Page 60 of Feathers in the Wind
The sergeant who rode beside him nodded. ‘Aye, fought like the devil at Nantwich from what I hear tell. He’ll be outside York with Black Tom’s men.’
‘You’re welcome to ride with us, lady, and we can take you as far as our encampment. Someone else can take you on from there.’
It had begun to rain as she jogged along behind the soldiers. Never having been a rider, she felt every muscle in her body. So far from home, in the company of these rough men, Perdita admitted to herself that she was alone and very afraid.
For the next two days, she passed from camp to camp in her efforts to find Adam. At least the parliamentary forces of the north were largely in one area, hunkered down staring at the walls of York. It made the distances to be travelled easier but food and beds were scarce and the rain persisted. Her personal resources were sadly dissipated. She seemed to be permanently wet and for the last couple of days her head throbbed as if a thousand blacksmiths worked at it.
It seemed forever before she at last encountered someone who knew that Major Coulter could be found at Fulford, a little village a few miles south of York. Perdita's thanks were heartfelt. With no one to escort her, she rode the last few miles alone in the drizzling rain, her body craving nothing more than a soft bed and oblivion.
Outside Fulford she was stopped by soldiers and once more she had to explain that she sought Major Coulter, that she had family business with him. They let her through without further question, directing her to the inn which stood on the main road, a comfortable stone building bearing the sign of the Moor’s Head.
She left her horse in the care of the ostler and dragged her leaden feet into the inn. A neat maid directed her to a small parlour where three men sat smoking their pipes and talking amongst themselves. She hesitated in the door and they leaped to their feet on seeing her. A wave of disappointment swept over her when she saw that Adam was not amongst them.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ she said, their curious faces wavering before her eyes, ‘I’m seeking Major Coulter. I’m told he lodges here.’
The older of the men, a solid man with a hard face, replied in a heavy Yorkshire brogue that in Perdita's befuddled state she could barely decipher.
‘I’m sorry, Mistress. Ye’ve just missed him. He’s gone to Fairfax and we don't expect him back much before tomorrow or’t next day.’
Betraying tears pricked the back of Perdita’s throat. She had come so far only to have missed him?
‘But I must see him.’
The officer looked at her with narrowed eyes. ‘May I ask what it concerns?’
She hesitated, but after the two weeks on the road the lie came quickly to her tongue, ‘I am his wife. I will wait for his return.’
Three stunned faces stared back at her for a long moment before the older officer cleared his throat. ‘His wife, is it? I’ll get the landlord to show ’ee to his room.’
Relief flooded over her. If it meant a wait, she had at least found Adam.
The headache had been steadily growing like a band around her head and she could barely keep her eyes open.
‘Thank you, I...’ She stumbled into the room, groping for a chair like a drunken man.
‘Are ye quite well, mistress?’ One of the younger men caught her arm, guiding her into a chair.
‘No,’ she admitted and added, ‘in fact I think I am going to be sick.’
A bowl was thrust into her hands and to her shame she was violently ill. Through her misery she could hear the firm voice of the Yorkshireman.
‘The lass has a fever. You, Williams, fetch my wife. Brown, help me take her up to the major's room.’
Too weak and too sick to protest, Perdita felt herself lifted like a child and carried up the stairs. They laid her on a bed and she turned her face gratefully towards the clean, linen bolster while the world swam and lurched about her.
‘Now then what's to be done with thee?’ A woman's voice this time, laced with the same thick Yorkshire brogue as her rescuer.
‘Just a little tired,’ Perdita said.
A firm, cool, hand pressed on her forehead. ‘Ye've a fever and no doubt of that. Now sit up.’
As limp as a rag doll, Perdita allowed herself to be hauled into a sitting position and, despite her feeble protests, her clothes were swiftly removed and a cool, clean shift slipped over her head. The movement caused the nausea to rise and she was ill again, a bowl firmly held under her chin. Her nurse laid her back on the bed, pulled the bed clothes up and laid a cold cloth on her forehead.
‘Now ye sleep, lass. I'll sit by ye and if ye’ve a yen to be ill again, just you say.’
‘So tired.’ Perdita's eyes closed and her world became one of demons who mocked and taunted her from the bed hangings. Simon came and stood beside her. She reached out for him, only to feel him melt away at her touch with a slow, sad smile.
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