Beloved Enemy, page 28
A clap of thunder and the heavens opened on them as they lay spent and breathless on the grass. Ginny began to laugh weakly, opening her mouth to catch the hard drops. “At least, now, my soaked condition will cause no comment.” Spread-eagled, arms stretched wide, she reveled in the sensation as the rain beat down upon her filled and satisfied body.
Alex groaned as he looked at her and felt lust stirring again. “Such a glorious wanton, you are, my Ginny. Never could I have imagined being so in thrall. If I do not leave you now, we will remain forever in the rain on the banks of this river.”
“Why not?” Ginny asked softly. “Put duty behind you for one short afternoon.”
“I cannot. Do not tempt me.” He began to dress swiftly in his rain-soaked clothes while she continued to lie on the grass taking her rain bath. When he was dressed, he bent over her, pulling her firmly to her feet. “You must not catch cold, chicken. Hurry back and change; the temperature will drop rapidly when the storm abates.” He kissed the corner of her mouth, then said with quiet gravity, “I meant it, Ginny, about your going into the camp again. We may have made peace, but it alters nothing of what I have said.”
It was pointless to reopen the argument, and she shrugged in mute resignation, bending to pick up her kirtle. Alex left, running through the rain, and Ginny dressed and made her way back to headquarters, laughing good-naturedly at the gibes her soaked condition invited from Diccon and the young officers taking shelter in the kitchen.
Something was going to have to be done, Ginny resolved, emerging pink-cheeked from the towel she had been using to rub the water from her hair. How to convince that most infuriatingly stubborn man that in this instance he was quite wrong? Initially, he had had good reason for his edict, but those reasons no longer applied. If he wouldn’t listen to her, though, how could she convince him of that? The problem lay entirely in the way he perceived military authority. The issue now was simply one of an order that had to be obeyed without question and for the sake of it. While that form of self-discipline was all very well for soldiers, whose lives and those of others might well depend on implicit obedience, it had no relevance for Ginny. She was needed in the camp, and not even General Marshall was going to deprive those who needed it of her expertise.
The storm passed by late afternoon, leaving the air cool and fresh, the sky a clean-washed, brilliant blue. Ginny went in search of Jed, having the firm conviction that the old soldier’s wisdom in this matter would prove illuminating.
She found him in the stableyard, sitting on an upturned rainwater butt, cleaning tack. “Afternoon, Jed,” she greeted him casually, fetching a three-legged milking stool from the barn and sitting down beside him. “That was a powerful storm.”
“Aye,” he grunted, spitting on the saddle resting across his knees and rubbing the saliva into the leather energetically. “ ’Bout time, I’d say. Tempers was gettin’ short.”
“Yes,” Ginny agreed, picking up a bit and dipping it in the bucket of water, rubbing with her fingers at the green-flecked stains made by Bucephalus’ mouth. “And, on that subject, the general and I had a ... disagreement.”
“Ah?” Jed’s faded brown eyes shot her a shrewd look. “Found out about visitin’ the camp, did he?”
Ginny took the bit from the water and reached for a cloth, beginning to shine the metal with the intent concentration she brought to most activities. “He says that if I go there again, he’ll put me in solitary confinement on bread and water for two days.”
“Humph,” murmured Jed in his customary laconic fashion.
“Do you think he would?” Ginny asked almost nonchalantly.
“Like as not,” replied Jed. “If ’n he said so.”
“Yes, that was rather what I thought,” Ginny agreed dolefully. “Well, what’s to be done, Jed? I cannot take the risk of defying him anymore, but the men need me.” She placed the now-shining bit with the rest of the clean tack and picked up a stirrup and leather, methodically rubbing at the dull leather with a damp cloth.
Jed was silent for a while, and Ginny, content to let him mull over the problem, continued with her task. “General says you can’t go to the men,” he pronounced eventually. “Nothin’ that says they can’t come to you.”
“What?” Ginny stopped working and looked at him, understanding dawning slowly. “You mean they could come to headquarters?”
“Don’t see why not,” Jed shrugged. “Give ’em a time posted in the camp when you’m available.”
