Twixt Two Equal Armies

by Gail McEwen

The thanks and exclamations of gratitude and joy were hardly less effusive than their pleas, but at last he was able to extricate himself and walk off in the direction of the churchyard. Progress was slow as he was waylaid often by greetings, introductions, and the general confusion of the ever-growing crowd. At last he saw her, speaking to a stallholder and lovingly fingering some colourful trinkets. He saw her smile and shake her head at the vendor before wandering away again.

  “That was quite presumptuous of you, don’t you think?” he demanded when he finally caught up to her standing by another stall, surrounded by the sweet smell of roasted nuts in cinnamon, syrup and cloves.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said with a frown.

  “To consider the matter of my participation in the race settled. I presumed you knew me better than that.”

  “However well I may or may not know you . . . ” Holly stopped and tried to read his expression. “Does this mean you have not been persuaded to enter? If that is the case, I must say that I am impressed. It’s a rare gentleman who can withstand the persistence of Sir Torquil and his lovely daughters.”

  Baugham gave a slight, self-deprecating laugh.

  “Oh, I think I must enter. But certainly not because of Sir Torquil or his formidable trio.”

  “Out of the goodness of your heart then? Or, perhaps it was the incentive of the winning prize that tempted you away from your resolutions to remain aloof from the local populace?”

  “Oh no! Though I must say such a prize must raise some interest . . . my dear, Miss Tournier! You look positively intimidating. Please don’t tell me you don’t know this is all your fault.”

  Holly gasped. “My fault!”

  “Why yes. You see, if I thought you wished me to enter, which I do not precisely think at this moment, my instinctive reaction would be to absolutely refuse. But if I thought that you did not wish me to, but had rather I remained in my bad hermitic habits, I think I would have put my name down sooner than Sir Torquil could have gathered his lovely daughters around him. At the moment, I am not quite certain what you wish me to do, but I think I have entered regardless. In fact, from the way you keep giving me such frowns, I get the distinct impression you actually wish me to be gone as far away from this field as possible, and therefore I think I must stay close and in the Ramsay Run after all.”

  Holly shook her head slightly and pursed her lips.

  “Sometimes, my lord, you are entirely too clever for your own good.”

  Baugham gave a sheepish smile, which she assumed was entirely calculated but, nonetheless, quite disarming.

  “I know I am and I apologise. I hope I can rely on your forgiveness since my foolish words are not uttered out of spite. Just as you seem to admirably put up with those that are.”

  Holly gave him a quick look but then turned her head away.

  “The contestants are beginning to gather, my lord,” she said. “It’s time you were at the starting line. And if I may repeat myself: good luck.”

  “Well then. And thank you,” Baugham smiled and gave a bow before he left her.

  HAMISH WAS LEANING AGAINST THE railing of the course. This local horse race was, of course, nothing to Captain Bob and his gallant fights against savages and natives, but as far as adventure and excitement went, it would be quite unsurpassed this particular afternoon. He spied his employer hanging about on the other side by the hot chestnut vendor and he pulled his mother’s sleeve.

  “Mam!” he said urgently. “There he be! His lairdship is taking part. I told ye soo!”

  The whole of the Nethery family was standing just behind him. His father and Duncan were wearing sullen looks and could not quite bring themselves to the same level of enthusiasm about follies of the local gentry, but his mother looked eagerly over to where her second son was pointing and then turned to her neighbour, another stout farmer’s wife surrounded by her copious offspring.

  “Aye, there he is indeed. I tell ye, Sarah, Laird Baugham has never been up to these things for as long as he’s owned Clyne and now, with Hamish telling him what a grand affair it surely is, nothing would please him more, don’t you know, than to come.”

  Her friend muttered something and slapped one or two of her children’s heads as they were trying to push each other over the fence.

  “Ooo,” Mrs Nethery went on without heeding her husband’s cold looks and her friend’s obvious scorn, “he’s such a clever boy, our Hamish, that nothing would do but for his lairdship to particularly ask for him when he needed that library cleaned out.”

