Page 20 of Feathers in the Wind
Oh, Simon, dear good man, Perdita thought. She could see him sitting in the grass on the slopes of Edgehill, nursing his wrist while before him men and horses died.
‘But you saw it too,’ he continued. ‘I hear Coulter came here after the battle with his wounded.’
‘He did. I think it might in some ways be more merciful to die swiftly on the field than to die the lingering and horrible deaths I saw.’
‘What became of the dead and wounded?’
‘The three soldiers who died in the night were buried in the churchyard, their deaths recorded simply in the church records asKilled in the Kineton fight. Some were local men so they were returned to their families, the others still too sick to move we distributed among the village for care,’ Perdita said.
Simon nodded. ‘We must see that our people are compensated for their board and lodging,’ he said.
‘But they are parliament men.’
‘They are men. It doesn’t matter what colours they fight under.’
Perdita’s heart swelled and she remembered why she had agreed to marry this good, decent man. She knelt up and laying her hands on his knees, she kissed him on the forehead. Simon groaned and, with his good hand, pulled her on to his lap, wrapping his arms around her, his breath coming in shuddering gulps as if emotion had completely overwrought him.
‘They have stopped saying the thing will be done by Christmas,’ he said at last. ‘It’s no little rebellion and now the King has missed his chance to regain London. I doubt there will be such an opportunity again.’
‘And you, Simon?’
‘Well, sweetest, I am committed now to see this thing through.’
‘And us? Our wedding date?’
She knew the answer even before he spoke. ‘I won’t risk leaving you a widow to mourn at my grave side. Let us wait and see this thing through a few more months.’
She cupped his face in her hands and said fiercely, ‘Simon, I would rather be a widow mourning at your graveside who has known some happy times with her husband than to mourn and wonder what might have been.’
He disengaged her, setting her back on her feet, taking her hands in his, he smiled.
‘We’ll see what the New Year brings, Perdita, but now is not the right time.’
Chapter 6
The Battle of Stratford, 25 February 1643
‘Ireally don’t think you should go to Stratford,’ Joan protested from her bed. ‘It isn’t safe.’
‘Nonsense,’ Perdita said. ‘Stratford is garrisoned for the king, and I encountered no difficulties last time I went there.’ She laid a hand over Joan’s crooked fingers, the joints swollen and hot from the rheumatic fever that had plagued the woman since her youth. ‘We have no more laudanum and I am not going to let you suffer like this.’
Ignoring Joan’s protests, Perdita, riding pillion behind Ludovic, set out on the five-mile ride to Stratford. They were less than a mile from the town when a crash like thunder caused the horse to shy, nearly dislodging Perdita. She twisted her hands into Ludovic’s belt and righted herself.
‘Is that guns?’ she asked.
‘Yes, mistress. We should turn back.’
‘No. I must get the laudanum,’ Perdita said. ‘Ride on into town. The garrison’s probably just practising with their artillery.’
The guns boomed again. Ludovic didn’t move.
‘Ludovic, go on, please.’
The manservant’s shoulders rose and fell in a silent shrug of acquiescence and he urged the skittish horse forward.
As they approached Clopton bridge, another report of cannon fire sent the horse into a lather and it went down on its haunches, fighting the bit.
‘Look, mistress,’ Ludovic pointed at the town where smoke rose above the roofs. ‘That’s not target practice. There’s fighting in the town. We need to find shelter before we become caught.’
