Page 5 of Feathers in the Wind
Perdita looked from one to the other. ‘Are you saying that this must come to a choice? King or Parliament? Neighbour against neighbour?’ Neither man replied but their silence gave her the answer. ‘You men are making this thing a reality. The more you talk of it, the more it becomes a certainty,’ she said.
Adam Coulter regarded her for a long moment. ‘You are right, Mistress Gray. England has talked itself into war and I fear it is too late to turn back.’
Simon coughed. ‘Coulter, you’re most welcome at Preswood. Indeed, if you have some days to spare, I have need of help with my men.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I’m not much of a military hand. I’ve books of course, but it is not the same as practical experience.’
Adam turned to look at Simon. ‘Don’t ask me to take your side, Clifford. I’ve already told my brother that I’ve no wish to fight a civil war in my own country.’
‘I’m not asking you to join me, Coulter, but I’ve a reluctant tenantry armed with antique weapons or whatever they can lay their hands on, and an order from Lord Northampton to present them properly trained at the muster. To be honest, I could use the help of an experienced soldier such as yourself.’
Adam glanced at his aunt. She leaned over and laid her hand on his. ‘Stay a little while, Adam.’
He nodded. ‘Very well, I’ll give you a week, Clifford. What little help I can render is yours.’
A week? Perdita glanced at Simon, knowing his struggles to bring the tenants into some sort of order. From farmers to soldiers. Little wonder they were reluctant.
‘Enough of politics,’ Joan said. ‘I am determined not to let this meal be spoiled by talk of things that, God willing, may never come to pass. This meal is a celebration, Adam. Let us raise our glasses to Simon and Perdita whose betrothal we are celebrating.’
Perdita glanced away as Adam Coulter’s direct gaze fell on her again.
‘Betrothed? And I have come like a beggar at the feast,’ he said. ‘I apologise for interrupting what should have been a happy meal with such dark talk.’
Perdita raised her eyes to meet his. ‘I think, Master Coulter,’ she said, ‘that it is better that these things are talked of openly, for all our futures hang on these machinations.’
Joan clapped her hands. ‘Enough, Perdita. My nephew has returned from the dead. Adam, I can’t believe the change in you. Is this what soldiering abroad does for you? Do you remember Adam at my wedding, Simon? Lovelocks and a pearl earring, quite the courtier.’
Adam touched his left ear, where the faint indentation still marked a young man’s fancy.
‘That was a long time ago,’ he said with a rueful smile, running a hand through his dark, rough-cut locks, bleached at the ends by long days in the sun.
‘Over six years, Adam. Not a word,’ his aunt chided.
‘I never was a letter writer, aunt, and unfortunately for me, I spent a couple of those years immured in Leipzig Castle for my part at the battle of Vlotho.’
Joan gasped. ‘I had no idea you were a prisoner. Was there a ransom set for your release? Isn’t that how these things are arranged. If I had known…’
‘My dear brother declined the ransom,’ Adam said with a bitter smile twisting the corners of his mouth. He let out a breath and glancing around the table, he said, ‘As you say, enough talk of dark memories.’ He raised his glass. ‘To Simon Clifford and his betrothed, and, God willing, to common sense and an end of this talk of war.’
Chapter 3
Preswood Hall, 12 July 1643
The three women sat in the window of the room the family called the great parlour, working on the banner Joan had designed for Simon’s newly formed company of foot soldiers. Perdita found it a grim task. Every stitch seemed to draw the inevitability of war closer.
She looked up from her work and eased her cramped fingers, her gaze straying beyond the window to where Simon’s motley contingent of reluctant tenantry drilled with ancient pikes. Their general air of gloom and despondency was not helped by the persistent heavy rain that weighed down their shapeless felt hats and soaked their new, blue uniform jackets.
Bess set down her end of the banner and sucked her finger. ‘My needle is blunt,’ she complained. ‘Why do we have to use such heavy material?’
Perdita gave her kinswoman a withering glance. ‘Because the wretched thing is to be carried in all weathers and into battle. Your pretty silks and satins would not last five minutes.’
Bess pulled a face and turned to look out of the window. ‘They’ve been at it for hours,’ she said. ‘Do you suppose they’re getting any better?’
Perdita threaded her needle into the fabric and laid it aside. She propped her elbow on the window ledge and leaned her chin on her hand.
On the forecourt, Adam Coulter stood with his hands on his hips, Simon beside him. Their backs were turned to the house, their sodden hats dripping water on to their buff leather coats.
Adam barked an order, and as one the little band of militia executed a left turn, pikes swaying and at least two of the farm hands half a beat behind the others.
‘I suppose they are,’ she said. ‘Adam Coulter certainly seems to have more success with them than Simon did.’