  “We’re nae ‘cleaning it out’, Mam,” Hamish protested, but not very loudly.

  The neighbour thought it time to put this self-important woman in her place a little.

  “Well, I for one would nae let my bairn go to an English laird’s house all alone, with no one to guarantee respectability except that queer Tournier woman’s daughter. Half French and all! Really, Maggie, I wouldnae!”

  “She’s nae queer!” Hamish said hotly, feeling Captain Bob’s spirit overtake him once again in the face of injustice and threat. “Miss Tournier is very nice and she has nae moods at all. And his lairdship says she’s remarkable and I quite agree!”

  “‘Quite agree’, do ye?” the neighbour mocked. “Aye, what fancy talk is that, then? Now who has aspirations of gentility all of a sudden after running errands to a laird and a half-French schoolteacher?”

  Mrs Nethery was just about to grab her son Duncan by the ear and pull him and Hamish apart since this uttering had the additional effect of compelling Duncan to pinch the back of Hamish’s neck and call him a poofed-up toad and Hamish slapping Duncan’s hands away in a gesture Captain Bob surely would not have contemplated if not in the utmost distress, when it was announced that the race was about to begin. This had a calming effect not only on the children, but also the adults, who refrained from further comment and all settled down to watch, two of the party heartily wishing his lordship would show their jeering fellows just what he was made of and the rest no doubt hoping Ned McMahon, who had served in the army and had been engaged in two campaigns, would whip that fancy Quality right into the mud.

  BAUGHAM FELT LIKE AN IDIOT. He felt like leaning his forehead against that big, thick oak on the west side of the church, thumping it against it until he could see stars dance in front of his eyes and he no longer felt like swearing in every language in which he had a working knowledge — including Latin. What on earth had he got himself into? True, he had taken part in his fair share of races and wagers ever since he was old enough to be out of his short coats. He had participated in foolish bets and raced against the finest horsemen in the country. He had lost gallantly and competed earnestly for any number of silly and strange victories, but this was ludicrous.

  Looking around him, he spied Miss Tournier in the distance giving him a glance. “Good luck,” she had said and had actually sounded as if she meant it, but whether it was a wish for victory or for something else, he had no idea. She smiled at him, then addressed a group of village wives who had walked up to her. Baugham groaned; more attention from the locals was just what he did not need. He waved back as cheerfully as he could, though, and at the same time Miss Tristam managed to catch his eye and send him a coquettish smile. He returned it and when he turned his eyes towards the group of women again, Miss Tournier had turned her back to him and was speaking to someone else.

  A tall man leaned against the fence just a few yards from his lordship. While Baugham patted his horse and whispered his apologies to the beast, the man — obviously a former soldier — had gathered quite a crowd around him. The eager looks and greetings and tugging of his coat sleeves were met with a patient air and an indulgent smile.

  “Ye’re going to win, Ned!”

  “Ye dinnae need any luck!”

  “My money’s on ye, jist so ye’ll knoo!”

  The other contestants were already gathering, tying up their horses by the same fence and looking defensively both his and Ned’s way. Most of the
m were boys, barely dry behind the ears, and most of the horses had not seen any other race than possibly the one for the best oats in their trough at home in the stables after a hard day’s work. But there was a fair number of them and they all seemed to take this thing rather seriously and so Baugham supposed he was obliged to do the same.

  A man came around with a tray of ale tankards on it and a number of small pouches tied to a stick. Baugham thankfully accepted the tankard but looked at the pouches with puzzlement.

  “The blood . . . m’laird,” the man muttered. “Ye must take a bag of blood, too.”

  “Right,” muttered Baugham and carefully untied one of the small pouches, weighing it in his hand.

  The tall military man leaned towards him and smiled. “Be careful ye tie it to yer saddle where it cannae get in the way. It breaks easily and pig’s blood is nae something ye want to have all over yer britches when ye come home.”

  “You’re certainly right there,” Baugham answered as he thought of the combined deterrent of Mrs McLaughlin and Mr Riemann.

