by Jan Needle
But he had reckoned without his pain and concussion. Time after time, as Lucifer picked his way through the woods, Matthew found himself swaying in the saddle, frantically trying to remember which way he had turned, how far he had come.
More than once he fainted, and awakened only to find that Lucifer had stopped and they had made no ground at all.
Dark was already drawing in when he saw, mercifully, through the trees, the lights of a big house. His strength was well-nigh spent, and it took all of his flagging concentration to remain in the saddle and urge Lucifer slowly down the avenue towards the house.
He had already passed out when he realised that the horse had stopped and light was falling upon him.
Drawing on his last reserves of strength, he pulled himself upright in the saddle, raised his head with a succession of jerks and forced his eyes open.
He was looking straight into the horrified face of Lady Sarah Sharpe. Even as he watched, her lips writhed back from her perfect teeth in a grimace of horror and fear.
As they did so, the heavens opened and Lucifer was lashed with stinging, freezing rain from the Irish Sea. With a start, the horse shook itself. Matthew, whose head and neck were immediately running with clear cold water, snatched at the bridle in time to prevent himself being thrown off as Lucifer headed for the shelter of the trees.
Wide-awake now, he guided the trotting horse through the narrow spinney and onto a stretch of open road. The adrenaline forced into his blood stream by this latest fright cleared his mind for a while.
If that house had been Sharpe Hall, he was well off course for Kendal, and had no chance of making it, or even the tiny hamlet of Crook in this weather. Better strike west towards the coast and the Morecambe road towards the oversands route in Morcambe Bay.
