Chapter 4
Daventry, Northhamptonshire
They’d spent entirely too much time at the Cock & Bull.
The innkeeper’s wife had heard Prescott coughing and insisted he take her personally prepared physic of honey, mint and whisky.
When he’d tried to refuse, the groom had become stubborn and declined to have the horses brought round until he’d finished every bit of his stew and drunk all of the potion.
The groom had continued to urge Prescott to stop, citing fever that might confuse him as to the path. He’d volunteered to carry word to Leicester.
Swaying in the saddle, Prescott considered his options.
“Have you been to Leicester before?” he asked of the groom.
“No, sir, but I’m in better shape than you and can ask the way whenever I stop for food.”
“Aye you could.” Would he ride with the same urgency and determination as me?
Would Betts or even Tellus believe the word of a groom?
If I kill myself in the effort to reach Betts, then my failure won’t matter.
She’ll wed a good man, and I’ll be gone.
However, as long as I have breath in my body, I must try.
Sending the groom ahead increases my chances.
Wisdom said the groom was right. Sending him would not stop Prescott.
“Very well,” he finally conceded. “I’ll write a note for you to carry when we next stop.”
“Thank you for your trust, Sir Drake. You’ll not regret it.”
Coughing racked Prescott with every mile.
His mount didn’t care, by now the horse had become used to the shifting of muscles required for Prescott simply to stay in the saddle.
The gray, snowy days blended into darker snowy nights.
For the past four days, they would canter into town long after sunset or a solitary farm yard and beg assistance for their mounts, food and rest for themselves.
Prescott resented each moment when necessity forced a halt.
However, his own experience and training told him that without some rest, some sustenance, he would be unable to continue.
The snow had deepened enough to hide the mile markers. Only when they passed a town or village could he measure his progress. North Watford, Bricket Wood, Slip End, Tingrith, Broughton all came and went in a blur of stable yard, brief warmth as he ate, and the ever-colder resumption of his ride.
None of it mattered. Not until they approached an inn at Daventry, where Prescott would write the promised note. The innkeeper had ordered the entry to the yard kept clear of snow. All would have been well, had not the ice that built up beneath the snow gone unnoticed.
On the evening of 20 December, Prescott cantered into the yard, holding his horse together by sheer will as the valiant steed slid on that unseen sheet. As he pulled to a stop before a waiting stable-hand they both heard an equine scream blending with the groom’s shout.
Prescott leapt to the ground tossed the reins to the waiting stablehand and raced back to the entrance.
Thuds and popping crunches drowned out his footsteps.
The sight was horrifying. The groom lay pinned beneath his grunting mount.
The horse, its upper foreleg twisted at an impossible angle, had fallen so that its entire body blocked the narrow space of the entry.
People surrounded Prescott. Exclamations and screams created a symphony of pain and dismay.
Prescott’s hand went to his sword and came away empty. Along with refusing to carry saddle bags, he’d chosen not to wear a blade or pistol to lighten the load on the horse.
“A dirk. Hand me a dirk!” He’d shouted and extended his hand. He used the voice of command that even in the face of roaring cannon would calm panicked troops.
The surrounding crowd fell silent.
The haft of a long knife filled his palm. He strode forward, steadied the horse’s head against his thigh, crooning to the beast. As the mare calmed, he slit its throat.
Hot blood gushed over his ice-covered gloves and thawed his hands a small bit.
“Clear this beast away,” he ordered, resuming his command tone. “Beware the rider. Send for a physician.”
He went to the groom, who looked up at Prescott glassy eyed. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Not a bit of it. You’ve naught to regret. We’ll have you inside in a trice with a physician to tend you.”
Fortunately, the man fainted at the first attempt to move the body of the horse.
Hours later, the physician left the groom, joining Prescott in the public room where he forced himself to eat.
“Well?” He looked up at the man as he sat across from him.
The physician motioned for food and drink.
“Your groom is a very lucky man.”
Prescott raised a brow.
“He has a clean break of his right femur and a sprained right ankle,” the physician continued. “With proper rest and care, he should make a full and complete recovery.”
