Exchange of Love, page 28
Edward walked over to the injured prince. “Well fought, sire,” he said reluctantly. “I am wrong in one thing: you have no shortage of courage.”
“Just a lack of skill and practice,” gasped Rupert, despair and pain twisting his face. “A sad day when King’s men fight each other.”
“A sad day in a sad year,” replied Edward. “All is lost so make it no worse, sir. Remember your words: I will surrender Bristol and leave England—”
“Get out, Peverell,” said Prince Maurice, looking up. He had cut away Rupert’s waistcoat and shirt and was trying to bandage over the entry and exit wounds. “For God’s sake, get out of my house and leave Bristol!”
“I seek to challenge Peverell,” pronounced Anderson, “in the prince’s name.”
“No, enough of this,” retorted Maurice. “A duel between men of honour is bad enough. We will have no vendettas.”
“And no more futile loss of life,” proclaimed Edward. “The prince has given his word on that.”
Edward turned to leave, thinking only of returning to Penny.
CHAPTER 37
In Penny’s bed John plunged into a maelstrom of lust and confusion. The passion of their first surrender to all his pent-up emotion and frustrations left him gasping for breath. Penny lay as if lifeless, motionless with her legs clasped around his back, her arms clamped around his neck.
“Oh, John, John,” were the only words she uttered in a breathless voice.
He couldn’t speak as shudders of excitement rippled through his body. His senses reeled and he drifted in time and space between his world and Penny’s. He had no idea if he slept or hallucinated until Penny roused him to love her again, and again and again. Time passed – days. He must have eaten and drunk, slept and left the bed, but he had no sensation of that. Only the continual incessant sex with Penny. She did things to him that he had never imagined and demanded extreme treatment in return. Like a stag in the rut, his mind was filled with one idea only.
In between the action he saw, or imagined, scenes in Penny’s world and his own: Edward fighting a form of duel, battering a prince into submission until he was totally demoralised; Judith sitting with a middle-aged man in a French restaurant, sipping wine, chatting and smiling a sad unconvincing smile. It was easy to see that the elegant man was not interested in Judith or even attempting to show sincerity, only impatient to take a younger woman upstairs to their hotel room. Before even a pang of jealousy or anger could start, Penny had shaken John awake, rousing him for yet another lust-driven encounter.
He collapsed back into semi-consciousness, exhausted by his endeavours. He saw Simon with Nancy, gently and affectionately making love after Simon returned from Amsterdam, far removed from the flippant ‘doing it when we remember’ that Nancy had commented to Judith.
He saw Charlie standing, fighting back tears until finally he broke down into heartrending sobs, then to be scooped up into Simon’s arms – Nancy hugging them both. Someone had died? Oh, God, he hoped it wasn’t Judith.
“Cousin John, you are not going to disappoint me, are you?”
John finally came back to full consciousness, utterly spent, confused and hungry. He was in a curtained, four-poster bed. Penny sat naked and cross-legged beside him, gently stroking his chest.
“You are back with me at last,” she said softly. “I feared you would never wake, or just slip off to your world, your time.”
He did not answer, trying desperately to re-orientate his senses. “How long?” he asked weakly. “How long have I been here with you?”
“A few days.” She leaned over, brushing her nipples along his chest, moving to kiss his lips. “It has been so good; you have been so good to me. Now I have une aventure amoureuse to match Edward’s!”
John looked at her anew: the broad almost man-like shoulders and strong face – handsome rather than pretty. He supposed powerful legs that could clamp around him so tightly came from horse riding, but how had she developed her strong arms? Even men did not do weight training in that era.
“I hope you like what you see. You look at me intently!”
John forced a smile. “I do. For the first time I see you, not a romantic dream.”
“I am not romantic, just real.” She chuckled, her hair all wild, but still beautiful. “Real, with real needs!” Penny continued caressing his chest and arms. “You are so smooth, no hair, not like Edward. More like a girl than a man.” She moved her hand down his body. “But for all that,” she continued, “you are truly a man, as you have proved. You must have made your Judith very happy.”
