“ ’Tis your weight,” Lenore told him wearily. She was wrapped in a cloak they’d traded for stolen apples and her curls were pulled up in a plain linen coif that had been thrown in. “Snowfire’s a small horse—too much weight on his back slows him down.”
Geoffrey realized the plain truth of what she said, and was very thoughtful for the remainder of the day.
Hearing Salisbury was still occupied by troops, they swung through the countryside in a lazy half-circle, heading toward Wells, which lay at the foot of the Mendip Hills, and where they had heard a fair was to be held. Lenore had been scarcely able to touch her breakfast, but she began to feel hungry as they approached Wells and buoyed up by anticipation, for fairs had always been gala days for her. Farm lasses waved from lumbering carts and gaily dressed rustics strode along the dusty road or bestrode plodding farm horses as they neared the city. It reminded Lenore pensively of Twainmere, when she had put on her best dress and her notched red-heeled shoes and ridden into nearby towns on a cart to stroll about, flirting, on fair days.
She thought the west facade of Wells’s beautiful twelfth-century cathedral, with its over three hundred statues, the most breathtaking sight she had ever seen, and sorrowed that Glastonbury Abbey had not been so preserved. She was jolted to awareness by Geoffrey’s murmured, “Can ye really make Snowfire limp, Lenore?"
She gave him a startled look. “Limping” was just one of the many tricks she’d taught Snowfire on long summer days in the Cotswolds. Now, wondering why he should desire it, she gave Snowfire a murmured word as signal, and they ambled through town with Snowfire conspicuously favoring his right forefoot.
Geoffrey was well satisfied. “Let me do the talking,” he muttered, taking the lead. Swaggering in the saddle he rode up to a group of men at the fair who were about to race their horses for the prize of a fat goose.
“Which nag d’ye think will win the goose?” he drawled. “For I’ve a mount can outrun them all.”
All eyes turned brightly to this braggart. Most of them were shrewd country eyes, used to squinting at the sun and at sharp cattle dealers, and now they saw in this tall stranger astride an indifferent-looking mount a chance for a wager.
“Wilt bet on it, fine sir?” asked a wiry farmer, patting the flanks of a big roan. “I’d place my money on Hobbs’s horse here.”
Geoffrey gave the big roan a scathing look. “Faith, is that the best ye’ve got to run against me?” he drawled insultingly.
At this insult to his horse, the bristling owner, a man called Hobbs, stepped forward. “My roan’s beat ever’ nag he’s come up against!” he cried. “See for yourself, I’m about to race my roan against yon big gray.”
“For the goose?” asked Geoffrey in a bored voice.
“Nay, ’tis for a wager,” said Hobbs. “I’m betting my roan beats the gray by four lengths.” He was a big, bulky man, and he threw out his chest a bit as he said that.
Geoffrey laughed. “I’ll watch the roan run,” he said contemptuously. “If he’s mettle enough. I’ll race him then.”
Hobbs glared at him and stomped away. Quickly the course was cleared and the impromptu race begun. The gray’s rider was a man of even bigger bulk than Hobbs and the two big horses with their heavy riders thundered down it, but it was immediately plain that the gray was no match for the roan, who left him behind by five lengths.
“Snowfire may not be so fast,” worried Lenore. “Hush,” growled Geoffrey in a barely audible voice. 'I'm tiring that great beast.”
She subsided. Hobbs cantered back and leaped down with a swagger. “Never been beat!” He gave the big roan’s flank an affectionate pat.
Geoffrey gave him a supercilious look—such a look as caused Hobbs’s beady eyes to redden with wrath in his big heavy-jowled face. “Not good enough,” said Geoffrey coolly. “Why, I’d not waste my time riding against you!”
“ ’Tis afraid ye’ll be beat, ye are!” cried Hobbs in a fury.
Geoffrey’s gray eyes gleamed. “Why, the lass with me could beat you,” he sneered. “And on the poor half-lame nag she’s riding!”
Lenore straightened up, and her violet eyes widened. So she was to race Snowfire against that big roan!
“An’ do ye have yellow gold that says so?” bellowed the belligerent Hobbs. “Or is it all talk that ye are?”
“Five golden doubloons that she beats you!” said Geoffrey in a cold voice, planking down a small purse that had a heavy ring to it.
