And Then Mine Enemy

by Alison Stuart

  ‘No doubt gossiping with mine, sir.’ Ashley blushed slightly. ‘Probably about us.’

  ‘Quite likely,’ Adam smiled, doubting very much that Perdita Gray would be sharing his bad habits with Kate Ashley. ‘God willing, we shall see them both again before too much longer.’

  Richard Ashley saluted and wheeled his horse, cantering back to Fairfax's position.

  For some reason best known to the prince, the royalists did not take advantage of the disorder in the parliamentary lines, giving time for the infantry to return to the field intact.

  The day wore on and by late afternoon both sides faced each other across Marston Moor in battle order. Despite some desultory cannon fire from the left flank, neither side moved and the hours dragged by. The parliament soldiers began to chant psalms. While it provided some relief from the boredom and a cincture to their taut nerves, Adam found it an eerie sound and in many ways more discomforting than the guns.

  He rose in his stirrups and surveyed the field for the tenth time that afternoon. To his left stretched a colourful array of flags and pennants, weapons glinting in the late afternoon sun.

  ‘I don't like this ground,’ Adam muttered scanning the field before him. Fairfax's horse on the right wing certainly had the worst of the land.

  While the bulk of the parliamentary force had been arrayed along a gentle slope, the moor between Sir Thomas's cavalry and the enemy was covered in furze. The only clear access lay along a narrow lane, running at right angles to their position, bounded on one side by a ditch and on the other by a hedge lined with royalist muskets.

  It must have been past seven in the evening when Adam detected a general wavering in the royalist lines, as if they had decided that no battle would be fought that day.

  ‘They're surely not going to fight now,’ Hewitson grumbled, shifting in his saddle. ‘It’ll be dark in a couple of hours.’

  Adam agreed. To distract himself from his hunger, he turned his mind away from the thought of battle and turned instead to the problem of Perdita and how he could contrive to return her safely to Preswood. His gloved hand rose to his breast where the silver locket lay heavy against his skin.

  A mighty cry from the left flank roused him from his reverie. The parliamentary horse, commanded by an Eastern Association man by the name of Cromwell, charged, taking some of the infantry with them.

  Facing Cromwell, Prince Rupert's unbeatable cavalry, for once not the first to charge, fell back. The great guns from both sides began to flash and roar and the field quickly become hazy with smoke.

  Adam’s heart raced and his guts tightened as the order for Fairfax’s cavalry to charge came too late for surprise. Fairfax, as always heedless of his own safety, took the head of his troops. Adam, as part of Fairfax’s life guard, followed close behind.

  Goring just had to wait and cut the Parliamentary horse to pieces as it picked its way through the furze and the hazards of the lane and the massive ditch that stood in their path.

  To Adam's relief, most of his men got across safely and they could regroup in time to launch a hasty charge on Goring's line. The first impact of the assault caused the royalist line to waver and break. Sword on sword, the parliamentarians pushed Goring's men until some turned to flee with Fairfax’s men hard at their heels.

  Adam reined in beside his commander. Blood poured down the general’s face from a slash to his right cheek, but Fairfax, breathless and exultant, did not appear to have noticed.

  ‘Sir, shall I try to rally the horse?’

  Fairfax turned his gaze on Adam, his eyes bright. ‘Damn it, Coulter. We can’t hope to bring them back to the fight now. We need help from Cromwell.’

  ‘Sir, your face.’

  Fairfax put his hand up to his cheek and looked in amazement as the tips of his gloves came away bright with blood. ‘Must have been a sword,’ he mused. ‘No matter. Coulter, rally your own men and see what can be done.’

  Adam had precious few men left to rally. Some he had lost at the ditch, others were probably halfway to York. Those few he could find, he summoned once more to Fairfax's colours and they plunged back into the smoke filled, rain-sodden slaughterhouse. Fairfax himself had been swallowed up in the fray.

  Those of Goring's horse that had stayed on the field had charged straight through the parliamentarian lines and were no doubt indulging themselves in the baggage train, but the innocents among the baggage would have to fend for themselves. For a moment Adam thought of Perdita and sent a silent prayer of thanks that she had not come with him. He turned his weary troopers toward the centre of the field where the royalist foot were putting up a last valiant stand.

