The Marlows

by Rosalind Laker

  She laughed, and Dominic spoke to him again, clapping the colt’s neck. “Good luck, Roger. Make this a win for my bride.” “Yes, sir!”

  Roger saluted them by touching the peak of his cap with his whip and then Matthew took the bridle and led Young Oberon to join the other horses in the traditional parade. Dominic, turning to have further conversation with Mr. Kirby, left Tansy alone and it was then that she became conscious of another jockey’s gaze fixed on her. He was in the saddle of a black colt, his racing colours scarlet. It was Silas!

  “We meet again,” he said with a smirk.

  She knew fear. “I thought you had been banned from racing for life.”

  “My late employer, who was murdered in cold blood by that Judith Collins, no matter what any may say to the contrary, had made application shortly afore his death for my case to be reconsidered and the ban lifted. I’m right pleased to say it went through.”

  “I didn’t see your name on the race card.”

  “I’m a last-minute replacement. The other jockey had — an accident.” He nodded sneeringly toward Dominic, who had not seen him. “I suppose you and Reade think that nag your brother is riding is goin’ to win this Derby.” His voice took on a vicious note. “Well, for Selwyn Hedley’s sake I’ll see he don’t!”

  She caught at the bridle. “You shall repeat that threat you have made to a steward!”

  He laughed contemptuously, flicking her hand away with a touch of his whip. “I only meant that the best jockey and the best runner are goin’ to win. That’s me, ma’am, and the colt I have between my knees.” A stable lad came running to lead his horse into the parade and Silas was still laughing as he went.

  From the balcony of the Grand Stand, Tansy focused her field glasses on her brother, anxiety high in her, Dominic’s assurance that Silas’s colt, Tempest, had neither the stamina nor the sprinting ability to win the race having done nothing to quieten her fears. The silks of the jockeys flashed their jewel colours in the sun, and she could pick Roger out easily as the roll call was taken. Twenty-six runners in the peak of condition were drawn up on a moving, uneven line, some prancing, some reversing, and only seconds away from the start of the richest Derby ever to be run, the stakes standing at over six and a half thousand pounds.

  She gasped and gasped again when one false start followed upon another, several horses covering a number of furlongs before being pulled up and trotted back to the starting post, riders and mounts thoroughly upset by it, and in the resulting mix-up and jostling Roger had lost his good place near the rails and was caught in the middle of the line. Next to him was Silas on Tempest and on his other side was a gray filly, Bonnie, ridden by a jockey named Toby Jakes. As she watched she saw Roger turn his head sharply toward Silas as if retorting angrily to something the man had said. Then at last the race bell sounded and the starter shouted “Go!” as the flag came down. A tremendous roar went up from thousands of throats.

  “They’re off!”

  Young Oberon flew forward like an arrow released from a bow, Roger needing to get in front at once to avoid being hindered at the right-hand curve, which could cut him off, and he succeeded easily enough, Tempest and Bonnie keeping him company. He could tell that Young Oberon was going to run as he had never run before, and after the first furlong he had to pull hard to stop him taking the lead too soon. It was then he realized that he had been picked out for harassment by Silas and Toby Jakes, neither of whom could hope to win, but who were out to make sure that he didn’t. Both were already crowding him and he was sure that rougher tactics lay ahead.

  With a thunder of hooves the whole field swept uphill, swung round the right-hand curve and then toward the left as the ground levelled out for a stretch. The milepost flashed by and Roger took up sixth position, kept well away from the rails by Toby’s persistent crowding, but he knew Young Oberon had the stamina, and was unconcerned on that point. Afraid of being completely shut in, he attempted to ease Young Oberon to the outside, and although he succeeded to a certain extent, again Silas was there with a deliberate jostle. Roger yelled at him in fury:

  “Get out of the way, damn you!”

  “Pull him, lad!” Silas taunted back, the wind making his peak bend up from his cap. “As I told you back at the line, you’re never goin’ to make it!”

