Smoke and Mirrors

The smell of gunpowder and smoke still lingered on his tattered clothes. Rebecca had been watching him for hours, waiting for him to wake up or pass away. Helen had done what she could for him, the shrapnel which had torn through his uniform lay in a bowl by his feet, and now it was a slow wait for God to decide his fate. She gently wiped his brow, the damp cloth darkening his copper blonde hair to a murky brown. His eyes flickered fitfully under closed lids, face twitching in pain. Rebecca knew he would not feel half of what the explosion had caused for Helen had dosed him heavily with Willow Bark to numb the pain, yet she still felt the sting in her heart as she watched him react to his wounds. She was in favour of Cromwell, after all, the King had done nought but ravage his country with taxes and his push to reunite England with Rome, but her gentle nature wept for each solider and innocent caught up in the war. The man on the table could only have been a few years older than herself, the soft down of a man's beard beginning its spread like the first buds of spring. Yet here he lay, somewhere between worlds and facing an uncertain future, for fighting for the king.

'Anything?' Rebecca bolted from her seat, startled by Helen's sudden reappearance. She shook her head. Helen came over to inspect her patient, gently coaxing his eyelids open to check for a reaction to the candle she held above his face. The pupils shrunk rapidly, reassuring Helen that he still had enough fight left to possibly recover. She moved to his wrist, laying her fingers firmly to the underside and was again satisfied that he was doing well. Turning to Rebecca, Helen laughed at the concern which had plastered itself to the girls' face.

'Do not fret, he's resisting his wounds well. His pulse is steady and his reflexes are still normal. Watch him a while longer, it is the medicine which makes him sleep. Be here when he wakes, you'll need to stop him running off with wounds like that.' Helen chuckled, washing her hands in the basin on the sideboard. A fearful holler from the door announced the arrival of yet another injured solider from the battle over at Hatton Heath. Rebecca's face contorted in anguish, the cries and groans from the corridor beyond the room slicing like daggers into her head. The old woman scuttled from the room, hastily drying her hands on her bloodied apron. Rebecca softly shut the door, muffled the screams and yells from the rest of the building. She knew what she had signed up to, when Helen had come into the village requesting nurses-aides to help her with the wounded, but she had not expected so many to be brought to Helen's small field hospital. The rooms upstairs were crammed to the rafters with men recovering from their wounds, and all but the room in which she stood downstairs were rapidly filling with those who needed watching. She tried desperately to block out the image of the cellar, piled high with the wrapped bodies of men Helen could not save. Helen had explained that the cellar door would remain shut, to keep back the stench and risk of disease, until the wounded had stopped arriving from the battlefield. Only then would men come to remove the corpses, gathering any personal items to return to the families, and take them for burial. She had only been to the cellar once since arriving, when one of the other girls Helen had conscripted had mistakenly left surgery tools inside the wrappings of some poor unfortunate. Rebecca had been tasked with retrieving the bone saw, informed only that it would probably be tucked along his left side. After that, Rebecca had become hysterical whenever the cellar was mentioned, so Helen had settled to giving her the duty of watching the man on the table.

A soft grunt snapped her back from the images floating in her mind's eye. She returned to her post at the head of the table, wetting another rag in the basin. The man before her groaned again, face twisting in pain, and slowly opened his eyes. She carefully reached forward and placed the damp cloth against his forehead and began to hush him as she would hush her younger siblings during a bad dream. His face relaxed a little under her attention and his head rolled limply towards her, limpid blue eyes fixing hers. A gasp escaped her before she could catch it and the hint of a smile played on the man's lips, dissipating under a fresh wave of pain.

'Water,' he requested, his voice breathless and shallow. The girl folded the cloth against his brow and disappeared from vision, returning only moments later with a beaker of fresh water. He lifted his head as far as he dared and was surprised by the cool pressure of her hand on his neck to aid him. The water was cold and shocked his body back into life, instantly reuniting him with his voice and senses. Pain assailed him again, gripping his guts like a vice. Reflex made him lurch forward, forcing the poor girl to yelp as he pushed her back from the table. He knew where he was, and why, but only now were the extent of his injuries becoming clear to him. Before the old woman had dosed him so that she could remove the shrapnel, the rush of battle had clouded his sense of pain, leaving him jovial and optimistic about the injury. Sucking in a deep and agonising breath, he rolled back onto the table, revelling in the relief it offered. His thoughts drifted back to the battle, assessing each key choice he had made and deliberating whether his fate would have altered had he done anything differently. He smiled grimly to himself, after all, it was only through his cowardly captain that he had been stationed by the wagons when the whole world went to hell. If that joke of an officer had remained at his post, he would not be lying in a grubby little room re-evaluating his life. The soft sound of fabric shifting to his right broke him from the melancholy and his attention returned once more to the maid attending him.