“It just might work.” Ginny nodded thoughtfully. “And then, perhaps, that obstinate idiot will come to his senses.” She looked guiltily at Jed. “I beg your pardon, I should not talk to you in that manner of the general.”
Jed grinned. “Bit hard o’ hearin’ these days, mistress, particularly when it’s summat I already know.”
Ginny kissed him soundly on a leathery cheek, just as General Marshall on Bucephalus came clattering into the stableyard. “What did you do to deserve that, you old rogue?” he demanded cheerfully of Jed, swinging to the cobbles.
“Jed has more sense in his little finger than some I could mention in their entire bodies,” Ginny told him with a teasing smile. “There is a haunch of venison for dinner, so I hope you are all hungry.” The smile embraced the rest of the company who had ridden in with the general and was returned with the same natural warmth. Ginny went back to the kitchen to supervise the dinner preparations and put the final touches to the red-currant sauce, well satisfied with the outcome of her discussion with Jed.
The following morning, after breakfast, a trooper, barely a boy with no more than the lightest down on his chin, appeared at the kitchen door, bent double with griping stomach pains that a few questions elicited had begun after he had feasted on green plums from a neglected orchard in the village. He was a town lad from the north, and Ginny kept her caustic comments to herself as she mixed a herbal potion that would ease the gripes and keep him out of the latrines. No country-born boy would touch green fruit, but so many of these children had been flung into manhood and war before they had experienced anything beyond the four walls of home.
“Who was that?” Diccon inquired curiously, coming in from the yard.
Ginny told him, and then, because she could think of no good reason not to, explained the situation in its entirety. Diccon listened in some trepidation, wondering if simple knowledge would make him an accomplice. Ginny, guessing at his thoughts, laughed at him and told him he was a milksop to be concerned, but if he was afraid, he could keep out of the way when the men came in search of her.
Diccon bristled at this implicit accusation of cowardice and would have stomped off in a huff if Ginny hadn’t apologized, much as she would have done to Edmund in similar circumstances, and Diccon, placated, became quite pink-cheeked with pleasure—until Alex’s arrival in the kitchen sent him scurrying off with a muttered excuse.
“What the devil’s going on, Ginny?” Alex asked. “First, I find you kissing Jed, and now Diccon looks as if he’s just been given a glimpse of nirvana.”
“Well, it’s a little difficult to hold oneself aloof, when one is living in such close quarters,” Ginny replied, reasonably enough.
Alex looked at her closely. “You are up to no good,” he pronounced.
She smiled. “I cannot imagine what I could get up to here, surrounded by Parliament’s army. I dare swear I am the only Royalist for miles around.”
“That is what makes me uneasy,” he said. “I know that you cannot possibly find an outlet for your subversive inclinations, but there is something about you at the moment that sounds the alarm—”
“Beg your pardon, sir, but the patrol is ready.” Captain Baldwin provided the interruption, saluting smartly in the doorway.
“I am coming directly, Captain,” Alex responded, still frowning quizzically at Ginny ; then he shook his head in resignation. “I shall have to discover whatever it is later, I fear. We shall be back by sundown.”
When the patrol returned an hour before sunset, Alex received the answer to his question in full measure. A line of troopers trailed from the kitchen door of the inn out into the yard. They were an orderly group, chatting quietly amongst themselves, and at the sight of the general sprang to attention.
“Find out what the hell’s going on, will you?” Alex said in clipped words to Major Bonham before pushing past the troopers in the doorway and striding into the kitchen.
The youngster sitting on a stool at the table, his head bent as Ginny stood above him, a sharp object poised over his neck, leaped to his feet, stammering.
“Sit down!” Ginny said impatiently. “You should not make sudden moves when someone is about to stab you with a needle.”
“At ease, trooper,” Alex said, well aware that no blame for his presence in headquarters attached to the soldier. He said nothing to Ginny, merely sat down at the end of the table, one leg crossed over the other, and watched as she lanced the enormous boil on the soldier’s neck, squeezing out the poisonous matter until the blood ran, while her patient endured in stoic silence.