  THE KNOLL BY THE CHURCH had not quieted down, but the crowds lessened considerably as the start of the run loomed. Left were the drunks and the vendors taking a rest, the animals and the competitors getting ready. A young boy went around and collected hats and coats and other effects and he took a little extra time with Mr McMahon and wished him good luck in his run with his eyes sparkling from an acute case of hero worship. A few boys who wanted to see the runners off, counting on various short cuts through the woods to catch the victor arriving by the river at the other end, were waiting around as well. The rest of the spectators had moved to the finishing spot by the river to get a good vantage point.

  Lord Baugham calmed his horse, stroking him gently between his ears and speaking quietly. He was still young and nervous and the presence of the other beasts in such close proximity made him fidgety. On the other hand, Baugham was quite certain that when it came to speed and agility there was no match for Weimar in this run. If he could just quickly put the rest of the men behind him and distance himself from them, he would have no difficulties winning the Run and the privilege of emptying his bladder of pig’s blood in the stream at the end of it. On the other hand, he remembered Miss Tournier’s words; did he really want to win this run?

  Nevertheless, when Sir Torquil finally determined that the moment was right to release the riders, Baugham quickly let Weimar outpace the slower, more massive beasts and manoeuvre himself to take the lead. To his surprise, however, he soon noticed that the military man’s horse was a good and steady mount and could keep up with him through sheer effort, if not grace or swiftness. The two of them, and a third young man, quickly outpaced the rest of the pack and sped along Sir Torquil’s masterpiece without really admiring it at all, but rather calculating and avoiding the hazards of it.

  The track was not very broad. After a nice easy stretch along the village lane with people standing beside it or peeking out through windows, it deviated in through the woods, and there turned into nothing more than a cow path at times. Sir Torquil had been forced to disobey his natural inclination for straight and clear roads and had marked out the way by hanging pieces of red cloth on the branches of the trees overhead or sticking poles into the ground to lead the riders. Baugham found, to his amazement, that he was forced to maintain a good pace and struggle hard, compelling Weimar to follow his leading against his own instincts while racing through the trees and over the uneven ground to keep his lead.

  The steady thumping of hooves followed him and for a moment he gave in to the realisation that he was enjoying this. Not as a race to win, but the speed, the agility of his horse and the thrill of competition with a worthy opponent, who was answering the rhythm of Weimar’s graceful strength with steady determination just a few paces behind him.

  As he listened to Ned McMahon baiting his horse nearer and nearer to him, he became aware that there was just the two of them now. Anyone who had the means and skill to keep up with them into the woods had now faded back, and he realised he was going to have to not only rely on Weimar’s superior pedigree to stay ahead, but also some sort of strategy.

  Baugham could see the end of the wooded stretch and the fields that lay beyond it. With a crash, both of the riders broke out into the free ground and Baugham could feel as well as see Ned McMahon out of the corner of his eye. There was a fair bit to go yet and the closer they got to the river, the more people they could make out standing some way back or up on the slopes to catch the fine view of the leading horses of the race running neck to neck now.

  Baugham threw a glance at his rival. McMahon noticed it and gave him a sideways grin.

  “Beware of the grassy bit down there, m’laird!” he shouted good-naturedly. “A fine horse like yours could easily step awry on the tufts!”

  Baugham made a fleeting gesture to his head in thanks. The slope down to the river was indeed uneven ground, with tufts of grass hiding soft spots, holes, and rocks. Baugham decided he could not risk it, reining his horse in just enough to let McMahon pass him before he picked up the pace again.

  In the distance, on the riverbank, he could see a large red flag flying above the heads of spectators. Behind that, the river Kye flowed, quiet and clear, over a bed of pebbles, a few trees leaning over it. As soon as the end was in sight, the crowds began to move and a low hum reached them as the people geared into action and speech.

