by Kate Forsyth
Ahead of them was the bend and the muddy stream. Emilia shifted her weight forward, bent to one side as the mare took the curve, and then lifted herself high over Alida’s neck as she soared over the ditch, landing nimbly on the far side and accelerating as the track once again began to climb. She heard the thud of hooves behind her, then a heavy thump. Once again she risked a look behind her. The bay horse had taken the corner too fast, and had slipped in the mud and fallen. The air was filled with the dreadful sound of her screams, as her rider whipped her savagely, trying to make her rise again. Emilia could see at once that the mare had broken one of her legs.
The chestnut mare came past at a canter, took the ditch at the far side, and broke once more into a gallop. The groom riding her drove his spurs into her side, and she leapt forward, her chest labouring, foam flying from her grimacing mouth.
Her breath rasping in her chest, Emilia looked no more. She fixed her eyes upon the finishing line, where Felipe stood with his red kerchief held high, flapping in the wind. ‘Now, Alida!’ she whispered. ‘Run like you’ve never run before.’
The mare did her best to respond, but she was exhausted. Her hooves rose and fell more and more slowly, her breath wheezed in her chest. With every touch of Alida’s hoof to the ground, Emilia felt the shock of it run up her body and through to her arms, clinging so tightly to the leather reins. Behind them came the relentless rhythm of the other mare’s hooves, slowly but inexorably gaining on them. Then Emilia heard the panting breath, and was flecked with the flying foam as the chestnut galloped up on her inside. Beside her, the other groom rose and fell steadily, his eyes fixed ahead, his whip flailing mercilessly.
Emilia took a deep breath and sighed it out, relaxing her desperate grip, giving the mare her head. ‘Please, Alida,’ she whispered. ‘Fly for me!’
Her mare made one last great effort. Her muscles bunched beneath Emilia’s mud-spattered skin, the rhythm of her hooves quickened. For a moment dapple-grey and chestnut were poised, neck to neck, then Alida stretched out, and raced through the finish line, a scant hand span ahead of the chestnut.
The crowd went wild, throwing up their hats and waving their kerchiefs. Emilia drew Alida up and slipped down to the ground, her legs barely managing to hold her up. She pressed her face against Alida’s shivering skin and let the tears well up. Everything was a roar. She was so dizzy, she feared she might faint. Dimly she heard Felipe crowing with triumph, and calling out, ‘Pay up, my fine gentlemen! What a race! And against such odds! Who would have thought that little grey mare had it in her? Pay up, my dear fellows.’
Cosmo slipped his hand under Emilia’s elbow. ‘Steady, lass,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Swoon on me now and we may have your secret discovered. Here, have a sip of this.’
‘What is it?’ she whispered.
‘My special brew,’ he answered, then, when she turned her face away, said with a laugh, ‘peach brandy, you little fool.’
She drank, and felt a sudden shock of warmth and giddiness. She clung to Alida and, when the giddiness had passed, found she could stand again, and turn to receive the excited congratulations of all those mobbing around her. Her hand was shaken so vigorously, she feared it might fall off, and Alida was petted and praised extravagantly. One man offered Felipe a bag of gold coins for her there and then. Another snarled that the gypsies had cheated, once again, which made Cosmo finger his dagger and hiss, ‘What did you say?’
Emilia tried to lead Alida free of the crowd, wanting to look her mare over and check she had not hurt herself in any way, but she could not get away.
Suddenly she heard a high, shrill whistle. At once Felipe’s and Cosmo’s heads whipped round, and they stiffened. Then Cosmo had seized Alida’s bridle and was forcing her through the crowd at a great pace. Felipe was holding out his hand and demanding his money in a low, urgent voice, and then went hurrying away towards the gypsy encampment. Turning her head from side to side, Emilia saw that every single gypsy in the crowd was extricating themselves as rapidly. Fear jumped in her throat.
As soon as they were free of the pressing mass of people, Cosmo turned and threw her up into the saddle. ‘Get out of here, Emilia,’ he said. ‘Take Alida, and get to wherever it is that you and your cousin have been hiding. Tell Sebastien we’ll meet him on the road, all right?’
Emilia nodded, too scared to speak.
‘Make sure he brings that mare with him,’ Cosmo warned. ‘Else I’ll curse you myself.’
‘The Rom don’t curse the Rom,’ Emilia managed to say.
‘They do when they steal their horses. That mare is mine now, lassie.’
‘Only until I give you back the silver charm,’ Emilia protested, and then saw by his face that he did not expect her to live long enough to return the charm. Her heart sank, but there was no time to say more. He had slapped Alida across the rump, and the poor, exhausted horse went stumbling away across the Downs, Emilia so weary and sick she was swaying in the saddle.
Cries of alarm rang out from the crowd. Emilia looked back. Marching along the top of the Downs was a company of Roundhead soldiers, the sun glinting on their helmets and pikes. At their head, striding out impatiently, was a tall, burly-shouldered man wearing a brown buff coat, a metal gauntlet on his left hand. Emilia’s heart jolted. Coldham!
