by Miriam Bibby
George knew that he needed to tackle the stream and the bank at exactly the right angle as well, because that would gain him some valuable time and advantage. He saw it in his mind over and over again, knowing that it was critical. The time he gained would be balanced against the time Widderis would lose in needing to steady The Fly until George had cleared the bank. Then, George thought, he and Galingale needed to keep that lead and run like the devil to the end of the woodland, because if he hadn’t worn down The Fly by that stage, The Fly would once again have the advantage when they got back out onto the open turf.
These were his thoughts as they saddled up Galingale. Then he cleared his mind of everything but the feel of the horse under him and the sight of the ground in front. He did his best to collect the energy of Galingale under him, asking the horse, in his mind, to hold that power until the moment came - and …
“And - off!” said the starter, dropping the cloth. George took Galingale straight into a blistering gallop that took the others by surprise. The Fly leaped in the air at the start, losing time, but Widderis quickly brought him back and drove him after Galingale with all the power he possessed. George, leaning forward over Galingale’s neck and keeping just the lightest touch on the horse’s mouth, felt the black mane lash across his face. He realised that the horse still had great reserves of power in him. He could hear the hooves of The Fly just behind him and the horse’s harsh breathing. Why was it so tempting to look back?
He sensed rather than saw The Fly’s nose coming up towards his left boot and put a touch of pressure on Galingale’s right side. He was not sure whether Galingale or his boot touched The Fly, but it seemed to him that the horse fell back. George kept his eyes on the track into the woodland, keeping to the left as he now knew that was where Widderis was trying to push through. Widderis would not have time, now, to move out to the right to get past George, who was confident that he would hold the lead along the woodland track. He just needed to have the courage to keep his speed up along the first part of the track, where it was fairly broad; and then slow down where it narrowed and went downhill towards the stream, forcing Widderis to keep his place behind Galingale.
The mud and fallen leaves on the surface, already churned by galloping hooves, were turning into black mire but George kept his speed as far as he dared. Then, judging the moment, he steadied Galingale as the descent began. The trees, mainly willows on either side, had been cut back somewhat but still pressed in closely as they rode downhill. Now he was seeing and experiencing the descent as Widderis had experienced it whilst in the lead. A willow wand whipped against his boot. Then he realised, with some shock, that Widderis was trying to push through. He felt the Fly collide with Galingale’s haunches and the black horse rolled his eye backwards in alarm. George urged him on. Perhaps it had been unintended; The Fly simply getting the better of Widderis and taking temporary control. Again, he felt a shock as The Fly’s shoulder touched Galingale and this time George lashed backwards with the whip he had not used up until now.
“Keep your distance here, you young fool!” he shouted in genuine concern. “D’you want to kill us both? There isn’t the room to pass.” Widderis ignored him. Again, George felt The Fly make contact with Galingale. Now he was not in any doubt; Widderis was trying to ride him off the track. He could just make out the horse’s nose, to his right now, and far, far too close. He glanced round quickly, to see The Fly coming up alongside. Far, far too close, with the stream just ahead …
“Have a care, Sir George!”
The Fly disappeared behind George as Philip Widderis pulled him up in a sudden halt. George, taken by surprise, glanced ahead to see that the rotting tree that had stood by the edge of the stream now lay across it at an angle.
“God’s body …” There was scarcely time to think, or prepare; George, assuming that Galingale would leap the stream and the log in one, trusted the horse with his head. Galingale, thinking differently, flung his head in the air and skidded to a halt. Even as he was rolling over the horse’s shoulder and preparing to hit the ground, George was impressed by Galingale’s ability to stop. Was there no end to the horse’s skills? Then, he found himself lying half on the bank, half in the water, shocked but uninjured. Idiotically, a memory came into his mind of Pommely and the time he had fallen off him in front of his father, whom he had been trying desperately to impress. His father had simply said, “I believe that’s the seventh time, my boy; now you’re a true horseman.” Why did he think of that, now? Dripping with water and covered in mud, George got up and grabbed Galingale’s reins. The horse looked at him as though he had gone mad. George retrieved his hat from the water and whacked it hard on the stump. Water and mud flew everywhere. Now to deal with that Widderis boy.
The Widderis boy was disappearing at top speed through the woodland, upstream away from the course they were supposed to ride. The big chestnut’s tail streamed out behind him as he galloped and his nose was stuck firmly in the air. As George watched open-mouthed, he saw Philip Widderis turn round and, he thought, heard him shout, “Your pardon, Sir George!”
“Well, I’ll be … ” murmured George. Had the boy lost control? It certainly looked like it. Well, that was not his concern. His concern was to finish the race, and that he intended to do.
His arm and shoulder ached, but somehow he managed to get back into the saddle. Galingale swung himself around, ready to follow The Fly. George turned him back and in doing so, nearly collided with the undersheriff’s son who was just coming down the track towards the bank. George apologised and warned him about the log. Then, gauging the distance perfectly, he set Galingale at the obstacle and felt the horse soar under him. Taking it steadily, he rode back through the wood towards the start.