  The course began to descend steeply and sharply downhill to Tattenham Corner and the pace of every runner quickened. Roger hoped to shake off the other two and watched for a gap, knowing it was only a matter of time before Tempest and Bonnie broke down, for they were already being ridden to the limit of their endurance while Young Oberon was skimming along in perfect balance, his power yet untapped, so full of running that it was like a cry of exultation.

  Then the catastrophe happened. Bonnie, like many horses who disliked racing downhill lost her stride and bumped, causing another horse to get his legs crossed, and colliding they fell. With terrified whinnies and frightened shouts there was an immediate pileup of five horses and jockeys, Silas and Tempest among them, which threw those behind into panic and confusion, the rest of the field ahead thudding on to Tattenham Corner. Young Oberon, although not caught in that mass of kicking legs and struggling horseflesh, stumbled and went down on his forelegs, almost tossing Roger from the saddle, but he scrambled up again and with eyes wild, snorting and blowing, he reared away into the centre of the course and plunged on again. In that lost time all those entangled in the pileup had gone thundering on, and Roger and Young Oberon were last.

  “Come on, boy! Come on!” Roger urged, unaware he had tears on his face. “We can do it yet!”

  From the Grand Stand, Tansy and Dominic were among those who watched incredulously as Young Oberon, away from the rest of the field, began the last great sprint of his life. On and on he came, Tattenham Corner left behind as he overtook the stragglers. Still with the full breadth of the course lying between, he drew level with the main body of runners as hooves crashed and flashed up the straight, those four rising furlongs that had lost the race to so many in the past. Roger was the only jockey not using his whip. Young Oberon had become his own great ancestor, Eclipse, all over again, running his heart out to the loudest cheers that had ever resounded across the Epsom Downs.

  In his chair the Judge was watching closely the horses in the lead, Young Oberon as yet hidden from his view. The Flying Dutchman, a dark bay colt, was being challenged by Hotspur, an outsider, which was enough to turn any racing crowd into a frenzy, and another horse, Tadmor, was only half a length behind. With trained eyes the Judge concentrated on them, sitting on the edge of his chair. As the Roman nose of the dark bay shot past the winning post, inches ahead of Hotspur, he leaped to his feet and shouted his decision:

  “The Flying Dutchman wins!”

  Even as the words left him he saw to his astonishment that Young Oberon was also past the winning post on the far side and he heard those around him muttering against his verdict. The Judge was no longer young and could count forty years on the Turf, with fifteen of those as a respected racing judge, this being his final Derby and a fitting climax to his distinguished career. He would not have it ruined by any doubts cast upon the quickness of his eye or let it be said that old age had dulled his wits. He could not — no, he would not! — admit to not having seen Young Oberon pass the post.

  “The Flying Dutchman is the winner,” he declared to the waiting signalman. “Hotspur was second and Tadmor third.”

  “What about Young Oberon?” ventured someone.

  The Judge’s face turned purple and his white eyebrows clamped down into a thick bar across the bridge of his arrogant nose. “Fourth!” he spat. Gathering up his field glasses, race card, and papers he stalked down the steps from the chair. Seconds later the results were made known to the crowd and in a wild flutter of wings released pigeons soared high into the air to carry the news to press offices in London and farther afield.

  The owner of The Flying Dutchman, a sportsman and a gentleman, sought Dominic out bef
ore going to lead his winner in. “Look here, my dear sir, I feel the Judge’s verdict must be challenged —”

  Dominic, although deeply disappointed that the glory of the day had been snatched from Young Oberon, shook his head decisively. “To all intents and purposes your colt was the winner. He ran a magnificent race right from the beginning. You and I are working together for the good of the Turf. We want only to see the sport freed from all the villainy we know to be afoot. I think we’ve made great strides toward that end. To question the Judge and undermine his authority at this particular time could do untold harm. Let the verdict stand, and allow me to be the first to congratulate you.”

