But Sir Francis Delamain was stubborn, a fighter. He had been long in the world and he was reluctant to leave it. His still bright blue eyes gazed unseeingly at the wall, but his chest rose rhythmically though his breathing was harsh.
A solitary candle guttered in its holder as Brent sat staring at the old man and pondering his own future. The death of his grandfather would make a vast different to his life, all their lives. George was the heir. George who had been groomed since childhood to succeed to the vast Delamain estates. George, the good one, the sober, clever, industrious one, the obedient one ... whereas Brent. Well, everyone thought that Brent was a disappointment.
Brent’s stay at Cambridge was considered to be a passing visit. All the Delamain sons went to Cambridge, it was a tradition. But how long they stayed depended on their scholastic ability, and everyone knew that Brent had none.
Brent had a fine record as a boxer, a rider, a hunter and a fighter. But where did that get a man? Especially a younger son who seemed to have no aptitude for anything except chasing women and killing foxes, and losing money he hadn’t got at cards. It was even rumoured that Brent had fought a duel because there was a long thin scar on his cheek which he swore he had got merely fencing.
Sir Francis Delamain who had increased the family fortune, already considerable when he inherited it, three-fold by his thrift, financial acumen and industry, had no time at all for Brent. His charm may have worked on a lot of people, but it didn’t impress his grandfather. Old Sir Francis was a canny northerner, and he couldn’t abide to see people idle or wasting money. Brent showed no interest in the land, except for hunting over it, or the army or navy in which his grandfather would gladly have purchased him a commission. He had no appreciation of how to acquire money, or even how to keep what little he was given. He had certainly no aptitude for the study of the classics or history. What was to become of Brent, no one knew.
Now George, his brother ... why there was a fine fellow of a man. Keen, industrious, a good scholar and what was more, he had given up the great chances he had to shine in London, in politics or the university, to help his grandfather run his estates. And what a success he had made of that! How quickly he had mastered the arts of animal husbandry, forestry, and estate management.
No, George was like his grandfather, a true Delamain, and Brent was too like his father Guy, another reckless ne’er do well who had carelessly thrown his life away for the Stuart cause, leaving Francis to care for his wife and children and bear the shame, into the bargain, of having a son who was disloyal to the lawful government of England.
Brent knew all this and more as he gazed at the withered face of a man he had respected and feared but never loved. When he was dead George would have all. Though he did not fear him, Brent neither liked nor respected his brother. Where would Brent fit in when his grandfather finally breathed his last? Nowhere.
The candle flickered and went out. Brent cursed and got to his feet. It was a cold night for June and he went to shut the window that he had opened to try and get rid of the stench of death, before finding a tinder to relight the candle. From the window of his grandfather’s room he looked down on the courtyard, across the outbuildings with the stables and the bakehouse, onto the meadows stretching as far as the river which gleamed like a ribbon of silver in the moonlight.
The whole of the Delamain estate, or what he could see of it from here, was bathed in clear, golden light and Brent thought how beautiful it was, how dear to him, and how much he would miss it when, as was inevitable after his grandfather’s death, he would have to go. For George had made it clear that he thought it was time he got married, and that when he did his family would have to make room for the huge number of new Delamains that he intended to breed. Mother was to go to the dower house in the grounds with their sister Emma; the middle brother Tom was a monk at Douai and safely out of the way, and Brent ... well it was time he found gainful employment, anyway, George made clear, and now was no concern of his.
Suddenly Brent stiffened, seeing a movement by the trees which began the Forest of Delamain at the end of the water meadow, the great forest – one of few in a mainly agricultural area – that stretched almost as far as Penrith on one side and Appleby on the other. Maybe it was the moon playing tricks, the shadow of a branch waving in the breeze. Brent peered out again, just to be sure. No. he had been right – it was a distinct, stealthy human movement: not a movement of the horses in the paddock there ... and suddenly it was joined by another. There were two! There were at least two people in the meadow by the river, maybe more. By the height of the moon Brent knew it to be well after midnight, and all the castle servants long in their beds.