“Not happy enough,” he replied bitterly. “Not happy enough for her to trust me and stay with me.”
“You still love her, don’t you?” Penny asked.
For a while he didn’t answer, though he knew that she was right. He truly loved Judith with deep affection. With Penny, it had been about nothing but sex and fascination – the forbidden fruit.
“As I still love Edward,” Penny was whispering, her eyes full of tears.
CHAPTER 38
The only instinct in John’s mind was to get back home to his flat and sleep. As he stumbled slowly through the modern, newly refurbished office area of Peverell House he was not sure if he was fit to drive. Looking into one of the computer workrooms, deserted and with all machines switched off, he realised it must be late. His watch had been scrambled into re-set mode but a wall clock, glimpsed from outside the office, showed seven thirty. It felt much later. He tottered out to his van, noticing it seemed dusty – contractors working nearby? The engine started reluctantly.
The mobile phone was still in its ‘hands free’ mode but dead, its battery now flat. It picked up, charging from the van, and beeped repeatedly from a stream of messages, texts and missed calls. The date showed Saturday August 17th, the time 19.57 p.m. John counted back.
“No, it’s impossible! Five days… I could not be in her bedroom for five days…” He remembered the diary that had sent Judith away – all that sex and perversion. He shivered with a reaction. It could not be possible. His exhausted body told him it was. He felt delirious, unable to focus on the present.
Sometime later, he had recovered enough to ease the van out from Peverell House and drive back to Bath. Not to his workshop, where the van was normally kept, but direct to the flat in Henrietta Park where trade vehicles were discouraged and his little Fiesta was sneered at. Inside, he raided the freezer for burgers, sausages, oven chips and peas for a hurried meal – he had to eat and sleep. Shave, shower, shit and sleep slipped into his mind as some form of mantra.
“Christ, John! What’s happened to you? Where have you been?”
Judith stood over him as he slouched at the table in a deep slumber, head beside the greasy remains of his meal. John forced his eyes to open. Judith, in a dark grey skirt and jacket, stood glowering at him across the table.
“We’ve all been so worried.”
“I bet.” John, still dazed, tried to think of excuses, an explanation.
“Where have you been?” There was a pleading tone in her voice.
“Cotswold Way, walking. I wanted to get away.”
“Bollocks, John. Your hike boots and walking poles were in the hall.”
“OK, OK. Be satisfied: I was back in the past, fulfilling the prophesy of Penny Peverell’s diary. That’s what you wanted. It’s happened!”
“No, John,” Judith said shakily, “I couldn’t accept anything like—”
“You just buggered off to France, no contact. You’ve got what you wanted and come back to gloat.”
“You didn’t have to do it.”
“No? My hopes dashed, love scorned.” God, he sounded like a soap opera, even to himself! “You know I fancied her, you’ve seen her portrait. Sod it, woman, you threw me to the wolves!” He slumped at the table again. “Sorry, out of order. I need sleep.” Eventually, he staggered to his feet. “I’m off to bed, must sleep.”
Judith moved to steady him and he realised the impact of the food and beer. He was almost too weak to move.
“You can’t go to bed like that, John. You stink! When did you last shower? Let me get the worst off that beard, and at least have a shower for Christ’s sake.”
He nodded and slid back onto the chair. Judith’s practical side took over as she sheared off the matted stubble with a hair trimmer and propelled him into the bathroom.
