by Unknown
The stable smelt reassuringly the same – of hay and manure and warm horse. The horses were still asleep, and Cherry chuntered crossly and tossed her head as he pulled on the bridle.
‘Hey,’ he whispered. ‘None of your sauce, miss.’ There was a sugar lump in his pocket and he held it out, her soft, whiskery lips gentle on his palm as she took it. She crunched it delicately like a lady as he saddled her up, but he led, rather than rode her out of the yard, choosing the quietest parts of the cobbles, so that the sound of her hooves was muffled by grass and drifts of straw. The maids would be getting up soon and he did not want the household to know what he was about.
Out of the yard he put his foot in the stirrup and hauled himself up. Cherry gave a little whicker of delight, her bad mood forgotten, and Luke patted her neck.
‘You’re a sweetheart, you are, aren’t you.’
She tossed her head, her skin warm and silky beneath his hand and together they quickened their pace to a trot. The dawn light was turning the sky to pink as he turned out of the gate towards the pale glimmer of the rising winter sun.
It was the oak trees that Luke saw first, two of them, standing sentinels beside the river, like gateposts. He reined Cherry in and turned her head towards them.
There it was. Bishop’s Ford. He could see why the old man had warned against it – from up here the bridge looked sound, but when he slid from Cherry’s back and scrambled down the bank to the fast-flowing river, you could see the rotten planks and the missing struts beneath.
It was deadly. It was perfect. So why could he feel no joy in it at all?
Cherry whickered softly up in the field above and the sound gave him a wrenching stab of guilt at the thought of what he was about to do.
As he climbed the bank and hauled himself back into the saddle he couldn’t bear to meet her trusting brown eyes, though she turned her head to him and butted him affectionately.
‘I’m sorry, girl,’ he said, his throat stiff and hoarse. ‘If there was another way I’d take it, you know I would.’
He knew what John Leadingham would say: What’s the life of one horse against the misery wrought by a witch?
He thought of the pigs and cows in John’s slaughterhouse – animals sent to their death for the good of mankind – so that people might eat and cook and have candles to burn and shoes to wear. What difference was there in this? None, really. So why didn’t it feel the same?
One simple truth beat inside him, in time with Cherry’s hoof-beats as she galloped across the turf. Him or the witch. Him or the witch. Him or the witch. This was his cross to bear – Cherry’s death would be the price he had to pay, the price they all had to pay.
He put his head down, close to her mane, and the wind in his face brought tears to his eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.’
He did not know who he was asking forgiveness from: God, Cherry, himself – or someone else completely?
It’s God’s work that you’re doing, lad; John Leadingham’s hoarse croak in his head.
God’s work. So why didn’t he feel exalted? Why did he feel like a murderer?
He arrived back in the stable just in time to shut Cherry into her stall before the other grooms arrived. She was not sweating; he had not galloped her hard enough for that. She was cool and full of energy, and she whickered softly as Luke filled the bucket with water and poured a handful of oats into her feeding tray.
There was much to do before the hunt gathered – feed Brimstone, saddle him up, and put the side-saddle on Cherry. He had to find this borrowed horse and saddle him up too, then he had to wash and change into a clean shirt. He knew he should make time to eat his own breakfast, for it would be a long, hard ride before the hunters stopped for food, but he didn’t know if he could force down the food.
But there was just one more thing he had to do before he started.
He searched the floor of the stables, looking for a likely stone. He discarded one as too large, and another as too sharp, before he found one that was just right: small and round as a pea. Then he took his pick and drove the stone deep beneath the horseshoe, where it was invisible to the eye. When Cherry put her foot down there was the slightest hint of hesitation, the slightest wince, but only if you looked for it. It would take a few miles with a rider on her back before she began to limp.
‘I’m sorry, girl,’ he said again. There was a catch in his voice and he hated himself for it.
