Page 79 of Feathers in the Wind
Fairfax shook his head. ‘Tomorrow, Coulter. We need to move fast.’
Adam took a breath. ‘The reason my wife came north was to tell me that my mother has died, I would beg your indulgence for a few days leave to go and see to matters on my estates.’
Fairfax picked up his pen and tapped it on the table.
‘How long do you want?’
Adam swallowed. He hadn’t thought this through, it had only come to him as he knocked on the door.
‘The estate is to the north, near Newcastle. Three weeks?’
‘Very well. Hewitson is capable enough to manage in your absence, but I want you to report back to me by the second week in August, is that clear?’
‘Sir, thank you.’
Adam turned to go but Fairfax’s voice stopped him. ‘Coulter, I’m sorry about your mother.’
Adam turned back to face him. ‘So am I, sir.’
Chapter 15
Strickland, Northumberland, July 1644
Adam leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle and looked down at the solid, grey walls of his inheritance.
He had no specific memory of this place, but the smell of the heather and the feel of the gentle summer breeze that lifted his collar drew out something lost deep within him. He wondered if he had been happy here or had he been truly abandoned, unloved and alone? What manner of woman had Ann Coulter been to take the responsibility of the child born of her cousin’s shame? How different would his life have been if Lord Marchant had not ridden up this same road, all those long summer days ago?
Beside him Perdita’s pony jerked its head up with a snort of impatience.
‘This is Strickland Castle? I think the title ‘castle’ is a bit of a misnomer,’ Perdita said.
Adam had to agree. Heavily fortified farm house seemed closer to the mark. It had probably been built back in the days when the border lands were wild, lawless places. Time had softened the grey stone and some newer additions provided some modicum of comfort that had not been intended in the original design. Not unlike Preswood, the buildings stood around three sides of an open courtyard. However, the signs of neglect were obvious in the sunken roof of one of the wings, boarded up windows and a dry moat, overgrown with holly and long grass.
It didn’t matter, it was now his piece of earth.
After the initial shock of Joan’s revelation, he had come to an acceptance of his new place in the world. Joan had been right when she had said her brother was as good a father as any. For all his black and white view of the world, his uncle had been a fair man and he had borne his sister’s shame as his own.
As to the identity of his father, he doubted the answers lay here at Strickland, but his own natural curiosity would have liked to have known the answer to that question. Now there was no one living who could tell him.
‘Someone is at home,’ Perdita remarked, indicating the thin line of smoke curling from a single chimney toward the rear of the building.
No one came out to meet him so he dismounted and tethered his horse to a hawthorn bush. He crossed to the old gates that barred entrance to the courtyard and lifted the heavy knocker. When no one answered, he knocked again and eventually a door beyond the gate creaked open and the sound of wooden soles clacking on cobbles grew closer to the gate.
The small door in the massive gates opened and the face of an old woman peered out. She blinked up at him, with eyes milky with cataracts.
‘My name is—’
‘I ken who you are,’ the woman said. ‘I held you in my arms when you were a bairn. Adam Coulter they called you.’
The back of Adam’s neck prickled and Perdita’s hand on his arm tightened.
‘Who are you?’
‘Mab,’ the crone replied. ‘Ye’ll not remember me. You were nowt but a small bairn when he came for ye, but I’d know ye for Coulter, e’en without the lawyer sending word to expect ye. Yer mother is dead?’
Adam nodded.
‘Then ye best come in, my lord. For lord of these lands ye are now.’
