Exchange of Love, page 27
Penny Peverell was angry and disconsolate. Why hadn’t Edward returned directly from Gloucester as he had promised? One cryptic note and some money had arrived by courier, but little in explanation of when he would return or what he planned to do after he had delivered his information. There were no words of affection or love.
It was true more money had arrived by different messengers, which was prudent, but nothing more. She imagined Edward at balls and fashionable soirees in Bristol, cutting a dashing figure, provoking swoons of passion and love in women, wives of older men, widows, and girls of easy virtue. How many Margaret Ransoms would there be? Her jealousy and bitterness were making her imagine Edward in all manner of wild sexual encounters.
It was early afternoon on a sunny August day. Penny had exercised as if Edward were at home, ridden out for a few hours on Connie and, after a hard gallop, returned for a brief lonely luncheon eaten in the small dining room. Now she sat in the window seat, light behind her, attempting to read one of their many books. In her restless state she could muster little interest and even less concentration.
Instead, Penny’s thoughts drifted to the past to her one and only romance before Edward. She was overcome with lost opportunities; lost chances with Cousin John. She remembered her great unhappiness at his banishment from the family’s house, even their friendship forbidden. The excitement her friend Jacinda must have from all her chance encounters or amours with other men, some of whom were complete strangers! Imagine a stranger’s arms, his touch, strength and passion.
With her heightened senses, Penny became aware of another person close by in the same room. She caught a glimpse of John – John Townsend – sitting dejected, and unhappily staring at nothing. The unexpected thrill of seeing him aroused her instantly. Perhaps this was her chance at last. She smiled and suddenly felt a surge of lustful feeling. Seduction would be exciting, and she felt a shiver of anticipation.
Quickly and quietly Penny crept away, summoning her maid to find fresh sheets and pillows for her bed. With a sense of delight, Penny selected a pale blue nightgown – silky and alluring – from the wardrobe. With her hair brushed and shining, John would find her irresistible.
Alf Hidson had fitted the replica staircase, but John hadn’t even bothered to go and see the result. Now he sat listlessly on a work trestle and wondered what he should do. Start going out and meeting people? Give up Bath altogether and begin afresh in another town? He was too apathetic to think properly.
Suddenly John’s mind reeled. He sensed someone in the room and then felt two female breasts pressed against his shoulders. Large firm hands held his head to stop it from moving. An adrenaline rush of surprise turned to excitement.
“Guess who? No! Do not look around.”
“Penny? How are you here?” The room had not changed; he was still in his own time.
“It does not matter, does it, Cousin John? We are both here, that is all that matters, on our own, deserted by our lovers.” Penny stepped away from him and whispered, “Eyes front, do not look.”
John tried to reply but he only gasped, inarticulate as his heart raced and his chest constricted.
“God, Penny, what’s happening?” he finally managed.
“Nothing yet.”
Her hands were now at the waist of his t-shirt, lifting it slowly up over his head. He heard the rustling cloth and spun round. She had unfastened her blue silky gown and let it fall to the ground.
“I wanted you to wait until—”
But John grabbed her to him, her bare breasts against his chest as he blocked off her words, crushing her breath with a kiss. She responded, desperately kissing him back and hugging in an equally strong grip.
After a time Penny gently pushed him away. She felt in complete control as, dressed only in her waist petticoat, she turned slowly around to display her body’s profile and back.
“I have dreamed of doing this,” she murmured, “so often; dreamed of being with you; seeing you respond to me. You are not shocked?”
“No,” in barely a whisper from John. “I have wanted so long. Wanted… to be with you. You’re so beautiful.” His voice sounded his mixture of passion and confusion. “I can’t—”
“It is past time to talk,” she said with a hungry smile. “Come into my world, my time, and be my lover.” She reached out to take him by the hand, leading him past the head of the staircase that changed imperceptibly from reproduction to original, through the resplendent luxury of the dayroom, down the short passageway that would soon be panelled over, and into the bed chamber where Judith’s modern divan had been replaced by an ornate curtained bed.
Their last clothes slid to the carpeted floor and they closed for another embrace. Now Penny’s voice was trembling as much as John’s had been earlier.
“Please, Cousin John, do not disappoint me…”
CHAPTER 36
Edward thought over and over about the value of staying in Bristol. The commanders would not heed his warning, so why stay? His hope was that as events unfolded, he would be proved right and then they would listen.
He had details of the men and the guns that Massey was leading south: medium-sized cannon on new style gun carriages that could be moved rapidly around the battlefield. Master Boscombe, the Gloucester merchant who had taken Edward’s cloth, had explained that Massey had spent weeks training his gunners to move and fire these artillery pieces.
“There is nothing to match these gunners,” Boscombe had boasted, “either in the king’s army or anywhere else in Europe.”
To pass the time, Edward rode out with Prince Maurice and his gentlemen; exercised his weapon skills, and read some of the classical books in the mansion library. He wrote to Penny but after a few days there was little to say. Despite his boredom, he resolutely refused to attend any of the many social engagements, citing his lack of fine evening clothes and every other excuse he could muster. He wouldn’t risk being led astray, even in a mild flirtation or dance that could be reported back to Penny.
