Page 16 of Feathers in the Wind
Another wedding deferred by the war, Adam thought, thinking of Perdita Gray and Simon Clifford, whose betrothal he had walked in on. In the months since he had last seen Perdita he had willed himself not to think of her, but now the memory of the fall of her hair, the colour of age-darkened oak, set against the line of her long, pale neck as she bent over her book of receipts in her still-room, drifted into his mind.
‘Sir?’ The boy had asked him something and he had not heard.
‘I’m sorry, lad. What did you say?’
‘I asked if you had a wife, sir?’
Before Adam could answer, the ennui broke with the loud report of a cannon from the king's positions. An exchange from the parliament lines followed and the acrid smell of powder drifted across the field. The horses, unused to the noise, began to fidget, throwing their heads around and trying to back away.
Adam's horse laid back its ears, the whites of its eyes rolling as it tossed its head. He leaned forward and laid a hand on the high arched neck, whispering into its ear.
Beside him the young ensign, whose name he didn't even know, tightened his grip on the standard and took a great shuddering breath. From their left came a wild cry as the Royalist horse, led by Prince Rupert himself, leapt forward at the gallop. With whoops and shrieks they descended on the parliamentary cavalry with the impact of a blacksmith’s hammer.
‘Do 'ee see what I sees, sir?’ The sergeant had come up beside him.
Adam nodded, his face grim. Part of the parliamentary line had turned on itself. There was betrayal in the ranks. The entire right flank of the line broke and fled, taking the closest infantry regiments with it.
‘God 'ave mercy on us,’ Adam heard the old veteran mutter as the royalist cavalry on the other flank careened down the slope of Edgehill in emulation of Rupert. Adam's troop of horse from the Warwick garrison had been placed under the command of Sir William Balfour, an experienced and wily old soldier. As Wilmot's charge began, Balfour gave the order to move his troops at a quick trot out of the range of the hallooing hordes.
Behind the cover of hedges, Balfour gave the order for his troops to move up the hill toward the king’s guns that belched fire and death on to the field below.
‘What's happening, sir?’ The ensign leaned forward, his face was now flushed with excitement.
‘Balfour intends to silence the guns.’ Adam replied, seeing the sense behind the old soldier's orders.
‘Us? Take the guns?’ Beneath the brim of his slightly too large helmet, the boy blanched and fell back from Adam to take his place in the line.
On the slope of the hill, still concealed by the hedges, Balfour drew his troops up to charge. At the point when the king's infantry had begun their advance under cover of the artillery, he gave the order to charge.
The bugles’ blasts reverberated through the cold, clear air. Adam dug his heels into the sides of his horse, which responded by throwing back its back its head and leaping forward. The slender lines behind him responded and as a body they took the hedges and galloped toward the line of the king's guns and the centre of the king's infantry.
Rapidly discharging his pistols into a couple of unfortunate gunners, Adam drew his sword, his mind now totally centred on the task at hand. Overwhelmed by the unexpected press of man and horse, the king's guns fell silent and for the first time the parliamentary infantry moved forward to face a wavering, but stubborn, line of pikes and muskets.
It may have been four years since Adam had last seen battle, but the acrid smoke, the shrieks of the injured and dying, the rattle of muskets and the clash of steel on steel came back as if it were only yesterday. The politics that had brought these thousands of men to this quiet corner of Warwickshire ceased to matter. The struggle for mere survival overcame all normal senses.
‘We’ve got the better of ‘em,’ the sergeant yelled above the noise. ‘Hold yer ground, lads.’
‘Wait,’ someone cried. ‘That’s enemy horse heading our way.’
‘Fall back.’ The clarion call sounded across the field.
Adam lifted his head and cursed his commanders. They were so close to victory but the gloom of the autumn evening was drawing in and the royalist horse had begun to return to the field, blown and exhausted and hardly a threat.
There would be no victor, nor vanquished this day.
He looked around for the standard. The boy had fought well and maintained his grip on the rallying point. Now he saw him barely twenty yards away, engaged in a fierce dispute for possession of the colours. Adam turned his weary horse toward the boy’s aid but it was too late. The sharp report from a pistol sent the young ensign jerking backward. He slid slowly from the saddle, the colours toppling sideways into the possession of a triumphant royalist.
The loss of the colours should have mattered but it didn’t. Around Adam the fighting was ebbing as the soldiers of both sides fell back to their original positions. Adam slid from his saddle and knelt beside the boy, taking him in his arms.
Small bubbles of blood flecked the boy’s lips. ‘So cold, sir.’
Adam knew that the boy did not refer to the weather. ‘It’ll be a bitter night.’
‘Did we win?’
‘Yes.’ Adam lied. ‘You fought well.’
‘Will you tell Jenny that?’
