to be home,’ he said with a smile for his sister.
‘Simon. How wonderful. Perdita, you did it!’
Ludovic lifted Perdita down from her horse and she crossed to Simon.
‘It is Adam Coulter we must thank,’ she said. ‘He released him without recourse to ransom.’
‘I should think so too.’ Bess put her arm around her brother, peering anxiously into his haggard face.
‘Are you all right, Simon?’
Simon gathered himself and took a few steps. He staggered and she caught his arm.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Just a little tired.’
Perdita touched his cheek and shook her head. ‘Simon, you’re burning up. I told you, you have a fever.’
His mouth drooped. ‘I'm sorry, Perdita I didn’t want to worry you. I do have a headache. It started yesterday and I do not seem able to shake it. In truth there were moments on the road when I doubted I would make it home.’
‘Oh Simon, you can’t be ill,’ wailed Bess. ‘The wedding. The banns have been called.’
‘I shall be hale by the wedding,’ her brother said with what he no doubt thought was a reassuring smile. It gave his face a twisted ghoulish look and despite herself, Perdita shivered. A premonition as cold as the fog that still enshrouded them touched her shoulder.
‘A bath and my own bed and I will be a new man.’ Simon took Perdita’s hand. ‘Now I’m here with you. Good of Coulter to let me go like that. What did you say to him?’
‘He has proved himself a good friend. Now let’s get you cleaned up and into bed,’ she said, slipping an arm around his waist.
The redoubtable Ludovic was already by her side. Under his firm guidance, Simon was bathed and put to bed with a warm brick and a dose of one of Perdita's febrifuges.
But by the next morning, Simon had a high fever, and he shook so violently his teeth chattered. More worryingly a rash had begun to spread across his body. Perdita sent for a doctor from Stratford who looked at Simon, bled him and confirmed Perdita’s worst fear.
‘You say he’s been a prisoner at Warwick? I have had reports of fever among the prisoners there.’ He paused. ‘Spotted fever.’
Perdita took a deep breath. Her father had been an apothecary in London where spotted fever was not uncommon. It ravaged towns and armies where too many bodies were forced into close contact with each other. Unless God was merciful, the doctor may as well have delivered a death sentence.
Hardly knowing what to say, Perdita shared the news with Joan and Bess and gave orders they were both to stay away. She and Ludovic would see to Simon’s nursing.
‘But you, Perdita,’ Bess said. ‘You don’t want to catch it.’
Perdita lifted a face devoid of hope. ‘What does it matter, Bess?’
If she contracted the fever, no one would grieve.
By the evening, Simon’s fever had worsened into delirium. Ludovic's grim face confirmed her diagnosis. He too had seen it too many times to have any doubts.
‘Is there nothing we can do?’ Perdita pleaded. ‘Should we send for the doctor again?’
Ludovic shook his head. ‘There is nothing he can do except pray.’
On the third day it was clear that unless the fever broke, it would kill Simon. Even Ludovic's extreme measures of fresh air and cold water proved no assistance. Simon's moments of lucidity came more rarely and he tossed and turned so violently that it took both Ludovic and Perdita to subdue him.
In the darkest hours of the night that should have been her wedding night, Perdita maintained her vigil by his bed. She slept, sitting in a chair, her face in her arms on the bed.
She awoke with a start at the touch of a hand on her hair.
‘Simon?’ she blinked up at him.
‘You’re so lovely,’ he whispered.
Hope sprang into Perdita's heart. Had the fever broken at last? But when she held the light to his face, she saw the shadow of death in the face of the man who was to have been her husband.
‘Perdita?’
‘Dearest.’
‘I’m dying. Don't lie. I can see it in your face.’
‘It’s the spotted fever,’ she said quietly. ‘Some do recover from it.’
‘Some, but not many,’ Simon whispered. ‘Perdita, I would have seen you as my bride.’
‘You will yet,’ Perdita said fiercely.
‘No,’ he sighed. ‘In the last year I have seen more death than any man should see in a lifetime and I know I’m dying. My only regret is that I must leave you.’
Tears filled her eyes. She clutched his hand, holding on to the life of this dear good man.
‘I like to think we would have got on well together, even if you don’t love me.’
‘Simon, you can’t say that.’ Her voice shook. ‘I do love you and I want nothing more than to be with you. The thought of life without you is more than I can bear.’
They were not empty words, meant to cheer a dying man. She knew as she spoke that they were the absolute truth. She may not have loved Simon as she loved Adam Coulter, but that did not make her feelings for Simon anything less than love.
His gaze held hers, seeking the veracity of her words. He knows me better than I thought, Perdita realised. He knows that my eyes would never lie.
