And Then Mine Enemy

by Alison Stuart

  Simon took two steps and stumbled. Adam caught his arm and stayed his fall.

  ‘Steady.’

  ‘Sorry, just a bit dizzy,’ Simon mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

  A cold dread washed over Adam. He had received reports that in his absence the inevitable sickness had broken out among the prisoners and that a couple had died. The man’s colour seemed unnaturally high and his eyes bright with fever. What if Simon had contracted the prison fever?

  He slipped his arm under Simon's shoulders.

  ‘It's all right.’ Simon’s words slurred. ‘It's just a headache. I can walk.’

  ‘You have a wedding in a few days,’ Adam said, steering Simon in the direction of the gate. ‘Perdita will make quite sure you are well by then.’

  ‘Oh yes, the wedding.’ Simon hefted a sigh and looked up at Adam, his eyes bright with more than just fever. ‘I love her so much, Coulter.’

  ‘I’m sure she knows that,’ Adam forced the words out.

  ‘She’s so beautiful. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Adam. ‘She is the most beautiful woman I have ever met.’

  ‘I’m a lucky man.’

  You don’t know how lucky, Adam agreed.

  After the rain of the previous day, a heavy winter fog enveloped the castle, giving it the impression of a mythological Camelot, rising out of the marsh. Perdita and Ludovic had been waiting nearly an hour, stamping their feet and moving as much as they could to stop from freezing to the spot.

  ‘I see them, mistress,’ Ludovic said at last.

  Out of the fog, two figures emerged from the postilion gate, one tall and straight, his dark head bare, his arm around a shorter stooped figure. Perdita picked up her skirts and ran up the causeway, calling Simon’s name.

  Adam released his grip on the prisoner and Simon stumbled toward her. She took him in her arms, filthy and reeking as he was.

  ‘Perdita,’ he mumbled. ‘How good you smell.’

  ‘I wish I could say the same of you,’ she chided.

  Over Simon’s head, she caught Adam Coulter’s cold, hard gaze.

  Hypocrite, his eyes seemed to say. How can you profess to love this man when it is me you want?

  Abruptly he turned on his heel, swallowed up by the shadows of the gatehouse. Perdita turned her attention back to her betrothed. He looked appallingly ill, nearly two week’s growth of beard could not hide the hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes, and a quick touch of his forehead confirmed her worst fear. He had a fever.

  ‘Simon, are you well enough to ride?

  He smiled at her, his finger tracing the line of her cheekbone. ‘I’m all the better for seeing you, Perdita. It’s just a chill.’ He cast a quick glance up at the forbidding walls of Warwick Castle. ‘Come let us get away from this place. I have a wedding to attend, I believe.’

  They were greeted at Preswood by Bess, who must have been watching for them. She ran to her brother’s side as Simon slid off his horse and leaned against the animal’s flank.

  ‘It’s good to be home,’ he said with a smile for his sister.

  ‘Simon. How wonderful. Perdita, you did it!’

  Ludovic lifted Perdita down from her horse and she crossed to Simon.

  ‘It is Adam Coulter we must thank,’ she said. ‘He released him without recourse to ransom.’

  ‘I should think so too.’ Bess put her arm around her brother, peering anxiously into his haggard face.

  ‘Are you all right, Simon?’

  Simon gathered himself and took a few steps. He staggered and she caught his arm.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Just a little tired.’

  Perdita touched his cheek and shook her head. ‘Simon, you’re burning up. I told you, you have a fever.’

  His mouth drooped. ‘I'm sorry, Perdita I didn’t want to worry you. I do have a headache. It started yesterday and I do not seem able to shake it. In truth there were moments on the road when I doubted I would make it home.’

  ‘Oh Simon, you can’t be ill,’ wailed Bess. ‘The wedding. The banns have been called.’

  ‘I shall be hale by the wedding,’ her brother said with what he no doubt thought was a reassuring smile. It gave his face a twisted ghoulish look and despite herself, Perdita shivered. A premonition as cold as the fog that still enshrouded them touched her shoulder.

  ‘A bath and my own bed and I will be a new man.’ Simon took Perdita’s hand. ‘Now I’m here with you. Good of Coulter to let me go like that. What did you say to him?’

