Preswood Hall
April 1644
The spotted fever that had taken Simon did not spread to anyone else at Preswood, but over the winter a chill settled on Joan’s chest. Her rattling cough echoed around the cold, cheerless house, casting a pall that even Bess and Robin’s happiness could not relieve.
Spring brought the return of some warmth to the cold, damp countryside, but the first budding of the daffodils and primroses went unseen by Joan. Her world had become her bedchamber and Perdita knew that the balance of her friend’s life was now measured in days not weeks.
She and Bess took it in turns to sit with Joan, occupying their time with reading to her or sewing quietly while she slept.
Joan occupied the best bedchamber in the house, and even though Geoffrey had been dead nearly two years, his presence still lingered, a unicorn’s horn hung over the door and strange statues of sinuous dancers crowded the mantelpiece. Joan’s unfinished portrait of Perdita and Simon stood propped on a table, a painful reminder of what might have been.
‘Perdita.’
Perdita looked up from the account book she was working on.
Joan gestured to the portrait. ‘Do you ever think about Adam? Do you wonder where he is and why he has sent me no word?’
Perdita turned her gaze on the portrait. Joan had completed the figure of Simon, but her own likeness remained little more than a ghost beneath the weight of Simon’s painted hand. She remembered the likeness Adam had sketched of her and she swallowed back the tears.
Thoughts of Adam Coulter too often intruded on her waking and her dreams. Memories of the snatched moments of intimacy conflicted with guilt over Simon. If he had lived would she have ever learned to love him, the way she loved Adam Coulter or would Adam have always been there, those cold, grey eyes challenging her loyalty?
‘I have had other matters to concern me,’ she said.
Joan moved her gaze from the portrait to scan Perdita’s face.
‘Perdita, I have done Adam a great wrong and it is preying on my conscience. Do you have pen and ink? Please write for me.’
Perdita smoothed out a sheet of paper and dipped her pen in the ink.
Joan pulled herself up on the bolsters. ‘Before I begin, you must swear to me you will never repeat what you hear to anyone, not even Bess?’
Puzzled, Perdita agreed and Joan sank back and closed her eyes.
My dearest Adam,
This is the hardest letter I have ever written but I know I am dying and I cannot face the Lord in the knowledge that I carry a secret to my grave that is your right to share.
When I was a girl of sixteen I was sent to Court to the household of the Queen. There I was seduced by a man who flattered me with poems and professions of love, but when I found I was with child he abandoned me, leaving me to the approbation of my parents. I was sent north to a distant kinswoman to give birth to the child of my shame. The child was left with this woman to take her name and I was returned, heartbroken at having to abandon my baby, to Marchants. When I contracted the rheumatic fever that was to plague me all my life, penance for my sin perhaps, I begged my parents to bring my child to me and to my surprise they relented and my brother, one of the very best of men, went to fetch the child. The child’s father had been a boon companion of my brother and it was agreed between them that my brother would own the child as his. Thus you came to Marchants, Adam, as the bastard son of my brother to be brought up with your cousins as befitted you. How he prevailed upon his wife to accept the child, I still do not know, and she let her displeasure be known. All I, your mother, could do was watch over you through your childhood. Yours has not been an easy life and I was not always able to protect you from the wanton cruelties that a baseborn child must endure, but despite all you have suffered, you have grown into a man of whom I am proud.
I know the first question you would ask of me is to know the identity of your father and that I will not tell you. Nothing would be gained by that knowledge. He is long dead and those few who knew or suspected are also in heaven. My brother was as good a father to you as that man would ever have been and I will not take that from you. I have known great happiness with my beloved Geoffrey and that is my wish for you, to wed the one person you love. I will leave you well provided for. That distant kinswoman in the north country bequeathed me her entire estate at Strickland and it is yours. Her name was Ann Coulter, the name you bear. God watch over you as I will always do. Your ever-loving mother, Joan Clifford.
Joan lay back on the bolsters, her face grey with exhaustion. Perdita stared at the words on the page, trying to imagine what it meant to carry such a secret.
‘How?’ she began, ‘How could you bear it?’
‘I was there, Perdita. I saw my son grow into a man. That was all I asked. Do you think,’ she grasped at her breath, ‘do you think Adam will forgive me?’
Perdita looked at the dying woman, her mind turning over how she would react to such news. She would be angry, very angry, that this secret had been concealed from her.
‘He will want to know about his father,’ she said.
Joan turned her face away. ‘His father is dead, Perdita.’
‘Joan, this is a matter you should have rightly told him long before now,’ she said. ‘You had ample opportunity when he was here.’
‘I intended to, but,’ Joan swallowed, tears trailing from her eyes on to the embroidered covers. ‘I could never… bring myself to do so. I suppose I am a coward, Perdita and now it is too late. It must be this way. When you see him, tell him that I have always loved him.’
‘He knows that, Joan.’
‘But not why… he needs to know why. Promise… promise me you will see he gets this letter. You must give it into his hand yourself. You must explain what I cannot.’
Perdita took the dying woman’s hand in her own and made the promise.
