Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.)

by Martin McDowell

  “There’s a damn trespasser in The Ride. Probably a thief. I want him shot, d’ye hear? Shot. You two go that way. You, with me.”

  All four disappeared from the lawn in their chosen directions. Carr left by the side gate he entered by. He found Jerome and rode him, the long way around, to his crowsnest copse. He unsaddled him, hobbled him again and sat to observe. Lord Templemere and more retainers could be seen out beyond the outmost buildings, gazing further to the far hedges and trees, but then returning. The long June evening saw no more activity. Carr walked Jerome to a stream to drink, then returned to his lookout. He ate and drank the last of his supplies, then settled for the night.

  He was awoken by the growing sunlight. It would be a stifling day. The estate was still and silent, the first movement being maids and cooks beginning their dreary dawn duties. Carr settled to wait further, gambling on the time honoured habits of the aristocracy. It came, but not in the form he expected, but better than he expected. The double doors of the stable block came open and out came, not a horse, but a phaeton, a light carriage, fast and dangerous. Second to a thoroughbred horse, it was the preferred mode of transport of all society rakes and dandies. The horses arrived shortly after and were harnessed to its shafts. Lord Fred was indulging in his pre-breakfast exercise, a fast carriage ride around his estates. Carr shifted the focus of his Dolland glass and identified The Ride, a dark orange track that snaked around the extensive Templemere domain. He followed its course until it disappeared into some woodland, the furthest point from the house. A half mile further on, it re-emerged. Carr saddled Jerome and set off on a wide curve, to get to the wood and wait.

  He entered and rode across through the short bushes and grass until he cut the ride. It was well built and maintained, perfect for a fast ride in a phaeton. He saw no need to hide, once in the wood the carriage would be confined to the track by the close trees. With Carr on the track, Templemere would be forced to stop. The wood was dense, pierced only by the track which now, with the risen sun, was improved by dappled sunlight playing innocently on its surface. Rooks cawed eerily above him, a breeze disturbing their treetops; something moved off in the undergrowth. Carr blindfolded Jerome to keep him settled, and soothing words calmed him further. Carr chose the exit to a blind bend and, thus, he first heard, rather than saw, Templemere’s approach. He reached for his pistol from the saddleholster behind, checked the priming, then cocked it. The instant he saw the horses, Carr rose in the stirrups and took careful aim.

  Templemeres face registered shock and terror; Carr’s cold, deadpan face above the stark, black, gaping muzzle of the pistol, and behind, his blank right eye sighted down the barrel. Templemere dropped the reins and leapt from the carriage, rolling over and over from the momentum until he could gain his feet and take off through the trees. Carr whipped off Jerome’s blindfold and started after him. It took no more than a minute. Templemere was no kind of a runner and Jerome felt no hindrance from undergrowth that slowed the fleeing Lord. Carr came up beside him, took his right foot from his stirrup and crashed his heel into Templemere’s back, between the shoulder blades. Templemere fell headlong to the turf, to roll over beside Jerome’s hooves, then he looked up further to find himself once more the subject of the staring muzzle of Carr’s dragoon pistol. Templemere’s eyes widened further, then came confusion as Carr spoke.

  “My Lord. I note that your buggy contained your sword. Some morning exercise, I presume. Would you care to go and fetch it?”

  Templemere could not take his eyes from the pistol and failed to move. Carr bent his arm and pointed the barrel skyward. He then sat the horse with his left forearm folded on the pommel.

  “Your sword. Lord Fred!”

  Carr waved the pistol in the direction of the phaeton and the removal of the pistol levelled at him released Templemere’s legs from the lock that fright had placed upon them. His face grew more composed, which grew as the seconds passed. He wasn’t going to be shot and in a swordfight he had a very good chance. Without a word he gained his feet and turned towards the phaeton which had stopped but a little way off, the horses attending to their grazing. Carr pointed the pistol at Templemere’s back, expecting something similar, perhaps, to the previous evening, but when Templemere’s sword came out from the scabbard with a theatrical hiss, Carr holstered the pistol, dismounted and tied Jerome to a nearby bush.

  Templemere was swishing and bending his sword as Carr drew his. Templemere, now with a sword in his hand, had much recovered.

  “Now then, Carr, I hope you’ve been practicing.”

  “Shut up, Templemere, you’re in a fight.”

  With that Carr advanced upon him. Templemere adopted the ‘en garde”, out of habit, but Carr engaged his blade and forced it over. Templemere tried to disengage but Carr bore straight in, and fast, keeping their sword hilts locked together. He then head butted Templemere hard above his left eye. Templemere reeled back, and Carr took a step forward to follow him and send a left hook hard to his head, connecting with the scarred right cheekbone. Next he hooked his left leg around Templemere’s right and barged him over. Templemere lay sprawled, stunned and in shock, both blows were spreading acute pain, across his face and into his head. Carr placed a boot on Templemere’s sword, then stood over him, his sword at Templemere’s throat. Templemere’s face registered pure dread, his eyes bulged and his mouth quivered. Carr took a moment to examine what he saw, then his mouth twisted with contempt as he spoke.

  “Once again, Lord Fred, I have the choice to kill you or let you live. I’m going to let you live, but remember; this is what I do, this what I can do, wherever, and at anytime I choose. If you confront me again, ever, with your damn challenges and insults about cowardice, then next time I will most certainly damn well kill you!”

  He leaned forward and seized Templemere’s shirt front, pulled him up and then slammed him back into the turf. Templemere’s head met the soil with a thump. Carr gave him one last withering look then returned to Jerome. He mounted and, paying Templemere no more attention, rode off to take Jerome the short way out of the woods, but the long way around the estate. He reached the turnpike and set Jerome to an easy trot. He allowed himself a smile that grew wider as he reached for Jane’s letter inside his coat, still unread, seal as yet unbroken. Tomorrow was Wednesday and in the evening was choir rehearsal. If he rode all day and through the night he should just make it.

  oOo