Royalist On The Run. Helen Dickson
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referred to with a stirring of unease. Why this should be she couldn’t say. After all, John was dead—he had to be dead. After all, had she not buried him? she thought with a stirring of alarm—and if the man was a relation then it didn’t concern her. On that thought she put it out of her mind, but there were moments when she least expected it that it surfaced to cause her further unease.
* * *
Information began to filter through that there was fierce fighting in and around the city of Worcester. The days were spent in an agony of mounting tension for everyone at Bircot Hall. Passing travellers provided worrying news that Charles Stuart was besieged within its defensive walls by Cromwell’s army. They heard that Cromwell had broken through and of vicious fighting in the streets, which ran with blood.
Arabella felt fear stab at her. Where were Stephen and Edward? She couldn’t bear to think that they might be wounded or lying unattended and in pain somewhere on the streets of Worcester or on the battlefield, or even worse—killed. It was impossible to find out. There was nothing she could do, nothing any of them could do but wait as one anxious day ran into another.
* * *
It was almost dark. The children were in bed and, feeling the need for some fresh air before going to bed herself, Arabella went outside. Everything gleamed wetly after the shower of rain they’d had earlier and a breeze was tearing the clouds apart to reveal glimpses of the brightly shining stars. After strolling round the courtyard she was about to go inside the house, but on hearing the sound of horse’s hooves on the stone paving, she looked towards the gatehouse though which a horse and rider emerged, leading another horse.
‘Edward,’ she whispered, her heart leaping with sudden joy and relief. It was three weeks since they had left—an eternity of waiting. Her eyes passed to the horse he was leading. A man was slumped over its back. Her stomach lurched and she whispered her brother’s name, ‘Stephen.’ He appeared to be unconscious.
Lifting her skirts, she ran towards them in alarm. Bringing the horses to a halt, Edward dismounted quickly.
‘Edward—oh, thank goodness you are back.’ Emotions tumbled within her as, still shaken from his sudden arrival, she was so very glad to see him even though she knew his presence and that of her brother meant danger for them all. Not wanting him to read these sentiments in her eyes, she turned her attention to her brother. ‘Is Stephen badly injured?’
With a week’s growth of beard and his clothes stained and torn with the traumas of battle, the mud and blood having dried on them long since, Edward nodded. His face was grey and strained with exhaustion, his eyes bloodshot, bleak and darkly circled. ‘He has a musket ball in his chest. He’s lost a great deal of blood and needs attending to at once. We managed to escape in the aftermath of the battle. It’s taken us two days to get here. Roundheads are crawling all over the place. He’s been unconscious for the past five hours.’
‘Sam,’ Arabella called over her shoulder. ‘Come and help. It’s Stephen—he’s wounded.’
‘The horses are conspicuous,’ Edward said. ‘Have someone put them out of sight, as far away from the house as possible, and rub them down. If they are found, they will raise suspicion and questions will be asked. They will also be sequestered by the Parliamentary army.’
Together the two men lifted Stephen from the horse, nearly falling under the weight. Tom, Sam’s young son, took the mounts’ reins and led them away as Alice came running out of the house to see what all the commotion was about. On seeing her injured brother being hauled along and the large bloodstain on his buff coat, she assessed the situation immediately.
‘Bring him inside. We must get him upstairs and into bed.’
Managing to get him up the stairs, Edward and Sam set their burden down in a bedchamber. While Alice went to fetch the things she would need to tend her brother’s wound, with Sam’s help Edward worked frantically to remove Stephen’s blood-soaked clothing.
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