by Jane Feather
But he was alive…for the moment. The Roundhead soldiers were standing around him now. If they chose to make sport of him with sword tip and pike before delivering the coup de grace, it would not be the first time such savagery had crowned the savagery of the last ten years, when brother had fought brother, father had fought son. But it was done with now. Had the king escaped the field? he wondered, closing his eyes as the steel tip of a pike grazed his cheek, and someone laughed.
“Leave him be!” a curt voice ordered. “Can ye not see he wears the sword of a gentleman? They’ll be wanting him in London for examination.”
Daniel opened his eyes and looked into a pair of bright blue ones. They held a gleam of compassion. His savior bent to help him to his feet.
“Can ye walk, sir?”
“Aye,” Daniel said. “’Tis but my wrist.”
“I must ask ye for your sword,” the corporal said, moving to slide it free from its sheath hanging at Daniel’s side.
“I’ll give it to you,” Daniel said, suddenly sharp. With his good hand, he maneuvered the weapon loose, handing it hilt first to his captor. He would never again be permitted to wear a sword in this land. Such privilege was denied one who openly contested Parliament’s rule. But since he was facing examination and prison, possibly execution, such a minor indignity could presumably be borne with fortitude, he reflected with grim irony.
How soon would the news of his capture reach Glebe Park? The lists of prisoners would be posted in all the towns soon enough. And Tom would make all speed, he knew. He would bring Henrietta to London. She would perhaps be permitted to visit him…if he was in fit condition to receive visitors after examination.
As he walked as straight as he could in the midst of his captors, he wondered in bitter self-knowledge what had been the point of this final futility on the battlefield at Worcester. Henrietta had been right. Honor and principle made unsatisfactory substitutes for love.
A group of prisoners stood beside a couple of carts laden with wounded. Roundhead soldiers offered apparently desultory guard, but their muskets were primed, the pikes at hand. Daniel searched the faces of his fellow prisoners but saw none he recognized. They exchanged nods as he joined them, cradling his injured wrist.
“Ye’ll be better riding, sir.” The compassionate corporal who had saved him from torment gestured toward the cart. “There’ll be a chirurgeon at Worcester to look to your arm.”
“My thanks, but I’ll walk,” Daniel said.
The corporal shrugged, gave an order, and the sad procession moved off toward Worcester.
Henrietta choked as the brandy was forced between her lips, trickling down her chin.
“Easy now, mistress,” a voice said. “Sit ye up a bit.” She was lifted against a broad shoulder and the flagon of brandy was again presented to her lips. This time she swallowed and felt a measure of strength return to her limbs.
“What…what happened?”
“Why, ye swooned dead away,” the same voice said. “Right in front of headquarters.”
She struggled to sit up alone and looked around. A circle of concerned faces peered at her…soldiers every one, and Roundhead soldiers at that. “Ye’ve been most kind,” she managed to say, shaking her head in an effort to clear it of the muzz. “’Tis mayhap because I am with child.”
The concern became vocal. “Why, mistress, ye should never be riding in such a case.”
“I wish to see General Cromwell,” she said.
For some reason, that made them laugh. “The general’s on his way to London, mistress…and even if he weren’t, he’s a mighty busy man.”
Henrietta gave herself time to absorb this piece of information and to formulate some kind of strategy. She wanted information and had come to the horse’s mouth for it. But she doubted that these rough yet kindly men would be able to tell her of the fate of Sir Daniel Drummond. Mayhap, she would do better to bide her time, keep her eyes and ears open. If she offered neither nuisance nor threat, perchance they would permit her to remain in headquarters for a spell. She would hear much, and some of it might be useful.
“My man,” she said, closing her eyes as if exhausted, “he’s in the Kentish militia, came to join the New Model, but I would know what has befallen him.”
“Eh, now, mistress, you give us ’is name, then, and we’ll see what we can do.” They patted her hand in friendly fashion.
