“Let go of the horse, you duncehead!”
“Be-damned if I will!”
“We’ll get him out later!”
“Her.”
“What?”
“Her. Meda’s a mare.”
He turned to soothe the frantic horse, stroking her nose, talking.
“Just paddle, girl. Easy, now. Easy. Nothing to be afraid of. Have you out in two shakes. Good girl, Meda.”
This one, Lancey decided, is stark, bedlam mad, but his prattle did seem to quiet the mare. She noticed the light was dimmer, and glanced west to find the sun gone. Fright shook her, turned to shivering. Her voice rose, an enraged howl.
“You—you weevil-brained slug! Do you plan to spend the night here?”
The man blinked. He carefully rested his chest on the slab, edged upward. He still held the rein, and his chattered reproof was as deliberate as his actions. He said: “Your parents should birch your bottom, youngun. Out of the mouths of babes!”
Lancey gasped, then flushed. She bit on a retort as the rim of ice splintered. It took all her strength to draw the slab back. She lay flat, hunched sideways, pulling. The danger, as sharp as the cold, didn’t require thought. They didn’t speak; this man needed no instructions. He wriggled higher, higher, tried the ice’s firmness with his palms. None of his movements were hasty. Once he could use his arms it went a little faster, but they didn’t dare hurry. From the hole the mare, restlessly treading water, watched them with great wide eyes.
When, several long minutes later, the man rolled off the slab onto thicker ice, he expelled a loud, shuddering breath.
“Thanks, moppet,” he said and grinned.
Suddenly, for the first time, Lancey realized he was young. She didn’t trust her trembling lips to manage a reply, but nodded. It didn’t matter. The man didn’t even wait for that. He struggled to his feet, shaking the rein in his fist.
“Now, about my mare—?”
Lancey’s vision blurred; she squinted at the black water. The tide, she thought, was at young ebb, but she wasn’t sure. Beyond the mare the rider’s tricorne bobbed on the current, its lining a white disk like the painted cockpit of a strange three-sided boat. He’d lost, or discarded, his cloak, too.
“I won’t leave her!”
His voice forced Lancey to think, to outwit the aching cold that gripped her. She scanned the shoreline, frowning.
“You—you’ll have to break a passage,” Lancey said, “till she can find footing. It’s not too far. There’s a shelf bottom that juts out.”
“You sound right sure.”
“I am. I know this place.”
The blue eyes stared, but he nodded, bent to raise the driftwood slab. He spoke over his shoulder.
“You’re a bright little lass, at that. Think you can hang on to this rein?”
As she crawled to take it, Lancey noted that he wasn’t extra tall himself. His height was moderate, but he stood well, slender, with wide shoulders and long horseman’s thighs. Even in sodden clothes he had a neat, compact look.
As they worked shoreward, Lancey admitted that he handled himself skillfully. In spite of cold, soaked boots, teetering slipperiness underfoot, he moved lightly, on the balls of his feet, as balanced as a sailor on a heeled deck. He took his time, found a lead to widen before be began pounding. Then he swung the heavy slab with muscular ease.
She had her own troubles with Meda. The mare, skittish and frightened, shied away at the first blow, nearly upsetting Lancey. The man swore at the girl, cooed at the horse. Lancey heard him dimly through the shrill, ear-piercing whinnies.
“Hold on to her!”
“Pull your own oar!”
Their snarling added to the mare’s panic, but she saw the crack spreading, and surged into it. The lead, widening itself, helped, the ice gave before her, and after that she stopped neighing. She swam frantically, head high and the long line of her back like a floating ridgepole.
Between them the man and beast hastened the action of the tide. Twice Lancey broke through ankle deep, scrambled back just in time. The half-light of dusk helped the girl picture their task as a nightmare—the struggling horse, the treacherous ice, the man flailing like a berserk thresher.
When the mare stood firm, withers and rump clear of the water, Lancey stared in disbelief. Her voice was a croak as she called out.
“She—she’s standing!”
Meda’s owner turned, slab raised. A slow smile eased the haggard lines of his face. His voice, too, was strained, though his teeth no longer chattered.
“There was a shelf!”
