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Edward woke suddenly with the dawn. He blinked rapidly to clear his mind, but lay frozen, trying to orientate himself. Blue sky and a shining sun came into focus. Where was he?
In the open!
His whole body tensed for flight. He must get under cover! Edward tried to sit up. Sharp pain stabbed his middle. He fell back to the ground in agony, his breath in short gasps. Rolling onto his side, he levered himself, despite aching arms, onto his knees and crept forward to cover.
Edward leant against the log, taking a swift look in the direction of Worcester from whence he had ridden. Seeing no apparent threat, he strained to rise to his feet, pushing up from the log. The muscles across his back protested. Barely upright, breathless, he turned to gaze around the copse.
Two tethered horses grazed half-concealed amongst the trees. Neither was his, but no-one was in sight. Perhaps he could take one of them and get away before whoever owned them returned. And find water. By God he had a thirst!
Edward stepped cautiously towards them. A lance of pain stabbed him again. He clutched his abdomen. A bandage was wrapped around his waist with something beneath it ‒ a compress?
Who had tended him?
In answer to his unspoken question, a plainly dressed young woman with a white cap emerged from the trees. She saw him and stopped. Fear showed briefly on her face then tentatively, as though forced, she smiled.
He was used to being smiled at by women, but never Puritan ones. It transformed her from prim and plain to dazzling beauty, despite her sombre clothes. A glimpse of golden hair peaked from beneath her starched headdress.
Where had she come from?
Had she cared for his wounds? If so, why, when he was an enemy soldier?
He looked around. Fear twisted his insides. What had happened to the Roundhead cavalry officer who had tried to skewer him? He was in no condition to fight again.
Surely he remembered shooting the man?
These questions crowded into his mind as the woman hurried towards him, worry now written on her face. He swayed where he stood.
“Sir, thou...you ought sit down. You have lost a lot of blood.”
He nodded in acknowledgement.
“Come, come, let me help you.” She grasped his arm firmly and led him to the tree trunk. “Sit here. Let me give you water. You look blanched white.”
He gulped from the water bottle she offered him, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sighed. “I must leave here soon or I will be found by the Roundheads before much more time goes by!”
“Be still, sir. I will keep you safe.”
“How?”
“I have disguised you as a Parliamentary cavalryman. I left off the armour and helmet, but you would pass as one of them.”
“I am much the same, except I have no hat.” He passed a hand over his head. “My hair! You cut it?”
She nodded.
Swiftly, Edward traced his long fingers over his moustache and goatee beard. Thank God! “You left some of my dignity in place at least,” he grumbled.
“You must be a vain man ‒ as I believe all Royalists to be. Your hair had to be sacrificed for our cause.”
“Our cause?” He shook his head. He must be suffering from an amnesia if he couldn’t remember joining sides with a Puritan. “What cause would that be?”
A frown of impatience puckered her brow. “Escaping to the south, of course!”
“Why south? What is there for me? What lies there that you wish to reach?”
“Sir, to the south lies freedom for both of us. For you, a boat to the continent ‒ while for me ‒ a life with my aunt at Brockenhurst in the New Forest.”
His eyebrow arched involuntarily. Where was the trap? “You would help me escape?” Was she fleeing too?
She nodded, a small smile lighting her face. “I would.”
This didn’t make sense. “What are you escaping?”
She looked down and whispered. “My past.”
“And how do you think the Roundheads will mistake me for anything other than a Cavalier if I’m questioned?”
“I have a plan.” Her eyes sparkled with eagerness to relate it.
Do you indeed? “Do we travel by night across country?”
She shook her head.
He was beginning to be confused again. “Well then? What is this plan?”
Her eyes didn’t meet his. “W...will you agree to pose as my husband for the duration of our journey?”
What! It wasn’t a proposal he had anticipated. “Why? How can that work?”
She looked at him directly, defiantly. “It will work!” She hesitated, a crease forming between her eyebrows. “At least, I believe it will. Are you willing to try?”
It’s this or be captured. “What choice do I have?”
With hands on hips like a scolding wife, she said, “You have a choice ‒ stay here, be robbed, rounded-up or die from your wounds, or take your chance and accompany me.”
A weak cough of laughter at her defiant look escaped him before he could avert it and spare himself a spear of pain to his gut. She was right, of course, but could he trust her? His hand crept to his pocket and found the letter still there. Had she read it? Would it matter if she had? “And who are you, by-the-bye?”
“Mistress Goodwyn.” Her warm blue eyes stared into his.
