Page 62 of Feathers in the Wind
The tapster stood at Adam's elbow with a mug of ale which Adam quaffed without drawing breath, setting the empty mug on the table.
‘Rupert is marching on us to relieve York,’ he said at last. ‘Black Tom reckons he’ll join battle with us in the next week.’
Hewitson's eyebrows raised slightly, the only sign of emotion on his dour face. They both knew what that meant. Any battle fought with Rupert would decide who controlled the north.
‘And what does Black Tom say?’
Adam shrugged. ‘Fairfax’s confident and he has good men beside him. This time the ground will be of our choosing.’ He huffed out a breath and shrugged his stiff shoulders. ‘That’s why it’s taken so damn long. I’ve been on reconnaissance.’
‘And the ground, sir?'
‘Do you know the villages of Long Marston and Tockwith?’
Hewitson inclined his head. ‘Aye, good flat land.’
Adam shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’ He rubbed his leg. Denzil’s pistol ball had left the legacy of a nagging ache in cold and damp weather. ‘I for one intend a good night's sleep. I’ll see you in the morning, Hewitson.’
‘Aye sir.’ Hewitson picked his pipe up again, fumbling for his tobacco pouch as Adam scooped up gloves and hat.
As Adam turned towards the door, Hewitson said, ‘There’s one thing, Coulter...’
Adam turned back. ‘That is?’
Hewitson pulled his pipe from his mouth and pointed at the ceiling with the stem. ‘Your wife's upstairs. She's been right poorly but Mary’s seen to her and she’s on the mend.’
‘My wife?’ Adam stared at the man.
A frown creased Hewitson’s brow. ‘Aye, pretty lass with brown hair. Been halfway round the country trying to find you.’
Adam swallowed. ‘My wife?’ he repeated.
‘Aye, sir, your wife.’ Hewitson frowned with puzzled patience.
Adam swore under his breath and turned for the stairs. He took the steps two at a time, pausing outside the door to his chamber to gather his strength to deal with whatever doxy was passing herself off as his wife.
He took a breath and flung open the door.
‘What in God's name is going on here?’ he demanded.
The bedclothes stirred and in the fading light, a woman sat up, pushing her disordered hair away from her eyes.
‘Adam, at last.’
Adam blinked a couple of times as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom and he recognised the occupant of his bed.
He leaned back against the door frame, closing the door behind him and ran a hand over his eyes. He must be more tired than he realised.
‘Perdita! That fool Hewitson told me my wife was upstairs. I thought…’ he shrugged. He had thought one of the camp followers had inveigled her way past Hewitson. Not Perdita Gray.
She shook her head. ‘Don’t blame him, Adam. It’s my mistake, a stupid misunderstanding I should have corrected but now it’s too late. They think I’m your wife.’
Adam straightened and walked over to the bed. Looking down into her pale, drawn face, he realised with a jolt that she had indeed been ill. The brown eyes that looked back at him, filled with apprehension, were huge and luminous in the beautiful face.
He ran a finger down her cheek, tilting her chin to the fading light. Beneath his touch she shivered, clutching at the bed clothes.
‘Hewitson said you’ve been ill?’
‘Just a fever. I’ve been well looked after, Adam.’
