Page 11 of Feathers in the Wind
Adam turned away, going to stand at the window looking out over the peaceful green fields and coppices that would soon be torn apart by strife. Simon stood up and came to stand beside him and the two men stood for a long moment in companionable silence.
‘You’ve seen things that few men should ever be privy to,’ Simon said at last. ‘I don’t doubt the truth of what you say, but this thing is already too great to stop.’
‘And it will carry this country with it.’
‘Truth is, for all my fine words I’ve no great wish to leave my home and go and fight my fellow Englishmen.’
‘Then don’t.’ Adam glanced at Simon, a man who he would have liked to call his friend. ‘Stay and defend your home.’
Simon ran a hand through his sandy hair. ‘It’s not so simple. I swore an oath to Northampton and I’m honour-bound to keep it. I would not be called a coward.’
‘Deciding not to fight is not a coward’s choice, Clifford.’
‘But breaking my word is a question of honour. I thought you might understand that.’
‘Ah, honour,’ Adam said. ‘”Mine honour is my life; both grow in one. Take honour from me, and my life is done.” Your own Shakespeare understood better than I.’
‘I wonder what our Shakespeare would make of all of this?’ Simon mused. He glanced at Adam. ‘You’ll be at Warwick with Brooke?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Then may I ask one boon of you?’
‘Of course. Whatever is in my power.’
‘If you have occasion to pass by Preswood can you ensure that all is well?’
‘Of course,’ Adam said. ‘You have my word on that. It is the least I can do and my own kin is here. I could do nothing less.’
‘Good,’ Simon held out his hand. ‘I’m sure, and I pray heartily, that this matter will be resolved by Christmas without recourse to bloodshed.’ He hesitated. ‘In the meantime, God keep you safe.’
Adam took the man’s hand. ‘And you.’
* * *
‘You’re leaving now?I thought you would wait until morning.’
Adam looked up from saddling Florizel, a handsome bay gelding he had bought in London. Perdita Gray stood at the entrance to the horse stall, one slender hand resting on the gnarled wood of the column.
‘There is still sufficient daylight and I decided there was nothing to be gained from waiting until the morning, Mistress Gray. Everything has been said that needs to be said.’
‘I wish you could have persuaded Simon from this course.’
Adam shook his head. ‘Simon must deal with his own conscience as I must deal with mine.’
‘I think he sees only glory and honour,’ Perdita said.
‘He will find the reality rather less to his taste,’ Adam spoke without thinking and instantly regretted his words.
‘What do you mean?’ Perdita asked.
Adam leaned his head against the warm neck of his horse, breathing in the reassuring, familiar smell of horse and leather. Sense told him to hold his tongue but he found the words already forming as the scenes of those battles he had fought came flooding back.
‘To ride into battle is to know real fear,’ he said. ‘Your bowels churn and your stomach is knotted hard. Your mouth is like dust. As the order comes to charge, you forget what cause it is you are fighting for because now the fight becomes your cause. Your fight is for survival. Around you men are dying in ways even your most harrowing nightmares could not have envisioned. There is smoke, confusion, and the smell of powder and of fear and blood and all around the screams of the dying. And when it is done, when you have survived and you are so tired you cannot even lift your head, then you want to weep. There is no honour in battle, no glory.’
‘And when the enemy may be the man with whom you supped only the week before?’ Perdita said.
Adam closed his eyes. ‘That is the tragedy of civil war.’
