Page 25 of Feathers in the Wind
Joan nodded. ‘Don’t fret over Perdita,’ she broke off, her eyes narrowing as she scanned his face. ‘Adam, is there something you’re not telling me?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing, Aunt. I am sorry I cannot stay longer. I am expected back at Warwick today.’
He bent his head and kissed her cheek, cool and dry beneath his lips. He breathed in the familiar scent of lavender that had been part of his earliest memories of this woman who had been his greatest friend and ally.
‘Joan,’ he whispered, leaning his forehead against hers. ‘Don’t leave me, not when I’ve only just found you again.’
‘Silly boy,’ she chided, resting her hand on his cheek. ‘Go, now. Duty calls.’
Chapter 7
Convoy from Gloucester, 22 June 1643
The route between Gloucester and Warwick had become a vital supply route for the parliament forces in the Midlands and north, and of all the tedious jobs that fell to him, Adam most disliked convoy escort. Although it got him out of the stultifying tedium of garrison duty, the task could be at the same time both mind-numbingly boring and nerve- racking. Running so close to the king's headquarters at Oxford and the royalist garrison at Banbury, the convoys were under constant threat of attack, and in the shuffling campaigns of the early summer, the king’s troops were particularly active.
Adam had collected a convoy carrying cloth for much needed uniforms at Gloucester. He took the precaution of splitting it into three separate parties, sending two by different routes. If one were to be attacked, then there was a smaller risk of losing the entire shipment. However, it meant spreading his men across the three shipments and risking the defence of the wagons.
The rain that had begun as he left Warwick had been unforgiving and the roads had worsened under the continual soaking. Adam sat his horse, feeling rain drip from his helmet down the back of his neck as a wagon driver, mired up to his knees in mud, cursed and swore at the oxen who refused to move. They were still six miles from the relative safety of Stratford and he had no desire to be caught in the open by a superior force.
‘This is taking too long,’ he muttered to his sergeant.
The sergeant grunted in agreement. ‘You lads,’ he indicated three of the troopers. ‘Get down there and help that fool.’
The troopers looked at him with distaste. ‘In the mud, sergeant?’ one ventured.
‘Yes, in the mud, you pack of dozy milkmaids.’
Grumbling, the troopers dismounted and reluctantly went to the aid of the beleaguered wagoner.
‘Cap’n!’
Adam looked up as one of his scouts careened down the road towards them.
‘Soldiers, sir. King’s men,’ the scout announced, his breath coming in short gasps from his exertion. ‘About forty horse.’
‘Where, you fool?’ Adam had no time for such vague information.
‘There.’ The boy pointed with a shaking finger at the rise of the hill before them.
Adam cursed.
Adam’s troops were hopelessly outnumbered by at least two to one, and he cursed both his decision to split his force and his commander’s miserliness at not providing him with the extra troops he had requested. Brooke would have seen them well provided for, but Brooke had died at Lichfield only a few weeks after the affair at Stratford and his successor, Purefoy, lacked his drive or brilliance.
Adam had no time to think further on the vagaries of his commander. His opponent had probably counted on catching them as they crossed the small, swollen river that stood between their current position and the line of horsemen now spread out across the hill. However, he had misjudged his timing and Adam’s force was not in a bad position. The high hedges on either side of the road would hamper an attack by cavalry and the wagons provided an effective block. However, he barely had time to deploy his men into positions along the banks of the river before the King's men charged.
As the royalist troops approached, his heart sickened as he recognised the royalist commander. Denzil Marchant would have been unmistakable at any distance. He rode a tall, black horse and his scarlet and silver cloak, dark with the rain, flew out from his shoulders. Eschewing a helmet, he strongly resembled a Teutonic god bent on vengeance with his wild, red hair flying out behind him as he charged toward the waiting parliamentarians at a stiff canter. Fine sport for a summer’s afternoon.
‘Hold your ground,’ Adam yelled and his men, whom he had spent the better part of the winter and spring training, obeyed, rattling off a volley of musket fire that brought down several of the enemy.
The impetus of the charge stalled and Denzil’s men hesitated long enough for Adam’s men to reload and get off a second volley.
Denzil, his teeth bared and his eyes wild, shouted something unintelligible and put his heels to his horse. The remaining men came after him and they hit the parliamentarians with the force of a hammer. Denzil at their forefront slashed down at the men on foot with his sword like a demon possessed. It was to Adam's credit that his men stood their ground before the force of numbers became too great and they fell back, despite Adam’s attempts to rally them. He understood his men were not prepared to sacrifice themselves for wagons of cloth whatever its worth to their superiors and, recognising that a hasty retreat could also be in his own best interests, Adam turned to follow them.
As he wheeled, he heard the report of a pistol at close quarters. Florizel screamed, rearing, his front legs paddling the air in agony as a second pistol discharged. Adam disengaged his feet from the stirrups and managed to throw himself clear as the horse fell to the ground. The fall knocked the wind from his lungs with the sickening crack of ribs.
Florizel continued to scream, with an almost human intensity and heedless of the figure on horseback looming over him, Adam’s fingers scrabbled in the holster of his fallen mount. His second pistol, primed and unfired, was in his hand as Denzil shouted above the melee.
‘Lay down your weapon.’