Edward found that his morning exercise session attracted interest from the other gentlemen of the prince’s household, and several began to join him for a bout with foiled swords before breakfast.
“I ask you, Peverell,” said the prince one morning as they finished their food, “why should my swordsmanship be so poor when I excel at all equestrian sports?”
“Weak arms?” suggested one of the prince’s men.
“Poor eyesight?” asked another.
Edward sat silent, savouring the toasted bread covered in scrambled eggs and chopped fried bacon.
“Come, Peverell,” chided the prince peevishly. “Ignore their jesting and give me your opinion.”
“I am no fencing master.”
“I do not seek to fence, prancing back and forth with toy swords. I want to know how to fight. You have thrashed every man around this table.”
“With rapier and sabre!” called out an attendant gentleman.
“Aye, I still have the bruises under my coat. Your secret, sir?”
Edward took a deep draught of small ale before selecting some fruit from a plentiful bowl. Presently, he said slowly, “I do not wish to give offence, sire. I think it is lack of true interest, lack of application, and practise.” He wiped his beard fastidiously and continued, “You need to strengthen your arm and quicken your eyes.”
“Twenty practise lunges every morning,” someone called.
“Our new companion fairly hacks at a defenceless post,” said another.
“Let Peverell speak,” called out the prince.
“I am no fencing master, as I made clear,” said Edward, “but best to work in pairs. One calls hit spots for cut or thrust, say twenty strikes, then you change over and repeat. That, with the heavy sword, to give strength and power. Then one lunges or thrusts at the other with foiled rapier while the other attempts to parry.”
“That would be tedious – it would take hours.”
“I agree,” said Edward. “Better to play dice or cards to pass the time.”
“Tomorrow, I will join you at your early hour,” declared the prince. “But no contact from either cut or thrust – I bruise easily!”
Edward’s ‘school’ continued for a few days and helped relieve the monotony forced on them by Rupert’s stricture not to attack Massey. Then came news of disaster: while retreating back from his position on the River Yeo, Goring’s Royal Army had been caught and virtually annihilated as a fighting force. Prince Maurice explained the situation to Edward and the others at an early dinner.
“For once Goring seemed to have done the right thing,” he commented. “He left a strong rear guard to block the road; men concealed in hedges and broken ground; light guns in support.”
“And what went wrong?” asked someone.
“Massey! The Gloucestershire Clod, as my brother called him. His cannon bombarded their positions mercilessly before his foot methodically cleared the way with pike and musket. Cromwell’s Ironsides charged through the gap in our defence. It was all swiftly done before our army could react.”
“Massey… I tried to tell…” Edward muttered faintly.
“There’s worse still. Cromwell broke through unchecked, regrouped after his first charge, and reloaded pistols. He then defeated our own horse in a head-on fight. The man is unstoppable. Next morning our remaining cavalry regiment was surprised by a dawn attack and cut to pieces. Goring reports his surviving men would not fight again and he falls back to Bridgewater.”
Edward ate what he could and left the table. He rode up onto the Downs overlooking the city, its wall and long cannon shot away. Fairfax had heavy guns and gunners trained to use them. Bristol’s defences had been improved somewhat since its capture two years ago but it was still impossible to defend. How many men would Rupert allow to die before Fairfax, with Massey’s forty cannon, pounded them to surrender? To leave Bristol seemed cowardly; to stay, futile.
The next day Edward was conducting his training session rather later than usual when Prince Rupert and a small entourage rode into the stable yard to speak with Maurice. Royally dressed despite the growing heat of the day, Rupert leaped down from his horse and called to his brother.
“What I like to see – gentlemen at exercise! Who is your sword master?”
Edward, who had his back to Rupert, turned and bowed formally.
“Sir Edward Peverell,” called Prince Maurice disengaging from his own practice set. “You have met before.”
Rupert moved away from Edward dismissively. “I have some recollection of seeing the fellow about. Country farmer, I believe?”
“A sad day, sir,” said one of Maurice’s gentlemen to Rupert. “Who would have believed that country clods from Gloucester, led by Massey, an apprentice boy, could change the course of a battle?”
“He was told,” Edward interrupted curtly. “Their number, their quality and their intent.”
“If I could have surprised them on the march,” Maurice added. “They had few cavalry. I could have—”
“Enough,” roared Prince Rupert. “I will not be lectured by a tradesman and a boy. I will not listen to this, hear me—”
“You should,” Edward shouted back. “Listen to sense and to reason, not the drivelling of sycophants with feeble brains!” Edward could not control his angry words even though it was unwise to shout at a prince in that tone. Thank God Penny was not there to witness his loss of control.
“Silence, Peverell! How dare you insult your commander,” growled Rupert. “I can have you hanged.”
“You are not my commander,” retorted Edward. “I am a gentleman, and Justice of the Peace appointed by the king. You have no authority over me.” He was so enraged, any caution was lost.
“By God if we were not at war, I would demand satisfaction for that insult,” shouted Rupert.
“It is no insult. You lose battles, throw men away, and have no stomach to fight man to man.”