  The two men shook hands firmly. Tansy, knowing that Dominic had behaved most honourably, was extremely proud of him, and others showed it too, in the applause that followed them as they made their way toward the enclosure. The Flying Dutchman was led in to thunderous cheers, but the ovation was nothing compared to the tumultuous reception given to Young Oberon, who had run the race of a lifetime, the like of which had never been seen before and might never happen again. But he was an exhausted horse and once past the winning post he had gone completely lame. Roger had dismounted and led him gently off the course, and Mr. Kirby was running expert hands down his foreleg, the foot of which Young Oberon was reluctant to put on the ground.

  “I’m almost certain it’s a split pastern,” the trainer informed them.

  Tansy exclaimed in alarm. “Is that very serious?”

  “It can be,” Dominic answered, “if it doesn’t heal to leave him free of pain. It’s an extremely fine fracture of the bone running from fetlock to hoof. It means six months’ rest in his loose box and he’s out of the St. Leger and any other races he would have run this year.”

  “It must heal properly! It must!” Tansy cried.

  Dominic put his arms about her. “He’ll have the best of treatment, I promise you.”

  “And then?”

  “I’ll not race him again. He shall be retired to stud and become the sire of many thoroughbred winners like his famous ancestor before him.”

  At that point Matthew came running up. “I’ve just heard, sir! Bloody Silas has been arrested! The Jockey Club has laid charges against him for fraud and intimidation quite apart from his interference in the race. The wretch thought he had silenced the jockey whose place he took, having been blackmailing him, but the man decided to speak out to the stewards and has given them enough evidence to round up scores of ring leaders in the crooked practices that the late Selwyn Hedley organized. Bloody Silas will most surely be sent to prison for a long time or sentenced to transportation. He’ll never get near a racecourse again.”

  “That’s good news indeed,” Dominic said thankfully.

  That night over a candlelit supper for two at Ainderly Hall, Tansy lifted her champagne glass. “Let’s drink a toast to Young Oberon, who brought us together. May the first foal he sires be the greatest Derby winner ever!”

  “I drink to that,” Dominic replied, smiling at her as he raised his own glass. “You shall lead in that winner of the Blue Riband.”

  “We’ll lead him in together,” she answered contentedly, knowing in her heart that this dream of theirs would come true.

  They drank their toast and then he kissed her passionately. With arms entwined they left the supper table and the room, his head bent to hers, his love words whispered against her ear. Again and again their lips met as they ascended the wide staircase.

  In the stables amid the scent of warm bran mash and clean, sweet hay, Young Oberon slept.

  If you enjoyed The Marlows you might be interested in The Fragile Hour by Rosalind Laker, also published by Endeavour Press.

  Extract from The Fragile Hour by Rosalind Laker

  Chapter One

  Anna parked her car at the roadside, but made no move to get out. Instead she clenched her hands on the wheel, making her knuckles show white. The car radio was playing the latest hit by the Beatles, but she was not listening as she steeled herself for the ordeal that lay ahead. Through the windscreen her haunted gaze barely took in the vista of the great Norwegian mountains all around her.

  It had been a private decision to come here. Nobody else knew of it. She had flown in from Heathrow at mid-morning, caught a connecting flight that had brought her within range, and hired a car to drive the rest of the way. All because a short paragraph in one of yesterday’s London evening newspapers had caught her eye and hurled the past back at her in a way she could never have foreseen.

  A policeman came across from the grass verge opposite to bend his head down at the open window. “You can’t park here, frue. Drive farther along.”

  She stirred herself and gave a nod. “Could you tell me what’s happening at the lake? Has the wartime fighter plane been brought to the surface yet?”

  “No, there’s been a last minute delay and it will be early evening before it comes up. It’s ten days now since the off-shore company installed a crane on the bank and brought their working-boat up-river, but the aircraft is lodged precariously on a rock ledge deep down. One false move and it could go plummeting into the depths and that would be it.”

