Page 55 of Feathers in the Wind
Fairfax had been right.Acceptance of an outsider had to be earned, and while Adam did not face outright hostility, he was left in no doubt that the regiment had expected the dour Yorkshireman, Obadiah Hewitson to have been given the command. They obeyed Adam without question but without enthusiasm as they trudged through the bitter weather towards Cheshire and Nantwich.
At Fairfax’s headquarters, his staff bent over the map on the table.
‘My intelligence tells me that Byron has split his forces on either side of the river.’ Fairfax traced the line of the River Weaver. ‘If the thaw comes, his force will be divided.’
‘Do we intend to engage them?’ Brereton asked.
Fairfax shook his head. ‘We’re facing a much greater force and the capability of the Irish veterans is unknown. My intention at this point is to strengthen the garrison at Nantwich and drive them back by attrition rather than show of strength. Richard?’ He turned to his galloper, Richard Ashley. ‘Where is that letter from that braggadocio, Lord Byron, we intercepted today?’ Ashley handed him the paper. ‘Gentlemen, this is who we are facing.’
Fairfax drew himself up to his full height, his lip curled in distaste as he read Byron’s intercepted report out loud.
The assembled men listened in horror as Byron boasted of having slaughtered twenty civilians in the church at the village of Barthomley. After describing how his men had driven the villagers from refuge in the church tower by lighting a fire, he then recounted how twelve of them had been stripped. He had them all ‘...put to the sword, which I find the best way to proceed with these kind of peopleByron concluded.
‘What manner of man is this?’ Brereton said in a hushed voice.
‘The man we march to face tomorrow,’ Fairfax said. ‘Good night, gentlemen.’
Byron must have wondered what evil luck had beset him, as the next day the weather turned, melting the snow and thawing the frozen rivers, splitting his force. Intelligence reached the advancing parliamentarians that Byron knew of their advance and was making plans to meet them. Fairfax ordered his men into fighting order and, reinforced by the ragged veterans of Adwalton Moor, they continued the march toward Nantwich.
On a dark, wet, grey winter afternoon, in battle order, the parliamentary forces pushed forward through the hedgerows and narrow lanes. They were just north of the village of Acton when Byron’s infantry came on them in a flanking manoeuvre, attacking both the van and the rear guards. The bulk of Byron’s force, including the cavalry would not be far behind but for the moment they were delayed by the terrain.
Fairfax wheeled his great white horse, his eyes bright. ‘It seems our foe has found a way across the river. If he wants a battle, he shall have one. Coulter, take your men and aid with the rear-guard. We’ll take our positions and deal with what lies before us.’
Adam returned to his men. He looked at their sullen faces but didn’t have time for inspiring speeches. Now was the time for action. He glanced at Hewitson.
‘To me,’ he said. ‘Let’s take the scurvy, murdering devils.’
After the months of the tedium of garrison duties and convoy escorts, Adam’s blood stirred and he heard once more the call to battle and knew the rightness of his cause.
He turned his horse and taking a hedge at the gallop, drew his sword. He heard the cry behind him and knew his men followed. Fairfax’s rear-guard had been pushed back and were hard pressed as Adam’s cavalry came up in their support. The foot soldiers made way, letting the horses through.
They hit the weary royalist infantry hard. Byron’s men balked, wavered, and turned and ran. Adam stopped his men from going in pursuit, turning them back to go to the aid of the beleaguered parliamentary infantry in the centre.
For two hours the battle raged in the fields between Acton and Nantwich. The royalist forces, hampered by the narrow hedgerows and fields, unable to manoeuvre and unassisted by their own fleeing cavalry, surrendered to a man. At the end of the day, Byron had been driven back to Chester and over a thousand of his men had been taken prisoner.
That night Adam sat with his officers in the small parlour of the farmhouse that served as their billet for the night. They had counted their losses as two men dead and fifteen slightly wounded.
Like many of the men, Hewitson’s wife, Mary, followed the drum, and she ensured they all had a hot meal and a dry bed. Now she sat beside the fire, mending her husband’s shirt, torn by a pike in the affray. It presented a domestic scene at odds with the work of the day.
Adam sat apart from the others, staring into the depths of the fire, his fingers playing with the chain of the silver locket that hung from his neck. Only when he was alone did he take it off and dare open the catch and touch the lock of nut- brown hair that lay curled within it.
‘Coulter.’ Hewitson’s voice roused him from his reverie and he looked up. ‘Coulter,’ Hewitson drew on his pipe and stared ruminatively at the ceiling. ‘You did well today. We reckons as how you’ll do.’
Chapter 12
Preswood Hall. April 1644
The spotted fever that had taken Simon did not spread to anyone else at Preswood, but over the winter a chill settled on Joan’s chest. Her rattling cough echoed around the cold, cheerless house, casting a pall that even Bess and Robin’s happiness could not relieve.
Spring brought the return of some warmth to the cold, damp countryside, but the first budding of the daffodils and primroses went unseen by Joan. Her world had become her bedchamber and Perdita knew that the balance of her friend’s life was now measured in days not weeks.
She and Bess took it in turns to sit with Joan, occupying their time with reading to her or sewing quietly while she slept.
Joan occupied the best bedchamber in the house, and even though Geoffrey had been dead nearly two years, his presence still lingered, a unicorn’s horn hung over the door and strange statues of sinuous dancers crowded the mantelpiece. Joan’s unfinished portrait of Perdita and Simon stood propped on a table, a painful reminder of what might have been.
‘Perdita.’
Perdita looked up from the account book she was working on.