Major Bonham came into the room, intent on giving his general the required explanation for this extraordinary occurrence. Since it was immediately apparent that the explanation was not necessary, he asked General Marshall in an expressionless voice if he had any further orders, for instance, the dispersal of the men outside.
Ginny, in the process of anointing the trooper’s neck with a soothing salve, paused, her hands poised. Was Alex, the General Marshall of rigid principles and invincible purpose, beyond redemption? Would he see only the clever circumvention of his orders and not the need that justified the means? The man, Alex Marshall, would see the latter, but could that man be allowed to supersede the soldier?
“No, leave them be, Major,” Alex said slowly. “It is to be assumed that they have good reasons for being here.” He remained watching until the last man had gone and he had learned a good deal. While the general’s presence caused some awkwardness, not one of the men seemed to feel any with Ginny in whom they confided symptoms, painful, embarrassing, or trivial, with remarkable ease. She was cheerfully matter-of-fact, did not blench at the most repellent sores and infections, and dispensed advice freely and with earthy bluntness.
As the lady of a great house, she would have been responsible for the health and doctoring of her household and, frequently, the tenants, but Ginny’s skills and manner went far beyond such basic duty and ordinary training. The men treated her with the respect they would have afforded the wife of their liege lord, and the trust they would repose in someone who clearly had their interests at heart and knew beyond a shadow of doubt what she was doing.
When the kitchen was empty of all but themselves, Ginny began to put away her instruments and medicines, saying nothing to Alex who continued to sit at the table. He noticed how she washed everything with scrupulous care in boiling water, how she scrubbed her hands, and never had he seen anyone take this kind of care. He was no stranger to field hospitals, where one bloody body replaced another on the operating table, knives and probes were rarely even wiped between patients, blood-blackened bandages were replaced over suppurating wounds.
“Why do you concern yourself so much with cleanliness?” he asked eventually.
Ginny shrugged. “I do not know exactly why it should be so, but it seems that malignancy is less frequent if wounds are kept clean. A goodwife in Freshwater taught me much, and she was most insistent that cleanliness aided healing. But she did not know why, either.” She laughed. “It is simple enough to do and takes but little time, so I do it.” There was a short, but far from empty silence. Then she said, “Will the general permit me to continue doctoring his troops?”
“It seems the question should be, ‘Will the general with a good grace permit you to continue?’ ” Alex replied. “Since it is clear that the general cannot prevent you.”
“And will he?”
“Come here.”
When she came over to him, he pulled her down onto his knee. “Alex, anyone could walk in,” Ginny protested.
“Unlikely,” Alex said dryly, “since I am certain everyone is aware that you and I have something to discuss that does not require an audience.”
Ginny kissed his nose. “Is the general perhaps afraid that his consequence will suffer, if it is seen that I have defied him successfully?”
Alex smiled reluctantly. “If that were the case, I should be sorry for it. A short while ago, it probably was the case, but since an intractable gypsy entered my life, I have learned a few lessons. You may move freely among the men since you are clearly in no danger from them, and that was my only concern. However, you are not a free agent, chicken, not for as long as you follow the drum. There will be orders and restrictions, some of which you will not agree with, may not even understand, but you must agree to obey them, even if I do not have time to explain the reasons to your satisfaction.”
Ginny sat upon his knee and thought this over. “I will agree on condition that you do explain them as soon as you have the opportunity, and that you agree to hearken to my opinions, however disagreeable they may seem.” She punctuated the statement with a short, firm nod, pursing her lips.
Alex gave a shout of laughter. “You are a consummate negotiator, Mistress Courtney. There seems no end to your talents. We are agreed, then.” He tipped her off his knee and stood up, the laughter fading from his expression. “We begin the march to Scotland on the morrow. It will be arduous and frequently uncomfortable, sweeting. It is to be hoped you do not regret your choice.”
“I do not think there ever was a choice,” she said with equal gravity. “Did you not once say that I could no more leave you than you could leave me? I will follow you to the gates of hell, my love, whatever the differences that lie between us.”
Speechless, Alex took her in his arms, and they clung together in a moment of passionate confirmation that transcended all but the absolute commitment of a love that had come from nowhere, had not been sought, and could never be denied.