Half an hour later, John was characteristically snoring in bed while Judith sobbed, broken-hearted, at his kitchen table. She had half expected Ron’s death, so it was no real shock, not like her dad’s. An excuse to come home from France for Ron’s funeral; support the family, show respect, and all that. She had hoped for hugs, kisses and reconciliation with John, pick up the pieces. But, like John had said, she had abandoned him, thrown him to the wolves – well, the she-wolf. Judith’s despair grew as she remembered all his attempts at contacting her. She’d been hateful to him, unjust. Then stupid bloody Nancy had sent him to Peverell House and he’d been drawn back into the past and spat out like sucked fruit. Judith had seen grip marks and scratches on his back as she helped him into the shower; bites on his neck when he came out. What sort of woman was Penny Peverell? What sort of demented woman would have shot her husband’s portrait in a jealous rage and yet every entry in her diary said she loved him? Then Edward’s away less than a week and she’s turned into some sort of sex fiend with another man and even writes the details in her diary?
As Judith churned everything over and over, there was still a hope, just a hope, that she might be able to salvage something with John. They’d had so much going for them; the companionship they had built, even planning a family together. She could not risk leaving the flat, could not risk John just shutting her out of his life the way she had left him when she’d ‘buggered off to France’. Anger with John and her own guilt kept her awake for hours until eventually she fell into a fitful sleep on the living room settee, still praying they would be able to work something out in the morning.
CHAPTER 39
For the first few hours John slept deeply, then roused and checked his watch. Judith must have reset it for him. He realised she was still in the living room, but couldn’t face going out to see her. He drifted back to interrupted sleep and a series of vivid dreams.
John was standing by the duelling ground. Two men in seventeenth-century finery were fighting with swords while others watched. One was Edward Peverell…
Suddenly it was over. Edward thrust; blood sprayed from his opponent’s shoulder.
“Hold, it is enough!” shouted a young man incongruously dressed in decorated striped trousers and a ruffled white shirt. “Surgeon, here! Prince Rupert is wounded.” Instantly he was on his knees, rendering emergency battlefield first aid to Prince Rupert.
As the prince’s shirt was ripped off, they could see a grievous open wound high up on Rupert’s left shoulder. It bled profusely despite the pressure applied with a field dressing. The doctor stood bemused while men accustomed to war took charge.
It had been a savage, merciless beating. Any one of the visible sword hits could have been pressed home to a death blow. The civilised Edward Peverell, who John thought he had half come to know, had beaten the prince into a humiliating wreck. Why?
“I took no pleasure in this, John Jackson,” said Edward as he stood next to John. “Help me with this coat. He near did for me with his first thrust and my left arm is stiffening.”
John gasped in surprise. He was back in the past again. He managed to utter, “Why? You could have finished this at any time.”
“As I said, I took no pleasure in it, I assure you. A dishonourable affair.” Edward shook his head, freeing his shoulder-length hair from the coat collar. “I was sorely tempted, I tell you, but killing Prince Rupert would change nothing. His idiot commanders would still try to hold out against Cromwell’s trained army and forty cannon. I’d hang for nothing. I had to totally break his spirit; demoralise him into accepting all is lost; get him to surrender Bristol with no more senseless carnage.”
Just then, Prince Maurice shouted at Edward. “Get out! Go! I never want to see you again.”
The awful vision began to fade.
“Before my patience snaps!”
In Peverell House, John saw Penny sitting at her writing desk, contemplating her diary, tears of remorse and shame streaming down her face.
“Oh, Edward! It all went too far. How will you ever forgive me?”
As this picture faded, another coalesced. Judith was lying awake on the settee of his flat, staring vacantly into the darkness. He tried to speak to her, but couldn’t get words to come. He knew he was still dreaming in some drowsy state, restlessly falling in and out of sleep, with thoughts and images jumbled inside his head, imagining the present and reaching across years and centuries of long ago.
Now John was riding beside Edward, who was on his way back from Bristol to Peverell House, and desperate to see Penny. Impossible. John had never ridden a horse, was terrified of the animal, more so than cows with calves, or savage dogs. Ahead of them came cries for mercy, gunshots and screams. A party of travellers were being robbed at gunpoint. Four Royalist soldiers with levelled muskets threatened pedlars while two others loaded their fallen packs into a small mule cart.