He raised his face, scanning the crowd, and then saw her. For an instant, their eyes met. Then he raised his arm and bellowed a command. Soldiers broke into a run, pounding along the Downs towards her. Emilia dug her heels into Alida’s side, and the mare broke into a heavy-footed trot.
Emilia risked another look over her shoulder, only to see Coldham seizing the reins of a horse that had been about to run a race. It was fresh and full of vim. As Coldham swung his heavy bulk into the saddle, cursing to find his stirrups much too short, the horse reared and sidestepped, almost toppling the big man from the saddle.
Throw him! Emilia pleaded silently. Toss him off!
The horse bucked wildly. To Emilia’s intense pleasure, Coldham was thrown to the ground. She kicked Alida forward, urging her away from the racetrack, as Coldham, cursing, picked himself up from the ground and endeavoured to mount the horse again. When Emilia next glanced back, he was in the saddle once more, with two grooms holding the horse steady while he adjusted his stirrups.
Emilia looked about her feverishly for some way of escape. She knew Alida was exhausted and could run no more today. Even if she could urge her into a gallop again, Coldham would be on her heels in moments, and she would lead him straight to the stable where Luka and Sebastien were hiding. She had to shake him off somehow.
Beyond the gypsy encampment, the path led along the top of the Downs for some distance, before forking and turning down towards the town. The Downs were bare and empty and wind-scoured, falling away steeply on either side. There was not a tree or a rock for miles. If Emilia was to hide, she would have to get down into the valley. But Coldham would catch up with her long before she reached the downhill path. She had to get away now. So Emilia took a deep breath, then turned her mare’s nose towards the steep drop to her right.
Alida baulked. The drop was almost perpendicular in parts, the ground slippery from yesterday’s rain. Emilia patted her neck. ‘I know, darling girl, I know,’ she said. ‘But you can do it, I know you can!’
Alida’s skin shivered. She turned her ears one way or another, and put forward one hoof, and then stepped back again. Emilia murmured to her softly, and glanced back at the racetrack.
The soldiers hustled men this way and that, ordering some to go home, detaining others for questioning, arguing with others. More soldiers had gone to the gypsy camp and were throwing their belongings about, searching the caravans in their usual fashion. Six more had seized horses and were following Coldham as he galloped at full speed towards Emilia, his mouth stretched in a grin of triumph.
Pure Magic
‘Come on, Alida! Down!’ Emilia cried. Alida shuddered all over, then bunched her muscles and leapt ov
er the edge, as daintily as a cat.
Down they slipped and slithered, rocks rattling around them. Emilia leant back, one hand on the reins, the other held aloft to help keep her balance. The mare’s hooves skidded on the wet chalk. She spun, and lost her footing, and slid some way on her side, Emilia only just managing to whip her leg away in time. She clung to the saddle desperately, afraid for a moment that the mare was out of control and they would both end up at the bottom of the cliff, broken into pieces. But then Alida recovered her footing, and bounded first one way, then another, across deep crevices in the hillside. Her hind hooves slipped again, but she made an immense effort, the muscles in her hindquarters shaking. Then, nimbly, she leapt towards the valley floor and landed safely, cantering away into the woods.
Emilia glanced back. At the top of the Downs stood Coldham on his stiff-legged horse, who was utterly refusing to follow Alida down the steep hill. No matter how hard Coldham whipped it, and dug in his spurs till the blood ran red, the horse would not budge. Emilia laughed, and waved her cap joyfully as she disappeared into the trees.
She knew she had not gained much time. It would not be long before they found another way down, and then they would be searching for her. So Emilia slipped off Alida’s back and seized her bridle, running alongside her so the exhausted mare did not have to carry her weight. Together they ran through the forest, trying to take care not to step into any boggy patches that would leave a clear imprint behind them.
Emilia had travelled to the manor house in darkness and mist, and she had no clear idea of where to go now. But she had been raised to absorb directions and distances and to note key landmarks almost unconsciously, as no gypsy ever likes to be lost. Even as she ran, she was remembering their journey, and calculating which way to go. It was not very long before she had reached the road and recognised the high iron railings on the far side.
Her heart was pounding, and her breath came in great, ragged gasps. She did not think she had ever been so worn out. Alida was exhausted too, her head hanging, her hide matted with mud and sweat. They took a minute to catch their breath and look up and down the road, before daring to leave the shelter of the trees.
Emilia could only be glad that the road was so badly rutted and marked with hoof prints and wheel tracks that no one following them could possibly be sure which ones belonged to her and Alida. She hurried along the road, her heart beating so fast it hurt her ribs, and then, thankfully, left the main road and went up the side lane to the little gate where they had been admitted the night before.
The gate was locked.
For a moment Emilia was overwhelmed with panic. She was so very tired, and frightened, and worried, she did not know what to do. It was broad daylight, and someone could come down the road at any minute and wonder what a ragged gypsy was doing loitering outside Lord Berkely’s house. She took a deep breath and rubbed her lucky charm between her fingers, an action which always calmed her, then looked around her.