Rosa took a deep breath, drinking in the cool sweet autumn air. It was country air – so clean you could taste the sweetness on your tongue, and so different from London’s sooty bitter atmosphere it was like drinking spring water after salt. Southing was very different from Matchenham, but it felt like home. The fields stretched out below the house, mile after mile of sweet short Sussex turf. Down to the right were the copses and coverts where they would go to flush out the fox, the river winding between the trees, glinting in the pale autumn sun.
She had not felt so happy since leaving Matchenham and when she turned to smile at Sebastian she knew that her face was radiant with delight, flushed with the cold and the pleasure of being on horseback again, that her waist was laced down to a trim silhouette, that her habit was faultless and that all this – her delight, her red hair and clear skin against the stark black of her hat and habit – all this made her look better than she had ever looked in his presence before.
He smiled back, his teeth flashing white in his tanned face, his pupils pricks of black in his ice-blue eyes, and she looked out across the sea of riders in their scarlet and black coats, the hunt master calling to his officials, the huntsman blowing his horn to encourage stragglers, the dogs baying excitedly as they raced up and down the drive in full voice.
‘Were you a centaur in a previous life, madam?’ asked another rider with a laugh. ‘You are magnificent on that animal – you have the best seat I’ve ever seen in a woman.’
‘Thank you!’ Rosa called back. Usually she would have flushed and muttered something deprecating; this morning she knew it to be true. Beneath her, Cherry curvetted and snorted, excited by the sound of the hounds and the sight of pasture in front of her.
Luke was somewhere behind her, on a horse belonging to the house, a hunter called Bumblebee. She tried to catch his eye, but his head was down.
‘I warn you,’ Sebastian said as the hunt gathered, ready to depart, ‘I ride hard. I’ll be with the first field or die in the attempt. Can you keep up?’
‘I’ll keep up,’ Rosa said, nettled. Cherry could jump as well as any horse on the field.
‘We’re heading over to Tushing Woods.’ He indicated a small copse on the ridge of the hill. ‘See if we can flush out a fox from there.’
‘Really, sir?’ Luke’s head came up sharply. Rosa was surprised; she had not thought he was even listening. Now he was tense, his big hands gripping the reins tightly. ‘That’s to say – I was told the place to go was Thatcham’s?’
‘No, Farquharson tells me he was up there last week and there was no sign of a fox,’ Sebastian said indifferently. ‘Tushing is a better bet.’
Luke said nothing, but his grip was still tight on the reins and Rosa saw a vein beating in his temple. She was puzzled – what could it possibly matter which way they went? Then the horn sounded again, Cherry snorting and stamping and curvetting beneath her, and they were off.
‘View halloo!’ cried a voice far up the field, its pitch almost a scream with excitement, and Rosa gathered Cherry together and leapt the ditch. She landed perfectly, like a cat, but then stumbled infinitesimally as if one of her hooves misgave her. Behind her Rosa heard the heavy thunder of Luke’s horse and the heave and thump as he took it over the ditch, but she didn’t stop to look. She was intent on the pack ahead and Sebastian’s lithe, narrow back in its scarlet coat, ur
ging his horse on, and on. Alexis was somewhere to the left of the field, Brimstone already sweating beneath his bulk. The horse would be tired out within the hour unless Alex rode him more sensibly. By contrast, Sebastian’s beautiful thoroughbred looked like he could go for ever.
And then suddenly she saw it – the fox – a red-brown streak crossing the emerald grass with the hounds shrieking and baying in pursuit. The horn sounded again and the whole field surged after it, mud flying, the clods of turf scattering as they tore up the field.
‘Come on!’ Rosa begged Cherry. Alexis was already using his hunting crop freely on Brimstone, labouring the poor beast’s hind quarters like a racing jockey. She felt her own crop tight beneath her arm, but she never beat Cherry – she never needed to. Cherry would give her all without punishment.
They were heading uphill, the horses sweating and snorting, when suddenly the fox broke its line, darting back down towards the river, the hounds in hot pursuit. The hunt wheeled after it, like a flock of scarlet birds in an emerald sky, and began to pound down the bank towards the river.