Joan closed her eyes. Perdita sanded and sealed the letter and placed it safely in a secure place in her bedchamber. When she returned to Joan, she knew that this beloved woman would be dead by morning.
Joan’s letter lay in a locked box in Perdita’s bed chamber while Perdita pondered what to do about it. She had promised to deliver it into Adam’s hand, but her own coward’s soul quailed at the thought of seeing him, let alone being the bearer of such ill news. She hoped that he may come himself, riding past on some errand, but as the spring campaigning began their only regular visitor was Robin and he had no news of Adam. She still delayed, using the weather as an excuse and justifying her failure to ride to Warwick on the muddy roads and beating spring rain.
It was well into May with the breath of fine weather taking away her last excuse, before Perdita set out for Warwick, riding pillion behind the faithful Ludovic. The last time she had taken this road had been on a quest to liberate Simon, and now it seemed to Perdita that the road would forever be associated with trouble and sadness.
She left the horse with Ludovic and once more walked the cobbled streets up to the castle, every step heavy with grief and with fear of how Adam would take the news. She had not dared let herself think about Adam, as if to do so would be unfaithful to Simon’s memory. Simon, who had given her his heart, without condition, knowing she did not, could not, return that love.
At the end of the street, she stopped, looking up at the forbidding grey walls of the castle, formulating the words she would use to deliver the news of Joan’s death, handing him the letter. She would not stay to see his face, feel his wrath, sense his grief. It was enough she knew the contents of the letter. She would hand him the letter and leave.
At the gate she asked to see Captain Coulter.
‘Coulter?’ the guard paused, scratching his unshaven chin. ‘He’s gone north, hasn’t he, Sam?’
Sam nodded in agreement. ‘Gone these five months past.’
Perdita stared from one to the other. ‘Gone? But he sent no word…’
Why would he send word? He owed nobody at Preswood any particular favour, except perhaps Joan and, indeed a note to his aunt would have been politic. But this was war and courtesies such as that were not part of the day-to-day life of a soldier. Or did the truth lie deeper? Had he stayed away thinking her wed to Simon?
The two soldiers looked at her, undisguised curiosity in their gazes.
‘Do you know where he has gone?’ Perdita enquired.
The first soldier shrugged. ‘Who’s to say? I tell ’ee what. The Colonel be in. He’ll be able to tell ’ee better than we.’
The governor of Warwick Castle, Colonel Purefoy, received her in the same elegant oak-panelled study last occupied by Adam. She remembered the concern in his eyes, his swift, sure hands, guiding her to a chair. His touch.
‘Mistress Gray.’ The Colonel’s brisk tone returned her to the present. ‘What business do you have with me?’
‘My business is with Adam Coulter. Your men tell me he has gone north.’
Purefoy nodded. ‘At his request, he left in the new year to join Fairfax. It seemed a sensible decision. He was not one for garrison life.’ The colonel pursed his lips as if remembering some incident that had illustrated Adam’s unsuitability to remain at the castle. ‘Do you mind me asking, what’s your business with him?’
Something in the flick of his eyebrow made Perdita wonder if Purefoy suspected that she had come to foist an unwanted pregnancy upon Adam.
‘I am his kinswoman,’ Perdita extended their relationship, ‘and I am, unhappily, the bearer of sad news concerning the death of a close member of his family.’
Purefoy almost looked disappointed. He shook his head. ‘Death is all around us, is it not, Mistress Gray? It seems to me my task is forever dealing with the death of somebody’s son or brother or father. However, if you wish to send on a letter, I have a supply convoy for the north leaving in the morning. The letter can be entrusted to Captain Burns.’
Perdita bit her lip, conscious that her disappointment must seem ill disguised. ‘It is not a matter I can entrust to someone else, Colonel.’
Purefoy spread his hands. ‘There it is, Mistress Gray. I am afraid Coulter is unlikely to return to Warwick and where exactly he is now, I am unable to say. Except that when last I heard news from the north, Fairfax was laying siege to York. The offer stands if you wish to send a missive with Captain Burns, ensure it is in his hands at first light tomorrow.’
Perdita took her leave of Colonel Purefoy and trudged back to the inn where Ludovic waited.
‘He’s not here, Ludovic. He’s gone north to be with Fairfax. I suppose there is nothing I can do but wait until he comes south again.’
Ludovic looked at her. ‘Forgive my speaking plain, Mistress Gray. What is there to hold you here? Go with the supply wagons yourself.’
Perdita stared at him. ‘I can’t leave Bess,’ she said.
Ludovic shrugged. ‘Mistress Clifford has Lieutenant Marchant and I to watch over her. You will be safe enough with the supply train,’ Ludovic said. ‘It would simply be a matter of delivering the letter and returning back with it. You will only be gone a short while.’
Perdita bit her lip as her mind worked through Ludovic’s suggestion. Did she dare? The worse that could happen was that Adam would hear her news and politely put her on the next transport south. At best? Perdita glanced up at the big man. Ludovic knew her better than she knew herself; nothing tied her to Warwickshire, at least nothing that couldn’t spare her for a few weeks.