  ‘He has proved himself a good friend. Now let’s get you cleaned up and into bed,’ she said, slipping an arm around his waist.

  The redoubtable Ludovic was already by her side. Under his firm guidance, Simon was bathed and put to bed with a warm brick and a dose of one of Perdita's febrifuges.

  But by the next morning, Simon had a high fever, and he shook so violently his teeth chattered. More worryingly a rash had begun to spread across his body. Perdita sent for a doctor from Stratford who looked at Simon, bled him and confirmed Perdita’s worst fear.

  ‘You say he’s been a prisoner at Warwick? I have had reports of fever among the prisoners there.’ He paused. ‘Spotted fever.’

  Perdita took a deep breath. Her father had been an apothecary in London where spotted fever was not uncommon. It ravaged towns and armies where too many bodies were forced into close contact with each other. Unless God was merciful, the doctor may as well have delivered a death sentence.

  Hardly knowing what to say, Perdita shared the news with Joan and Bess and gave orders they were both to stay away. She and Ludovic would see to Simon’s nursing.

  ‘But you, Perdita,’ Bess said. ‘You don’t want to catch it.’

  Perdita lifted a face devoid of hope. ‘What does it matter, Bess?’

  If she contracted the fever, no one would grieve.

  By the evening, Simon’s fever had worsened into delirium. Ludovic's grim face confirmed her diagnosis. He too had seen it too many times to have any doubts.

  ‘Is there nothing we can do?’ Perdita pleaded. ‘Should we send for the doctor again?’

  Ludovic shook his head. ‘There is nothing he can do except pray.’

  On the third day it was clear that unless the fever broke, it would kill Simon. Even Ludovic's extreme measures of fresh air and cold water proved no assistance. Simon's moments of lucidity came more rarely and he tossed and turned so violently that it took both Ludovic and Perdita to subdue him.

  In the darkest hours of the night that should have been her wedding night, Perdita maintained her vigil by his bed. She slept, sitting in a chair, her face in her arms on the bed.

  She awoke with a start at the touch of a hand on her hair.

  ‘Simon?’ she blinked up at him.

  ‘You’re so lovely,’ he whispered.

  Hope sprang into Perdita's heart. Had the fever broken at last? But when she held the light to his face, she saw the shadow of death in the face of the man who was to have been her husband.

  ‘Perdita?’

  ‘Dearest.’

  ‘I’m dying. Don't lie. I can see it in your face.’

  ‘It’s the spotted fever,’ she said quietly. ‘Some do recover from it.’

  ‘Some, but not many,’ Simon whispered. ‘Perdita, I would have seen you as my bride.’

  ‘You will yet,’ Perdita said fiercely.

  ‘No,’ he sighed. ‘In the last year I have seen more death than any man should see in a lifetime and I know I’m dying. My only regret is that I must leave you.’

  Tears filled her eyes. She clutched his hand, holding on to the life of this dear good man.

  ‘I like to think we would have got on well together, even if you don’t love me.’

  ‘Simon, you can’t say that.’ Her voice shook. ‘I do love you and I want nothing more than to be with you. The thought of life without you is more than I can bear.’

  They were not empty words, meant to cheer a dying man. She knew as she
spoke that they were the absolute truth. She may not have loved Simon as she loved Adam Coulter, but that did not make her feelings for Simon anything less than love.

  His gaze held hers, seeking the veracity of her words. He knows me better than I thought, Perdita realised. He knows that my eyes would never lie.

  ‘I’m sorry, Perdita,’ he whispered. ‘I wanted the world for you.’ His fingers tightened on hers with a fierce urgency. ‘I’ll not leave you as you were left before. That is my last promise to you.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Perdita leaned over him, but he had already slipped into unconsciousness and she could no longer reach him. She bent over and kissed him gently on his ravaged cheek.

  ‘Simon. Believe me, I want nothing from you except that you live.’

  The tears spilled from her eyes and fell onto Simon’s hand.

  With a heavy heart she woke Bess and Joan to come and sit with her.