‘Come on!’ Rosa screamed to Luke. There was mud on her face and her breath was tearing in her chest. And then she felt Cherry falter beneath her, even as Luke hollered back,
‘She’s limping, miss.’
Dammit. Rosa slowed, just a little, and felt the truth of it. Cherry was favouring one foot.
‘Was it the jump?’ she shouted across to Luke. ‘I felt her stumble.’
‘Could be, miss. Or could be a stone.’
They slowed, and Rosa watched as the rest of the field tore away from her, down towards the river where the fox had already forded and plunged into the undergrowth.
‘Damn,’ she swore, as Luke slid from Bumblebee and pulled out his knife. ‘We’ll never catch up. Please, make it quick if you can, Luke.’
She shaded her eyes, watching the riders as they crossed the river. It was too deep to ford, but the dogs paddled across somehow. The men jumped, by and large, the ladies making for a bridge further upstream in the direction of Barham. It was a strange route to choose, she thought. The fox was clearly going to go downstream, downhill where the going was easier for it, and the sparse trees thickened to wood. There must be no bridge further down.
‘It was a stone, miss.’ She heard Luke’s voice over her shoulder. ‘I’ve got it.’
Sure enough the field had curved downwards and were beating their way through the trees with the hounds baying and shrieking.
‘We’ll never catch up,’ Rosa said despairingly as Luke scrambled back into the saddle. ‘The river’s too wide to jump downstream. If only there were a bridge . . .’
‘There is,’ Luke said. At first she couldn’t understand him – his voice was hoarse and cracked. He coughed and spat, and then spoke again. ‘There is. Look. By those two oaks.’
He pointed – and sure enough, between the trees, beside the two sentinel oaks, she saw a patch of darkness where the river’s glitter was cut by something broad and black, something with handrails.
Rosa felt a huge smile split her mud-spattered face.
‘Luke, I could kiss you.’
She pulled Cherry together, feeling the horse’s headlong excitement, and together they thundered down the pasture, towards the waiting oak trees and the patch of dark water.
‘Come on!’ she shouted over her shoulder at Luke. ‘Come on, what are you waiting for?’
Far across the river there was another blast of the horn – the fox had broken out of the scrubby trees by the river bank, making for the hill on the far side. The riders were urging their horses up the slope and she saw Sebastian turn half around, calling something to Alexis, gesturing back down towards the river, towards Rosa.
Rosa gripped the pommel of the side-saddle between her thighs, feeling the thunder of Cherry’s hooves beneath her, feeling the wind in her face so hard that tears came to her eyes. Behind her she could hear Luke pounding, pounding after her.
‘Wait!’ she heard his voice, his cry almost lost in the wind and the thumping hooves. ‘Miss, Rosa, wait!’
‘Hurry!’ she shouted back. If she could cross the river fast enough she could catch up with the first field, she knew she could. If Luke couldn’t keep up, that was his lookout.
She and Cherry tore down the soft pasture and into the shadow of the trees by the bridge. The oaks flashed past. She heard the hollow boom of Cherry’s hooves on the wooden slats of the bridge – and then something else, a dreadful tearing scream of breaking wood.
Cherry reared and she screamed too, a sound such as Rosa had never heard – not a whinny, but a shriek of pure terror.
‘Rosa!’ She heard Luke’s desperate bellow behind her.
And then she was falling and Cherry was falling too – a mass of screaming horse and flying mane, a tangle of hooves and bridle and skirts – her feet still in the stirrups, the broken shafts of the bridge murderous pikes in the river bed.
There was no time to think of a spell.
There was no time to shout an incantation or cast a shield.
Together she and Cherry hit the water with a splash that knocked all the breath out of her body. Water filled her eyes and ears and mouth. The river roared above her and around her, and there was nothing but tumbling horse and bone and hooves and terror.
And then there was nothing at all.
Luke was near enough to hear the crack of the wood as it gave and the scream of the horse.
‘Rosa!’ he shouted desperately.