“Jake Green,” she improvised. “Oh, I do feel poorly.”
“Ye just rest quiet ’ere, Mistress Green. The night draws in and ye’ll not find lodgings in the town. Is it a bite of supper ye’d be glad of?”
Henrietta realized that she was famished, not having eaten since the previous evening, and found herself accepting Parliament’s hospitality with voracious appetite. Her enthusiasm for bread, meat, and buttermilk was regarded with approval by her caretakers, and she found she felt not a pang of guilt at this particular deception.
Someone had gone in search of information about the mythical Jake Green of the Kentish militia…’Twas to be hoped he was mythical, she thought, as she was encouraged to a seat alongside the fire and told to take her ease and sleep awhile if she could.
With faintly whispered gratitude, Henrietta settled down to watch through half-closed eyes and listen with wide-open ears…something at which she had long been skilled.
It was near midnight when they brought the latest batch of prisoners into headquarters. The carts rolled to a halt on the cobbles outside and shouted instructions broke the somnolent peace. The men in the guard chamber rose to their feet, buttoning tunics, grumbling at this disturbance, and went outside, leaving the apparently still slumbering Mistress Green alone at the fireside.
Henrietta sprang to her feet, hurried to the door, which stood ajar on the corridor, and stood just behind it, peering through the crack between door and frame. They were carrying in those too severely wounded to walk even with support, then came the halt and the lame, gray and bloodless, drawn with pain and the despair of defeat.
She saw Daniel. He swayed slightly but scorned the offer of a supporting arm. His left arm was cradled against his chest. She saw the blood, the jagged edge of bone jutting through the skin. There was a moment when that black fog threatened again, but it receded under the blinding light of relief and purpose. He was alive, and so long as the wound was attended to rapidly it would surely not become mortified. How were they to get out of this place?
Not for one minute did it occur to her that they would fail to do so. It was simply a matter of hitting upon the right plan.
She left the guardroom, a search for the privy her excuse should she be questioned, and, hugging the shadows, followed the procession of guards and prisoners. They went outside at the rear of the building and into a barn. Voices were raised in greeting as the new arrivals entered. The barn door was left open, two guards sitting on either side of it, muskets between their feet. The only way of escape was back through the headquarters building riddled with armed soldiers, so why should they concern themselves with the possibility of a runaway?
Henrietta hastened back to the guardroom, regaining her fireside seat before her kindly companions returned, all unaware of her journey. She kept her eyes closed. Sleep would not ordinarily have been hard to feign, but the need to go to Daniel, to tend his hurt, to touch him with the hand of love, threatened to obscure all caution, and she could feel her muscles twitching.
“D’ye have the names of those newly brought in?” The question served to concentrate her mind most wonderfully.
“Nay, ’twill do in the morning.” A yawn accompanied the statement. “We’re to make lists of all prisoners by noon tomorrow. The gentlemen among ’em are to be taken direct to London for examination.”
There was no time to waste. Henrietta stirred deliberately, stretched, blinked around the room.
“D’ye have need of summat, mistress?”
“The privy, sir,” she said, rising. “I do not know how to thank ye for your kindness.
”
“Nay, think nothin’ of it. We still wait for news from the Kent men. They were stationed on the left flank of the field, and none have reported ’ere as yet. ’Tis possible they were already disbanded.”
“If ’tis so, then I had best return home,” she said. “If ye’d direct me to the privy, sir.”
“To the right of the courtyard, mistress. Go down the passageway and through the door at the end.”
With a smile of thanks, she left them. The courtyard was empty of all but the guards sitting at the open barn door. A thrust of candlelight from the barn made a narrow path across the cobbles. Soft voices and an occasional, swiftly stifled moan murmured in the night air.
Moving into the shadows, she bent to lift her skirt, took her petticoat between both hands, and ripped it into strips. Holding these prominently, she stepped boldly across the courtyard. “Ye’ve a wounded man in there. I’ve orders to dress his injury. He’s wanted fit for examination in London.”