“And where would your husband be, Mistress Goodwyn?”
She hesitated, then pointed. “He lies dead beneath that oak tree.”
She turned back, her eyes downcast.
He bowed his head slightly. “My condolences, Mistress Goodwyn.”
She nodded without answering, still not raising her eyes to his.
“Do you wish to know with whom you shall be travelling?” he asked.
Her head snapped up, her face filled with hope. Her eyes searched his. “Yes sir, I ought to know my pretend husband’s name.”
“I am Edward.” He attempted to give a flourishing bow, but his hand shot to his solar plexus and he gasped with pain.
She looked sceptical. “Just Edward?”
He gritted his teeth against the pain in order to answer. “One name ought to be sufficient.”
“Unless your name be foreshadowed by ‘King’, one name is not enough, good sir. Come, have some honesty and trust. Who are you?”
“If you insist, my name is Edward...Lo...Longshanks.”
She looked at him dubiously, then nodded in acceptance. “Well, Edward Longshanks, it’s time we left this depressing place. Eat this porridge while I prepare for our departure.”
She handed him a small wooden bowl and spoon from beside the dead fire nearby, then walked purposefully to the horses and started saddling them.
As he ate the cold porridge, Edward watched her stow a few utensils in a leather valise attached to her side-saddle. When finished she retrieved the bowl and spoon, washing them with water from her flask before adding them to her bag.
Charity led the second horse, a heavy cavalry mount, to him. “Now sir, somehow we need to get you up into the saddle. Once you are in it, you should be held up by its tallness.”
He looked askance at her. “I can mount a horse, madam!”
Charity made no response except to raise a finely lined eyebrow.
He tried and failed several times to propel himself into the saddle. Each time the pain of his wounds folded him over.
“Enough! It grieves me to watch you struggle. Perhaps, if you walk along the tree trunk from its lowest to highest point and mount from there, while I hold Fortitude for you.”
“Fortitude? You know the horse’s name. How so?” Edward stepped carefully along the tree trunk then grasped the reins and in one final excruciating effort pulled himself into the saddle. He held his breath until the pain died down.
Charity didn’t answer. Instead, she mounted her horse then leant over to lead Fortitude by the reins.
“Madam! I believe I can still control this horse without your assistance. Kindly unhand my mount.”
“If you could see the colour of your face, you wouldn’t be making such wild claims, Edward Longshanks.”
“Ride on, if you please! I shall follow you. Do we travel across country?”
“No. Via the road to Oxford. If I am recognised, keep your head lowered. You may need the helmet later, but for now leave it hung on the saddle in clear view. I shall say we are heading home as you’re injured from battling the Royalists. “It will take us a day to reach Oxford. We ought not to stay there though, because Cromwell’s soldiers may be all about. We will go around the town.”
***
Charity set the pace at a brisk walk, expecting at all times to be pursued or questioned by an oncoming troop of dragoons or cavalry.
The journey would take three days by her estimation. She had recently travelled the Oxford road, and knew to keep heading south from there, as she had travelled to the New Forest from London via Oxford with her family some years ago.
It was late morning, as they rounded a bend in the dusty road, that they caught up with the tail end of a group of Royalist prisoners being marched towards Oxford, guarded by a company of Parliamentary pikemen and musketeers.
After her initial surprise and slowing, Charity urged her horse back into its previous pace, hoping Edward would do the same.
He did.
They were more than halfway past the long column of battered, defeated men before Charity began to relax. She was hopeful they wouldn’t be stopped by the guard ahead.
A voice rang out from the throng. “Edward! Are you injured? Trust you to get special treatment!”
Charity turned in shock toward the man who had called out from the ranks of the prisoners ‒ in time to see the man beside him elbow him brutally. Edward had glanced towards the voice and recognition flickered on his face before he rode purposefully onward.
Charity looked forward, hoping to brazen the incident out by ignoring it.
The closest guard had also turned to see who had spoken and why. He stepped onto the roadway to intercept Charity’s horse and raised his musket, training it on Edward. “Whoa, goodwife, and you, sir!”
At this command Edward stopped to face the musketeer.
The Roundhead soldier turned back to Charity. “Who art thou and who is this man with thee? He seems to be known to these prisoners. Why would that be?”
Fear tightened her throat while her heart pounded raggedly in her chest. She shrugged. “The prisoner obviously mistakes my husband for someone he knows.”
“Why?” the guard growled.
“Why he should do so, I have no explanation. Perhaps you should ask him who he thinks my husband might be.” She frowned. “I’m sure I know my own lord and master!”