Brent opened the door and ran silently along the stone corridor to his Mother’s room. Always alert, as anxious for her son and their future as well as he, she rose as soon as the door opened and hurriedly put on her robe.
‘Your grandfather?’ she called abruptly.
‘No, Mother, he is still alive; nothing further ails him. But hurry. I want you by his side. I have seen strange movements by the river.’
‘Movements!’ his Mother grasped his arm – the arm of this dearest, most favourite son.
‘Horse thieves, Mother, if you ask me. They’re from the fair at Appleby I doubt not. I told George that he should lock his new yearlings up and not have them loose in the field, but of course George knows everything and I nothing. First rouse the servants for me, Mother, and George and I will hasten down before they escape with all the stock.’
‘Oh, Brent ...’ eyes full of love followed him. So gentle and gallant and like his father; so warm and passionate, such a good friend. If only Brent had been born first instead of George ... ‘Take care,’ she didn’t want to let him go, ‘they might have weapons.’
‘Mother, I’ll take care; that’s one thing I can do. Even George says that.’ And he kissed her lightly on the cheek, squeezed her arm and sped down the steps of the great majestic staircase that led into the long gallery. The moonlight was bright enough to show the way, though Brent could have found it blindfold in this beloved place. Every inch of Delamain Castle was dear and familiar to him.
He strode through the kitchens, the cockroaches scurrying away from him on the stone floor, and let himself through an outhouse into the yard where he paused and listened, his nose sniffing the air for the scent of disturbance. Brent was a countryman and knew you could smell danger before you could see it. But no, the air told him nothing. Had it, after all, been merely shadows?
Quickly he ran across the yard to the stables. Ah, yes. Here he did sense danger; he could hear the sounds of restlessness within, a few snorts and whinnies. But it would not be the thoroughbreds, the hunting mares, that the thieves would be after. It would be the young yearlings in the field, half-tamed, unshown, unknown.
Brent listened for sounds from the castle that George and the servants had stirred; but there was nothing. He would have to act himself. He grasped a stout staff that stood against a shed and opened the door of the stall of his own stallion Marcus, who had brought him home only the week before. He made a gentle familiar noise so that Marcus should recognize him and not alert the thieves on this still night. There was no time for a bridle but Brent was an expert rider and, clasping the horse’s mane, sprung lightly on its back and gently urged it forward into the yard. He turned towards the field and, jumping over the gate, thundered across it.
Then it was as though hell had erupted. Simultaneously from the house came cries and the sound of many feet, whereas from the edge of the forest shadows materialized into running people, and riderless horses tethered together or single were driven into the direction of the far gate which was open. The running figures sprang onto the horses and urged them at a gallop across the field.
Pandemonium reigned. Some horses threatened to trip over the rest and the leader, who was near the gate, was cutting the riderless horses loose and urging the others to do the same.
‘Break loose! Break loose
!’
But already several were beyond the gate, having cut loose already. The released horses shot back towards Brent and he had to avoid cannoning into them himself.
‘Hurry!’ shouted Brent over his shoulder, but already he knew it to be too late and cursed when he saw the useless gaggle of servants rush into the field waving staves and sticks.
A fierce hatred of the horse-thieves possessed Brent and he dug his heels into Marcus’s flanks. Although it was not his property they had been after, it was certainly not theirs.
Now all the riders were away, and Brent after them, but the riderless horses still tethered together got in his way. He pulled Marcus to a halt, dismounted and tried to seize the rope that hung from the neck of the leader of a riderless group when suddenly a mounted figure swept up to him and tried to snatch the rein from his hand. Helpless as he was, and disadvantaged, being on the ground, Brent caught at the wrist that had snatched the rope from him and held it in a vice-like grip, hearing a sharp exclamation of pain.