“I said so.”
“It’s easy now. The lead’s broad as a creek, and the shore’s but a few yards.”
The mare was walking on the bottom, dripping as each step raised her higher from the shallow water. Only a thin strip of ice separated them from the shingle, and Lancey relaxed. She couldn’t stop shivering, and her gaze was shoreward. Meda didn’t wait for guidance. As soon as the dark wavelets flapped below her forelegs the mare hunched, flung herself forward in a sudden hunter’s leap.
Her lunge, haloed by a crescent of spray, carried her onto the white crust. The rein jerked through Lancey’s fist, snapped her off her feet. Falling, she heard the crash as the shod hoofs shattered the ice.
She screamed as she tumbled sideways into the lead. Then the shock of the water drove the breath from her body. Blackness closed over her, and she knew only numb, sick despair. Her struggles seemed futile; the river gripped her with bone-chilling strength, the slimy bottom clutched at her.
Gasping, she clawed for the surface, forgetting the shallow depth even as her legs thrashed in the mud. Lancey lashed out in panic, driven by the fear that she’d be swept under the ice.
She came up, sputtering, choking, blinded by the water. Her hand closed on the edge of the lead and it crumpled in her grip. Something clamped on her shoulder, shook her, pulled at her. There was a pounding in her ears; it became a shouting voice.
“Stand up! It’s not deep!”
Lancey’s feet touched, but the pulling at her shoulder made her stumble. She almost went under again. The voice was as insistent as the tugging.
“Stand up, you little brat!”
Let me then, she thought with a flash of anger. She tried to shake away from that bruising clutch, struck at it. It pulled her, scraped her against the ice, dragged her. Her clothes caught, ripped as she was jerked free.
Her eyes cleared, and she saw that the man stood beside her, knee deep. He yanked her along, and she floundered after him, reeling and miserable. A moment later they were on the shore.
“You’re all right now,” he said.
When he let go, Lancey nearly fell. All right, she thought, swaying. She knew she’d never been so cold or soaked in her life. Skirt and petticoats clung to her legs like heavy bandages. Her belt, torn loose, dangled. She tried listlessly to knot the trailing ends, but her hands were too clumsy with cold. The man, squatting on his heels, was peering at the mare in the last, dim light of dusk. He ran a hand up a foreleg, stroking.
“Just scratches, old girl,” he said, “and nothing deep.”
Shivering, the horse nickered a reply, nuzzled him. Lancey gazed at them with dull apathy. The miserable pair were only a stupid annoyance. Again she drew the belt tight, and memory stabbed her.
“My skates!” she wailed, turning.
The lovely red skates were gone, ripped away, lost somewhere under the ice, beneath the black water. It was the final blow, and Lancey blubbered.
“Child,” said the man, “what is it?” He reached her with two quick strides. “Are you hurt?” He put his arms around her. “You’re shaking cold, but—”
“My skates,” mumbled Lancey, sobbing against his chest. “Lost.”
“Is that all.” He laughed, with relief. “We’ll replace them, and throw in a doll to boot.” He hugged the girl tightly, comforting with words and action. “The best doll I can buy. If it wasn’t for you——
”
His voice trailed away so strangely that Lancey checked her sobs. She drew back, gazed up at his face. He was half a head the taller, and his eyes were wide with surprise.
“Why,” he said, “you—you’re not a little girl at all! You’re a grown wench!”
“And you,” said Lancey, tartly, “are a great loon in dire need of spectacles!”
With sudden impulse she reached up to peel off her cap, shook her dark hair loose. It fell, a black, wet mass, to her shoulders; one dank strand tumbled across forehead and eyes. She brushed this away with an impatient gesture. The stringiness of her hair, the loss of the skates, her cold misery, the long walk home, whetted her anger to rage. This dolt with his mare had probably made her catch her death!
“God and Nicholas!” she said, “I should have let you drown!”
CHAPTER 2
AROUND THEM, IN THE FAST FADING LIGHT OF DUSK, WERE THE murmurs of the March evening. The wind, still rising, made a rustling stir through the trees on the bank above the shore; the thawing river chuckled wetly through its grating ice-teeth. Overhead, a homing crow cawed for clearance as it passed in ffight. The mare, restless and trembling, stamped, pawing at the shingle. Neither rescuer nor rescued heard any of these sounds.