‘Dare I?’ she asked aloud.
‘You know the answer to that question, Mistress Gray,’ Ludovic said. ‘Take a room for the night and pen a note to Mistress Clifford. I will take it and return with some coin and baggage for you.’
‘It’s a two hour ride.’
Ludovic shrugged. ‘I will stay and see you safely bestowed on the convoy in the morning.’
Perdita begged a pen and paper from the landlord of the inn and wrote a short note to Bess, explaining that Joan had entrusted the letter for her to deliver personally and she had no choice but to go north to try and find Adam and fulfil her promise to Joan. All being well, she would return within the month.
Alone in the bedchamber of the inn, Perdita watched Ludovic ride away and pondered the folly of the quest she was about to undertake.
Clutching a bundle containing a clean gown, a change of linen and her comb, a blanket and some food, packed by Bess along with a note expressing her love and concern and praying that Perdita return soon and safely, Perdita strode down the streets to find the supply wagons assembling in the field below the castle.
Ludovic had also passed on a bag of coins and a small, fiendishly sharp knife. ‘For food,’ he had said, but the warning gaze he fixed on her told her it served a second purpose. Her own protection.
Amidst the scurrying figures, the cursing wagoners and bored soldiers, she sought out the harassed young officer whose task it was to organise the convoy. He had just despatched two burly troopers to deal with two women who were brawling, apparently over possession of a piece of cloth.
‘Captain Burns?’
With one eye still on the fracas, he half-turned toward her. ‘Mistress?’
‘Colonel Purefoy has granted me permission to join your convoy.’ While not exactly the truth, she saw no point in bothering Purefoy on such a trivial matter.
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 muscle 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.
He took a breath and flung open the door.
‘What in God's name is going on here?’ he demanded.
The bedclothes stirred and in the fading light, a woman sat up, pushing her disordered hair away from her eyes.
‘Adam, at last.’
Adam blinked a couple of times as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom and he recognised the occupant of his bed.
He leaned back against the door frame, closing the door behind him and ran a hand over his eyes. He must be more tired than he realised.
‘Perdita! That fool Hewitson told me my wife was upstairs. I thought…’ he shrugged. He had thought one of the camp followers had inveigled her way past Hewitson. Not Perdita Gray.
She shook her head. ‘Don’t blame him, Adam. It’s my mistake, a stupid misunderstanding I should have corrected but now it’s too late. They think I’m your wife.’
Adam straightened and walked over to the bed. Looking down into her pale, drawn face, he realised with a jolt that she had indeed been ill. The brown eyes that looked back at him, filled with apprehension, were huge and luminous in the beautiful face.
He ran a finger down her cheek, tilting her chin to the fading light. Beneath his touch she shivered, clutching at the bed clothes.
‘Hewitson said you’ve been ill?’
‘Just a fever. I’ve been well looked after, Adam.’
Her thin shift had slipped down revealing a soft white shoulder and a tantalising glimpse of what lay beneath. Adam took a breath and turned away from her, tossing his gauntlets and hat on to the table.
He turned back to face her. He knew he should be angry with her but what woman traipsed halfway across England, passing herself off as his wife? None, unless they had a very good reason.
‘So, Mistress Gray, are you going to tell me the reason for this subterfuge?’
She swallowed. ‘Believe me, I would not have come, but I made a promise.’ She lowered her head, covering her eyes with her hand as her shoulders rose and fell.
Adam crossed to bed and sat down beside her. He raised his hand, intending to draw her to him, brush that messy hair from her eyes and kiss the tears away.
He took a breath and let his hand fall, reminding himself that she was another’s wife.
‘Am I right in assuming you bring me ill news?’
Perdita nodded and sniffed, wiping the tears with the back of her hand. ‘The worst. I promised Joan…’
‘Joan?’ The breath left his body. It could only be Joan. No one else in his accursed family would warrant such an undertaking by this woman.
She looked up at him, her eyes still brimming with tears. ‘She died of the lung fever in April.’ She took his hand, forcing him to look at her. ‘I have a letter for you, Adam.’ She swallowed, her fingers tightening on his. ‘I promised to deliver it to your hand, so I went to Warwick but they told me you had come north so I had no choice. I had to come.’
Adam extricated his hand and stood up. ‘It was foolish promise, Perdita.’ He knew his tone sounded harsh, but she evidently did not comprehend the risks to a beautiful woman travelling alone through a country torn by war.
Her mouth tightened. ‘Nevertheless, it was a promise, Adam.’
‘Where is this letter?’
Perdita gestured to a leather bag that stood on the chest at the foot of the bed beside his shoes. ‘It’s in there.’
Adam unbuckled the bag and drew out the crumpled and stained parchment. A testimony to the travails Perdita had endured to bring it to his hand.
He glanced at the superscription and cast Perdita a suspicious glance. ‘This is not Joan’s writing.’
‘It’s mine,’ Perdita said. ‘She dictated it to me.’
‘So you know what it contains?’
She nodded.