A sergeant, an ugly brute armed with a halberd, joined the questioning. “Where have you come from, goodwife?”
She forced the words past her tensed lips. “Why, from the battlefield, of course. Where I found my husband gravely wounded. I’m taking him home to East Anglia to nurse. Our first destination, however, is Oxford. Surely you would not delay an ill man from his sickbed?”
The sergeant seemed unmoved by her speech. “What’s thy name?”
Despite her constricted throat, she answered, “Charity Goodwyn, and this is my husband, Captain Jacob Goodwyn, lately of Whalley’s command.”
She pointed at Edward. “He has permission to seek medical aid at home and I am taking him there now.”
She held her breath, her hands clammy on the reins.
The sergeant called the musketeer to him and ordered that the prisoner who had called out be brought forward.
Reluctantly the Royalist soldier stepped from the column as the soldier commanded. He was pulled by his sleeve to the sergeant.
“How do you know this man, traitor?”
The Royalist cavalryman shook his head. “I don’t. I was mistaken. I see now he’s a Parliamentary pig who ought to be slaughtered.”
The sergeant delivered a swift wallop over his ear with his halberd’s shaft. The prisoner fell to his knees with a grunt of pain. The musketeer pulled him to his feet by his shirt front and questioned him again.
The man remained mute and received another clout from the sergeant, this time to his back. He fell to the ground and lay still. The musketeer dragged him back to his compatriots. Two of them bodily held him upright, then, at the commander’s order, shambled forwards along the road.
The sergeant turned back to Charity. “I apologise for the insolence thee and Captain Goodwyn have been forced to endure. I wish thy husband a quick and full recovery.”
Charity smiled wanly, sickened by the brutality she had witnessed, but relieved Edward and she were apparently going to be spared.
She thanked the sergeant, then braced herself to resume their journey at a steady walk. Every instinct screamed for her to gallop away, to put distance between them and the guards and their wretched prisoners.
Judging by Edward’s supressed groans, his wounds and aching muscles stabbed him with pain every step of their ensuing journey.
They were passed by several troops of cavalry heading north-west, but no-one else recognised Charity or questioned them closely ‒ as they were frantically searching for the escaped would-be king, Charles Stuart. A Puritan woman with her injured Roundhead husband was unremarkable.
By the time Oxford showed ahead in the late afternoon, Edward’s head hung on his chest through fatigue. They had turned onto a path to take them south, around the west side of the city, when a troop of Parliamentary soldiers emerged from the town’s gate.
Charity and Edward kept moving along the laneway and were some distance from the main road when someone called, “Mistress Goodwyn! Is that thee?”
Hearing her name, Charity’s tired body froze. Her horse halted in response. Her mind raced.
What should she do?
If she continued, pretending she had not heard, whoever recognised her could follow them. Once close, he would see Edward was not her husband and they would both be taken into custody.
She must go greet the caller.
Heart racing, Charity struggled to slow her breathing, to appear calm.
To Edward she said, “Ride on. Under no circumstances turn back. From a distance, you pass as my husband.”
With perspiring hands, she turned her horse to return to the main road to meet the man, who was clearly heading in the direction of Worcester from Oxford.
A dour-looking officer awaited her. His hair was cropped close to his head and his square face impassive. Behind him was a troop of Roundhead cavalry, armour in place, ready for action.
“Mistress Goodwyn, it is you. Wither goeth thou?”
He was one of her husband’s friends. “Good day, Captain. Thou survived the battle. God be praised.”
“Indeed.” He smiled grimly.
Her body shook with fear, but Charity tried to make her voice sound calm. “Art thou scouring the country for fugitives?”
“Aye, we seek the Royalist escapees and their traitorous leader.”
Charity nodded assent.
“Is that Captain Goodwyn with thee? Why does he not come to greet me?”
She glanced at Edward then back to the Captain. Her voice quavered. “I’m afraid he’s severely injured.”
She pulled her handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “I found him lying near the battlefield, gravely harmed. I’m taking him home to nurse.” She suppressed a sob and bowed her head. “He’s barely able to stay a-horse and I fear he has little chance of living. I mustn’t delay long; he needs my care.”
“Why then dost thou not enter the city?” he asked.
She looked up at him with the handkerchief still to her eyes. Her voice quavered again. “We are on the way to the home of a family friend, just to the south. Better he be safe abed there, than in a lice-infested inn. I hope to have him there by dusk.”