  It was not even dark when the last shots were fired on Marston Moor. Adam was to learn later that Fairfax, finding himself surrounded by enemy, had torn off the white favour in his helmet and crept behind the battle lines to find Cromwell on the left flank. Alerted to the problems on the right flank, the dour fens man had brought his cavalry up behind Goring, forcing him to turn and face him. Goring's men broke and fled. Save for a few stubborn pockets of resistance, the worst was over as dark finally claimed the moor and a bright, full moon cast its light on the slaughter.

  Late in the evening, a violent thunderstorm broke over Barton. Kate Ashley looked up at the first crack. The mending she had been working on fell from her shaking hands to the floor as she glanced at the window.

  ‘Was that gunshot?’ she asked, her grey eyes wide with fear.

  Perdita shook her head. ‘No. Just thunder. Edgehill was fought but a few miles distant from my home. I will never forget the sound of the guns.’

  Kate stood up and paced the floor, her hands twisting in her skirts.

  ‘I can’t take this uncertainty,’ she said. ‘How can you be so calm?’

  Perdita's exterior of quiet patience came from years of practice, but within her breast her heart beat a rapid tattoo as she heard another sound that she knew was not thunder.

  She rose to her feet and went to the window. Foolishness she knew for there would be nothing to see.

  ‘That’s not thunder.’ Kate joined her.

  ‘Mistress Ashley, we may see wounded at the door before this night is out. Is there anywhere warm and dry that they can be put?’

  Kate turned uncomprehending eyes on her guest.

  ‘Wounded?’

  ‘They came after Edgehill. We will need bandages and water. What salves do you have in your stillroom?’

  Kate nodded. ‘The barn is large enough and warm. I have no experience of these things. Ellen, my maid, she keeps my stillroom. She knows what we will need. I’ll fetch her.’

  The guns fell silent at nightfall, leaving only the noise of the pounding rain. As Perdita had predicted, the first of the wounded trickled into the village of Barton and came to the door of the manor house. A surgeon came with them, a rough man who lacked half the skill of Ludovic, Perdita thought, but he did what little was within his powers and they were thankful to have him as the barn filled with the injured and maimed.

  ‘Is it over?’ Kate asked the young parliamentary soldier whose arm she bound.

  ‘Ay Mistress. ‘Tis a great victory for us.’

  Kate clutched Perdita’s arm. ‘Perdita did you hear? ‘Tis Parliament that has prevailed! God be praised.’

  ‘Amen,’ agreed Perdita with heartfelt thanks.

  That seemed to be an invitation to those present to offer fervent prayers of thanksgiving for their deliverance from the foul fiend, Rupert.

  ‘Where do they get this belief that he is the devil?’ Perdita muttered half to herself.

  Kate looked up. ‘Rupert?’

  ‘He’s an extraordinary young man but quite human.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘I met him once,’ Perdita admitted.

  Kate looked at her and probably would have enquired further but another wave of wounded demanded her attention.

  Shortly after dawn, Perdita stepped out into the yard, breathing the cold, damp morn
ing air, thankful that the rain had stopped. She leaned against the old, stone walls of the house, letting exhaustion wash over her, trying to turn her mind from the hideous sights within the barn.

  A man leading a horse and cart came down the lane from the direction of Long Marston and Perdita straightened. It could only mean more wounded to be housed and cared for.

  As he turned through the gates, she went to meet him, noticing that the latest comer was a well-dressed man of late middle age, his grey hair bared, his face white with exhaustion. Curiously he wore a gorget around his neck, the mark of an officer.

  Perdita heard a gasp and turned to see Kate standing in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron.

  ‘‘Tis Richard’s father, David Ashley,’ she said.

  Instinctively, Perdita caught the woman’s arm but Kate shook her off, running toward the man with cart. He did not increase his pace but walked toward her, as if every step carried the weight of the world.

  As she reached him, he dropped the reins of the horse and caught her.

  ‘Kate, lass…’

  Her eyes were wild as she struggled to break free. ‘Richard! Dear God, Richard.’

  ‘He can’t hear you, lass.’