Lenore quailed. That small purse contained only copper pennies. If Hobbs should demand a count—!
But Hobbs was too furious for that. Undeterred by the size of the wager, he tore loose a leather-thonged pouch from his waist. “Hold the stakes, Amos!” He thrust the pouch into the hands of a gray-bearded farmer who’d said nothing as yet. “And mount up! Man or maid, my roan can beat ’em!”
Geoffrey thumped his pouch down into Amos’s hand with a deep frown that forebade inspection of its contents. Amos took it with a shrug that said it was not his duty to meddle.
By now they had collected a small crowd of interested spectators who elbowed each other for a better look at this rash newcomer who’d challenge the supremacy of Hobbs's big roan.
Lenore was feeling queasy again; she had a need for air. “If I’m to ride,” she muttered, “take charge of my saddlebags, Geoffrey, for they’re extra weight.”
Obligingly Geoffrey tossed them across his own saddle.
She took a deep breath and stared soberly at Hobbs's mount. Snowfire was fast, but the big roan was rangy and had a longer stride. Giddily, she feared for the outcome.
“I’ll ride bareback!” she declared ringingly, sliding down from the saddle. Geoffrey cast an uneasy look at Hobbs, who might have protested this change except that Lenore flung him a contemptuous look. “Unless you're afraid a mere maid can beat you!” she called derisively.
Stung, Hobbs glared at her. “I’d fetch you over here and paddle your pretty bottom for that barb, mistress— save that I’m going to beat you soundly in the race!” He guffawed and slapped his big thigh.
Geoffrey had her saddle off now and Lenore, with the world reeling slightly about her, peeled off her cloak and tossed it to him. There were appreciative murmurs from the crowd at the sight of her thin tight-fitting green dress which outlined her delicious figure, more murmurs as she tucked it up so her yellow petticoat showed.
She took off her shoes and stuck them in Geoffrey’s pocket, and Hobbs yowled, “Wouldn’t ye like to take the rest off? We could use a Godiva here!”
There was a chorus of lusty catcalls at that, and Lenore saw a muscle tighten in Geoffrey’s hard jaw. She touched his arm for warning and her dark Cavalier gave her back a grim look. He was not enjoying Hobbs’s jesting with her, she knew. She but hoped he would keep his temper, for with only pennies in that purse, their circumstance was desperate, she knew.
Her head was clearing a bit and she was reasonably sure she could hold her breakfast down, at least for the span of the race. The course had been cleared now, with women shooing children to the sidelines and people lining up along the stalls to watch.
Lightly she vaulted to the saddle. “Wish me luck,” she muttered.
From the crowd nearby came a clear laughing masculine voice. “Here, my lady, use this on him!” And someone tossed her a light whip. Lenore—who would never have used a whip on Snowfire—closed her fingers around the whip and acknowledged this token of good will with a brilliant smile. She could not see the donor, but she had the swift impression of a pair of crystal eyes that glinted at her from a laughing face that sported a golden Vandyke beard.
Seeing her mounted, and already the darling of the crowd, Hobbs paused insolently for a parting shot before bestriding his horse. “Ye’d best hurry, mistress, before those dark clouds overhead loose the rain upon us,” he grunted. “I wouldn’t want ye to claim ’twas the muddy course that made ye lose!” His loud guffaw was only lightly echoed by the crowd; plainly big Hobbs had ma
de his weight felt around here once too often.
Lenore looked up apprehensively. The wind had risen, and there was the damp smell of rain in the air. Snowfire would have less chance on a muddy course against that great beast. Anxiously she studied the sky where thick-packed dark clouds had obscured the sun.
“Mind him not,” said Geoffrey sharply, and then leaning close on the pretense of checking her bridle. “If ye lose, don’t stop—turn and ride south, I’ll join ye,” he muttered so that only she could hear.
Lenore caught her breath. So if she lost he meant to run for it, knowing he could not pay his wager! She cast a glance at him. He was tightly surrounded by a pack of farmers and weighted down by her saddle and saddlebags. How could he break free from that crush? If he even tried it—assuming Hobbs and the farmers didn’t beat him to death as a welcher—there were plenty of off-duty Roundhead soldiers moving through the crowd who’d be alerted and maybe would ask them for papers. ...