  Simon’s death was, as his life had been, quiet and gentle. His soul slipped into the darkest hour just before dawn.

  Bess wept copiously into Joan's arms, but Perdita had no more tears, only a dull and fearful emptiness filled her. After Bess had been put to bed with a sleeping draught, Perdita knelt by Simon's bed and prayed for the soul of the man who had loved her so dearly but whose love she could never return in full.

  In the days following Simon's death, Joan and Bess wept, but not so Perdita. She had endured the funeral in dry-eyed silence. Now she stood at the window of the great parlour looking out but not seeing the cheerless, wintry landscape,

  What am I, she thought, a widow who was never a wife? An unnatural creature who cannot weep for the man who was to be your husband, a man who loved you without condition. A man who never knew you loved another.

  ‘This is God’s punishment,’ she whispered, leaning her forehead against the cold, unforgiving glass.

  ‘Did you say something, Perdita?’

  Perdita turned to look at Joan. ‘I should be the one who is dead, Joan.’

  Joan rose to her feet, reaching for her stick. She hobbled across to Perdita. She stamped the edge of her cane on the wooden floor.

  ‘Enough of this maudlin self-pity, Perdita.’ Joan’s lips compressed in a tight line. ‘You are not the first woman to lose a loved-one to this accursed war. God is no more punishing you than you than any other woman. Until the men come to their senses, the killing will go on, the death will go on. We need you to be strong.’

  The force of Joan’s anger caused Perdita to take a step back. She was tired of being strong. She needed someone to take the burden of responsibility from her, not heap more responsibilities on to her shoulders. She closed her eyes, acknowledging the deep longing she had been supressing for months.

  She needed—she wanted— Adam Coulter.

  But she had no time to respond to Joan as Ludovic announced the arrival of the family lawyer from Stratford. Perdita drifted across to the fire and took a seat. As the lawyer droned in the background, his voice a monotone, she stared into the fire, drawn in to its cheerful crackling.

  ‘Perdita. Perdita aren’t you listening?’ Bess's insistent voice broke into her reverie.

  ‘Hmm?’ She looked up at the lawyer.

  The man cleared his throat and repeated.

  ‘Master Clifford recently changed his will. He left a substantial dowry for his sister Elizabeth and of course the right of residence and an allowance to his stepmother, but he has left to Perdita Gray the entire estate of Preswood until death or marriage, after which the estate would revert to his sister, her heirs and successors.’

  Perdita looked from the lawyer to Joan and Bess. ‘But we were never wed. I have no rights.’

  ‘The provisions were not conditional upon your wedding.’ The lawyer coughed. ‘Master Clifford was most insistent on that point.’ He rose to his feet and reached for his hat. ‘I will draw up all the necessary papers and bring them to you within the week. I bid you good day, ladies.’

  After he had gone, accompanied by Joan, Bess and Perdita stared at each other.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ Perdita faltered. ‘I can’t accept the terms of Simon's will. All of this should be yours by right, Bess.’

  Bess wrinkled her nose. ‘And what use would I make of it? Simon has left me amply endowed, and God willing I will be wed.’ She knelt in front of Perdita and took her hands. ‘This is a secret, but Robin has asked me to marry him and I have accepted. Robin has lands and estates in his own right.’

  Tears caught in Perdita’s throat. So long in coming, it seemed it now took the smallest provocation to produce a flood and she fell into her Bess’s arms, weeping.

  When the flood had subsided to hiccups, Bess disengaged her, looking at her with a furrowed brow. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you so.’

  Perdita shook her head. ‘Not crying for Simon,’ she managed. ‘Tears of happiness for you. You and Robin are entirely right for each other.’

  Bess flushed. ‘I think so too. We do not intend to make it public knowledge yet, particularly so soon after Simon's death.’ She took Perdita's hand. ‘Fate has dealt you some bitter blows, Perdita. Recognise a change in your fortunes and rejoice in them.’

  Perdita dashed at her tears, taking the kerchief that Bess gave her. ‘Your brother had the truest heart of any man I’ve ever known, Bess. I wish he was with me still. I wish that I could throw my arms around his neck and kiss him, tell him how much I truly loved him. All the money in the world will not bring him back or take this pain from my heart.’

