Page 15 of Feathers in the Wind
Perdita stopped and listened. Through the open window, above the sounds of the birds in the trees, came a faint, distant boom, like thunder in the clear sky.
‘Cannon,’ she said quietly. ‘It must be cannon.’
Bess clutched at Perdita’s hand. ‘So close. I’m scared, Perdita.’
They listened and the sound came again. The ominous boom sounding like a knell on the peaceful life they had known.
Perdita thought of Simon, of Robin and, her breath stilled for a moment, Adam Coulter. Were they there on that field? Why would they not be?
She took a breath. ‘We will need bandages, Bess. Lots of bandages.’
‘What for?’ Bess asked.
‘Where there is fighting there will be wounded and with fighting so close I think we must be prepared.’
Bess stared at her as the reality of what the war could mean to them finally dawned on her.
‘Wounded? Here?’
‘Very likely. Don’t just stand there, Bess, go and find those old sheets we set aside and join me in the parlour.’
Bess swallowed and did not move. ‘Simon? Robin?’ Her blue eyes brimmed with tears.
Perdita put her arms around the girl and held her. ‘God will hold them safe,’ she said. Poor comfort but all she had.
* * *
Adam shiftedin his saddle and cast a sideways glance at the boy beside him. The young man was sweating profusely, probably a combination of nerves and the weight of the unaccustomed armour.
As the lad reached for his water flask and put it to his lips, Adam laid a restraining hand on his arm.
‘Nay, lad. If you are thirsty, hold the water in your mouth and then spit it out. 'Tis not wise to go into battle with a full bladder.’
The boy looked at him with large, bright eyes and obediently took a swallow of water which he expelled on to the ground. He wiped his mouth and tightened his grip on the standard.
‘Is it normal to feel sick, sir?’ he asked at last.
Adam mustered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘Every man on this field would feel as you do.’
It had gone past noon and the whole morning had passed with both sides engaged in drawing up their forces on the slopes of Edgehill, near the village of Kineton. The king's forces had the advantage of the high ground, while parliament, under the Earl of Essex, stood with their backs to the village of Kineton. Adam with the cavalry was on the right flank of parliament's forces.
Florizel tossed his head and pawed the ground as if he were impatient to be getting on with business.
‘Bloody amateurs.’ This gruff comment followed by a voluble spitting sound made Adam turn in his saddle to exchange a glance with his sergeant, like himself a veteran of the continental wars.
‘When did you last see action like this, sir?’ the sergeant asked.
‘Vlotho.’ Adam replied.
Vlotho had been four long—very long—years ago. On that day he had charged behind Prince Rupert, son of the Elector of Palatine, a brilliant and volatile boy of eighteen. Now the same Rupert, nephew of the king, faced him on the slopes of Edgehill. Enemies where they had once been friends.
‘I just wish something would happen.’
The boy beside him shifted awkwardly in his saddle. The sleeve of the arm holding the standard slipped back revealing a slender bracelet of plaited human hair, fair in colour.
‘You’ve a sweetheart?’ Adam asked to take the boy's mind off his increasing nerves.
The boy flushed. ‘Aye, Jenny’s her name. We were to be wed this autumn.’