'Beckett...' He gasped, the name of his valet coming straight to mind, gritting his teeth as the vibration of his own voice assaulted his wounds. The girl startled again, forcing a chuckle from him. She was an odd little creature to find in a field hospital, he had grown used to encountering hard-faced brood mares in these places, women who had seen hardship and pain before and were not easily put off by the sights and sounds of battle, or a battles' aftermath. But this one, who shakily introduced herself as Rebecca Wellham, seemed very much out of her depth. Beckett watched her in the candlelight, every scream from the other rooms tearing fresh anguish from her delicate features and every sudden bang, either from items dropped in the room above or from muskets in the fields beyond the walls, causing her to jump and look around herself like a worried rabbit. She struck him as almost ghost-like in the way she moved around the small chamber, quiet as death with her silver-blonde hair catching the light behind her. It was only when she became anxious that he could hear her, her breathing would quicken and her dress would rustle with the twitching that would ensue. But what caught him was her eyes, never in his life had he seen eyes of such a vivid green, like two bright emeralds dancing in the dim lights. Beckett felt as though those eyes held a deep secret, and the urge to uncover it was maddening.

Rebecca calmed herself once more, the sound of nearby gunfire setting her nerves on edge. Beckett had apologised for frightening her and had finally got himself through the pain in order to sit up, muttering about how it would be wrong of him to insist she helps him to drink when all he had to do was grit his teeth. She was relieved that he had awoken, her soft nature would not have coped if he had died before her eyes. And his company was preferable to that of some of Helens other patients upstairs, at least Beckett kept his hands to himself and was polite to her. Sighing, she busied herself with washing the linens they had used during Beckett's operation now that she had access to them. The blood would never wash out but it occupied her, and kept her mind in check. Since Beckett had opened his eyes, Rebecca had caught herself stealing glances at him, drinking in the small details of his build and face. Her face reddened as she derailed the thoughts once again invading her mind, after all, he probably had a sweetheart or wife back home. A handsome youth like him surely had a lovely young lady waiting for him to return somewhere, there was no room for her wayward imaginings. Rebecca engaged herself cleaning rags by the small grimy window, gazing out beyond the meadow. Beckett would have no interest in a plain sample like her, in her dirty dress and unkept appearance. He had regained his feet soon after sitting up, occasionally grunting himself through the ordeal of getting his own water from the table.

'Are you sure you do not want to rest?' She ventured gently after hearing him suck in his breath against the pain. She returned to his side, clutching a fresh rag and a bundle of clean bandages to her chest, 'We should change the dressings, you were asleep for a long time...'

Her voice cut short in her throat as he slipped his arms from his tattered jacket before she could finish the sentence. Her cheeks heated once more as her eyes travelled the dark outline of hardened muscle. Shaking her head to remove the fog gathering there, Rebecca began the arduous task of unwrapping the old bandages, carefully tugging them loose where the blood had glued the fabric together. Beckett grimaced as the grubby linen came loose but, for her sake, held his breath until the last length of fabric slid from his shoulder. Rebecca examined the wound closely, checking for any early sign of infection and, once satisfied, reached for the wash basin and rags.

‘You are a timid one,’ he mused, as he watched her hands shaking every time she brought the damp cloth to his chest. Rebecca blushed scarlet and hid her face from him, hoping Helen would return and excuse her from such close proximity. Quietly, with the door in the edge of her sight, Rebecca continued to clean the dried blood and remaining dirt from Beckett’s wounds. She found comfort in the repetitive rhythm, allowing herself to block out the sounds of pain and gunfire, but despite her best efforts, the sound of Beckett’s slow and steady breathing kept drawing her attention.

She finally assured herself that the wound was as clean as she would ever get it, and stood up, removing the bowl and dirty rags. Beckett watched her, unable to tear his gaze from her. He judged that she was around his own age from her features and build, and that she had enjoyed a gentile upbringing from the softness of her hands. He was willing to wager she was a landowner's girl, not quite nobility but not a common labourer neither. He racked his mind, trying to remember the names of the local notable families. She had introduced herself as Wellham, but the only Wellham family he knew of lived in the far north of England. He studied her a little longer, hoping to glimpse a feature that might strike a chord in his memory. He knew all the families in the area, as the eldest son of the Earl of Chester, yet he could not place her.

It irked him, not because of who she really was, but because he could not know for sure if he could trust her. As a Cavalier, he could be placing himself in danger by admitting his own real identity if she, or her family, happened to support Cromwell and his ideals. He would most likely be here for a few days before the elderly woman let him leave, more than enough time for a roundhead to find and murder him. How happy that would make them, since his only brother was already an ordained priest and could not take up their fathers’ title, to cut off the succession by slaying Chester’s heir.