There was a flurry of black skirts, like a bird shot in flight, and Rosa’s magic blazed out bright as a flame, as she fought to save them both. And then she was gone.
Luke skidded to a halt on Bumblebee, scrambling from the saddle almost before the horse had stopped. His whole body was shaking as he ran to the river bank and began sliding down the muddy chute towards the rushing waters. Oh Christ, what had he done?
He saw, before he even reached the water’s edge.
Cherry lay in the stream, impaled on one of the broken shafts of the bridge. It had gone clean through her ribcage and she was dead already, Luke could see it in the way she lay, limp, unresisting, and the way the stream below her had turned scarlet with the gushing blood.
‘Oh God.’
He knew, suddenly and certainly, that he’d done a terrible, terrible thing.
‘Rosa!’ he shouted. No answer came but the roar of the waters. Then he saw something, a red-gold flame beneath Cherry’s dappled back. She was there, pinned beneath the horse.
‘Help me!’ he roared, slipping and sliding down into the water. The hunt was not that far away; he could hear the sound of the horn and the baying of the hounds. ‘For God’s sake, someone help me!’
He could not swim. He’d never learnt. But he struck out anyway into the middle of the river, grabbing on to the beams of the bridge to try to keep his footing, clutching at anything – the pikes, Cherry’s bridle, even her mane.
In the middle of the stream he hooked his arm around a wooden pile and pushed with all his strength at the horse, putting his shoulders and every muscle into shifting its bulk just an inch or two higher up the wooden shaft. His fingers groped beneath the creaming water, feeling for Rosa’s body. She was there. But he could not move her.
‘Cherry,’ he gasped, heaving at the horse’s unresisting bulk until his joints cracked and his muscles tore and screamed with protest. And all the time the waters tugged and tugged at him, trying to pull his feet from under him and sweep him away to drown too.
‘God damn you, Rosa!’ His breath sobbed in his chest. His face was wet with river water and sweat and tears. ‘You’ll not die. Hear me? You’re not to die!’
He braced his feet against a rock in the torrent and heaved again at Cherry’s warm, dead weight, her blood running down over his shoulders an
d swirling into the water in a crimson slick.
She shifted – or maybe it was the pike in the river bed. Something gave a minute amount, and when he felt under the water for Rosa’s body, it didn’t come free but it moved.
Heat flooded back into his numb fingers and he heaved again at Cherry’s side, bracing his shoulders against her ribs and scrabbling for Rosa beneath the churning red water.
She moved again, an inch or two further from beneath Cherry’s hind quarters. One more heave – and she slid free with a rush so that he stumbled and almost fell into the current. Only his grip on Cherry’s bridle saved them both, and then he struck out for the bank, hauling Rosa in his wake, a drowned black rat.
At the bank he pulled her on to the muddy shore, heaving her clear of the tugging waters, and leant her body gently against the twisted roots of a tree. She lay there, painfully still, painfully white, her head at a strange, unnatural angle. But when he put his ear to her breast he could hear a beat and a wet gurgle – or thought he could. He willed her to cough – but she didn’t. He would have given anything for a thimbleful of witchcraft. No matter if it damned him to hell for all eternity, he would have paid the price if it meant he could save her. But he was powerless – and so was she.
For a moment Luke stood frozen in indecision. Then he began scrambling up the bank towards the bridge. At the top he shaded his eyes, looking after the riders. They were almost gone. Only one rider and horse stood in silhouette on the ridge: Sebastian. He would have known that beautiful thoroughbred anywhere and the arrogant set of the rider’s shoulders. Sebastian could save her. He was a witch, wasn’t he?
‘Knyvet!’ he bellowed, the words whipped and torn by the autumn breeze. Sebastian turned his head as if he’d heard something, but wasn’t sure what. ‘Knyvet!’ Luke shouted again, his voice cracking with the effort. ‘Come back! There’s been an accident. Rosa – she’s dying!’
For a moment he thought Sebastian had heard him. His horse took two steps downhill, towards the river.