The equerry, Anderson, stepped forward, sensing a disaster. “I would fight him for you, my prince,” he said. “Teach him his place. Take no risks with your life, sire – the King’s Cause needs you.”
“Take risks?” retorted Rupert. “Take risks in fighting the likes of Peverell? If he could lay blade on me, I should surrender Bristol and resign from the king’s service!”
“A blessing for our cause if you did leave the king,” snarled Edward, all the anger and resentment at Rupert’s stupidity welling up into total fury. “And typical of a coward who would allow a friend to fight for him.”
Rupert roared out an oath in German, whipped out his light dress sword, and whirled on Edward. It was blocked by a sabre, the fighting dagger poised.
Edward bowed. “Your servant, sire. Is this to first blood or to the death? I care little either way.”
With customary coolness, Prince Maurice stepped between them. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, this is most unseemly. Brawling in hot blood does not honour either side.” He let a silence hang in the air for a few seconds and continued. “Could I suggest a ‘training bout’, with blunt—”
“Never! I will have blood for this,” cut in Rupert snarling, his fine raiment and feathered hat incongruous against the dusty stable buildings and steaming midden.
“Then it should be done to code of honour,” said Maurice formally. “My brother, Prince Rupert of Palatine, Duke of Cumberland, has issued a challenge?”
Rupert nodded, almost unperceptively, eyes unwavering, locked on Edward.
“Sir Edward, you accept?”
“I am eager to oblige the prince,” replied Edward.
“Then, sir, you have choice of weapon,” declared Maurice. He turned to Rupert. “You agree to this, Prince Rupert?”
“Aye, any weapon open to a gentleman, sword or pistol.”
“I propose any war sword. My choice is a sabre and dagger.”
“Rapier is my choice,” spat Prince Rupert. And to the equerry, “Anderson, may I beg the loan of your weapon? I want no delay in settling this.”
“Hold, sir,” cut in Maurice. “I am your equal in birth and rank. This yard is my ‘ground’ so I command the field of honour. You will retire and return in two hours after noon. In that time we may appoint seconds—”
“Who will ‘second’ that oafish ploughboy?” scoffed Rupert.
“I will if necessary!” said Maurice vehemently. “I will not have it said that our family denied an opponent a fair fight.”
Two hours passed and as expected there was no hint of a reconciliation or withdrawal by either party. Prince Maurice and one of Prince Rupert’s attendants acted as marshals.
“You will fight until one of you yields. If a man is wounded and cannot stand en-guard, he is defeated. I will call rest after two minutes.”
“That’s realistic,” called out Edward scornfully. “Please, Mr Cromwell, can we rest? My arm aches!”
“Silence. My ground, my rules!” shouted Maurice.
He and Anderson stood with drawn swords crossed between the combatants.
“Begin!”
The speed of Prince Rupert’s first lunge caught Edward unaware. He was moving back and had his sabre locked on the handguard of the prince’s sword but still received a hit on the chest, drawing blood.
“My hit!” called Rupert triumphantly, retiring back to his start point.
“Do you yield, sir?” asked Maurice, again adopting the formal tone.
“Never,” replied Edward. “A pinprick!”
The warning ‘pinprick’ taught Edward to treat Prince Rupert with more respect, parrying or blocking the lunges, beating the prince’s sword down with his heavier sabre. His defence tactics frustrated the pure skill of the prince who began to tire under the repeated shock of Edward’s blows.
“Time!” called Maurice.
They rested and resumed, Edward merely defending and battering, occasionally deflecting the point of thrust with the dagger and cracking his own blade down onto the prince’s sword, numbing blows that were draining the strength from Rupert’s arm. His hat, with its beautiful peacock feathers, had long since fallen and lay trampled in the dust.
“Fight, damn you!” called Rupert, and launched a last desperate thrust, all finesse gone due to his fatigue.
Edward turned the sword point away with his dagger, shoving Rupert to his right. A full swinging blow with the sabre struck into Rupert’s unguarded right side. The onlookers gasped in dismay, but at the last instant Edward had turned his arm to strike with the flat of the blade. Instead of a killing stroke it only broke ribs and dropped Prince Rupert to his knees. The fight was again stopped.
“Do you yield, brother? Please,” begged Maurice in his role as marshal.
“Never!” Rupert struggled to his feet, barely able to grip the rapier for the pain in his right side.
“Try your left hand,” said Edward. “To be fair, I will do the same.”
Rupert was hardly able to muster a credible defence, and Edward struck swiftly high up on the left shoulder, the blade penetrating through muscle and out of his back.
“Hold!” shouted Maurice, dropping his sword and leaping to his brother’s aid. “Surgeon, here!”
The doctor looked stunned, unable to react. Maurice had fought in many battles; seen death many times without panic. He had his hand clamped down over the wound trying to slow the bleeding. Someone rifled in the doctor’s bag for pads and bandage.
“Am I dying?” gasped Prince Rupert.
“No. No artery is severed. No vital organ punctured.”
“Is it still bleeding?”
“Just seeping,” replied Maurice, forcing calmness into his voice despite his concern for his brother. “I am sure it will heal in time.”