He nodded. “Go then, Mistress Goodwyn. I pray thou art not correct about his prospects. A good soldier in the service of God and the Parliamentary cause is a loss I would not care for.”
“Thank thee for thy kind words, Captain Frankston. I pray thy hopes come true.” She nodded farewell and hurried after Edward Longshanks, her hands still trembling on the reins.
The troop clattered off, raising dust into the afternoon sky.
Charity sagged in the saddle, a breath huffed from her lungs. Somehow she had survived the ordeal of his questioning.
Edward’s horse had slowed to a meander. She rode quickly to his side, to find him slumped in the saddle. She reached out with a still shaky hand to grasp Fortitude’s bridle. This time Edward made no protest.
Charity led him along the path. She hoped to be well south of the city before nightfall. She dared not enter Oxford alone looking for food. Instead, they stopped at an inn beyond the city and secured a room for the night, using Edward’s coin.
Their dinner was served in a private parlour. Edward would have drawn her chair for her but she forestalled him by sliding into it. She watched him attempt to eat his meal but the act of sitting at the table was almost all he could achieve.
When Edward gave up, Charity said, “Let me help you.”
He made no complaint as she spooned the stew for him.
Once finished, she helped him up the stairs to their room, though her back muscles burned from the effort of supporting his weight.
She needed to tend his wound, but first she must undress him. She had never attempted to strip a man. This one was almost as massive as her husband, but he was so much more attractive and she hesitated to touch him in such a way.
She drew a steadying breath. She must do it.
His long boots were the starting place, and the safest. She sat him on the bed and set to tugging his leather bucket-top boots free. They flopped onto the bare timber boards with a gratifying slap. He sagged back onto the bed.
“No, no, no.” Charity grasped him by the collar of his coat and hauled him upright.
She struggled him out of his buff coat, despite Edward’s grunted protests, then spread the stiff leather garment over a tall chair back.
He grasped the bottom of his linen shirt, but couldn’t raise his arms above his shoulder to strip it off. He dropped them with a sigh of frustration.
A wave of compassion for him swept through her, overcoming her fear. “I will help you.”
He nodded and she peeled his shirt over his head, revealing a back and chest criss-crossed with corded muscles.
Unlike her husband, no extra flesh clung to his torso. The chill evening air goosed his skin and he shivered. Her hand hovered over his bowed back.
Far more attractive than her husband.
Her face flushed.
Charity dragged her thoughts back on track. She gently probed the bandage tied around his waist, with trembling hands, then released it before taking a deep breath and guiding him firmly by the shoulders back onto the bed. His knotted muscles were hard beneath her hands.
She tried to reassure him with gently spoken words. “I will try not to hurt you but there is no guarantee. Bear with me.”
He grunted assent.
This time she could dress the wound thoroughly. She peeled the pad away, taking the poultice. Tightly ridged muscles lined the wound on his flat abdomen. So far the gash looked clean, but Charity knew it was early in the healing and it might still turn red and inflamed.
“Rest. Sleep if you can,” she said. “I need to make another poultice.”
Charity left the room to arrange boiling water. On her return, she found Edward snoring softly. Hopefully he would remain asleep while she tended his wound.
Less nervous of touching him now, she checked his other gash where a sword blade, possibly her husband’s, had nicked his arms despite his buff coat.
She opened her precious supply of herbs, dividing it in half to ensure there was sufficient for the following night’s dressing. Dampening the mixture with water, she placed the poultice on his wound and secured it with a long bandage torn from her petticoat.
Charity sat beside the bed and considered her travel companion. He had spent the day slumped in his saddle, his teeth gritted and his face set, enduring the ride, without complaint. For a Royalist he had shown true perseverance, equal to that of the best Republican.
She looked with longing at the large bed, with its soft mattress, on which he lay.
She yearned for sleep.
How dangerous could the injured Royalist be?
If he found it hard to even walk without pain, surely she would be safe lying there while he slept? He looked alien and imposing, but strangely vulnerable because of his pallor.
Warmth flooded her face at the thought of sharing the same bed.
She rolled the quilt into a long cylinder and placed it down the centre of the bed beneath the sheet and blanket.
She set her husband’s sword on the floor beside the bed, removed all but her underskirt, then washed using the pitcher of water on the nearby dresser.
At last, she slid under the covers, and lay as far away from the Cavalier as the edge of the bed would allow. She quenched the candle, plunging the room into a moonlit half-light.
For long minutes she lay rigid in the bed holding her breath, gauging his every slow breath for evidence of his waking. Relentlessly, weariness dragged her into exhausted sleep.