Page 48 of Feathers in the Wind
Alone with Bess she stared at the letter in her hand, the blood red wax imprinted with Compton’s seal unbroken. A year of war had taught them that a personal letter from Simon’s commander at Banbury could only bring ill news.
‘Perhaps it is to say that he is coming to the wedding?’ Even Bess’s voice wavered.
Perdita looked up at her and shook her head. ‘No, Bess. It won’t be that.’
Bess’s hands going to her mouth as she stifled a sob. ‘Open it, Perdita,’ she instructed.
Barely able to control her trembling, Perdita broke the seal, the hastily penned words dancing illegibly across the page.
‘Read it! For the love of God, read it!’ Bess blurted out.
Perdita forced herself to focus, reading the missive aloud.
‘My dear Mistress Gray, I fear that this missive brings you bad news but not the very worst you could expect. Simon Clifford is, to the best of my intelligence, alive and well when last seen. Sadly for your happy plans, an event to which we were all looking forward, a week has passed since Captain Clifford was taken by the forces of parliament and is, I believe, immured in Warwick Castle. No doubt the foul fiends will be looking for some sort of ransom to deliver him safely to your hands as they have in the past. I have written personally to the Governor of Warwick Castle putting your case and I pray yet that we can secure his release forthwith in time for your wedding. Yr Faithful Servant W. Compton.’
Perdita set the letter down on the table and looked at Bess. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘Adam Coulter is at Warwick.’ Bess enunciated the name, her eyes bright with hope. ‘Perdita, he owes you his life. Go to him and secure Simon’s release.’
A thousand turbulent emotions poured into Perdita’s heart. In the months since he had ridden away from Preswood, there had been no word from Adam. While she told herself that she had no wish to see him, the memory of that stolen embrace, that shared moment of intimacy still haunted her dreams.
She had no choice. He was the only hope that she had.
She took the letter and went in search of Joan, making sure she announced her presence in time for Joan to secure her secret project.
Joan read the letter, her mouth tightening.
‘At least we can thank God Simon is still alive,’ Joan said. ‘Bess is right, Perdita. You must go to Warwick and speak with Adam. His debt is to you, not to Bess nor I.’
Joan rose stiffly from her chair and unlocked a heavy wooden chest that stood beneath the window. She withdrew two small leather pouches, weighed them thoughtfully in her hand and without looking at Perdita said, ‘What price a man’s life, Perdita?’
‘Joan. I have some coin. I don’t need yours.’
Joan shook her head and pressed the bags into Perdita's hand. ‘This is Simon’s inheritance. I have no need of it. Take it. Simon’s life and happiness is worth more to me than gold.’
* * *
Adam sighedand drew another piece of paper towards him. Another claim for compensation from an aggrieved landowner that differed only from the previous ten he had read in the details.
‘The 12th day of May Ano Dni 1643 one Creed Hopkins and Boovey attended with a troop of horse and men under the command of Captain Joseph Hawkesworth came to the house of ye said Edward and then and there took out of ye stable there these horses following…’
Then followed a long list of items and amounts. Adam leaned back in his chair considering what to do with the claim. He could spare no money to settle this or any of them. He had no money to pay his own soldiers.
He did not even look up at a firm knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ he said.
The door opened and Adam lowered the paper to see who had entered.
‘Mistress Gray...Perdita!’ he said, scrambling to his feet.
‘Captain Coulter.’ She responded only with a small bob and no smile of greeting. Her lips were blue and her hair hung in damp rats’ tails from beneath the hood of her cloak, soaked from the sleeting rain outside.
When Perdita hesitated, casting a longing glance at the cosy fire that burned in the hearth, Adam rose and took her elbow, propelling her to the warmth.
Her teeth chattered and her gloved fingers fumbled ineffectually with the sodden knot that secured her cloak. He pushed her hands away and undid the cloak, laying it over a chair to dry. He placed a hand on her shoulder, easing her into a well-cushioned chair. She sat bolt upright staring into the fire with unseeing eyes.
‘Perdita, you are half-frozen. Have you ridden from Preswood?’