He turned away from her and crossed to the window to catch the last of the light as he broke the seal, conscious that she watched him. When he had read Joan’s last words to him he did not move but stood staring down at the words on the page. Everything he had believed and understood about himself and his place in the world tilted on its edge, slid and shattered at his feet.
He let his hand fall, crumpling the letter in his grip. He hurled the balled letter at the wall, crossed to the table and snatched up his hat and gloves.
‘Where are you going?’ Perdita threw back the covers and put her feet to the floor but he did not see her. All he could think about was the woman he should have called his mother. Too late now. Too late.
‘There’s an enemy resupply column not twenty miles from here. We’ll hit it tonight.’
‘Adam!’
He heard her call his name and it cut like a knife to his heart as he slammed the door behind him.
The whole room shuddered as the door crashed shut. Perdita sat on the edge of the bed and lowered her face to her hands. Beyond the door his footsteps echoed on the stairs as he shouted for his men.
With an effort she stood up, the floor beneath her feet tossing as she crept along the length of the bed. Cursing the weakness of her recent illness and with tears welling in her eyes, she lurched to the window.
In the courtyard the soldiers gathered, some still saddling their horses. Adam sat astride Robin’s horse, his face shadowed by the heavy pot helmet he wore.
She leaned against the wall and laid her hand on the diamond panes of the window, feeling the cool glass beneath her fingers.
‘Adam. God go with you,’ she whispered as the tears slid down her face.
As she watched, he wheeled his horse and was gone, his men clattering after him.
‘And what do you think you're doing?’ Mary Hewitson stood in the doorway, holding a candle in one hand and a bowl in the other. ‘Back into bed at once, young lady.’
Grateful for the shadows that hid her face and obedient to Mary's command, Perdita groped her way back to the bed.
Mary stood over her patient with her hands on her hips. ‘I don’t know what it was you said to our commander but he came down those stairs with the very devil in him.’
Perdita looked away. ‘It was ill news.’
Mary sniffed, ‘Aye well, it's none of my business, although if his black humour kills my ’usband it’ll be me he will be reckoning with.’
Perdita looked up at her wanting to reassure her but not finding the words. Adam Coulter had never seemed like a reckless man but she had never seen the wild grief in his eyes before. Tonight he could be capable of anything.
‘Hope you’re hungry.’
Mary passed her the bowl and pulled up a chair. Perdita obediently tucked into the fragrant stew. It tasted good and she realised for the first time in weeks she was hungry.
‘Why did you decide to follow the drum?’ Perdita asked to change the subject.
Mary shrugged. ‘Obadiah and I hail from 't dales. He went a soldiering when the old Lord Fairfax went to't Low Countries and I went with him then. Ten years I've been a soldier's wife, bearing my children in barns or by’t side of the road and I'd not exchange it for that of a farmer's wife.’
Perdita looked at the woman with new eyes, trying to imagine the life of a camp follower and failing dismally.
‘Where are your children now?’
‘Four children I've borne. Two’ve died and t'others live with my sister in Whitby. For all I'd follow Obadiah to the end of the world and back, I'd not have my children along with me.’
‘You must miss them.’
Mary's face softened. ‘Aye of course I do, but I sleep better for knowing they're as safe as can be. Have ye children, Mistress Coulter?’
Perdita shook her head.
Mary Hewitson nodded. ‘Ye’re both young. There’s time. I take it you’ve nought been married long?’
It took Perdita a moment to realise she referred to Adam and the heat rose in her cheeks. For both their sakes, she had to extricate herself from this mess in which she had landed them.
She ignored the question. ‘I’ll be leaving in the morning.’
Mary Hewitson raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh will ye now, and you just out of your sick bed? Anyway enough chatter, lass. You need your sleep and I, mine. Drink this. It will help you sleep.’
Obediently Perdita took the draught Mary proffered and lay down, allowing herself to drift into a deep, black dreamless hole where she did not have to tell the man she loved that the woman he had known all his life as his aunt, was his mother.
The clatter of horses’ hooves and the sound of men’s voices woke Perdita as the first streaks of dawn began to light the sky.
Please let that be Adam, she prayed.
She put a tentative foot to the floor and, relieved to find it stayed solid and unmoving, she padded over to the window. The courtyard had filled with soldiers. Adam’s patrol had returned, and from the wagons that now lined the street, it seemed that his aim to intercept the enemy supply column had met with some success.
Obadiah Hewitson, helmetless, hands on hips, his face grimed and grey with exhaustion, stood in the centre of the courtyard, issuing orders. She scanned the faces but could not see Adam. Her heart lurched. She had to know if he had returned. She could not wait here like a pallid milksop.
A pitcher and bowl stood on the table and Perdita poured some water into the bowl and washed herself as thoroughly as the meagre circumstances allowed. She found her gown, cleaned and pressed, neatly folded on the chair and gave a silent thanks to Mary Hewitson. After she had fought her dull, lifeless hair into some semblance of order, stuffing it beneath a coif, she went downstairs where she found Mary Hewitson alone in the inn parlour.
Mary pushed a plate of porridge across the table to Perdita. ‘You look better today. Nothing like a good night’s sleep to allow God’s healing I always say.’