  They were neck to neck. Some of the spectators retreated up to the banks behind the goal to make way for them, and soon they found themselves close enough to think about the necessity of stopping. Baugham was ahead now again. Slowing down to fling himself off, Weimar struggled briefly and threatened to run right through the crowds to the river. Baugham cursed and restrained him as best he could. Meanwhile Ned McMahon had reached them and was calming his own mount. Baugham could have flung himself off there and then, leaving Weimar to pace himself alone, but he stayed mounted. There were too many people around. Children were excitedly creeping closer to get a better look. The pebbles on the ground were slippery and the animal was edgy and nervous, giving a frustrated snort and shaking his head wildly, eyes bulging in excitement and fear. Then Weimar slipped and whinnied in alarm. Ned McMahon gave him a look as Baugham’s horse danced around wildly, finding his balance and recovering some of his dignity. Will he keep? the look asked. I’ll keep him, Baugham’s own quick glance answered back. Ned McMahon grabbed his pouch, slipped out of his saddle and landed in the cold water. He threw the pouch on a sharp pebble and stepped on it. Bright red blood flowed out, instantly colouring the river from a deep red to a light pink and a huge cheer went up into the air.

  This did nothing to sooth Weimar’s sensibilities and Baugham was forced to guide him a little to the side, on the grassier patch, before he slid down himself and went up to the horse’s head to talk to him in a soothing voice. Weimar stepped around, a little calmed by the removal and the fact that his master was beside him on the ground.

  His fumbling defeat was embarrassing, to be sure, but of course a very good and diplomatic outcome considering the sentiments of the local populace, who could not be bothered with the refinements. All they cared about was the victory of their dependable hero and the joy was great.

  Baugham was simply relieved the whole thing was over and offered his congratulations to Ned McMahon, offering to buy the victor a pint at some more convenient moment. The placid man smiled and assured his lordship he had every respect for his abilities and that he had been lucky in his great fortune to be able to meet him in such a close race. They parted on the best of terms and Baugham lost no time leaving Ned McMahon to his admiring neighbours.

  Holding on to the reins, Baugham dragged the stubborn horse — now apparently very comfortable with staying in the river and quenching his thirst — onto the bank. A few people gave him a look and some offered him mumbled words of congratulations on the best run in years and Baugham nodded quietly without offering answers. Suddenly he was aware som
eone was watching him. Miss Tournier stood a few feet away and he met her eyes, startled by two conflicting thoughts at the same moment. At the one hand, he willed her to come over and offer him company and protection in this awkward situation, but on the other hand his impulse was to turn around, throw himself on his ungrateful mount and take the shortest way back to Clyne again.

  He had not time to decide which impulse he preferred because just as Miss Tournier was coming toward him a loud shot rang out and the crowd turned in the direction from which it came and grew silent. Sir Torquil was standing on a platform, holding the starting pistol in one hand and Ned McMahon’s arm triumphantly in the air with the other.

  “Ladies and Gentleman, your Champion!”

  Cheers and applause filled the air, as well as numerous caps, and McMahon grinned bashfully from the adoration of the good men and women of Clanough.

  “And,” Sir Torquil continued when the din died down a little, “his prize!”

  Primrose Tristam made her way up the steps in a slow and stately pace amid polite applause, a few catcalls and at least one, “Make it worth yer while, Ned.” coming anonymously from somewhere in the crowd. Baugham’s attention was called from the ceremony by a quiet voice beside him.

  “My lord,” Miss Tournier nearly whispered. “That was a very fine race – in all respects. You needed no luck for doing what you did.”

  Just as he was about to protest, he heard his name booming across the crowd.

  “And we salute Lord Baugham, for his kind condescension in joining in with our traditions and finally giving Ned here some stiff competition and providing a good show for all the spectators.” He gestured toward Baugham, “My lord!” and the crowd erupted in cheers again. Baugham tried to diffuse the adulation by a bow and wave.

  The ceremony of the crowning of the victor went on as it had every year since Ned McMahon had returned home from the war and Miss Tristam gave a good performance as always, if slightly more hurried than the previous years.

  Baugham sighed a genuine sigh of relief that made Miss Tournier look at him curiously.