  Kate broke his grip and ran around the cart. She stood staring wide eyed at the man who lay on the blood-soaked straw.

  Her hand flew to her mouth and her father-in-law caught her as she staggered. She stood rigid in his grasp, staring transfixed at her husband as Perdita and Ellen ran to her side.

  The man lying in the back of the cart was barely recognisable as Richard Ashley. His face was a bloodied mask, a rough blanket, soaked with blood, covered his torso and legs—and worse. Even from where she stood, Perdita could smell the unmistakable stench of a wound to the guts.

  ‘He’s not dead.’ David Ashley said and his face twisted in anguish. ‘I would to God he was, but he’s not. When I found him this morning, I vowed I would bring him home. Perhaps that was foolishness.’

  Perdita shook her head. ‘No, you did the right thing. We’ll care for him.’

  Ashley blinked as if only seeing her for the first time. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Perdita Gr… Coulter. I am Major Adam Coulter’s wife. Can you have him carried inside?’

  Ashley nodded and hailed two able-bodied soldiers sitting beside the barn. ‘You two, carry my son indoors.’

  The soldiers, recognising the poignancy of their task, lifted the wounded man gently and between them they carried him into the house and upstairs to a bed chamber.

  Kate, restrained by her father-in-law, wept in his arms.

  Perdita, following the men upstairs, caught sight of Tom in his nightshirt hiding in the shadows, clutching a wooden horse to his chest. She caught him in her arms and bundled him into the nursery with a white-faced maid.

  ‘It’s no place for a child,’ she said. ‘Keep him safe.’

  A servant was despatched to fetch Kate’s sister who lived nearby, and she came hurrying within the hour, a sensible woman, some ten years older than her sister. She and the maid, Ellen, excluded Kate from the bedchamber while the surgeon did what little he could.

  Kate sat in her pleasant parlour, white-faced and silent, too shocked to weep. Perdita stayed with her, seeing herself in the younger woman and knowing words were no balm to her tortured soul.

  The surgeon, bloodstained and reeking, stomped heavily down the stairs. He stood in the doorway and shook his head.

  ‘There’s nought I can do for him. If I were you, Mistress, I’d pray for a swift death.’

  ‘No! No!’ Kate wept into her sister’s shoulder. ‘Dear God, tell me this is some terrible nightmare.’

  Ashley had replaced the surgeon in the doorway.

  ‘Oh, lass.’

  She pulled away from her sister and turned to face her father-in-law. ‘This is your doing, David Ashley. He had no heart for this war. He only went out of respect for you.’

  Ashley opened his mouth to say something and closed it again. ‘There’s nought I can say that will change the situation. Go to him, Kate. Stay with him.’

  Without another word, she pushed past him and David Ashley subsided on to a chair at the table. He picked up a fallen petal from the rose bowl and turned the blood-red petal over in his fingers. It seemed like a long time before he looked up and his eyes caught Perdita’s, registering her presence for the first time.

  ‘Who did you say you were, Mistress?’

  ‘I’m Adam Coulter’s wife,’ she said. ‘Your son brought me here at my husband’s request.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘Oh yes. Adam Coulter. Good man. He said he’d left a companion with Kate.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your son.’ The words seemed inadequate to the enormity of the situation.

  ‘She’s right.’ David Ashley’s fingers closed around the rose petal, crushing it. ‘Richard had no heart for the fight. He should have remained here with Kate, where he rightly belonged.’

  ‘I’ve lost someone like Richard,’ Perdita said quietly. ‘A good man who should have stayed quietly by his own hearth side.’

  The man looked up, a frown creasing his forehead. ‘Who?’

  She shook her head. ‘My kinsman.’ She leaned forward. ‘Tell me, sir, have you any news of my husband?’

  He ran a hand across his eyes and shook his head. ‘They had a hard time of it. Sir Thomas’ men were cut to pieces. Richard fell in the first charge.’

  Perdita closed her eyes, her breath coming in a sharp indrawn breath as she braced for the worst possible news.

  David Ashley frowned. ‘But Adam Coulter was alive and well when last I saw him which was barely three hours ago. He came through and he’s with his men, what’s left of them. They’ve gone on to York.’