“Halt, in the king’s name!” roared Edward, spurring his horse towards them, drawing both heavy pistols despite his wound.
The muskets turned to aim at Edward and John. Edward fired two shots: two hits, one fatal. In shock, John realised he was looking directly down the barrel of a matchlock musket only fifty metres away. He saw small puffs of smoke as the match descended, then a violent explosion of smoke from the muzzle. As the sound reached him, the ball shot smashed low into Edward’s leg; another hit somewhere on his chest rocking him sideways in the saddle. Somehow Edward turned the maddened horse back down the road, seeking safety in distance and a steep slope. He was out of range and out of sight from the assailants, but as John watched helplessly, Edward slewed awkwardly in his saddle, attempted to recover, but toppled off into the drainage ditch beside the road. It was almost dry this late in the summer, and grasses and rushes grew up higher than a man. Edward disappeared without trace; the horse ran on. John was rooted to the spot, horrified. He was now standing on foot. Where was his own horse?
More shouts and screams, another shot. The pedlars had seized the advantage from Edward’s charge and were using staves and knives to exact a pitiless revenge. Two musket men fled, abandoning the discarded weapons; another was clubbed to the ground and battered repeatedly. The man Edward had wounded was hauled up by his arms and his throat cut.
Sickened, John turned away, trudging back along the road, searching for Edward. The road had changed, becoming rocky and steep. There was no ditch, no Edward. Even in the dream, the killings were real. Very real.
John woke in a frenzy of sweat and despair at three thirty a.m. Not yet dawn. He could hear Judith snoring, comfortingly real and familiar. Thoughtfully, she had left a drink of water beside the bed for him. He sipped it gratefully, slowly recovering, trying to understand what was real and what was a nightmare.
There was no record of Prince Rupert fighting a duel in Bristol, or anywhere else. Certainly he had not been killed, and had left for France after only a token defence of Bristol. He had surrendered it without any real fight. Rupert was still alive when Charles II was restored to the throne.
“God, history at three o’clock in the morning!” John rubbed his eyes wearily.
He thought of Penny crying. Was it over Edward’s death or her passion with me? He listened to Judith snoring until, gradually, he settled into a restful, dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER 40
John woke early as usual, but didn’t leap directly up and into the shower. Instead he lay in bed, trying to understand what had happened to him. Why was he so exhausted? Were all those dreams just dreams, or visions of reality? Worst of all, why had he and Judith been so at each other last night? He had needed time to eat sensibly, freshen up and sleep, not a suspicious inquisition. After all, it was she who had left him.
John slowly slid from the bed, crept to the door and peeped out like some furtive teenager spying on a girl. Judith was still noisily asleep on the settee, head on a cushion, legs draped over the arm rest at the other end. Her knee joints would feel wrecked when she did wake up.
He showered again and sprayed himself liberally with a deodorant that Judith had left in the flat. Then he shaved carefully, more spray, and dressed quickly in t-shirt and shorts. Time to act nonchalant and hearty: no problems, thanks for last night, see you sometime and get her to leave before either one of them lost their temper. There were so many questions he wanted to ask Judith about France: why was she back, and for how long? Most of all, he needed to question himself.
With forced confidence, John strode out of the bedroom. The cheery hello died on his lips as he saw her forlorn state and smudged, tear-streaked face. She had taken off the tight skirt and the jacket and lay in her blouse and pants like a crumpled, half-dressed doll, with one arm dangling off the seat cushions. It was not cold and already sun streamed in at the wide balcony windows. Last night neither of them had bothered to draw the curtains. Absurdly, his first thought was to fetch a duvet to cover her over. He had started toward the bedroom.
“Morning, John,” Judith said crisply. “Where are you creeping off to?”
“I was going to get you a cover.”
“Bit late for that.” She wobbled from the settee.
He hesitated to steady her. “You OK?”
“Yeah, cramp. Knees are still asleep.”
They stared at each other uneasily.