The man laughed softly, bent low in a bow.
“My compliments, Mistress,” he said, “and my apologies. Whatever your regrets, you will not find Dirck van Zandt wanting in gratitude.”
Lancey wasn’t mollified. She disliked his laughter, the elegant manner, the merriment in his voice. Only the wind, plastering her wet garments against her flesh, saved van Zandt a tongue lashing. It drove all thought but cold from the girl’s mind. Her muscles flinched from its bite. She could not stop shivering.
“Here, now,” said Dirck van Zandt, “we can’t have this.” His smile vanished; the blue eyes narrowed. He’d been amused at his mistake, but he didn’t want the wench dying on his account. For all her language and temper the woebegone, dripping little baggage had earned his care.
No, thought Lancey, barely listening. We can’t have this shaking, terrible chill. She swayed and he grabbed her arm.
“We must get you warm and dry.”
“Let go,” said Lancey, with stiff lips.
Before she could twist free, he swept her from her feet, cradling her against his chest. His arms were around her waist, and under her thighs, holding her. Then, as he staggered from the sudden weight, she caught at his coat in panic
“Look out!”
“You’re heavier,” he said, grunting, “than you look.”
“Put me down.”
“Don’t squirm or I’ll drop you.”
Lancey knew she wasn’t squirming. She didn’t wish to be carried, but she couldn’t do anything about it. Her body seemed to be trying to shake itself to pieces. It was all she could do to talk, and that came in gasps.
“What’re you doing?”
“I’m going to get you home.”
Bundling her onto the mare’s withers took all of Dirck’s strength. It was the first he’d realized that his bout with the river had sapped his muscles. Fortunately, Meda stood still, and the girl, though quivering, could be handled like a soaked laundry bag.
This is too much, Lancey thought, bent double across the horse. Blood rushed to her hanging head, and brought with it shame and fury at her undignified position. She kicked, thrashed her arms, squawked.
“Let me down!”
“Steady, Meda,” said Dirck. He slapped Lancey across the bottom, bent to adjust a stirrup. “You lie still!”
The slap shocked Lancey into open-mouthed amazement. How dared he! By the time her wits came back he was on the horse and hauling her upright in front of him.
“You,” she said, “you——”
“Where is your home?”
“You—”
Dirck gave the girl a shake that snapped off speech. He was feeling the wind himself, and in no mood for nonsense. The sooner they reached a fire the better. Meda, moving beneath him, would need attention too. This bedraggled hussy was his rescuer, but he wouldn’t let her be a problem.
“Answer me!”
His roar hurt Lancey’s ears. She shut her eyes, winced. Her first reaction was subdued obedience.
“Upriver.”
“Far?”
“Four miles.”
“Too far. There’s an inn much closer.”
Dirck turned Meda’s head, nudged her to a faster walk. The mare was sure-footed, but he didn’t dare risk a trot. Night was closing down fast now, and the rubble underfoot made treacherous going.
The motion of the horse, the firm arms around her and the chest she leaned against, stirred a little warmth back into Lancey. She was still trembling with cold, still angry, but curiosity, stronger than both, prompted her question.
“What inn?”
“The Brick Gables.”
“Oh.” Lancey knew the tavern, knew its Swedish owner. She had sold him fish several times, and the choice raised her opinion of this van Zandt. The Brick Gables faced the Post Road, mostly gentry stopped there. She craned her neck for a glance at the man behind her. Did he, a stranger, know the prices the Swede asked, in hard coin or New York shinplasters only?
“Sit still,” Dirck said.
“There’s a path—”
“I know. That’s why I crossed the river where I did.” He wasn’t, then, a complete stranger. As the mare swerved and began to climb the bank, Lancey caught the mane to steady herself. Even in her misery the idea of service at such an inn pleased her. Her peddling had never taken her inside the kitchen door.