* * * * *
“Sir George! Sir George! You won! And Gally, my beauty, my beauty!” Amelia kissed Galingale on the nose. “He is my favourite, you know, Sir George. I prefer him to Galliard or Gallus. Father told us Gallus was away for the summer. He didn’t even tell us what was happening.”
Galingale was soon cooled down, watered and blanketed. George, as was his usual practice, made sure that the horse received attention before he did.
“George, I need to talk to you. Amelia, go to see your mother, who is waiting for you over there and wishes you to attend her to her cousin’s house in Marcaster. And Amelia, do not stop to speak to anyone. Hurry now!” Sir Richard watched her run over to where her mother waited and then turned back to George. He looked serious. “George, the undersheriff’s lad has lodged a complaint with his father about you and the undersheriff is claiming the victory for his son.”
George looked at him but couldn’t find any words for the moment. Then he shook his head in disbelief and laughed.
“On what grounds?” he asked.
“That you impeded his horse and prevented him from passing you, thus losing him the match.”
George looked at Sir Richard.
“He …” he began and then stopped, letting his breath out in disgust. “Where is he now?”
“Yonder.” Sir Richard nodded. George looked across and saw the pugnacious face of the undersheriff. His son did not look particularly concerned. At least he had got down from his horse and was no longer using it as a chair. As George watched, a woman, evidently the boy’s mother, brought him some food and smoothed back his hair. Much though George wanted to go over and tell the undersheriff what he thought, he simply drew a deep breath and looked away. The boy was young and under the thumb of his father; not much more than a child, really and he, George, was supposed to be mature and in control of his passions. Sometimes, though, it would be good to be able to revert to the fisticuffs of his youth and the undersheriff looked like a worthy opponent. Taking a deep breath, George dismissed the lad and his father from his mind. No point in arguing the case, he felt; but then, there was Galingale to consider. The horse should receive his due as winner.
Richard was looking at him with understanding. “It is very difficult,�
�� he said. “As well as having his son ride in the match, he has his official responsibility to oversee it and we - Sir John and I have certainly taxed him to the limit regarding that. If Philip Widderis had managed to complete we might have had a stronger case to run some more trials.”
“And what of Philip Widderis? Is there any news of him? This is one of the strangest situations I have ever been in.”
“No news of Widderis and no sign of the horse. George, my boy; leave Galingale to the groom and come along for a drink and a bite to eat.” Reluctantly, George followed Richard towards the Marfield Hall horses and the vehicle that contained food and drink for Richard’s contingent.
George sat down in the shade of the little carriage and took a long, long drink of ale. It was good. There was nothing, he thought, like riding a horse to make life feel sweet. The breeze was cool through his shirt, which was wet with sweat. One of the servants brought him some bread, cheese and pie and he ate. He would have been completely content if it had not been for the thought of Galingale. The horse had run with intelligence and heart and now - to be denied recognition. Still, thought George, horses cared nothing for prizes or cheering or congratulations. Galingale’s rewards were a cool drink of water, the apples George had given him and the knowledge that he was, simply through existing, splendour personified. Or whatever the equine equivalent of personification might be. Now Galingale, in the care of grooms, was making his way quietly back to Marfield Hall and the attention due to a winner.
After a time Richard returned. He had been arguing the case with the undersheriff and the members of the corporation. He seemed slightly embarrassed. George rose to his feet.
“George, I scarcely know how to say this; I have done my best, but to dispute further will bring nothing but difficulty for me. It - it goes hard with me to see you and - my horse so treated …”
“Say nothing more, Richard. I understand. But this touches Sir John as well. What does he make of it?”
“For obvious reasons, he is more concerned for his son and his horse, who are even now being sought; but other than that, he is, as far as I can tell, of like mind. This is a dirty business.”
“Perhaps young Widderis fears his father’s wrath and is in hiding for the day.”
Richard laughed. “Jack Widderis has a bark that’s worse than his bite. And Philip is the apple of his eye. The only one at home, now his sisters are married and the other lad’s at Oxford.”
As they talked, there was a sudden warning shout and The Fly, his reins dangling, came hurtling riderless across the grass.
“My God …” said George, as both he and Richard Grasset ran forward to help catch the horse. The Fly, sweating profusely, dodged around a group of men and women and narrowly avoided collecting one of the booths in the process. As a mixed group of Grasset and Widderis grooms ran forward, The Fly, knowing he was caught, shuddered to a halt and drew in his breath in great rasping gasps. Sweat poured from him and he looked completely, utterly exhausted. His head hung to the ground. A Widderis groom grabbed the horse’s reins and soothed him. The man’s face was shocked and everyone present knew what he was thinking. Where was Philip Widderis - and was he alive or dead?
