Page 17 of Feathers in the Wind
‘Aye. I'll tell Jenny.’
The boy closed his eyes. ‘So tired.’
‘Sleep then.’ Adam said softly and held the slight body until he sensed that life had fled. ‘God forgive me, lad,’ he whispered. ‘I don't even know your name.’
With difficulty, he hitched the boy's body up over his saddle and leading both horses, made his way down the hill towards their original position to count the cost of the day and make plans for the following one.
* * *
As the firststreaks of light illuminated the cold, grey, colourless morning, the wounded came. The echo of horses’ hooves and the creak of wagon wheels sent Perdita hurrying downstairs. As she stepped outside, her breath frosted in the cold air and she shivered, thinking of the battle that had been fought the previous day and the wounded men who lay on the hard, frosted ground.
In the forecourt, a troop of horse, or what was left of a troop of horse, sat their weary mounts as their commander, a tall man on a bay horse, leaned down talking to Ludovic. Even in the grey light she could see from his build that it was not Simon and she slowed her steps.
As she approached him, the man raised his head, his fingers going to the brim of his heavy, iron helmet. She stopped, her breath catching. Adam Coulter.
She wanted to run to him, satisfy herself that he wasn’t hurt, but even in the circumstances any undue haste could be construed as unseemly. Instead she raised her chin and walked purposefully across to him.
‘Adam Coulter? What brings you here?
The answer was obvious and his red-rimmed eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve wounded with me and I can take them no further.’
Perdita moved her gaze to the tired, dispirited faces behind him. Dreading what she might see, she turned to the wagons, recoiling momentarily from the stench of blood and worse and the piteous cries.
Adam swung himself down from his horse, wincing as he straightened his back.
Perdita caught the grimace of pain. ‘Are you hurt?’
He shook his head. Beneath the shadow of the helm’s brim, he looked exhausted, his face unshaven and grimy. ‘Thank you for your concern, Mistress Gray, but no I’m not hurt. Just stiff. My men need rest and tending.’
‘Take the wounded into the barn.’ Perdita addressed an older man with a greying beard who seemed to carry some authority. She turned to Ludovic. ‘See that there is food and drink for the men. I’ll see to the wounded.’
She supervised the unloading of the wagons, hurrying ahead as the able-bodied men carried their injured companions into the grey stone solidity of the barn.
‘We heard the sounds of the battle. Where was it?’ Perdita threw the question to Adam as he helped one of the more lightly injured soldiers off his horse.
‘Kineton village. A place they call Edgehill.’
Perdita drew in a quick, sharp breath. ‘But that’s barely ten miles from here. Who won?’
Adam shrugged. ‘Both sides claim victory,’ he said. ‘The truth is neither.’
‘How can that be?’
‘When both sides lack the heart to finish what was begun, they can both claim victory, Mistress Gray.’
Bess emerged from the house carrying the basket of bandages and medical supplies they had assembled. She drew up short when she recognised Adam.
‘Why did you have to bring them here? You’re the enemy. You’re not welcome at this house.’
Adam shot her a cold glance. ‘This is war now, Mistress Clifford, and enemy or not, I have injured men. I knew Mistress Gray has some healing skills. Needs must.’
‘Are you going to help, Bess?’ Perdita asked.
Bess raised her chin. ‘I’m a good Christian,’ she said. ‘Besides I ruined my hands preparing bandages yesterday so we may as well put them to use.’
‘Then come with me.’ Perdita laid an arm across the younger woman’s shoulders guiding her toward the barn where upward of twenty men had been laid out on the hay. Some still groaned and cried out but most lay still and silent.
A man with a reeking stomach wound was carried past her. She took a step back her hand flying to her mouth.