‘No small thanks to you,’ Perdita acknowledged.
‘Aye well. It's only what any poor Christian would do.’ Mary sniffed and wiped her hands on her apron.
‘Adam?’ Perdita asked.
Mary looked up sharply. ‘He’s all right, lass. Ridden on to report to Black Tom, he has. He’ll be back later.’
Perdita looked down at the bowl of congealing oats, hoping that Mary would not notice the relief that flooded through her.
Mary nodded at the bowl. ‘You eat now. If ye’re up to it, we’ve woman’s work to do.’
‘What sort of work?’
Mary’s lips narrowed. ‘Ye’re a camp follower now, Mistress Coulter, and there’s wounded to tend to. Ye’re not given to faints and swooning at't sight of blood are ye?’
Perdita shook her head. ‘Not normally.’
As soon as both women had eaten, Perdita donned an apron, took off her collar and cuffs, and picking up a basket of bandages Mary thrust at her, followed her new friend across the road to the church where the wounded had been taken.
The church had become an infirmary and the wounded were laid on straw around the walls. Perdita's nose curled at the smell and her barely-cured stomach lurched. She took a breath and steeled her nerve. She could not let sensibilities overcome her when there was work to be done and she had done this work before.
Adam had paid a price for taking the supply train but it could have been worse. Three men were dead and eight wounded, with three of those close to death.
Perdita knelt beside a trooper who had a bad blow to the head and was raving in a delirium. Someone had tied a rough bandage around the hideous wound and he fought her efforts to try and redress the wound.
The trooper sat up wide eyed. ‘We mun get away! They follow us.’
‘You’re safe now. Be still.’ It came as a command, brisk and harsh but it had its effect.
At the sound of Adam’s voice, the man quieted in Perdita’s hands.
Adam knelt beside Perdita and with firm but gentle hands on the man's shoulder, they laid him back on the rough bed. ‘Let this good woman see to that wound, Oldham.’
The man turned his wide-eyed stare on to his commander's face. ‘Are they gone?’ the man asked.
‘They’re gone,’ Adam replied.
The trooper, mollified, closed his eyes.
Adam did not move as Perdita finished her task without further resistance.
‘What was he talking about?’ she asked.
Adam shrugged. ‘Any number of incidents. Before I took command of this company they had been through hell. The north was all but lost.’
‘And now?’
‘Rupert is even now marching to relieve York and the fate of the north will be decided once and for all.’
‘It will come to battle?’
‘Inevitably.’
Adam stood up with a grunt, ruefully rubbing his leg. He held out his hand and helped her up.
‘Your leg still bothers you?’ Perdita asked.
He shook his head. ‘My leg’s fine. I’ve been on horseback the better part of three days. I’m just tired.’ He looked around the church. ‘And my men here are in considerably more need of your hands than I am.’
He turned away and limped down the row of men. Perdita watched as he moved from one man to another, talking to them and reassuring them as he had done after the battle of Edgehill. Perdita watched his soldiers’ faces and the eyes that followed his progress. For a foreigner from the south, it seemed to her that Adam Coulter had done much to win the respect of his men.
‘Well he seems in a might better humour this day.’ Mary joined Perdita and they stood together as Adam left the church. ‘There were some who felt my Obadiah should have been promoted but Coulter proved himself at Nantwich and he’s earned his office. His men are never short of rations or equipment like some we could name.’ She glanced at Perdita. ‘For all of that, we know him no better now than we did when he first came to us. We had no notion he’d a wife.’
‘I always said that what the major needed was someone to warm his bed at night.’
Perdita turned to see one of the women who had been tending the wounded, a young, pretty and extremely curvaceous girl. Her gown seemed a little small for her and flesh spilled from the top of her bodice in a decidedly unladylike and definitely ungodly fashion.
‘You be thankful. Ye’ve a good man in your husband, Peggy Brown,’ Mary scolded.
The girl pouted. ‘Who wants a good man? I think someone like the major would prove much better sport between the sheets than my Lemuel.’
‘Down on your knees and pray.’ Mary sounded genuinely shocked. ‘The major is a married man. This ’ere’s his wife.’
‘I thought that was what you said.’ The girl shot Perdita a glance, her lower lip pouting as she said with lowered eyes, ‘I apologise for speaking out of turn, Mistress Coulter.’ Her glance flashed back. ‘You must be an angel to hold him in such a thrall. There's few men can resist what I have to offer.’ With that the girl flounced off, her hips swaying as she walked.
‘Mistress Coulter, you pay no mind to Peg. For all her talk she has a good man in Lemuel and she knows it.’
Perdita smiled. ‘She would not be the first,’ she said, remembering the women from Warwick.
At the end of a long day Perdita and Mary returned to the inn. Desperate to wash and change her gown, at the door to Adam’s bedchamber Perdita hesitated. Did she knock or just walk in? What would a wife do?
She knocked and entered.
Adam had been asleep, still fully dressed, although his helmet, gauntlets and heavy breast and back plate lay stacked on the floor at the end of the bed. As the door clicked shut behind Perdita, he rolled over and sat up, shaking his head.
