‘I do not spy, Mistress,’ the clerk responded calmly. ‘I attend to my master's business, and have done so since he was a boy. I have his full confidence.’
And I do not. Henrietta fumed inwardly, recognising the gibe.
‘Now, would you like to know his purpose in London?’ He was deliberately taunting her, tormenting her with his superior knowledge, but Henrietta's need to know, her love for Matthew, was greater than her pride. ‘Thank you, Cobham,’ she said with an outward show of civility. She could not afford to let him see his power over her. ‘I should like to know the details. My husband was in some haste, as you saw.’
Now he had the upper hand Cobham allowed himself a thin, superior smile. ‘He has gone to fight.’
‘Fight? Fight what? Cobham, stop tormenting me and tell me all.’
Any other man would have been moved by the distress in her voice and on her face. But not Cobham, a man who, she was certain, believed firmly that all women were the agents of the Devil and a barely necessary evil and that she was a Royalist strumpet with her low-cut gowns and her wanton curls.
‘Do you tell me you have not heard that the country is at arms once more? Did you not know that traitor Charles Stuart has brought down the Scottish barbarians on our heads?’
‘War? We are at war again? How can this be? I had heard rumours, of course, but there have been rumours abounding these last two years, we have learned to discount them.’
‘This is no rumour. A great battle was fought at Worcester seven days past. The news has just reached us from London.’ Cobham was peering at her face in the gathering twilight like a cat watching a mouse hole.
‘What happened? Who are the victors?’ It was incredible, she could hardly comprehend it. The King returned, with Scottish troops, it seemed, and enough force to engage the Parliamentary army in battle. ‘I asked you, man, who has won this battle?’
Cobham smiled again, this time with a triumph that gave her the answer. ‘The forces of evil were overcome and cast down! The Scottish hordes he had brought down like wolves on the innocent flocks of the righteous were slaughtered by the strong arm of God and General Cromwell.’ He could have been preaching to a Puritan congregation, his voice rising in exhortation.
‘The King?’ Henrietta demanded, ignoring the feeling of faintness that gripped her.’ What of him?’
‘The traitor Charles Stuart, son of that man of blood, fled the field of battle,’ Cobham's lip curled in disgust. ‘His capture cannot be far off, then he will be dealt with as was his father. So perish all traitors!’
So, the King was alive, had escaped. The fighting was over. Relief flooded through her. Surely the network of loyal subjects would see Charles got safe out of the country. And Matthew, her Matthew, would not have to fight. Why then had he left so precipitately?
‘Why has my husband left Winterbourne if the fighting is over?’ she demanded. ‘What have you not told me?’
‘Over? I did not say it was over. The battle of Worcester is won, but armed insurgents roam the countryside and their generals, if determined, could rally them again. God knows when we shall see peace in this benighted land once more.’ He shook his grizzled head sorrowfully, the evangelical fervour gone from his voice, an elderly and almost pathetic figure.
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‘But Matthew – why does he go to London?’
‘To be where he is most needed. Parliament requires men such as he at this time of peril.’
‘Then he will fight?’ Henrietta persisted, her head suddenly swimming. The yard was swirling, filled with the noise and clamour of battle, horses screaming, the clash of steel, the smell of smoke and blood.
*
‘Mistress, Henrietta… Oh, Robert, I do not think she can hear me. She must have struck her head as she fell.’
The smell of smoke was still rank in Henrietta's nostrils. She jerked her head away, a sharp pain lanced through her temples and she was aware of smooth, cool linen under her cheek.
‘The Lord be praised!’ Alice said tearfully. ‘She is alive. Robert, pass me more burning feathers to rouse her.’
‘No…’ Henrietta struggled to open her eyes. The room was blurred, as were the pale faces hovering above her. She recognised Alice and Robert but the rest were indistinct. ‘Alice, where am I? Is the battle over?’
‘Battle, Mistress?’ Alice turned to Robert. ‘She has addled her brain. We must send for a surgeon. Send Dick to Aylesbury.’
‘She is just confused,’ Robert said soothingly, taking Henrietta's hands in his. ‘It is all right, the battle is long over and Sir Matthew gone but an hour. He is quite safe. Now, lie still and drink this.’ He took a cup from his wife's hand and held it to Henrietta's lips, his arm round her shoulders to support her.
Obediently Henrietta sipped the fragrant, mint-scented cordial. The room was coming back into focus and she could discern the anxiety on the face of the servants gathered round the bed. Robert gently laid her back on the pillows, but even so she cried out in pain as her head touched the linen.
‘Let me see her!’ Mistress Clifford pushed aside the group around the bed in her haste. Henrietta realised she must be at the Home Farm, for her aunt was panting with the speed with which she had come to her side. ‘Beloved child, my sweet Henrietta – why, you are as pale as the pillow!’ Gently she probed the thick hair to find the lump where Henrietta's head had struck the cobbles of the yard.
‘What happened?’ Henrietta managed to ask, wincing even under the delicate touch. ‘I can remember Cobham telling me of the battle, then all else is blank. How did I get here?’