  Perdita breathed again, relief flooding her. ‘Praise the Lord,’ she whispered.

  It seemed wrong to show exultation in a place where death and grief were so overwhelming. She stood up and placed a hand on Ashley’s shoulder.

  ‘Colonel Ashley, you are plainly exhausted. Can I fetch you some food or drink?’

  He nodded and Perdita went in search of the kitchen. When she returned ten minutes later, she found him asleep, his head resting on his arms. She laid the tray down beside him and made her way upstairs to her own bedchamber, intending to snatch a few hours of sleep herself.

  The door to the chamber where Richard Ashley lay stood ajar, and Perdita steeled herself to enter the room of the dying man. Kate’s sister sat beside the window looking down into the courtyard. She looked around at Perdita’s entrance and shook her head.

  Kate sat beside the bed, stiffly upright in a chair as if braced for some sort of action. Perdita looked down at what remained of the gentle young man who had brought her to this house. The blood had been cleaned from his face and the terrible wounds concealed by clean white bandages. A small fire had been lit in the fireplace to burn lavender, but the sweet, soothing scent could not mask the smell of impending death and it would not be a swift death. Perdita had seen enough wounds now to know that Richard Ashley may yet live several days.

  ‘Ellen says he had over thirty wounds.’ Kate spoke at last without moving or looking up at Perdita. ‘How could men do that to another man, another Englishman?’

  Perdita laid a hand on the other woman’s shoulder. Kate reached up and grasped her hand. ‘Will you pray with me, Perdita?’

  Richard Ashley lay on the edge of death for three long days. His young wife barely left his side and his father sat in the parlour, a bottle of wine by his side, staring into an empty fireplace, his face a grey mask of exhaustion and grief. Kate’s sister took young Thomas away to her own home, a mile distant, to be with her brood, returning to sit with her sister. Marooned in the grief-stricken house, Perdita found Kate’s stoic silence almost too painful to bear as she recalled the last hours of Simon’s life with a frightening clarity, and with no word from Adam, busied herself with the wounded in the barn, providing some relief for Kate from her
bedside vigil.

  Death came as a mercy and the Ashleys laid Richard to rest beside his mother in the little churchyard in the village. The family returned to the house and Kate, surrendering now to her grief and spent from weeping, had been put to bed with a sleeping draught. Her sister returned to Barton Hall and Perdita busied herself with the household responsibilities that Kate had abrogated.

  ‘Mistress Coulter?’

  Perdita looked up from the mending to see David Ashley, stooped and aged with grief, standing in the doorway to the parlour.

  ‘I’ve had word that York has been taken and I have orders to return to my duties,’ he said. ‘I intend to take those wounded who can be moved. Do you also wish to come with me to find your husband?’

  Perdita set her needlework aside and stood up, hoping she did not sound too eager as she said, ‘Please, Colonel Ashley. I would be so grateful.’

  He nodded. ‘York is something over half a day’s ride. It will be slower with the wounded. Do you have a horse?’

  A brief smile flitted across Perdita’s face as she recalled Richard Ashley’s unfavourable view of her pony. ‘Of sorts. Your son was less than complimentary about him.’

  He nodded. ‘Good. I’ll tell Dickon to ready him. We will leave in the morning.’

  Before she left, Perdita sought out Kate. The young widow, pale-faced, her eyes red-rimmed, sat in a chair by the window of her bedchamber. She barely looked up as Perdita entered.

  ‘Kate?’ Perdita said. ‘I must leave today. I go with your father-in-law to York.’

  Kate nodded. ‘I have been remiss. Have you news of your husband?’

  ‘Colonel Ashley tells me that he survived the battle and I hope… I pray… I will find him in York.’

  Kate took her hand. ‘I will pray that you do.’

  Perdita’s hand tightened on Kate’s. ‘I lost someone I love,’ she said. ‘The pain will ease and you may be blessed with a second chance.’

  Kate released Perdita’s hand and rose to her feet. She stood for a long moment, her arms wrapped around herself as she looked out into the garden, bright with the summer roses. She shook her head. ‘No, Perdita. I think in this life we only have one chance at finding a true soul mate. I will never find another.’