Quoits and Quotability
Page 6
“Did my father teach you that as well?”
“It just occurred to me, right then!”
“Really?” Quentin’s eyes narrowed. He did not like the idea of a rough-handed stable boy having a facility with words. He tossed a second quoit. It glanced from the tip of the peg and fell shy.
“Concentrate!” Francis urged. “The spectators will be calling out and doing all sorts in order to distract you. They will have money on your opponents.”
“The disloyalty!” Quentin gasped. “I hope they lose their shirts.”
“I could lose mine,” Francis offered. “It is warm out here.”
“You will stay decently attired,” Quentin warned him. “You have rolled up your sleeves; let that suffice.”
Francis laughed. “You really are anxious about the silliest things.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Quentin dropped the quoits. They clanged on the toe of his boot. He limped away from the clearing, ignoring the stable boy’s cries to return and finish the practice.
***
The night before the tournament was a sleepless one for Quentin. Morpheus, it transpired, was withholding his affection and keeping his arms to himself. Quentin lay in bed, going over the afternoon’s practice session repeatedly. He had barely missed a single throw, thereby almost achieving the maximum possible score. If he could repeat the feat at least once during one of his matches, the trophy must surely be his, and the family name would continue un-besmirched - for another year at least - as far as quoits were concerned, at any rate.
If only I could rest, he wailed inwardly! He rolled over onto his arm. His tender wrist ached in protest so he rolled over onto his back again. He closed his eyes in the hope that sleep would come but there arose in his mind’s eye an image of Doctor Goodhead rolling up his shirtsleeves and preparing to toss. A worthy opponent, to be sure. To face him in the final was a consummation devoutly to be wished, not least because it would meant Quentin would have to spend time in proximity to the man. What a challenge that would be! To keep my mind focussed on the game, on one ring at a time! No, I shall be remarkably aloof, as if we were strangers and he the most unhandsome man in the county.
A quiet tap at the window aroused him. He listened carefully. It came again. And, after a brief interval, it happened a third time. The devil take it! Someone was throwing pieces of gravel at the windowpane!
Quentin swung his legs out of bed and, rising, moved to open the window. A handful of grit sprayed in his face.
“Who’s there?” he cried into the night, for whoever it was had brought no lantern.
“Keep your voice down!” a harsh whisper replied. “It is I!”
“Who? Be off, whoever you are!”
He moved to close the window but another salvo of gravel stayed him.
“I’m warning you,” he called out. “This has got to stop.”
“Come down!” urged the whisper.
“If that’s you, Francis, you can forget it,” Quentin hissed back.
“O, for pity’s sake...” The whisper filled and deepened into the voice of a grown man. “It’s me, you dolt. It’s your brother! Roderick!”
Quentin’s eyes widened so much he thought they might drop from their sockets. He slipped on his slippers and pulled a robe around his nightshirt before returning to the window once more. “I’ll come down,” he cried. “Roderick?”
Deep in the shadows in a corner of the garden, Roderick Quigley slapped a hand to his face and muttered an invocation to the deity to award him strength.
***
Quentin came out of the house and scoured the garden without success until, nearing the stable yard, his elbow was caught by a strong hand and he was pulled into the shadows. Quentin gasped involuntarily and a second hand clamped over his mouth. He tried to recoil but his brother’s grip was too firm.
“Quiet, you little fool!” eyes and teeth flashed under a cowl. “Does anyone know you are out here?”
Quentin shook his head.
“I shall take my hand away and we shall converse like gentlemen,” said Roderick, “if you promise me you will not squeal like a stuck piglet the second you are released.”
Quentin nodded, his eyes round and, he hoped, sincere. Roderick let him go but stood in the way between Quentin and the path to the house
“Good.”
“Rodders, this is most peculiar. Why did you not come to the door and at a more sociable hour?”
“Quiet!”
Quentin flinched.
“I’m not here to hurt you, brother.”
“You received my letter, then.”
“What letter?”
“The letter I wrote you.”
“You wrote me a letter?”
“Yes!”
“When?”
“A week ago.”
“I got no letter. Where did you send it?”
“To your local post office.”
“Oh, I have moved on from there.”
“Oh.”
“Listen, I did not come here to talk about the postal service. I need something from you, brother. Will you give it?”
“Why, yes, of course! Depending on what it is.”
“I want your horse.”
“Satan!”
“I’ve been called worse names before now, but will you give me your horse or no?”
“That’s his name: Satan. It’s driving Aunt Fanny mad.” Quentin giggled. Roderick stepped closer.
“Aunt Fanny is here?” he breathed. Quentin tried not to grimace.
“Yes, I told you in the letter.”
“Which I never received.”
“Ah.”
“There is no time to lose. Come!” He dragged Quentin toward the stables.
“Rodders, what is this all about?”
“Not now, Q; you must keep this little visit between us.”
“Entre nous!”
“O God, you’ve caught the French fad. Which is yours?”
The horses were dozing in their stalls, save for Satan in his, pawing at the dirt floor with a front hoof.