  He thought she shivered, but that was impossible on such a hot August day. Stepping back, he waved her on and Anna drove past the long line of vehicles parked at the roadside to the first available space. It was not surprising that so many people had come here today, for the new road through to the coast had made this once isolated area easily accessible. By now the music had given way to a newsreader, who announced that Nixon had won the Republican nomination for President and, in the next breath, that mini-skirts had become so short that in London the dry-cleaners were charging by the inch. Anna switched it off and parked for the second time.

  Everywhere else in the world life was going on, however important or trivial, but she had come to face up to the past, whatever the consequences might be. Yet she had never expected to visit this lake, even though what had happened there was an integral part of her relationship with a man who had torn her life apart. It was like coming to the opening of Pandora’s box.

  How easy it was already to picture how it must have been for the pilot of the fighter plane, a Mosquito, on the March night when he had to make a crash-landing here on the snow-covered plateau. That had been during the savage days of the German Occupation of this peaceful land. With his aircraft badly damaged by anti-aircraft fire and losing height rapidly, he had still hoped to save the special cargo that he carried aboard. If he had not been familiar with the area, there would have been no chance, but he watched out for the dark gleam of the frozen lake that the wind had made patchy with snow.

  Anna shut her eyes tightly, seeming to hear the spluttering engines as the aircraft descended swiftly out of the night sky. There came the vibrating thud of the crash-landing followed by the screech of metal as it careened wildly before finally coming to a standstill with its nose deep in a snowdrift. It was then that there came a noise like thunder as the ice, thick though it was, suddenly cracked and split into great glittering fangs that soared upwards as if to devour this unexpected prey. Briefly the Mosquito remained propped at a desperate angle, one wing high, a curious quiver passing through its fuselage as if it hovered like its namesake, until it began to sink slowly down into the churning water. The pilot, badly bruised and shaken, watched from the snowdrift where he had managed to crawl to safety. He uttered a long and despairing groan as his fighter plane disappeared from sight.

  With an effort Anna forced her mind back to the present. She wouldn’t go to the lake yet. It was better to be on her own while the final salvage preparations took place instead of being in the midst of all the other spectators. Deciding to leave her jacket on the back seat, she tucked a strand of her silky light brown hair back behind one ear and put on large-framed sunglasses before gathering up her handbag and binoculars from the passenger seat. Slinging the straps of both over her left shoulder, she slid out of the car and locked it behind her.
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  Setting off up the slope, she walked through grass hazy with harebells and thick with clover, lady’s slipper and stretches of wild pansies. Slim and lithe, dressed in a cool green cotton blouse and white trousers fashionably flared, her subtly expressive face, presently showing strain, had the kind of well-formed bones that would carry her beauty through all the decades ahead. Her mouth was wide and generous and, at other times, quick to laugh. She had inherited her fine complexion and azure eyes from her Oslo-born mother, but in being practical and level-headed with a mind of her own, she knew herself to be exactly like her English Naval Officer father, David Marlow.

  It was rarely that he had spoken about the tragic period in his life and hers when her Norwegian mother had died. Yet he brought up the subject when she spent a half-term from boarding school with him when his ship was in port. She was twelve and they were seated at a window table in one of Fuller’s teashops.

  “I’ve often wondered, Anna, how you really felt after we lost your mother and I told you of all the arrangements I’d made for your care in my absences at sea. After all, you were only seven.”

  She had looked up from eating a cream cake with its fresh strawberry on top. “I didn’t like the boarding school bit at first, although it’s all right now. But it was wonderful being able to spend every vacation with Aunt Rosa in Norway. My earliest memories are of Mother taking me there when you were away at sea, and I’ve always been bilingual.”

  When she was older and her aunt had confided in her, Anna often wondered if her father had known that his sister-in-law had had a passionate affair with a German count in her younger days. That was when Rosa’s staid and tiresomely dull husband was still alive.