No one could be here without proper business. The guards regarded her with scant interest, one observing, “There’s plenty wounded, mistress.”
“Aye, but this is an arm wound, and I have description of the prisoner.”
They waved her through the door. She stepped within, stood looking around at the huddled figures stretched upon the straw. Most were asleep. What did they have to stay awake for but pain? Pain of the spirit if not of the body.
Daniel was sitting propped against the far wall, legs stretched out before him, arm held against his chest. His eyes were closed as he drifted between sleeping and waking, preferring sleep because it brought relief from pain, offering instead the image of Harry…Harry at her most exasperating, her most loving, her most determined, her most helpful. His lips curved at the memories even as pain stabbed fiercely and he opened his eyes. Henrietta knelt at his side.
“I am come to be with you,” she said with customary simplicity.
He closed his eyes for a long moment to dispel the hallucination. Then he opened them again. She was still there, her head on one side, her expression the one she wore when she thought she might be skating on thin ice.
“I am come to be with you,” she repeated.
He smiled, murmured, “Aye, you would be of help, I daresay.” What absurd conversation was this? Yet, it seemed perfectly right and natural. He must be in the grip of nightmare turned dream.
“Yes, I would.” She brushed his lips with her own, a featherlight touch as if she were afraid any pressure might add to his hurts. “Do not mock, Daniel, ’tis far too serious a matter.” She looked at the shattered wrist and shook out her makeshift bandages. “I would bind it for you, love. But I am afeared it will pain you most dreadfully.”
“No more than it does already, elf.” He fought to bring his mind into focus. This was no vision dredged from the depths of agonized exhaustion and despair. But what the hell did she think she was doing here? “Where are the children?”
“With Dorcas,” she said, biting her lip in fierce concentration as she draped the bandage over the exposed bone. “Ye need not fear. I left them safe.”
“And Julie?” He tore his mind from the agony as she began to twist the material around his wrist, her fingers delicately, but in terror, attempting to readjust the bone, to remove shards.
“Brought to bed of a fine son,” she said. “I delivered him, Daniel. ’Twas the most wonderful thing.” Holding his forearm, she twisted the bandage as tightly as she dared. “Will’s mother is with her now. What of Will?”
“Escaped, I trust. He and Tom were well on their way to Wheatley before yesterday daybreak.”
“They left you?” She stared, incredulous.
“At my insistence, elf. I was endangering them, and there was no point losing three of us. They have families.”
“As do you,” she said, fastening the bandage with an ungainly but efficient knot. “I have a plan to contrive your escape.”
Daniel rested his head on the wooden partition at his back. “Sweetheart, there is no sense in such thought. Even were I to succeed in escape, they would arrest me at home. I will not again go into exile. Glebe Park is to be my children’s home. This is their country, whether it be ruled by King or Parliament.”
“But if they do not know who y’are, they cannot arrest you at home,” she said practically. “And they have not yet taken names.”
Daniel forced himself to focus on this statement. It was quite correct; no one had yet demanded his identity.
“God’s grace, Harry! How d’ye know these things? How did you get in here?”
“I fell into a faint outside headquarters,” she explained. “I think ’twas because I had not eaten and I was very tired. The soldiers were most kind to me. I’ve been sitting in the guardroom all night, listening.”
“You swooned?” Daniel found his fatigue fade under a wash of anger at this cheerful admission. “How dare you not take care of yourself at this time!”
She regarded him with a stubborn turn to her mouth. “Y’are not strong enough to be vexed.”
He closed his eyes. “Just wait until I am!”
“Daniel, I had to come,” she said. “I could not know you were in such danger and not be there.”
“We seem to have had this discussion on some other occasion,” he murmured wearily. “But y’are right, I’ve not the strength to take you to task for it, and am in no position to enforce my commands. I can only beg that you will behave with circumspection.”