“The black at the end,” said Quentin. “You’re taking him now?”
“Like I said: no time. Go back to bed; there’s a good fellow.”
“But I thought - I thought you had come back to see Father.”
“Why? What’s the matter with him?”
“Nothing! Well, he has put his back out. I am to take his place in the quoits tournament tomorrow - O, you must come! You must come and see me win.”
“Fancy your chances, do you?”
“I’ve been working very hard. There’s a fool of a doctor who needs taking down a peg.”
But Roderick was not listening. He unhooked the latch of Satan’s stall. The stallion snorted and inched backwards. “Easy, boy, easy,” Roderick spoke softly. Satan snorted again and stamped the floor.
“What’s going on here?” cried a voice. It was Francis; he was holding a lantern in one hand and a sickle in the other. “Horse thieves!”
“No, you oaf,” said Quentin. “It’s only me and my-”
“Quiet!” roared Roderick. Satan reared up, his front legs lashing out. “Easy, Satan! Easy!” Roderick cried. He managed to hurl himself out of the way as Satan stormed from the stall, kicking out in all directions. Quentin gave a shout and Francis steered him aside. The stable boy whistled softly, in a bid to calm the horse.
Suddenly, Roderick leapt onto the stallion’s back and dug his heels into the animal’s flanks. “Yah, Satan!” he urged. The horse bolted from the stable, bearing his rider, bareback, into the night.
“Who was that?” said Francis. He put down his lantern and offered a hand to help the young master from the floor.
“Are you all right, sir?” Francis’s face was a mask of concern.
“It’s my arm,” Quentin’s lip trembled. “My tossing arm. It’s broken!”
***
By this time, half the household had been roused from their beds. Birkworth, in full livery, appeared in the stable doorway brandishing a flintlock pistol.
“It’s the young master!” cried Francis.
“Oh, is that all?” Birkworth relaxed. “What is the rapscallion up to this time?”
Secluded in Satan’s vacated stall, Quentin frowned to hear himself so described. Rapscallion, indeed! He was about to get to his feet and remonstrate with the retainer when the pain in his arm made him swoon.
“He’s took his horse out for a midnight ride,” said Francis.
“Whither?”
“On a night as cold as this, he most likely will.”
What is that fool of a stable boy blithering on about, Quentin wondered in a delirium of pain, almost certain he had not ridden off anywhere.
“Probably gone off to see that young lady of his,” Francis added with a leer. Quentin was infuriated by the insinuation. “Some kind of tryst or something.”
“Oh, really?” Birkworth sounded far from convinced. Quentin was gratified to hear that the butler could not believe the young master would do anything of the sort.
“You go back to bed, Mr Birkworth, and I’ll wait up for the - what did you call him? - scallywag.”
“Rapscallion,” said Birkworth coldly. “Very well. It is most probably pre-match nerves. The young master is most likely letting off steam. Goodnight, Francis.”
“Goodnight, sir.”
A moment passed before Francis joined Quentin in the stall.
“What’s all this about me riding off on a midnight tryst? I’ve never heard such barefaced lies.”
“Well, sir, I thought it a better story that you got hurt out riding in the dark rather than telling the truth of how you let that rough fellow have your horse.”
Quentin opened his mouth and closed it again. Damn it but the stable boy had a point. Roderick had demanded secrecy.
“Let’s have a squint at it.” The stable boy reached for the injured limb but Quentin shrank back.
“Pardon me but you shall not have a squint at anything. I require a physician. You must summon Doctor Goodhead.”
A smile spread on Quentin’s lips. To be under the doctor’s tender ministrations...
“I don’t want to do that, sir.”
Quentin’s smile dropped. “What mean you by that?”
“Think about it, sir: if the doctor comes he’ll know you’ve got a broken arm, sir.”
“Why, yes. The doctor is an astute fellow; I am sure it would not escape his notice.”
“What I mean, sir, is he’ll know you can’t take part in the quoits, sir. Bang goes the family honour, sir.”
“Hang the family honour! I am in pain, man!”
“Yes, yes; I’ll see to that in a minute, sir. A plan is in my mind, sir. A stratagem, you might say.”
“And I believe I shall pass out at any second.”
“Stay with me, sir! Just a moment longer. What if I were to take your place, sir?”
“I’m all for that. You may lie here with a broken bone and I’ll jump up and spout nonsense.”
“I mean in the quoits, sir. We’re about the same height and build, sir, give or take. I could wear a cloak. And a wig!”
“I’ve never heard anything so preposterous. You pass for me? Ahh...” He winced as the pain coursed through him anew.
“It’ll work, sir. I shall fashion it so no one will know it is me, sir. Now, hold still while I affix a splint.”
Quentin’s response was stifled by the handle of Francis’s sickle, which the stable boy jammed between the young master’s teeth before wrenching the afflicted limb straight along a length of wood.
***
Francis helped Quentin back to the house and up to his room. Perched on the bed with his arm strapped at a right angle like half a scarecrow, Quentin asked if the stable boy had much experience in the setting of broken bones. Francis looked askance and blushed as he admitted in that regard to horses, they just shoot them between the eyes.