  Bess laid a hand on Perdita's shoulder. ‘We both lost someone we loved, but time will heal the hurt.’

  Perdita lowered her head. ‘Time,’ she echoed. ‘Do we have time, Bess?’

  Chapter 11

  Gainsborough, Yorkshire

  January 1644

  Adam shook the snow from his hat and cloak and tried, unsuccessfully, to remove the worst of the mud from his boots before he knocked on the door.

  The man seated at the table raised a tired, drawn face. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Coulter,’ Adam said. ‘I’ve brought the supplies from Warwick. We would have been here sooner but the wagons bogged in the roads.’

  Sir Thomas Fairfax’s face lifted. Black Tom, Adam had heard Fairfax called, and the dark saturnine looks and thin, scholar’s face did not give lie to the nickname. In the tired eyes the fire of the man burned, that spark that differentiated him and would make every man who wore his colours follow him despite their ragged clothes and lack of rations. They were much of an age but Adam felt he was in the presence of a man of many more years, already worn down by the responsibilities thrust upon him.

  Sir Thomas gestured at the fire. ‘Come and stand by the fire. The weather outside is foul.’

  Adam took a place in front of the cheerful blaze and closed his eyes as the warmth permeated his frozen, aching bones.

  ‘Take this.’ Fairfax poured him a cup of wine and joined him by the fire. ‘You’re most welcome, Captain Coulter. If you’ve seen any of my men, you will know how desperate our situation is.’

  Adam set the cup down and fumbled in his jacket, pulling out a crumpled paper, the same crumpled paper, which Colonel Purefoy had, with some grumbling, consented to sign. He handed it to Fairfax.

  ‘I have served in the low country and the Palatinate. I have here a recommendation from Colonel Purefoy, should you have need of a field officer of my experience.’

  Fairfax took the paper and broke the seal. He studied the contents and looked up at Adam. ‘Purefoy speaks highly of you, Coulter. Why would you wish to leave Warwick?’

  ‘I am wasted in the garrison, sir. Since Lord Brooke’s death last year, there is nothing to hold me at Warwick.’

  Fairfax set Purefoy’s letter down amongst the scattered papers on the table and nodded. ‘I do indeed have need of an officer of such experience, Coulter…several officers in fact. I have a regiment of horse wanting a good major. Would you take that?’

&
nbsp; ‘I would be honoured, sir,’ Adam said and bowed.

  He had not been telling an untruth when he had told Fairfax that garrison life galled, but in truth he had no heart to remain in Warwickshire. He had marked Perdita and Simon’s wedding day by getting appallingly drunk, and in the weeks that followed had taken any task Purefoy gave him to get him out from behind the castle walls. He had jumped at the opportunity to take this convoy of much needed supplies to the beleaguered parliamentary forces in the north, and had persuaded Purefoy to release him should Fairfax have a use for him.

  Fairfax looked around the room of the pleasant house he had taken as his headquarters. ‘I had hoped to make Gainsborough our winter quarters, but I have this day,’ he gestured at the paper on the table, ‘received orders from my father to relieve Nantwich. The Irish have landed. They mean to reinforce Byron and undo our work in Lancashire and Yorkshire. We march in the morning. I am afraid that leaves you little time to become acquainted with your new command.’

  He picked up his pen and scrawled on a blank piece of paper which he folded and sealed, handing it to Adam. ‘Your orders, Coulter. You will find Captain Hewitson lodging at the sign of the Swan. My compliments to him. I present his new major.’ Fairfax sat back in his chair. ‘You have a northern name, Coulter, but you don’t speak like a man of the north.’

  Adam shook his head. ‘My childhood home was in Leicestershire, sir.’

  ‘I give you fair warning, you’ll not have an easy time of it. The men of the north are loyal to their own and you’re an outsider. You must prove yourself worthy of the men you lead.’

  Adam nodded. ‘I’m equal to whatever task you set me, sir.’

  A smile lifted Fairfax’s dark countenance. ‘If what Purefoy tells me is the truth then I don’t doubt it, Coulter.’

  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.