Before Meda, slowed by her double burden, reached the top of the slope dusk melted into darkness. Lancey, rocked by each step, was barely aware of nightfall; she noted bow the bay mare’s black mane seemed to absorb her lighter coat. The horse’s bobbing head had a hypnotic effect. Lancey sighed, closed her eyes, content to let somebody else do the thinking.
“Stay awake,” said Dirck, nudging her.
“Am,” murmured Lancey. It was a calculated attempt to buy a moment’s peace. If she could trick this fellow into silence she might steal a few winks of sleep. Her feet, dangling, felt detached, solidly packed clumps of snow.
Once over the crest of the ridge they went even more slowly.Meda, picking her way carefully downhill, set her own pace. Dirck, leaning forward to help the mare, knew that the girl was dozing. He let her alone, not wishing to tamper with Meda’s balance. He had trained the horse himself, knew he could trust her to take them to the road.
“Good old Meda,” he said, aloud.
Meda flattened an ear, but went on with her task. Dirck, biting his tongue to quiet his teeth, thought longingly of a fire, a hot drink, dry clothes. The girl, face muffled against his chest, whimpered in her sleep. He gave a snort of annoyance at the wordless criticism. Didn’t the wench know that you couldn’t hurry a horse down a steep descent in moonless dark?
They reached level ground, and the path straightened as it threaded inland through a wood of first growth trees. These screened them from the wind. Meda, finding the earth firm, broke into a trot without urging. The changed motion jolted Lancey out of her doze.
“What?” she asked. “What?”
“Sit still,” Dirck said, holding her tight. “We’ve a mile or so to go.” He spoke as if to a fractious child, with impatient authority.
Lancey, unused to horseback, thought her perch precarious. Sitting sideways, in front of the saddle, something jolted her with every step the mare took. It was like being punched through skirt and petticoats. Her hip would be one, great bruise.
“Do you have to hold me so tight?”
“Yes.”
The wind, sweeping along the bare, cart-wide track, told them when they emerged on the Post Road. Dirck turned the mare, but again let her choose her pace. In spite of ruts, and the muddy, thaw-softened surface, Meda maintained her trot. She was as anxious as her riders to find warmth and fodder.
&n
bsp; “Good girl,” said Dirck.
“Me?” Lancey was bewildered.
“No. The mare!”
Well, the girl thought, it serves me right for asking. From the first his sole concern had been his precious horse; she vaguely remembered it had made her angry. Now even anger was too great an effort. She rode in numb lethargy, staring at the road as it slid beneath them, a moving current in the massed darkness.
They rounded a curve, and lights showed ahead. These seemed strange, yellow squares, painted high and low, upright on the black wall beside the road, flat on the roadbed itself. Then, as Lancey blinked at them, the bulk of a building took shape, and she realized she saw the candlelight in windows doubled in reflection on the ground.
“Ho, the inn!”
Dirck’s cry, so close to her ear, merely annoyed Lancey. She wondered that he could still shout; she could hardly breathe.
The mare’s shoes clicked on flagstones, and Dirck reined to a stop. A door, opening, sent a broader stream of light across the night; horse and riders were caught in its beam. After the dark ride the yellow-brick front of the tall, high-peaked house was like a friendly beacon.
Lancey recognized the innkeeper. Gustavus von Beck was a big man, but he pushed his aproned paunch forward with the ease of long practice. He moved with an ox-like lack of haste or clumsiness. Von Beck’s bald head gleamed, smooth and pumpkin colored.
“Accident.” Dirck van Zandt spoke fast, trying to explain quickly. “Broke through crossing the river. We’re soaked, freezing. We need a fire, dry clothes, a—”
“Get down,” interrupted the innkeeper. His deep, accented voice was unexcited. The loungers in the doorway stared, but the big man wasted no words on sympathy or greetings. A nod accepted the mishap as customary and he raised his thick arms. “I’ll take the wench.”
Dirck loosened his grip, nudged the girl. Lancey slid down from the mare. Von Beck caught her, but even then she seemed to go on falling. Her knees buckled; the legs that felt so stiff went limp. The inn, the lights, the innkeeper’s broad face, all tilted suddenly, blurring together as if whirled.
Shad Run Page 2