Part Two
That love would prove so hard a master
Chapter Sixteen
“God’s death, but this northern clime is fit only for the divil!” Giles Courtney tossed the fiery contents of a metal pannikin down his throat with a disgusted snarl and limped to the door of the thatched hovel, which provided insubstantial shelter from the rain sheeting down across the Northumbrian hills outside. Insubstantial, maybe, but its inhabitants were a deal luckier than the massed army dripping under canvas beyond the door.
“Take it easy, Giles. Have some more brandy.” Lord Peter Ottshore pushed the bottle across the table, exchanging a look with his companions. They could all sympathize with a man when an old wound, exacerbated by damp and cold, pained him anew. Giles Courtney had lain near death for nigh on two months, throughout the horrendous weeks of the retreat, and only a miracle had saved his leg. He was still far from strong, even after eighteen months holed up in the Scottish Highlands after the surrender of Oxford. But Courtney was a difficult man to sympathize with. He didn’t suffer with grace or courtesy, and was overly ready to use the injury as excuse to avoid duty.
“This is a miserable billet we have found, by the Lord’s name.” James, Duke of Hamilton, commander of the Royalist forces, pushed through the ill-fitting door, slapping a sodden gauntlet against the palm of his hand. He tossed his hat with its bedraggled curling feather into a corner, on the hard-packed earth floor. “It’s to be hoped we can get south of Durham before the rebels come up with us. That rabble out there,” he gestured contemptuously to the camp outside, “haven’t a soldier’s bone between them. We need all the time we can get to knock ’em into shape.”
“Raw recruits will be no match for the veterans of the New Model,” a fair-haired colonel agreed. “But it’s hard to drill them in this weather. Poor sods are soaked to the skin as it is, with small chance of getting dry.”
“Won’t do them any harm,” Giles Courtney said sourly. “It’s to be hoped they don’t turn tail and run at the first sight of Cromwell.”
“You’ve no cause to accuse them of cowardice, Courtney,” the duke of Hamilton said with an edge to his voice. “They’re untried, but no worse, and it’s encouragement they need, not unfounded criticism. Aren’t you officer of the watch?”
Giles Courtney flushed and muttered sullenly that he was, cramming his hat on his head before going out into the dismal evening. Eighteen months he had spent with this damned army, eighteen months of pain and discomfort with nothing to show for it but the prospect of a suicidal battle, throwing virgin recruits against the highly trained, disciplined veterans of Parliament’s New Model Army. If he had had any sense, he would have kept out of it from the beginning, but his damned wife had thrown the death of her father in his face, and even his mother, weeping though she was, had pointed out that he was the only able-bodied man for miles around who had not declared himself for the king. And just what the devil were his wife and mother doing now? Someone would have got a message through to them after Oxford that he had been wounded near to death, but the retreat had been such a disorderly scuttle to the north, no further messages had been possible. Had he been conscious, instead of half out of his senses with pain, he would have insisted on being conveyed back to Dorset, but he had been bundled along with the baggage, tormented by surgeons.... And now, whenever it rained, which it did without cease, the pain in his hip blossomed exquisitely, and no one gave a damn. Virginia had some skill, as he remembered. Not of the tender, womanly kind with soft murmurs and cool hands and absolute attention to his every wish, even before it was articulated, but she produced potions and ointments that had the power to alleviate.
Virginia, his wife, bound to him with the indissoluble ties of duty. But, somehow, she was not dutiful. He could not put his finger on it, but he knew it was so. She did not contradict him, she was obedient, she lay beneath him without a murmur, she waited on him and accorded him all the respect due to her husband. But she was not truly submissive, truly dutiful. His mother had seen it from the beginning, had attempted to cow her daughter-in-law, had encouraged her son to assert his mastery in whatever ways were necessary. But there was something about those gray eyes that had prevented him from using physical means of subjugation, that had scared him even as it challenged him. It would not do so in the future, he thought. War and wounds had toughened him, and no weak female challenge would prevail again. The image of her body flashed across his mind’s eye, and his loins stirred. He hadn’t had a woman for eighteen months. God willing he would get back to the one who belonged to him, who could be spread and taken whenever her lord desired....
