Cato glanced around. There was a copse at the back of the field. Their attackers might well give up, assuming their quarry would be well away by now, but then again they might seek a way around the hedge. From the copse he’d be able to hold them off. The bay could walk, but nothing faster.
Cato dismounted, took the bridle, and led the animal towards the copse.
“Should I get down too?” Phoebe asked, automatically grabbing for the pommel as she found herself unsupported atop the great horse.
“No,” he said. “I don’t want you running off.”
“But where d’you think I’d go?” Phoebe looked anxiously over her shoulder in search of pursuit.
“Knowing you… anywhere,” he said.
“That’s unjust,” Phoebe accused.
“Is it?” Cato gave a short laugh. “Just sit still. If you wriggle, it’ll aggravate his limp. When we get into the copse, I’ll have a look and see what the damage is.”
“But what if they follow us?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” Cato sounded to Phoebe as if it were a matter of sublime indifference whether a pack of murdering deserters pursued them or not.
The bay limped into the gloom and concealment of the copse. Cato led him into the center and stopped. He glanced around, assessing the situation, then he looked up into the spreading branches of an old conifer. ‘“All right, now. Phoebe, I want you to climb up there.”
Phoebe looked upward. “Why? Because you’ll know where I am?”
“That too,” Cato responded with a dry smile. “But also because you’ll be safe out of the way if those bastards do follow us. And while you’re up there, if you go high enough you’ll be able to tell me if they come into the field.” He reached up to lift her to the ground.
“I knew you’d find I could be useful if you thought about it,” Phoebe remarked. She looked up at the tree. “I just wish I was wearing one of my old dresses, though.” She brushed at her new riding habit. “My skirts are all wet from the stream, and now they’re going to get dirty up the tree.” She gave a philosophical shrug.
She took off her hat and cloak and laid them on the ground, then surveyed the tree again a mite dubiously. The bottom branch was a long way off the ground. “You’ll have to boost me up. If I can reach that bottom branch, I think I can climb up the rest of the way.”
“Get on my shoulders.” Cato knelt and held up his hands so that she could hold them as she clambered onto his shoulders.
“Aren’t I hurting you?”
“No.” He stood up slowly, transferring his hands to her waist to balance her. When he was standing, Phoebe could reach the bottom branch easily. She scrambled into the tree and went on up, heedless of the fir tree’s prickly greenery.
“What can you see?” Cato called softly.
“Nothing… oh, yes, I can. There’s two of them in the field.”
“Well, tell me if they come in this direction.” Cato turned to the bay and began to run his hands down the animal’s forelegs. He could feel nothing there and turned to the rear limbs. The right fetlock was hot to the touch, and he swore under his breath. The bay wouldn’t make it home to Woodstock with such a strain.
He straightened and looked around the darkening copse. They could hardly spend the night here. He could see but one option and it wasn’t one that appealed. “What’s happening, Phoebe?”
“There’s about six of them in the field now, but they’re just milling around. It’s getting quite dark.”
“Mmm.” Cato took a brace of pistols from the straps buckled to his saddle. “Stay right where you are. I’m going to get rid of them.”
“But there’s six of them and only one of you,” Phoebe pointed out.
“I assure you that I’m more than a match for that rabble,” Cato told her with some considerable scorn. He walked away towards the outskirts of the copse.
For some reason Phoebe had little doubt that despite the odds her husband would make short work of the opposition. She watched from her perch, interested rather than frightened. Then came the sharp crack of a pistol. One of the men in the field dropped to his knees with a cry, a hand pressed to his shoulder. The others gazed around in confusion. There was a second shot, and another fell.
The remaining four took to their heels and ran as if all the devils in hell were in pursuit.
Phoebe applauded and scrambled back down the tree, reaching the ground just as Cato reappeared, the still-smoking pistols hanging casually from his hands.
“What cowards they were! But you’re a wonderful shot,” Phoebe said in awe.
Cato looked surprised rather than gratified by the compliment. “Did you doubt it?”
“Well, no, not really. But I’ve never seen you in battle before.” She gathered up her hat and cloak.
“That was hardly a battle,” Cato corrected. He stood for a minute in thought, whistling idly through his teeth. There really wasn’t an alternative.
“I think the bay will be able to carry you. It’s only about a mile.”
“What is?”
“Cromwell’s headquarters. We’ll spend the night there. It’s a damnable nuisance, but I don’t see any option tonight. The bay will need to rest that fetlock for at least a week, so I’ll pick up another horse in the camp to get us home tomorrow.” He slid his pistols back into the saddle straps.
Phoebe absorbed this information. “Are there any women in the camp?”
“None that you’ll be consorting with,” Cato said shortly. “Mount up, now.” He cupped his palm for her foot.
“Whores, are they?” Phoebe hauled herself inelegantly into the bay’s saddle. With only one rider, there was no need to use the pillion pad.
“Camp followers,” Cato agreed, taking hold of the bridle at the bit. “And,” he continued with some force, “you will steer clear of them and speak only to those people to whom I present you. Indeed, it would please me if you didn’t speak at all unless you’re in my company. Do you think you could manage that?”
“But why?” Phoebe was bewildered at this abrupt and rather harsh turn to the conversation.
“Because, my dear girl, you have the most exasperating habit of getting involved in unsavory situations,” he informed her. “I am beginning to understand that you don’t seem to be able to help it, but I dread to think what you could get up to in an army camp. I’m not even sure what I’m going to do with you… where I’m going to put you.”
Phoebe didn’t bother to defend herself. It seemed he was thinking of Meg, and she had no desire to reopen that subject. When someone was so patently wrong, you didn’t argue with them. “But won’t I stay with you?” she asked mildly.
“You’ll have to, I suppose. But we live a communal existence in the house. It’s not arranged for privacy.” He led the bay out of the copse, in the opposite direction from the field and the wounded men.
Phoebe said no more. She found the idea of spending the night in an army camp intensely interesting, but if Cato realized that, he’d probably be even more disagreeable.
It was almost full dark when they turned through the gates of the Cotswold stone farmhouse that served as Cromwell’s headquarters. The tented camp spread out across the surrounding farmland, and lamps and fires sparked through the trees. The strains of a fife and the martial beat of a drum drifted on the frosty air.
Phoebe looked around curiously from her high perch. She was no longer gritting her teeth in fear and was sitting quite relaxed as the bay limped slowly up the driveway. He seemed to know where he was, and raised his head and whickered hopefully.
Cato patted his neck. “Not long now, old boy.”
The animal turned and nuzzled into Cato’s shoulder before picking up his pace a little.
The farmhouse was a squat, square, two-story building of yellow Cotswold stone. A courtyard in front was formed by outbuildings on two sides and the house itself at the rear.
Men were moving purposefully around the courtyard, carrying sacks, loading and unloading carts, under the flickering lights of pitch torches. Cato hailed a soldier, who immediately dropped what he was doing and came hurrying over, offering a brisk salute.