Page 183 of Feathers in the Wind
She pointed at the far wall and we all turned to look at a fine portrait of a restoration nobleman. He wore a full-bottomed wig and a pleased expression. On close inspection the inscription read Nathaniel Preston c. 1675.
Nathaniel’s expression betrayed no emotion as he studied the portrait of his son. The woman prattled on, apparently oblivious to the tension between the three of us.
‘You see that?’ She pointed to a glass case near the portrait, containing a blackened sword together with some rusting armor and a moth-eaten leather coat. ‘That was Colonel Preston’s sword and armor.’
‘Can I see it out of the case?’ Alan asked. ‘I am a professor of history at the university,’ he added for good measure.
‘Oh no, dear. I couldn’t possibly open the case. The conservator would eat me for dinner. You will need to write to him. Enjoy the rest of your visit.’ She smiled and flicked her feather duster in the vague direction of the woodwork, leaving us alone in the cold hall.
I looked around at the portraits and weaponry and frayed moth-eaten banners and shivered.
Alan had his nose pressed against the glass of the display case. ‘It looks like the same weapon,’ he said. ‘Nathaniel? What do you think?’
Nathaniel dragged himself away from his portrait and turned his attention to the glass case. ‘That’s my helmet and breast plate and, yes, that is my sword.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘It has a nick in the blade about three inches from the hilt and my initials are woven into the basket. I had it made in Germany and it cost me a small fortune.’
‘Between the portrait and the sword, you must have had a small fortune to begin with,’ I remarked.
He looked at me and smiled. ‘My grandfather was one of Elizabeth’s merchant seamen. We profited well from his encounters with the Spanish.’ He looked up at the beams of the Great Hall. ‘So very familiar and yet so different.’ He took a breath and gave us both a rueful smile. ‘I’ve seen enough for the moment.’
‘Let’s get some fresh air,’ I said.
Outside on the neatly manicured lawn, Nathaniel sank to the ground and lowered his head onto his bent knees. We sat beside him, grateful for the warm sun after the cold hall.
‘Are you sure that is the same sword?’ I said at last.
‘Without a doubt,’ Alan said. He frowned. ‘Hang on. You must go back at some point or else how can you be...’
‘Killed?’ Nathaniel supplied the missing word. He rose to his feet in one swift movement and looked at Alan.
‘If you are indeed a student of my times, you will be able to tell me how...how...’ He swallowed and without looking at either of us he said in a low voice, ‘Perhaps I should see where I lie.’
‘Are you sure?’ Alan asked. Nathaniel nodded.
On the path through the woods to the little chapel, indicated on the ground plan, we passed an elderly gentleman in a tweed sports coat coming from the direction of the chapel. He inclined his head and wished us all a good morning.
The sign by the door announced that Holy Communion would be held at 9 AM. I glanced at my watch. It was now ten. Alan slowly pushed open the ancient oak door, but the service must have concluded. The building basked in silence. We slipped inside and stood at the door, allowing our eyes to adjust to the gloom. The walls and floors were covered in memorials. Fresh flowers graced the altar, neat stacks of prayer and hymn books and a notice board scattered with notes about the church embroidery group and the fellowship evening were evidence the building was still used.
‘Can I help you?’ A middle-aged man in a clerical collar came in from the vestry.
‘Yes, I hope you can,’ Alan said. ‘We’re looking for the tomb of Nathaniel Preston.’
‘Which particular Nathaniel Preston? There are several of them. One in each generation of Prestons, I believe.’
‘The one killed in the Civil War.’
‘Oh yes, his memorial is over by the chancel.’ The priest led the way, chatting to us as he went. ‘The writing is fairly worn but I think you can still make it out. Oh dear, someone has put a chair over it. Let me move it.’ He pushed the offending chair to one side. ‘There you are.’
The three of us stared at the memorial stone set low on the wall. The vicar was right, the inscription was worn and the seventeenth-century script difficult to read. Alan knelt and traced the letters with his fingers.
‘In memoriam Colonel Nathaniel Preston of Heatherhill. Born fourteenth November in the year of our Lord 1615. Died at the battle of Chesham Bridge, twelfth June in the year of our Lord 1645.’
‘The story is that his body was never recovered,’ the vicar said. ‘That’s why it is only a memorial stone and not a tomb. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I must tidy up and be on my way. I only do one service a month here. You were lucky to catch me.’
We thanked him and stood in a semi circle looking down at the memorial stone.