She felt cold sweat trickle down her back, and the faintness came over her again. With an effort she overcame it and with an irritable gesture, seeking more air, knocked back her coif, which fell off. She let it go and shook her head to clear it, which caused her red-gold hair to tumble down, looking almost molten against the darkening sky. Men gazed at her beauty longingly, and women studied her enviously and whispered, but Lenore was unaware of it. Her mind was awash with terror, though none of it showed on her lovely, almost haughty, countenance.
If she lost—oh, God, she must not lose!—they’d be in dire trouble.
Trying to conceal the trepidation she felt, she walked Snowfire up beside the big roan, who turned an evil eye toward her and kicked out. Snowfire skipped away with an angry look at his antagonist. Lenore knew the big horse was making him nervous; he was making her nervous, too.
She clenched her jaw and alongside a jeering Hobbs she waited tensely for the starting signal, seeing before her the dusty track and at its end two men holding a ribbon suspended between them that served as finish line. Beside her she could hear Hobbs chuckling; it was an evil sound. Feverishly she tried to remember how Hobb had ridden against the gray. She had not been paying much attention; she’d been feeling ill, and her mind had been preoccupied with Geoffrey. But it seemed to her Hobbs had veered suddenly to the left down there where the way was narrow and lined with stalls selling live geese and chickens, and that the gray had faltered there. Was there perhaps a rough spot in the course, a rut made by a cart that Hobbs had forced his antagonist toward? The gray’s rider had come back looking not only glum but angry; perhaps Hobbs had tricked him as well as outridden him. She squinted her eyes down the course, already darkening as the cloud cover overhead deepened, and cursed herself for not having taken note of it earlier.
The course, the line of stalls, the hawkers, and the crowd all swung around her in a slow circle.
Oh, God, don’t let me faint! she thought despairingly. For then the race will be forfeit and Geoffrey will stay to help me and be trapped! She closed her eyes and prayed.
With a snap her eyes blinked open. The signal had been given, they were off! She was almost unseated as a nervous Snowfire leaped ahead. For a moment her heart lurched with joy, but then the big roan pounded up beside her and Hobbs turned to laugh in her face.
Down the course they thundered, neck and neck, on a sudden gust of wind that blew leaves and scarves and ribbons into the air. Lenore, her senses swimming, tasted acrid dust as the wind stung her cheeks to scarlet. With her bright hair streaming straight out behind her and her yellow petticoat billowing up so that her white legs flashed, she clung desperately to Snowfire’s mane and urged him on.
In their headlong run, she realized suddenly that the big horse beside her was bearing her to the left, dangerously close to the line of stalls where people waved and shouted encouragement as they went by. Her senses quickened. To the left—-why to the left?
Abruptly Hobbs’s intention became clear to her, and her eyes widened in fright. Midway down the course, where live chickens and geese were being sold, was a deep rut caused by a lumbering cartwheel in some recent rain—and across it, protruding carelessly onto the course like a bar, was a wagon tongue! Hobbs was edging her over, trying to shove her into that, and if Snowfire hit it, his legs would be broken and she’d be flung headfirst into the wooden side of the big fruit wagon that separated the chicken stalls from the geese!
In a moment of bright terror she knew why the gray had faltered and let the big roan pull out so far ahead. The gray’s rider had pulled him up at the last minute—as Hobbs intended her to do—or die!
A vision of Snowfire, broken and falling, and herself pitched through the air to oblivion came to her—and simultaneously another vivid picture, this one of Geoffrey, bound and bleeding and being dragged to a tall gibbet.
“Get over!” she cried fiercely, striking out at Hobbs with her right arm.
Hobbs gave an ugly laugh and drove the big roan horse against her. Snowfire reeled with the impact but righted himself and plunged on. Lenore felt her leg go half numb from its contact with Hobb’s bony knee. With a laugh Hobbs veered away to let them recover. He was playing with her! He meant to make her give up so the crowd would make sport of her while he crowed in glee!
In moments they would reach the narrow place with the rut and the heavy wagon tongue protruding like a bar before it. If Hobbs kept his present distance they’d sweep harmlessly by, but she had no hope he’d do that. She knew she was looking death squarely in the face, for he was sure to rush her again. There was no time—the decision was now!