Rebecca turned to him once more, carefully placing a fresh poultice against the wound and layering linen on top to support it. She worked silently, her mind suddenly swimming. He had regained his senses far quicker than most of Helen’s patients, and it made her anxious. She had lied to him about her name, much as he had lied about his. She was not sure if he knew that his signet ring was missing, or that it was her who had secreted it away when he first arrived. She had seen it a lot over the last few days, patients waking up and murdering the patient beside them when they realised, they were from opposing armies. She had recognised the seal of Chester, the blue enamel and three golden wheatsheaves, and knew he would be at the top of the wanted list for any Parliamentarians in the hospital. Helen would be furious if she knew that Rebecca had such an item hidden in her pocket. Glancing upwards, she caught him staring at her with a calculating expression. Her heart fluttered, suddenly worried that he had indeed noticed his missing ring.

‘Who are you? Truth, this time,’ was all he stated, keeping her gaze. The blood drained from her fair features and he suddenly felt guilty for asking. She glanced around herself, desperately trying to come up with a way to leave the room without answering. No such opportunity presented itself and, at a loss for an escape, Rebecca took a deep breath and steeled herself. Her family were well known Parliamentarians, hosting several gatherings to forward Cromwell’s message across the county. Revealing who she was could place her and her loved ones in danger of being targeted by the Earl of Chester and his men.

‘Rebecca Daniels...’ she mumbled, fidgeting with the edge of her apron. He sighed and laughed softly.

‘No wonder you didn’t want me to know. Your father has been giving us a lot of trouble lately,’ he scratched his cheek lazily, obviously mulling this revelation over in his mind. Rebecca cast a quick look at the window, the first true rays of sunlight were beginning to creep across the fields beyond the glass. Helen would be back soon, she told herself, then she could run home and pretend she had never been here. Fumbling in her apron pocket, Rebecca pulled out the signet ring, timidly offering it back to Beckett. He smiled warmly and accepted it, returning it home to his finger.

‘I didn’t want them to recognise it... They’ve been killing each other upstairs... As if battle wounds aren’t enough...’ Her words faltered, trying to explain that she had only taken it with good intentions without sounding like she had a personal interest in his safety. He merely nodded, watching her closely.

‘I should reward you, not only have you stayed with me and tended my wounds, but you returned my only valuable possession without question. I’m sure your father would have something to say about it,’ his laughter filled the small room. Rebecca shot him a glare, hurt that he could make light of her and her father. She shifted her weight nervously, not sure of how to respond. He was right, of course, her father would go mad if he found out she had kept this man alive. He wasn’t only the enemy, he was the son of one of their leaders, and she had nursed his wounds. Beckett reached into the remnants of his breaches, producing a small silver travelling mirror from the pocket. Rebecca began to shake her head but, before the words to refuse the expensive gift, Beckett had forced it into her hands.

The door latch startled them both, breaking the contact between their fingers, and Helen scurried into the room. Laying eyes first on Rebecca, knelt on the floor beside a stack of unused linen, then on the solider who was struggling his way back into his shirt. As though satisfied that nothing had transpired between the two, she stalked across the room to address Beckett.

‘You seem to be a lucky man, sir, not only are you up and about but your family have sent a carriage to take you home,’ the old woman’s voice tilted between ingrained respect for the nobility and outright scorn as she spoke, making it seem like she was almost displeased that he had survived yet thankful at the same time. His eyes rolled, as though disgusted that his relatives would send a carriage to the field hospital, advertising for all to see that he was a noble. Rebecca found the strength to move, waiting for Helen to turn away before stashing the mirror in her bodice. Helen had taken to making the helpers turn out their pockets before leaving the house, too many patients had complained of missing valuables.

‘Miss Daniels, a word please,’ he stated plainly, his tone making it clear that Helen was not invited to join the conversation. Huffing, the old woman disappeared once more, leaving them alone. He stood and came to face her, gently lifting her hands, ‘You have been an angel, and it is an act I will never forget. When this ordeal is over, whatever the outcome, would you permit me to call on you?’

Rebecca was dumbstruck. Their families were at war with each other, yet his words had made her heart leap for joy. Speechless, she could do nothing more than nod. His smile lit up to tiny room and, for a moment, the world around them vanished. Deep down, she began to cling to the hope that, one day, they might meet again under better circumstances. Beckett eventually withdrew his hands, placing a soft parting kiss across her knuckles, before turning to leave. Not another word was said as he exited the room and Rebecca watched him climb awkwardly into the carriage beyond the window. Only time would tell now if he would ever return to her. She softly clutched the front of her dress, her fingertips tracing the edges of the small mirror, a whispered prayer for his safety escaping her lips.