Sir Richard went immediately to Sir John Widderis to offer him all the help he needed. George picked up his jerkin and followed, preparing to join a search party. His shoulder gave a stab of pain and he did his best to ignore it.
“Thanks for your help, George, we’ll find a horse for you …” Richard went to gather up his servants.
George walked about, stretching his limbs. The whole field was alive with gossip, conjecture and concern. George ignored it, mulling over the day’s events. It was all so odd. He tried to make sense of it, but couldn’t. As always, he wanted to act, not think. Action always helped. Thoughts just went round in circles aimlessly.
Amelia and her mother had come back from their visit, with their maids, expecting to return to Marfield Hall soon. George saw them talking to Sir Richard and the officials near the pavilion. Anne was shaking her head slowly as though in disbelief. There was no sign of Sir John; but a man was riding, hard, along the road and as George watched, he turned onto the grass and rode hell for leather across to the pavilion. News of Philip Widderis, perhaps. Good news, with luck. Then George frowned. He recognised the horse - and surely that was one of the grooms who had led Galingale back to Marfield Hall? As George began to walk across the grass, he thought he saw Meg disappearing in amongst the booths and increased his pace.
Amelia saw him approaching, broke away from her mother and ran towards him.
“Oh, Sir George! Such news!” Her face was shocked and excited. “Lissy is missing! So is her maid!”
Chapter 9: The Conspirators
In a brief space of time, the common was in uproar. Richard and Jack Widderis found themselves reluctantly joined together at the centre of attention as the parents of two missing children. There was an increase in the hubbub as Amelia too was found to be temporarily lost; but she had only been distracted by something that was happening at one of the booths. Her father almost shouted at her when she came running up to him and then suddenly clutched her to him, reaching out for his wife at the same time. George saw a spasm of pain cross Richard’s face and experienced his anguish. Amelia and her mother were both in tears.
“Forgive me, father, I’m sorry!” Amelia repeated the words over and over again through her sobs. “Forgive me …”
“All’s well, daughter,” said Richard, trying to sound reassuring, but George saw that he had tears in his eyes too. “You are not to blame for anything. You are both - all - so precious to me.”
George, not able to bear this scene, walked away in search of a horse, with some vague idea of getting together a search party. Action - that was the thing. Riding around the countryside would not be an entirely aimless task. Someone, somewhere might have seen something. Must have seen something. He would find them; he would question them. If Amabilis Grasset had been taken in revenge for Giddens, George would do everything in his power to ensure that justice was done. He snapped his fingers at one of the Grasset grooms and ordered him to find the best horse that he could. The man jumped to attention and was soon back with Richard’s own horse.
“The master’s compliments, Sir George.” He held the horse and stirrup whilst George swung into the saddle. George rode over to the Grassets.
“Give me some of your men and I will start searching,” he said to Richard, who nodded.
“Sir John will return with us to Marfield Hall. It is nearer than Calness. There, once Anne and Amelia are safe, we will decide on a course of action. You agree, Jack?”
John Widderis nodded.
“Aye. We are as one mind in this, Dick Grasset and myself. Take some of my men also, lad. And God go with thee.”
George found himself liking this tough old man who saw him as little more than a lad. It was not offensive, simply his manner.
“My thanks to you,” he said.
In a short time, George was setting out with Hal and eight other riders. They rode down to the junction where the road divided, Calness in one direction and Marfield Hall in the other. George considered. He had set out with no real plan, but he came to the decision that, as the Grassets and Sir John were returning to Marfield, he and his party would take the road to Calness and see what they could find. George had a nagging, unpleasant feeling at the back of his mind, a feeling that was trying to turn into a thought and capture his attention, but he tried his best to ignore it. No - it couldn’t be …
The gates of Calness between the two towers were substantial - and closed. George glanced up at the building. It was practical and highly defensible, like several of the houses and churches he had seen on this side of the country. Memories of rebellions and wars with the Scots lingered in this part of the world.
“There’s scarce a man here, Master Past’n,” said one of the Widderis men. “Only the kitchenfolk and stockmen; and a man so old ‘is limbs crea
ks, to keep an eye on t’door. Most went with us to see t’running ‘orses. They’re not back yet.”
George smiled. “See if you can gain entrance for us. Tell the creaking old man that we come with peaceable intent, for we don’t want to scare him if he sees a body of armed men on horseback.” He looked up at the towers with the uncomfortable feeling that there might be someone watching him. This was, after all, the home of Sir John, the Catholic; if he was hearing mass in secret, or harbouring seminary priests, the penalties were extremely severe. It could mean near ruin, with fines or the confiscation of most of a man’s estate, even a year’s imprisonment. It hadn’t always been so. Life for both beliefs had been easier at the start of Elizabeth’s reign. It was only in the last ten years, with the flood of seditious priests from the continent, threats against the queen’s life and the production of pro-Catholic tracts on secret presses that tolerance had become such a rare commodity.
