Page 177 of Feathers in the Wind
‘Oh, come on, Alan. You’re telling me that while I’m minding my own business in my back garden in June, 1995, a man from the seventeenth century comes over my garden wall?’
‘I’m not saying it’s logical. I’m just saying strange things can happen.’
I thrust the onions into the pan where they crackled in the hot oil. ‘Look, Alan, he’s one of your re-enactors who has got himself spaced out on something chemical and thinks he is genuinely from 1645. You were right first time, he probably needs a psych assessment but hey, that’s just my professional opinion. Feel free to ignore me.’
‘So who is he then?’ Alan countered.
‘As I told Mistress Shepherd, my name is Nathaniel Preston.’ The voice came from the door.
We both started and turned to the doorway, where Nathaniel Preston stood clad only in Mark’s purloined dressing gown. I wondered how much of the conversation he had heard.
From the worried look on his face, most of it.
‘I assure you both, I am not a...’ he looked straight at me, ‘...mad killer, Mistress Shepherd, or whatever it was you called me. When I awoke this morning it was the third day of June in the year of our lord, 1645. After I broke my fast I set off for Oxford to meet with the king’s advisors. It was my misfortune to come upon a forward patrol of Fairfax’s men. It is only by God’s grace that I made good my escape, but not before I had scored several hits.’ He indicated the sword. ‘The hurt to my arm was a pistol ball. You may choose to believe me or not. I do not wish to bother you further but I need my clothes.’ He pointed at his shirt, still clutched in Alan’s hand. ‘Then I will be gone.’
‘Where to?’ I blurted out, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
‘Home,’ he said, but his voice had lost its certainty.
‘Your clothes need cleaning and mending, Nathaniel. I have some other clothes here.’ I indicated a neat pile of clothing on the chair, more forgotten items from Mark’s time that I’d dredged from the back of the wardrobe where I’d thrown them. ‘They may be a little big for you but they’ll do for now.’
He picked up the t-shirt from the top of the pile, and turned it around frowning. ‘Mistress, I’m no fool but I would appreciate it if you could explain what this is and how I wear it?’
I looked at Alan but Alan wore a button-through shirt. ‘Just pull it over your head, and the tracksuit pants...’ I mimed, ‘...you just pull on.’
‘And these?’ Nathaniel held up the jockey shorts.
I turned to the pan on the stove to hide my laughter. If this was no more than playacting, he was very good.
Mercifully, Alan took charge. ‘Mr. Preston, Nathaniel. I’m Jessie’s brother, Alan. How about you come with me and we will work this out.’
I heard the wariness in his voice as he said, ‘Mistress Shepherd said you are with Mortlock’s Regiment? Can I trust you?’
Alan cleared his throat. ‘In the circumstances, Colonel Preston, you can consider me a friend.’
I whirled around, wooden spoon in hand.
Nathaniel straightened. ‘You called me Colonel Preston.’
‘That is your title, isn’t it?’
Nathaniel glanced at me. ‘Yes, but I’ve not mentioned it.’
‘Like I said.’ Alan put a hand on the man’s uninjured shoulder. ‘Consider me a friend.’
* * *
I had never thoughtit possible for a man to look uncomfortable in tracksuit pants and a t-shirt, but Nathaniel Preston did. He moved as if the very feel of the clothing was alien to him, the way I had seen Alan’s re-enactors moving in the unfamiliar boots and heavy clothing of the seventeenth century.
‘How’s the arm?’ I inquired.
He shrugged. ‘It will mend. I don’t know what was in those objects you made me swallow but I can scarce feel a thing. Thank you for the bath, Mistress Shepherd. If you wish me to empty the tub, I will fetch the bucket.’
‘That’s fine. I’ll do it myself.’ I did not feel inclined to explain that he only needed to pull the plug. ‘Are you hungry?’
Nathaniel’s face brightened. ‘I could eat an ox.’
‘Good. Dinner’s ready so pull up a seat. Alan, you’re staying.’ I made it a statement not a question.
