Page 1 of Feathers in the Wind
Chapter 1
England July 1642
Ashudder of rain slewed across the sodden countryside, sending its cold fingers cutting through Adam’s already saturated cloak. He huffed out a misty breath and straightened his aching shoulders. Not for the first time he cursed his brother for summoning him to a meeting Adam knew would inevitably end in grief and recrimination.
The remote inn loomed out of the gloaming and led on by the cheerful light spilling through the front windows, Adam urged his weary horse forward. The miserable beast, the mud dragging at its every step, plodded on.
A young boy ran from the stable, a sack over his head and shoulders. Adam threw him the reins and taking a deep breath, strode into the inn. He tossed his hat and gloves to the innkeeper, his numbed fingers fumbled at the ties of his cloak.
‘His Lordship’s in the private parlour.’ The innkeeper scowled as he held the dripping garb at arm’s length.
Adam pushed open the door the man indicated. The two men seated beside a cheerful fire burning in the wide hearth, rose to their feet. His half-brothers schooled their faces to a neutrality that Adam knew would not last. As they faced him across the room, a growing sense of despondency gripped him. Once more the cuckoo in the nest, always the acknowledged baseborn son but not even given the protection of his father’s name.
Denzil Marchant, just as Adam remembered him, tall and powerful, with a mane of tawny hair like his father, and his younger brother Robin, as tall but of a slighter, elegant build, his hair more auburn and sleekly curling.
‘Denzil, Robin,’ Adam acknowledged them as he stepped into the room. ‘I wish I could say, well met, but I would be lying.’
‘Adam Coulter.’ The deliberate use of his full name jarred, as Denzil no doubt intended. ‘I would scarcely have recognised you. Hardly the darling of the court now, are you?’
‘I found lovelocks and pearl earrings something of a hindrance to the life of a soldier.’ Without waiting to be invited, Adam poured himself a full measure from the bottle of wine that stood on the table, hoping that they would not mark that his hand shook.
‘Foul weather,’ he remarked, raising his cup. ‘Is there space beside the fire for me?’
Denzil stood aside and Adam took his place beside the fire. Water dripped on to the hearthstone and steam rose from his damp clothing.
Adam took a mouthful of wine. It was surprisingly good for such an isolated inn.
‘How is your beautiful wife, Denzil?’ Even after all these years he could not hide the note of derision in his voice.
Denzil’s already high colour deepened and his brows drew together at the mention of Louise. ‘Louise is with the queen in France.’
So, that particular wound still bled, Adam thought.
‘So much has happened in the last years, Denzil. I believe I should now call you Lord Marchant. When did Father die?’
‘Some eighteen months past. Even on his deathbed he refused to call you his son,’ Denzil responded with narrowed eyes as he watched the barb go home.
As intended, the cruel words cut like a sword thrust to Adam’s heart.
‘Why did you come back to England?’ Robin spoke for the first time, his tone light and conciliatory.
Adam turned his attention to his youngest brother. How old would Robin be now, twenty-one, twenty-two?
‘Because I’m tired of fighting other people’s wars and thought I should come home and find a peaceful occupation. Instead I have returned to a country that talks of war as if it is an inevitability.’ Adam turned back to look at Denzil from over the top of his wine cup. ‘Is this why you sent for me?’
‘I had heard you’d returned and we have need of men like you, Coulter,’ Denzil said.
‘What do you mean, men like me?’ Adam set the empty wine cup down on a nearby table and turned to face the fire, casually rearranging the smouldering logs with a poker.
‘Hardened soldiers. Men who know what they’re doing. England is about to go to war led by a bunch of country squires whose only idea of warfare is what they have read in a book.’
Adam glanced at him. ‘Men like you, Denzil?’
His brother’s moustache twitched and his eyes narrowed.
‘Tell me what has happened to England in the six years I have been away? What have I come back to? Because it is not the country I left.’
Denzil’s brow furrowed. ‘It is indeed a sad country where a King cannot govern without being hindered at every turn by the machinations of his so-called Parliament.’