He looked down in amazement at the slender wrist he was holding, then up at the rider. He saw bright eyes gazing fiercely at him, a full, firm mouth that grimaced in pain and a beardless chin tilted in the moonlight.
A boy! A mere boy. The voice had given him away if not the narrow wrist and unshaven face. Well he’d have a mere lad off his horse in a trice and he’d beat him soundly before handing him over to the magistrate, who no doubt would eventually hang him. Brent tried to spring on to the horse behind the lad but in the effort loosened his grasp on the wrist and, with the cunning of an expert horseman, the boy sharply backed his horse, causing Brent to lose hold completely and fall flat on his face.
With a laugh the boy grabbed hold of the two horses tethered together and sped off.
Now Brent was furious. To be worsted by a mere lad, a beardless youth scarce fifteen, or maybe younger since his voice was still unbroken. He grabbed hold of Marcus, sprang onto his back and kicked him into full gallop after the disappearing thief who had not only taken the horse he was on, but had had the nerve to steal two more as well, despite being pursued!
The path through the forest taken by the thieves – leading towards Appleby as Brent had suspected it would – was tortuous and narrow. It was familiar to him from boyhood ramblings, but he guessed that the riders in front of him were gypsies and no one rode as gypsies rode, especially when they were stealing other people’s horses. A grudging admiration for them rose in his breast. And to employ a boy into the bargain – what nerve!
Suddenly Brent saw his quarry in front of him; he was being held back by the two other horses he was leading. Looking back and seeing his pursuer, the boy let the tethered horses go and they halted abruptly causing Brent to falter. As he turned aside to avoid a collision Marcus at the same time stumbled on a gnarled bough in the undergrowth and Brent, without a bridle or saddle, went over his horse’s head and fell heavily to the ground. In front of him, the rider hearing the cry and the commotion of horses whinnying turned and paused. When he saw what had happened he kicked his horse and sped towards the fallen man.
Brent lay on his face, winded and heaving, but aware that he was not hurt. He was also aware that the rider was coming back and as the horse trotted gently up to him made no move. The rider paused for a while and then dismounted, coming stealthily towards Brent. Brent saw the feet then the legs of the rider’s harsh leather boots, waited until they were a few inches from his face and then, drawing a deep breath, he gave a mighty lurch and dragged the boy thief to the ground sitting astride him so that this time there would be no escape.
The boy gasped and struggled but Brent had his wrist between his knees and his hands on the boy’s shoulders.
‘Now my young rogue, I’ve got you,’ Brent cried banging his head on the ground. ‘They hang horse thieves, you know, no matter how young.’
The boy gave a cry and struggled, arching himself, and Brent’s hands moved downwards to pinion him more firmly by the chest. But instead of a bony boyish frame such as he expected, his hands encountered twin mounds of firm flesh such as Brent had never felt on a male body, but many times on that of a woman. With an exclamation he drew his hands away still sitting astride, and pulled off the cap that the ‘boy’ had worn on his head.
‘My God. ‘Tis a woman!’
He was so amazed that he continued to sit where he was gazing at the defiant face that looked up at him, the dark luxurious hair that now, loosed from its cap, spread on the ground. That firm small mouth, that tilted beardless chin pointing aggressively at him belonged to no youth but a full grown, beautiful – nay voluptuous even, he thought, aware of her curved hips beneath him – woman.
‘A woman horse thief,’ Brent continued as if talking to himself. ‘I do not believe it.’
The woman stopped struggling and decided on another tactic having seen the look on his face, so clear in the moonlight. And a handsome noble face it was too – certainly the master of the house, no servant he, no clod-hopping menial sent to catch them.
‘Sir,’ she said. ‘I beg you will let me go or I will be horsewhipped.’
‘Or you will be hanged you mean,’ Brent said beginning to smile at such audacity. ‘Horse-whipped will be mild compared to what they do to thieves in Carlisle. You are a thief, are you not? Woman or no? A common thief.’
