Page 171 of Feathers in the Wind
I will not die. Not today, not like this.
The six horsemen on my heels and the pistol balls that sing through the air around my head give lie to my intention. I know I have been hit, but there will be time later for pain.
Now I just have to survive.
We told the household I had been summoned to Oxford. I had not planned on running into a patrol of the enemy. Several of the scoundrels were local men who recognized me.
They shot my horse from under me as I turned to flee and now I am on foot.
As I cut across the fields on the outskirts of the Chesham village, I can see the cottage ahead. Behind me I hear the thunder of hooves.
Alice screams in my head, ‘The wall, Nathaniel. You must go over the wall.’ I must put my trust in witches and pray that Alice is right.
* * *
Chesham Northamptonshire June third, 1995
He came hurtling over the garden wall into my neat little garden, breaking the bright foxgloves and dahlias I had labored over for so long. His shoulders tensed as he crouched low, resting his head against the wall, his chest heaving from the exertion of running.
I jumped off the dilapidated garden lounger, pulling the ear pieces of my Walkman from my ears in my haste.
‘You idiot. What the hell are you doing? Get off my garden bed.’
The man jumped to his feet, swiveling to face me. He looked down at the trampled flower bed and obligingly stepped out of it.
As a person who spends far too much of her life around military re-enactors, the period costume and the sword at his hip seemed quite normal and not at all alarming.
My brother, Alan, is an enthusiastic participant in the local military re- enactment group and the presence of seventeenth century warriors in my garden is not as unusual as one might think. The village of Chesham had been the site of some minor skirmish during the English Civil War and Alan and his re-enactors are frequently called on to perform some duty at the bridge, generally followed by a visit to the village pub with me trailing along behind them.
As the intruder and I faced each other across my immaculate lawn, it occurred to me, despite the dirt streaking his clean shaven face and sweat darkened auburn hair, this man was a definite improvement to Alan’s usual hirsute and overweight companions.
‘Are you a friend of Alan’s?’ I enquired, my anger dissipating. When he didn’t respond I continued, ‘Look, I’ve nothing against the Civil War Association, or whatever it is you belong to, but this is private property.’
The man glanced toward the lane and returned his gaze to me, looking me up and down in an appraising manner. His right eyebrow arched and a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. He took a breath and executed the sort of courtly bow I would expect of someone dressed as a seventeenth century cavalier. Alan’s friends did it all the time.
‘Mistress, I crave your pardon. I did not wish to intrude in such an unseemly manner. Please... if you wish to cover yourself...’ He waved a hand at my person and turned away, poking at the crushed dahlias with his booted foot as if he thought he could resurrect them.
I glanced down at my crop top and shorts, and saw nothing untoward in my choice of dress for a quiet afternoon sunbathing in my own garden on a rare, beautiful, English summer day.
I wondered if I should make a sprint for the front gate and summon help from my elderly, deaf neighbor.
‘Look, whoever you are,’ I said. ‘This is my house and my garden. You’re trespassing. Please leave...’ I pointed to the neat, green painted gate.
He looked in the direction I indicated and inclined his head. ‘As you wish, mistress. I apologize for the intrusion.’
He took a couple of steps and grimaced, his right hand going to his left sleeve. The sleeve had been ripped and a dark stain marred the blue cloth of his jacket. He looked down at his arm as if noticing it for the first time and the color drained from his face.
I knew that look. Even as I sprang to his assistance, he crumpled at the knees, falling face down on the grass.
My instinct as a doctor overcame my reservations and I knelt beside him. As I turned him over into the coma position, he groaned and his eyes flickered open.
‘You’re hurt,’ I said, stating the obvious.
He sat up, running a hand through his thick, dark hair. ‘It’s only a scratch. I have no wish to trouble you, mistress, but if I could perhaps have something to drink? Then I will leave you in peace.’
I gestured to the kitchen door. ‘Come inside. I’ll get you some water and have a look at that arm. The weapons you guys wield must be full of rust.’
As he rose to his feet, his knees threatened to buckle again so I took his good arm and we made slow progress into the kitchen.