In a desperate flash it came to her that Hobbs was wearing long sharp spurs—the fiercest she had ever seen, though she had not seen him use them and the roan’s sides were unmarked.
Her expression hardened. Yes, she could do it! And she would—for Geoffrey’s sake!
“Coward!” she cried, leaning over to flick her whip toward that jeering face.
Hobbs, quick as tinder, responded as she’d guessed he would. Jaw jutting out, he rode for her again—on a collision course that would almost certainly send her headlong into that wagon tongue. But her taunt had thrown off his timing and made him turn the roan a little sooner than he’d meant to.
As he came in range, she lifted her whip high in the air and with all her force brought it down into Hobbs’s snarling face—and as he flinched back, throwing up an arm to ward off the blow and shifting his weight unsettlingly on the roan’s back, she drove her right foot violently against Hobbs’s left ankle so that the shining point of that vicious spur struck sharply into the big roan’s side.
The roan, on his own account, had just turned his head, showed his white teeth, and bit at Snowfire. At the sudden unexpected assault of the digging spur on his left side, combined with Hobbs’s sudden shift of weight and the whip singing over his head, he skidded, reared up on his hind feet with a wild swing to the right, and almost went over on his back in a cloud of dust. Hobbs, cursing, was almost thrown from the saddle.
At the menace of those big teeth, Snowfire, already skittish, and now maddened by this terrifying turn of events, gave a half-human scream and leaped high in the air, clearing the rut and wagon tongue and grazing the big roan’s pawing forefeet as he broke to the right, landed almost on his knees, and took off like the wind, his tail waving in the big roan’s face.
Lenore, choking on dust and clinging to his back like a burr, turned her head to see that Hobbs had finally got his mount under control and was thundering off after the flying pair.
But Snowfire had had enough of his huge antagonist. He showed the roan a clean pair of heels, running fast as the deer of the forest. Lenore, leaning low over his neck and with tears of pride trembling on her lashes, was hard pressed to keep him from running into the next county. When they broke the red ribbon at the finish line, Snowfire, with his featherweight burden, had beaten his heavy-laden antagonist by four lengths, and the crowd went wild.
The feeling of nausea had left her n
ow. Head high, smiling in triumph, Lenore galloped back down the course toward Geoffrey on a trembling Snowfire, his eyes rolling, his limp forgotten. And all the way people cheered her and waved scarves and applauded.
She had almost reached the place where Geoffrey stood beaming at her when a hoarse baritone voice boomed out, “The maid’s not human—no, nor her horse, neither! I saw him limp through town a while ago, and now he runs like the wind!” And another voice chimed in on a high excited note: “ ’Tis no maid at all, tis the Angel of Worcester! Don’t you remember, Hank? We were bringing up a fresh horse into the battle and we saw her ride by!"
The Angel of Worcester . . . A sigh went through the crowd like the rustle of dry leaves. For by now all knew the story of the flame-haired woman on the white horse who had galloped through the battle into Worcester and disappeared. Abruptly pandemonium broke loose as men jumped forward to get a better look at Lenore, who flinched back, flinging Geoffrey a wild look.
“Ride!” shouted Geoffrey, sweeping up the stakes from Amos’s astonished hand and landing astride his bay horse almost in one smooth gesture. Striking out with the heavy saddle in his right arm, swinging the saddlebags with his left, he lay about him, scattering those who would have jumped forward to seize his bridle.
Into the path he cleared plunged Lenore. Snowfire followed Geoffrey’s mount nose to flying tail as the crowd gave way in panic before this pair of demons, men leaping hastily to right and left to avoid being knocked down and trodden. A bright flash of lightning zigged through the sky and the crash of thunder added to the panic and covered the pounding of their horses’ hooves as they plunged into a side street before pursuit could be mounted.
Down twisting cobbled streets and narrow alleys— deserted now, for everyone was at the fair—they tore, pummelled by big drops of rain that had begun to splash down. But in the distance over the steady patter of rain Lenore could now hear the thunder of pursuit, and she winced. Snowfire was not equal to a long-distance run. He’d come all the way into Wells carrying her, and now he’d run a hard race—he’d never make it!
This Towering Passion Page 10