“Th…” a coughing fit seized Prescott.
The doctor waited patiently until the fit ceased and Prescott managed to down some ale.
“You, I believe, are in a much worse case than your groom, sir.”
“I cannot allow that to matter. I must be in Leicester before Christmas Day.”
“In this weather and with the lung infection that I can hear as you breathe, I doubt you’ll make it as far as Dunton Bassett.”
“I will make Leicester before Christmas day or die trying.”
“Hmm. Most likely.” While the server brought his meal, the physician studied Prescott.
“What unit did you serve with?” the man asked.
“Rocket Brigade.”
“You saw battle at Leipzig.”
“Captured there. Spent the rest of the war in the dungeons of Charlemont at Givet.”
“That’s where you acquired this lung infection.”
“Yes,” Prescott said though he knew it wasn’t a question.
“Why is it so important that you get to Leicester quickly?”
“My fiancee is about to marry another man.”
“I assume she is not being forced, so why would you care. She’s rejected you, clearly.”
Prescott resisted the pain squeezing his heart at the thought that Betts’ affections had changed. “She thinks I’m dead.”
“Ah,” the doctor said. “Unless you get to her before the vows are said, you will have no opportunity to change things.”
“Precisely.” Prescott spooned up the last of his stew and rose. “I must speak with the innkeeper regarding care for my groom.”
“I urge you to spend the night here. I may be able to help reduce that infection enough for you to continue tomorrow in much better case.”
He was tempted. He could progress faster if he coughed less, had less fever. However, he couldn’t afford the time.
“How far have you come?” the doctor asked.
“Left Mayfair early on 14 December.”
“You’ve done well to come this far in six days, given your condition and the weather.”
“Hence the need to continue on. I can rest and recover once I get to Leicester.”
“I served with Wellington throughout the Spanish and French campaigns. Believe me when I tell you that you will not get to Leicester alive without some rest and care.”
“I do not doubt you, sir. I witnessed the death of too many fellow soldiers who’d refused to stop due to the urgency of their missions.
I might have been one had I not been captured.
Yet the chances had been equally good I could have died in Charlemont.
So many captives did. How many of those men would ride through a blizzard, risk freezing to death just to see a beloved one last time? Can you blame me for that?”
“Not at all,” the doctor confessed. “Nonetheless, all my experience tells me your chances of success improve with even a single day’s rest and care.”
“What sort of care? Would you dose me with laudanum until my body heals itself?”
“No. Juice of the poppy would not help you. However, a course of alternating steam baths, tinctures of honey, lemon and whisky, compresses of flax and mallow sprinkled with a small amount of mustard applied back and chest. Afterwards sleep of at least eight hours.”
“All that and I shall be cured?”
“No, but your chances of surviving to reach Leicester increase greatly.”
“I don’t know.” Prescott could not believe he even considered halting.
“Give me thirty-six hours. You’ve come more than seventy miles on sheer determination. You cannot keep up that pace for the thirty more miles it will take you to get to Leicester in this weather. Your body will give out.”
“By the morning of 22nd December you will have improved your odds of traversing those miles and surviving to plead your case with your beloved. In addition, your horse will be well rested.”
Prescott pushed away from the table. He stood, about to refuse the doctor’s kindness despite the logic of his argument. The room spun. He moved to take a step and crashed to the floor—his legs too weak to hold him.
“Help!” the doctor yelled.
The innkeeper came at a run. “What’s to do?”
The physician did not stop to explain the obvious. “Help me carry this man above.”
Still lucid, Prescott protested. “I can walk.”
Both men ignored him. He was lifted and toted up the stairs into a chamber where he was laid on a bed.
“I need a very hot bath,” ordered the doctor, and mint as well as…
The man’s voice faded as Prescott succumbed to the involuntary relaxation of his muscles now that he no longer supported himself but lay on a feather mattress.
Wait for me, Betts. Please.
His eyes closed, and his mind wandered into dreams of the woman he loved more than life.