‘I’m sorry, Perdita,’ he whispered. ‘I wanted the world for you.’ His fingers tightened on hers with a fierce urgency. ‘I’ll not leave you as you were left before. That is my last promise to you.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Perdita leaned over him, but he had already slipped into unconsciousness and she could no longer reach him. She bent over and kissed him gently on his ravaged cheek.
‘Simon. Believe me, I want nothing from you except that you live.’
The tears spilled from her eyes and fell onto Simon’s hand.
With a heavy heart she woke Bess and Joan to come and sit with her.
Simon’s death was, as his life had been, quiet and gentle. His soul slipped into the darkest hour just before dawn.
Bess wept copiously into Joan's arms, but Perdita had no more tears, only a dull and fearful emptiness filled her. After Bess had been put to bed with a sleeping draught, Perdita knelt by Simon's bed and prayed for the soul of the man who had loved her so dearly but whose love she could never return in full.
In the days following Simon's death, Joan and Bess wept, but not so Perdita. She had endured the funeral in dry-eyed silence. Now she stood at the window of the great parlour looking out but not seeing the cheerless, wintry landscape,
What am I, she thought, a widow who was never a wife? An unnatural creature who cannot weep for the man who was to be your husband, a man who loved you without condition. A man who never knew you loved another.
‘This is God’s punishment,’ she whispered, leaning her forehead against the cold, unforgiving glass.
‘Did you say something, Perdita?’
Perdita turned to look at Joan. ‘I should be the one who is dead, Joan.’
Joan rose to her feet, reaching for her stick. She hobbled across to Perdita. She stamped the edge of her cane on the wooden floor.
‘Enough of this maudlin self-pity, Perdita.’ Joan’s lips compressed in a tight line. ‘You are not the first woman to lose a loved-one to this accursed war. God is no more punishing you than you than any other woman. Until the men come to their senses, the killing will go on, the death will go on. We need you to be strong.’
The force of Joan’s anger caused Perdita to take a step back. She was tired of being strong. She needed someone to take the burden of responsibility from her, not heap more responsibilities on to her shoulders. She closed her eyes, acknowledging the deep longing she had been supressing for months.
She needed—she wanted— Adam Coulter.
But she had no time to respond to Joan as Ludovic announced the arrival of the family lawyer from Stratford. Perdita drifted across to the fire and took a seat. As the lawyer droned in the background, his voice a monotone, she stared into the fire, drawn in to its cheerful crackling.
‘Perdita. Perdita aren’t you listening?’ Bess's insistent voice broke into her reverie.
‘Hmm?’ She looked up at the lawyer.
The man cleared his throat and repeated.
‘Master Clifford recently changed his will. He left a substantial dowry for his sister Elizabeth and of course the right of residence and an allowance to his stepmother, but he has left to Perdita Gray the entire estate of Preswood until death or marriage, after which the estate would revert to his sister, her heirs and successors.’
Perdita looked from the lawyer to Joan and Bess. ‘But we were never wed. I have no rights.’
‘The provisions were not conditional upon your wedding.’ The lawyer coughed. ‘Master Clifford was most insistent on that point.’ He rose to his feet and reached for his hat. ‘I will draw up all the necessary papers and bring them to you within the week. I bid you good day, ladies.’
After he had gone, accompanied by Joan, Bess and Perdita stared at each other.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Perdita faltered. ‘I can’t accept the terms of Simon's will. All of this should be yours by right, Bess.’
Bess wrinkled her nose. ‘And what use would I make of it? Simon has left me amply endowed, and God willing I will be wed.’ She knelt in front of Perdita and took her hands. ‘This is a secret, but Robin has asked me to marry him and I have accepted. Robin has lands and estates in his own right.’
Tears caught in Perdita’s throat. So long in coming, it seemed it now took the smallest provocation to produce a flood and she fell into her Bess’s arms, weeping.
When the flood had subsided to hiccups, Bess disengaged her, looking at her with a furrowed brow. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you so.’
Perdita shook her head. ‘Not crying for Simon,’ she managed. ‘Tears of happiness for you. You and Robin are entirely right for each other.’
Bess flushed. ‘I think so too. We do not intend to make it public knowledge yet, particularly so soon after Simon's death.’ She took Perdita's hand. ‘Fate has dealt you some bitter blows, Perdita. Recognise a change in your fortunes and rejoice in them.’
Perdita dashed at her tears, taking the kerchief that Bess gave her. ‘Your brother had the truest heart of any man I’ve ever known, Bess. I wish he was with me still. I wish that I could throw my arms around his neck and kiss him, tell him how much I truly loved him. All the money in the world will not bring him back or take this pain from my heart.’
Bess laid a hand on Perdita's shoulder. ‘We both lost someone we loved, but time will heal the hurt.’
Perdita lowered her head. ‘Time,’ she echoed. ‘Do we have time, Bess?’