Analee – for it was she – knew men well enough to realize when a threat was real and when it was not. And this fine lord, this nobleman whose graceful body was sitting astride hers in the sort of position that, despite the gravity of the circumstances, could not help but give rise to idle fancies – this gentleman with his light bantering tone surely didn’t mean what he said.
‘I am not a common thief sir, but a woman reduced to what I do through harsh circumstances. I beg you to free me for if they know I am caught I shall be given no more work. Please sir. We are to leave here soon; we shall not trouble you again.’
‘But be free to steal from others, eh?’
Brent was reminded how much he had hated the thieves but a short time ago; how willingly he would have given a mature common gypsy man to the sheriff to be hanged.
He stared at the girl and saw her teeth gleam in the light of the moon that streamed through the trees. He was aware of her body under his, a soft pliant body with a narrow waist, full hips and legs spread just that little bit enticingly apart. He was aware that she had stopped struggling and the look on her face was no longer defiant – it was warm and inviting, coquettish.
The moment passed. Her thighs were encased in breeches, her body in a thick jerkin.
‘I cannot make love to a lad,’ he laughed and reluctantly released his sure hold on his captive, pulling her to her feet with him.
She was tall and her body was still close to his. He was aware of her round full breasts beneath her leather jerkin, even though they’d been flattened and tied with some sort of cloth to make her look more like a boy. And indeed in her man’s garb with her long black hair and her sinuous gypsy body, her dark flashing eyes looking so challengingly at him, he thought she looked even more desirable than she would dressed as a woman, or indeed dressed in nothing at all.
They stood for a moment – aware of each other but not speaking. There was a tantalizing body smell about her, a fresh smell as though she either washed or soaked herself in a compound of herbs and exotic spices. It was a lingering alluring smell that made him want her even more.
‘I will let you go if I can see you again,’ he said, ‘if I could meet you on proper terms.’
‘Terms sir?’
‘I would not take advantage of a woman like this – you know what I mean.’
‘Oh I can see you are a gentleman,’ Analee said mockingly. ‘I’ll warrant the first one I ever met.’
Of course she was crude, Brent thought, what else could he expect of a gypsy? Her voice was from the south. It was not as uncultured as he might have expected; but whichever way she spoke troubled him not. She excited him.
> ‘I will see you again,’ he murmured, his voice shaking. ‘I will, I must.’
He grasped her hand, but Analee shook her head, regretfully, and backed away.
‘Why not?’ He followed her, still holding her hand. ‘Not now. Not here. They might come back.’
‘When then, where?’
She continued to walk backwards and he followed her, looking for the chance to pinion her against a tree and seize her in his arms. As though aware of his intention Analee stepped back carefully, enjoying the game, her mouth beginning to show an enticing smile.
She was such a coquette! He reached out to grasp her, but she eluded him.
‘Take care lest you fall again, sir. This time I might not help you to get up.’
Analee knew she had to deceive him, get away from him ... alas. Alas because he was so handsome, with his blond aquiline looks, his strong young supple body. It was not hard to imagine the ecstasy their union would bring. But she had to resist him, this gadjo with the strong, clever face, the suspicion of a sardonic smile, blue eyes set deeply on either side of a straight, broad nose. His thick curly hair was so very fair that it appeared almost silver in the moonlight, and a lock of it fell over his forehead enhancing the virile, dramatic quality of his appeal – someone, she felt, who was masterful and sure as a lover, yet tender and gentle as well.
With a last rueful glance she turned and sprang agilely onto the horse that stood docilely where she had left him.
‘We cannot meet,’ she said looking at him, observing the desperation of his stance as though he would spring onto her.
‘But you said ...’
‘I like you well enough, sir. I like you very well. Were circumstances other than what they are I would with pleasure ...’
Analee sprang on her horse and set its head up river.
‘Why?’ Brent cried. ‘Why can’t we meet? I will not betray you. I want only to see you dressed as a woman, yes, to hold you again in my arms ...’
The Enchantress (Book 1 of The Enchantress Saga) Page 2