She chewed her lip for a minute. “I must return to the guardroom. They will wonder what has happened to me. ’Tis an unconscionable long time to spend in the privy.”
Daniel’s lips curved involuntarily. “That’s where y’are supposed to be, is it, my elf?”
She nodded. “Listen to me, Daniel. When they ask for your name, you must give them a false one. Ye can be Daniel Bolt again.” She saw prideful refusal on his face and spoke with angry intensity. “You must do as I say! I will not have this child born without knowing a father. Either they will execute you or you will die in prison, if not of examination! D’ye think I do not know what will happen to you? You owe it to all of us to take this one chance for escape.”
He did, for all that he knew the chance to be minuscule. But he could be no worse off, and when he was recaptured his pregnant wife would be excused her attempts to save him. It would be accepted as a brave example of wifely duty. “Very well.”
“Look for me on the road,” she whispered, her eyes shining with relief. “I will be riding a piebald gelding. I will come up with the march.”
“And then what?” Some of her enthusiasm and vigor spilled over to him, and he felt stronger, no longer gripped by the sapping quality of helpless resignation.
“You will see.” She kissed him again, but this time with much less hesitation. Then she was gone, slipping amongst the recumbent forms of his fellow unfortunates, offering an insouciant wave to the guards, returning to the guardroom and her preparations.
Chapter 22
A surgeon came into the barn at dawn. Harry’s makeshift bandaging had afforded Daniel some relief during the remainder of the night, but he welcomed the more expert attentions. They were not offered with much gentleness, it was true to say, but his wrist was splinted, rebandaged, and a sling provided. Once he had recovered from the faintness engendered by this care, he found he could view the day with a degree of composure.
There was breakfast, also; a meager offering of dry bread and weak beer, but it brought renewed strength as he realized that it was the first time he had broken his fast in two days. He lay back against the wall of the barn and closed his eyes. Just what did Harry have in mind? He knew her to be ingenious and determined in her planning, but even if she could succeed in spiriting him away from the line of marching prisoners, how did she think a wounded man was going to elude capture between here and London, when the entire countryside was crawling with search parties?
He must have slept a little, because the
sun was high when a foot nudged his thigh and he looked up into the face of a Roundhead officer, holding quill and parchment. “Your name?” the officer demanded.
Daniel Drummond, Baronet, of Glebe Park, in the village of Cranston, in the county of Kent; His Majesty’s most loyal servant.
“Daniel Bolt, Esquire, of Lichfield,” he replied heavily. The officer scrawled on the parchment and moved along the line.
An hour later, they were herded out into the sunny courtyard. Daniel blinked in the brightness and wondered if he could endure the humiliation of being bound on this long march to imprisonment. But the officer directed him to one side of the yard, where were gathered the walking wounded. The able-bodied were roped together, but presumably it was assumed that the wounds of the others would have a sufficiently prohibitive effect.
It would certainly make Harry’s task easier, Daniel reflected, and it further lifted his spirits. They were marched out into the street. He looked around, for the moment stunned at the scene. There were hundreds of prisoners gathered for the walk to London, Scots and English, in torn clothing, some without shoes, some still bloodied, all grim-faced with the despair of defeat. Many of them would already have marched from Scotland with the king, he knew. Exhausted by that journey, by the depredations of battle, and now another forced march, how many of them would fall by the wayside?
There was much milling around, much shouting and arguing amongst the military authorities, and the lines of prisoners stood under the sun, weary and resigned. But at last the order came to move out. Daniel offered his good arm to his neighbor, who hobbled from a pike wound in his thigh.
People came out of their houses to watch them as they passed. They stood in doorways and lined the streets. One or two ran up to them with cups of water and milk, hunks of bread and cheese. There were many words of comfort and loud calls of encouragement. Not everyone in this land was happy to accept Parliament’s rule, and many wept for the king, whose whereabouts were still unknown. He had fled the field, but had he reached the safety of one of the Channel ports?