Quentin was aghast but he supposed he should be grateful for small mercies.
“You must keep still, sir,” Francis counselled. “Try not to move.”
“I know how to keep still!” Quentin complained. “But I still think this is a terrible idea; it will never work.”
Francis threw wide the doors of Quentin’s armoire.
“What are you doing?”
“Got to look the part, don’t I, sir?”
Perspiring and irritable from the pain, Quentin sat back against the pillows. “Preposterous,” he muttered. “You will never pass for me.”
“Oh, I don’t know, sir.” Francis reached a floor-length cloak around his shoulders and made it swirl in dramatic fashion. “I think it suits me down to the ground. And here-”
He pulled out a battered, three-cornered hat and put it on. It cast most of his face into shadow. “What do you reckon, sir?” He essayed a few experimental sashays around the room. “Am I not the spit of you? Sir?”
But Quentin was insensible, having passed out completely.
Quoits
Rolling over in his slumber caused a sharp renewal of agony in Quentin’s arm. Suddenly he was wide awake and painfully so. He lay still, waiting for the pain to subside into discomfort; he dared not move his other hand to wipe the sweat from his brow and upper lip.
Sunlight was streaming in through the window which meant he had slept until the afternoon - but how late was it? It struck him that he had missed the confounded tournament and his father must be sorely disappointed but the unaccustomed sight of his wardrobe doors hanging open revived a memory from the night before.
That fool of a stable boy!
He was probably making a fool of Quentin and, by extension, the entire Quigley family right that very minute. Making me the laughing stock of the county! O, Father is sure to cut me off without a farthing for this!
He endeavoured to remain motionless, being denied the release of pacing off his agitation around the room.
Slowly, the angle of the sunbeams changed as the afternoon drew to its close. Quentin was roused from his dozing by the sound of carriages and hooves on the gravel drive. And voices - raised voices all clamouring at once.
Ought I to risk blacking out from pain in an attempt to conceal myself under the bed, he wondered?
But there was no time. In stormed a figure in a tricorne and cloak. Francis shut and locked the door behind him.
“They think I’ve come up here to change my clothes, sir - which, as a matter of fact, I have.” He snatched off the hat and tossed it, quoit-like, onto the bed.
Quentin’s mind was in turmoil. “What happened? Tell me everything!”
“Oh, sir!” Francis’s eyes were wide; there was a pink indentation across his forehead and his hair was flattened and damp from wearing the hat all day long.
“Tell me!” Quentin urged. “For it is I who must face the Squire and not you.”
“Oh, sir!” Francis repeated. “I wasn’t half nervous, sir - by which I mean I was more than nervous - when the carriage dropped me off at the top of the street.”
Quentin was compelled to interrupt. “Pardon me - you went in the carriage?”
“Why, yes, of course, sir. I couldn’t ride up on Satan, could I, on account of your gentleman caller absconding with him in the night.”
“Quite.” Quentin
sat back. His arm throbbed; Roderick had a lot to answer for.
“And it wouldn’t do to have the Squire’s representative arriving on foot now, would it, sir?”
“I suppose not, no.”
“James is in on it, sir. It’s going to cost you a round of drinks at the Lion and Lamb, sir - Don’t fret so, sir; you won’t be required to attend. Just leave a pound note behind the bar.”
“Who is James?”
“The coachman, sir! He’s been with your family for donkeys’ ages.”
“O...” Quentin mulled it over. “His name is James... I never imagined that but I suppose everyone must have a name.”
“He’ll be honoured to hear you think so highly of him. Any road, as I walked through the village, I kept my head down and my eyes on the cobbles, not wishing to draw attention, like, but then I thought to myself I was going about it all wrong and the young master doesn’t walk like that. So I held my head high, sir, and I threw my chest forward and I strode purposefully along that street and I even did that thing you do with your hips, sir, for extra authenticity. And so-”
“Wait a minute! What thing with my hips?”
“What, sir?” Francis looked askance.
“You said I do a thing with my hips. What mean you by that?”
“Oh, sir, I don’t mean to offend.”
“Show me!” Quentin demanded. He gestured to the space between the bed and the door, a distance of around twenty paces.
“Must I, sir?”
“Oblige me!”
“Very well, sir.” Francis crossed the room to the door.
“Was that it? I don’t get it.”
“I haven’t done it yet, sir. Like this, see.”
He stood up straight, threw his shoulders back and his chest and chin up. He lifted his heels from the floor and sashayed back to the bed. There was a definite sway to his hips. Quentin was horror-stricken.
“You have made me into a prancing popinjay!” he gasped.
“It did the trick, sir. Folk gathering on the green saw me coming.”
“I’m sure they did. You have made me a laughing stock.”
“Not quite, sir; if you’ll allow me to continue. Well, I arrive on the green. There is quite a crowd gathered already on account of there being little else on most people’s social calendars apart from the annual quoits competition. And Pancake Day, of course.