‘I fought with Parliament. It was no rebellion.’ There was a warning in his voice but she chose not to heed it.
‘Against the King?’ Why had she n
ot realised he would have been a solider? The great Roman-nosed grey was so obviously a cavalry horse and Matthew was no thin-blooded clerk to skulk in his chambers while the country took up arms for a cause he believed in. She had known in her heart, but she had chosen not to face it, not to press it when he had evaded her questions earlier.
‘Against the King's tyranny, madam.’ His eyes were growing angry now, hard as emerald, the lines of his face tautening as he fought to control his words.
‘I am sorry, Matthew, I did not seek to cross you.’ This was awful, arguing with the man she loved, moments after he'd left her bed. And he was her husband so it was her duty to respect his opinions, even if she couldn't share them. ‘But how could you be slashed by a pikeman if you were in the cavalry? Surely only foot-soldiers...?’
‘You think gentlemen fight with swords only and get nice, clean wounds which heal into scars that leave no effect on the body or the mind?’ His voice was harsh, his bleak face frightened her.
‘I know some of the common soldiers suffered badly, but surely that was not the fate of gentlemen such as you?’ She was pleading with him, willing him to say it was not so.
‘War is no respecter of class or quality, Henrietta,’ he flung at her. ‘You have a strangely idealistic view of slaughter and mutilation.’
Henrietta flinched. ‘I know these things happened. After all, Robert lost his arm.’
‘And I suppose he came home when it was healed. Thinner perhaps and paler, with his sleeve pinned up but otherwise little different on the outside. Do you think he would tell you or Alice what that battlefield was really like? The days of agony he endured after the ministrations of some clumsy surgeon with his saws and knives? What he, and what I, see when we close our eyes and think of it?’
He took her arm and shook her. ‘Well, I'll tell you. At Newbury it was like a butcher's shambles – men dying in terror and pain in the mud, cries for help where no help could be given except for a merciful sword-cut across the throat, disembowelled horses, men trapped beneath them, dying or dead, limbs hewn off in pools of blood. And always the noise, the clamour of battle, the shouting and screaming and the clash of steel.’
He broke off, as she swayed, feeling the colour leach from her face. ‘What’s the matter, Henrietta? Did you not realise what your King had unleashed on his suffering people?’
‘Newbury?’ In that sea of horrors it was the only word her mind could grasp. Her lips were stiff, but she had to ask the question. ‘Which battle? The first or the second?’
‘What does it matter?’ He flung away from her, the robe swirling around his ankles. ‘Each battle was as bad as the others for those who fought in it.’
‘I must know.’ She followed him across the room. ‘First or second?’
‘Second. The Second Battle of Newbury in the year of Our Lord 1644. What is it to you?’
Henrietta felt the floor shift beneath her feet and caught hold of the bed-hangings for support. ‘That was the battle where my father died.’ The words came slowly, from between stiff lips. ‘I know you think me foolish, innocent, but until this moment I had no idea he died like that… in a bloody shambles. How could I know?’
It was his turn to lose his colour. He made as if to reach her but she flinched away angrily. ‘Don't touch me! For all I know you were the one who killed him, cut him down to die in the mud.’
It was Matthew now who flinched as if the accusation were a knife in her hands. ‘Henrietta, there were sixteen thousand men on that field.’
‘And James,’ Her voice shook and broke. ‘He rode away in his armour and plumes, so young and fine, thinking only of honour and glory. He too must have died like that, like a dog in a ditch.’
The silence between them hung deep and heavy in the sunlit room. She was willing him to take back the words, tell her he was embroidering the truth through anger.
‘I wish I could lie to you, tell you it was not so, but I will not betray those who died on those battlefields. You are not a child now. You are a woman, Henrietta; I made you so last night and there are things you must face.’ All at once the anger had gone from his voice, replaced by a deep sorrow. ‘Why do you think I want peace for my country now, for our children? Do you want this senseless slaughter to go on and on?
‘Do you want young Marcus Willoughby butchered on a field somewhere in the middle of England? Because, Henrietta, make no bones about it, if you and your Royalist friends agitate, hope and plot for the return of the King, it will all happen again.’ She realised he had opened his heart to her, spoken of things he'd vowed never to utter. ‘I was a fool to think I could alter the strength of your sympathies by telling you the truth. It was too deeply ingrained in your upbringing, reinforced by the sacrifices of your father and brothers. Why should one night with me change that?’ Matthew strode to the door, wrenching it open.
‘Matthew, please come back.’
‘I think you need time for reflection, Henrietta. I find it illuminating that after our wedding night your first thoughts are still for your father and brother – and the King’s cause. Let me remind you, Lady Sheridan, from now on my loyalties are yours.’
‘Sir,’ she flared, all her love and compassion for him consumed in a flame of anger and guilt. ‘You cannot command my conscience, not now, nor in the future.’ She felt Matthew's furious gaze rake her figure from her dishevelled hair and flushed cheeks to her bare toes revealed by the disordered nightrobe.
‘Think again, madam, before I remind you tonight that I can command everything else.’ The door shut behind him with the finality of a hammer-blow.
Henrietta sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the hangings on the opposite wall. The vivid hunting scenes swam in and out of focus as she blinked back tears. I will not be weak. I will not weep. How could all that warmth and tenderness and passion have turned into ugliness, violence, mistrust? And in the midst of all her misery there was a nagging burr of doubt. What if Matthew was right and she and everything she'd been brought up to believe was wrong?
What if her father and James had died bloodily, not just in vain, but for the wrong cause?
The door opened slowly. Henrietta was on her feet in an instant, hope surging that he had come back, that all would be well between them, then sank back drearily when Letty's cautious face appeared.