‘Perdita, what are you…?’ He paused. ‘Oh… I forgot you’re my wife and therefore entitled to be here.’
Perdita held out her stained skirts. ‘I need to change.’
Did she detect the ghost of a smile, twitching the corners of his mouth as he said, ‘That can wait a minute or two. We must talk before this matter gets any more out of hand.’
Perdita sat in a chair beside the table and waited while Adam rose from the bed and padded in his stockinged feet across to the window. He braced his arms against the casement and stood staring out into the bustling courtyard.
‘What am I to do with you?’ he said at last.
‘I know I have to go back to Warwickshire,’ she said. ‘I will leave in the morning.’
He turned to face her. ‘You’re barely out of your sick bed. Besides I can’t afford anyone to escort you.’
‘I can—’
‘No, you can’t!’ He ran a hand through his hair and paced the room. ‘God’s death, Simon Clifford must have been mad to let you even attempt this journey.’
‘Simon?’ She stared up at him.
Of course, he didn’t know? How could he know?’
‘Adam,’ she swallowed, ‘Simon is dead.’
He stared at her. ‘Dead?’
‘You know he was ill when you freed him from Warwick Castle. He’d contracted the spotted fever and died on the day we were to be wed.’
Adam stopped his pacing and stood in front of her, all anger and irritation gone from his face to be replaced with profound grief.
‘Simon is dead? Perdita. I’m sorry. He was a good man. I liked him.’ He paused. ‘I counted him a friend and there are few in this world I can count in that number.’
Perdita bit her lip to stop the tears. ‘He was too good to me, and, yes, I miss him.’ She looked away, dashing at the tears that spilled too easily these days. ‘And then to lose Joan. Grief heaped on grief, Adam.’
The pain welled up in her and she buried her face in her hands.
‘Perdita.’ Her name came on an exhaled breath as he knelt before her and took her in his arms.
She leaned her head against the reassuring solidity of his jacket and he stroked her hair and hushed her like a child. When her grief had subsided, he sat back on his heels and put his hand to her face, ineffectually wiping the tears away with his thumb
‘You’re exhausted, Perdita.’
She sniffed. ‘It’s been a hard winter,’ she said. ‘So much death.’
‘For both of us.’ He cupped her face in his hand and smiled. ‘I owe you an apology for my behaviour last night.’
She shook her head. ‘I cannot even begin to imagine what a shock it must have been to read Joan’s words.’
‘But you didn’t deserve to take the blame.’
He rose to his feet and picked up a paper from the table. Perdita recognised Joan’s letter, now much crumpled. He scanned the page and shook his head.
‘For over thirty years I’ve been to the world, and to myself, the bastard son of Lord Marchant and a dead woman called Ann Coulter. I had two half-brothers, at least one of whom would see me dead, and an aunt,’ he swallowed, ‘an aunt who was as close as any mother could have been.’ He tapped the page. ‘In a few short words she took all that from me, leaving me only with questions that no one can now answer.’ He tossed the paper back on the table. ‘Now what do I do, Perdita Gray?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
He frowned. ‘Why couldn’t she tell me this when we had the opportunity, when I could have asked her?’
‘Probably for exactly that reason, Adam. She couldn’t face your anger or your questions.’
He strode back to the window, and stood for a long moment looking out into the gloaming.
‘Whatever my past, it must wait. In the meantime, I have the more immediate problem of Rupert’s imminent arrival at the gates of York and,’ he turned to look at her again, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth, ‘a hitherto unknown wife who has inconveniently landed upon me.’
Perdita stood up and looked around the comfortable room. ‘Maybe I could just stay here until matters settle.’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t leave you in an inn in Fulford. Nowhere is safe.’ He paced the floor again before coming to stop in front of her. He laid his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look up at him. She expected to see anger in their grey depths but when he spoke it was without rancour. ‘God’s death, Perdita. I don’t need this but it seems I have no choice but to carry on your charade.’
Perdita looked up at him. ‘I’m sorry, Adam. It truly began as a misunderstanding that I could not remedy.’
He shook his head and gave a hollow laugh. ‘These are godly people. They are not going to understand or countenance this arrangement if they were to know the truth. You can take the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.’ When she protested, he said, ‘It’s not the first time in my life I’ve had hard boards for a mattress. Now, Mistress Coulter, we had best make ourselves respectable. My officers will be expecting us to join them for dinner.’
Perdita had retired early to bed, swaying on her feet with exhaustion, and she did not stir as Adam returned to the chamber. He stood for a long moment looking down at her. She lay curled on her side, her hair spread out on the bolsters. By the light of the candle, all the care had gone from the face and his heart ached at the sight of her. It would be so easy to slip into the bed beside her and take her in his arms. The knowledge she had never become Simon Clifford’s wife did not make her his. He had to win her love and in the circumstances neither of them needed, or had the time for, the niceties of courtship.
The thought of even sleeping on the floor in the same bedchamber as Perdita Gray provoked a reaction in him that made the alternative of the oak settle in the parlour look like the safer course of action.
Trying to make as little noise as possible, he retrieved a blanket and bolster and made a bed for himself in the parlour, which was where his general’s galloper, Richard Ashley found him in the morning with the news that Rupert was on the move and Fairfax wanted all his officers to assemble.
He left a note for Perdita and, taking Hewitson, rode to the General’s headquarters. They did not return until long past nightfall and, rather than disturb Perdita, Adam chose to pass another night in the parlour, which raised a questioning eyebrow from his second in command.
‘She needs her sleep,’ he mumbled in excuse.
And so do I, he could have added.
But he was on the march in the morning and he had to pack his few belongings and be ready to leave by daybreak. Long before first light, he returned to the bedchamber and woke her. She sat up in bed.
‘Where did you sleep these last two nights?’ she asked.
‘Downstairs. You need to be up and dressed Mistress Gray. We march within the hour.’
‘Why?’
‘Rupert is at Knaresborough, barely a day’s march from York. We’ve no choice but to lift the siege and intercept him.’
‘There’ll be a battle?’
He nodded. ‘Without doubt. We’re facing a formidable foe, Perdita. It will be bloody.’
‘What do you want of me?’ Perdita swung her feet out of bed.
He had to look away and made a pretence of packing his box. Rupert of the Rhine made a less formidable foe than a beautiful woman in a thin chemise. Her bare feet padded on the floor boards and cloth rustled as she dressed.
‘I want you back in Warwickshire,’ he muttered and dared to turn around. She had her back to him, apparently lacing her stays over her petticoats. ‘One thing for certes, you can’t stay here. Once the siege is lifted, this village will be prey to the inhabitants of the city. I can send you south to Selby or…’
‘Or I can come with you,’ Perdita turned and looked over her shoulder. ‘You know I have some skill with the wounded and I could be useful.’
‘You would also be in the most incredible danger.’ Adam ran a weary hand across his forehead. ‘Should we not prevail…’
She held up a knife, the early morning light glinting on its honed blade. ‘Ludovic gave me this. My honour will not be lost without a fight.’
Adam looked at the little weapon. If the baggage train were attacked, it would be useless but if it gave her confidence then he was in no position to argue.
He remembered a conversation he had with young Ashley on their way to Fairfax. ‘I have a thought that will keep you where you are safe and your dubious skill with a knife should not need to be put to a test. Pack your things and find something to eat. We leave at daybreak.’
She took a step toward him, her fingers touching the chain of the locket he wore around his neck.
‘You still have it.’
His hand closed over her fingers. ‘I wear it always. It is my charm.’
Her lips curved uncertainly. ‘Poor protection against a sword or a well-aimed musket.’ She pulled away from him and handed him the heavy buff leather coat. He shrugged it on and stood quite still as she laced it. When he reached for his back and breast plate she was there before him, strapping on the armour like a good squire. He stood still as she tied the yellow silk sash around it and handed him his sword and baldrick.
Perdita gestured at his box. ‘I’ll see to your belongings,’ she said, her eagerness to not seem to be a burden to him palpable.
He allowed himself a smile. ‘Thank you. As I see you are determined to be a model camp follower, meet me downstairs.’
He sought out young Ashley and the young man readily agreed to Adam’s suggestion.
‘I’ll see her safely bestowed,’ he said.
Adam swung himself into the saddle as Perdita came out of the inn. He gestured for her to join him and introduced Richard Ashley.
‘Richard's home is at Barton only a few miles from where we’ll meet Rupert. He’ll take you there. You will be as safe there as anywhere.’ He jerked his head at Richard. ‘I’ll leave you in Richard's capable hands.’
She stood at his knee and put her hand on his bridle. ‘God keep you safe, Adam.’
Impulsively he bent and kissed her forehead, her skin cool and dry beneath his lips. He dared not think about what the next few days would bring, or allow himself for even a moment in time to dare to dream.
He jerked back upright in the saddle. ‘And you, Perdita. I shall see you when this matter is settled.’ He wheeled his horse. ‘Watch over her, Ashley.’
‘Of course, sir. She’ll be safe at Barton. Thank you, sir.’
Richard Ashley regarded Perdita’s sturdy pony with a bemused smile.
‘This nag has four legs, but that’s about the best that can be said of him,’ he said as he hoisted her into the saddle.
‘You need not thank Adam Coulter for playing nursemaid to me, Captain,’ Perdita said as they started off.
He smiled at her. ‘You mistake me, Mistress Coulter. While it is a great pleasure to have your company, it means I have a few precious hours with my wife and son and for that I am exceeding grateful.’
She looked at his gentle face. He could surely not be much older than Robin Marchant. A young man who should have been at home with his wife watching his son grow, not escorting her through a countryside torn by war.
‘You don’t have the look of a soldier about you, Captain,’ she remarked.
He shook his head. ‘If the truth be told, I only took up arms to support my father. It’s been a hard couple of years and I fervently pray that this coming battle will decide the matter.’
‘And then will you return home?’
He shook his head. ‘I doubt it. I’m honour bound to see this thing through.’
‘You sound like my kinsman,’ Perdita said. ‘Only he wore the king’s colours.’
And died for them.
Richard Ashley nodded. ‘Men of honour carry the colours of both sides, Mistress Coulter.’
Men of honour, she thought. What did that mean? Robin, Simon, Denzil, even Adam had talked of honour, but where was the honour in Englishmen killing Englishmen, brother facing brother across the battlefield.
But yet they weren’t brothers, Denzil and Robin and Adam. Cousins, nothing more. Denzil and Robin didn’t know Joan’s secret. To them Adam was still their bastard half-brother and she wondered if they were with Rupert marching toward the gates of York.
Ashley’s home at Barton Grange was a low, grey stone manor house which stood to one side of the village. Roses entwined around the doorway and it exuded a sense of peace and tranquillity. Perdita looked quickly at her escort and saw the yearning on his face.
‘Richard!’
A young woman, no more than a girl, had come running from the house, her skirts in her hand, her hair loosed from the cap she carried in the other hand. He slid off his horse, scooping her into his arms.
‘Kate! Oh, Kate, it is good to see you.’
Oblivious to Perdita and the servants who gathered at the stable door and windows, the young couple kissed. A boy came forward and took the reins of the horses. He held out his hand and Perdita slid off her mount. She straightened her skirts and waited patiently until Richard and his young wife remembered propriety and drew apart.
The girl blushed, hastily rearranging her disordered dark honey-blonde hair back beneath the cap as she dropped Perdita a curtsey.
‘Kate, this is my friend Major Coulter's wife.’
The two women exchanged courtesies and Kate waved her guest toward the house.
‘Please come inside.’ Kate stood aside, slipping her arm into the crook of her husband's elbow. ‘Richard, how long have you got?’
‘A short time only, love,’ he said. ‘Where’s young Tom?’
‘Upstairs with Ellen.’
They entered the cool interior of the house. The long, low-ceilinged parlour smelt of fresh beeswax polish and roses from the bowl of freshly picked flowers that stood on the table.
‘Please don’t feel you must entertain me,’ Perdita said with a smile. ‘Make the most of your time together. I see you have some books on that shelf. I shall be quite content.’
Kate hesitated. ‘If you will not think me rude?’
Perdita shook her head and Kate Ashley smiled. Like her husband, she seemed impossibly young to be confronted with war.
‘I will see you get some refreshment.’ Kate looked up at her husband. ‘Come and see Tom. He has grown so since you last saw him and is talking.’
Perdita smiled to herself as she followed their voices as they disappeared up the stairs. A servant set a tray down on the table with food and drink. Perdita selected a book and settled herself in the large oaken chair by the window overlooking the garden.
‘Mistress Coulter?’
She had been so engrossed in the book she had not heard Richard Ashley. He stood at the door, spinning his hat in his hand.
‘I regret I must leave now.’
She stood up. ‘So soon? Thank you Captain Ashley. God go with you.’
‘I will tell the major that you are safely bestowed.’
Perdita wondered what a good wife would be expected to say and said with a smile, ‘And please assure him my prayers are with him.’
The young man inclined his head. ‘Of course.’ He bowed. ‘Good day, mistress.’
Through the window she watched as Richard Ashley stooped from the saddle to kiss his young wife before turning his horse and riding out through the gates.
Kate turned back towards the house, and as she entered the parlour, the brave smile belied the tears that glinted in the afternoon light
‘I apologise for neglecting you, Mistress Coulter.’
Perdita shook her head. ‘Please, I bid my,’ she paused, the lie once more coming to her lips, ‘husband farewell this morning, there is no need to pretend an indifference to his departure you do not feel.’
Kate Ashley sank on to a chair and leaned her head on her hands.
‘We seem to have had so little time together,’ she said. ‘We were wed but a year when the war came.’ She looked up at Perdita. ‘Have you been wed long?’
Perdita shook her head and changed the subject. ‘You have a child?’
Kate brightened. ‘Thomas. He was born not long before the war began.’ The shadows descended again. ‘He has barely seen his father in all that time.’
‘May I meet him?’
Kate's eyes brightened. ‘Of course! He is upstairs with his nurse. Come and I will show you to the guest chamber and then we will visit Tom.’
Thomas Ashley was a dark-haired, slender child, who resembled neither parent. When Perdita remarked on this, Kate laughed.
‘He is indeed a changeling. My father-in-law is of the opinion that he favours Richard's mother, but she is long dead and I have no likeness to compare. Do you have children, Mistress Coulter?’
Perdita hesitated. ‘No… no.’ The old pain caught at her voice.
Kate gave her a look of absolute understanding but before she could speak. Thomas, awkward in his skirts, toddled over to Perdita and held out a wooden horse.
‘Horsey.’
Perdita took the toy and slipped down to her knees, her skirts billowing around her.
‘See, Thomas,’ she said trip-trapping the horse across the floor, ‘the horse is going to visit his friends.’
The horse's friends were to be found in a wooden Noah's ark. Playing with the child made it possible for both women to forget for a couple of hours, the terrible danger that the men they loved would face in the morning.