At the end of the lane was a small copse of trees, backing onto a field through which ran a burbling stream. Emilia led Alida through the gate into the field, and let her drink her fill from the stream. She quenched her own thirst, then washed her hands and face. Feeling much better, she led Alida into the shelter of the trees, took off the saddle and bridle, and hid them under a bush. She rubbed the mare down well with a twist of long grass, feeling Alida relaxing under the slow, regular motions of her hand. Soon the nervous twitching of her hide calmed, and she dropped her head and began to crop the turf. Emilia took off her coat – or rather, Sebastien’s coat – and draped it over the mare, for the wind was brisk and Alida had sweated heavily.
She let Alida graze while she lay on her stomach and watched the road. A few carts went clopping past, and a boy with a herd of pigs, taking them into the forest to scrounge for dropped acorns. A few minutes later a group of gentlemen rode by, all frowning and silent, then a cart driven by a man Emilia had seen up on the Downs, with four other men crammed in. They were arguing among themselves, and looked most displeased with their morning’s sport. Then along trudged a group of farmers that Emilia also recognised from the racetrack. There was much low, murmured conversation between them, and Emilia guessed they were discussing the race, and the raid by the soldiers. She was too far away to hear what they said, but it was clear from their faces they thought they were lucky to get away with so little trouble.
The road was then empty for some time. There was no sign of Coldham, or the soldiers. Emilia was not sure what to do. She did not want to risk being seen, but she could not hide in this wood forever. Besides, she was starving.
So she got up, dusted herself off and gave Alida a reassuring pat, before running back down to the gate to try it one more time. It was still locked; so, with a quick glance at the road, she clambered up the wall and lay down on the warm coping stone at the top, looking out onto the stable-yard.
All was quiet. Most of the outhouses and stables around the yard were obviously deserted, and Emilia thought Lord Berkely had probably, like so many others, lost much of his stable to the depredations of the Civil War. Emilia slipped down over the wall and ran across the yard to the stable where she had left Luka and Sebastien.
The door stood ajar.
Gently Emilia pushed it open and stepped inside.
No one was there.
Emilia stood frozen, looking about her in shock. Where were Luka and Sebastien, and Sweetheart the bear, and her brother’s dog Rollo, and dear little Zizi the monkey? Where could they be?
In the shaft of sunlight slanting in through the door, motes of dust floated peacefully. Straw was piled up in one corner, and Emilia experimentally nudged it with her foot, uncovering what was unmistakably a pile of bear droppings. The sight of it was a relief, since it showed her that Sweetheart had at least been here, and Emilia had not somehow gone to the wrong place. She kicked the straw back and looked around for some clue as to where Luka may have gone. Behind the door, she found two straw stalks laid one over the other in the shape of a cross. She was examining them thoughtfully when she heard the sound of voices approaching.
Emilia looked about her rapidly. There was nowhere to hide except under the straw, and Emilia had no desire to crouch in a pile of bear manure. She glanced up and saw that a thick crossbeam ran the length of the stable. It was high off the floor, but Emilia was able to climb up the back of the door, using the studs as footrests, then reach out and grab a giant hook which hung from the beam, and quickly swarm up it. She lay down on the crossbeam just as the door below her swung open and Coldham stepped inside.
The hook was still swaying slightly, and he absent-mindedly reached up and stopped it with his hand so it would not knock his head. Then he stood, looking around him.
‘As you can see, there is no one here,’ an aristocratic voice said in a tone of long-suffering. ‘These stables have not been used in months. I utterly refute this wild accusation that I, Lord Berkely of The Durdans, would be responsible for harbouring vagrants and criminals.’
Stepping into the stable behind Coldham was a tall, lean, elderly gentleman with a pale, powdered face, a head of thick, dark curls that hung down to his shoulders, and a very fine coat of mulberry velvet. He leant lightly on an ebony stick with a silver knob, and carried a silver snuffbox in his left hand. With a dexterous flick of his thumb, he opened the box and then, shaking back the heavy lace at his wrist, took a pinch and held it to his nostrils, delicately inhaling.
Coldham ignored him, staring around the stable with narrowed eyes. Emilia clutched the crossbeam with her damp palms and prayed no one would look up.
Behind Lord Berkely were a thickset, bowlegged man in his middle years, dressed in brown wool and leather, and a straight-backed, high-nosed individual clothed all in black. He looked as if he could smell Sweetheart’s dung. There were also a number of Roundhead soldiers, in their characteristic plain uniform. They busied themselves poking through the straw with their pikes.
‘I would l
ike to know, sir, who has laid such a charge against me?’ Lord Berkely said coldly. ‘It is completely baseless, and is, indeed, slanderous. I shall be speaking to my lawyers.’
‘Our sources are always reliable,’ Coldham said, in his harsh, unpleasant voice. ‘We know the dirty gyps have been here. We just want to know where they are now. You’d better tell us, else it’ll be the worse for you.’
‘My dear man, if I had any idea where these gypsies of yours were, I would tell you so, naturally. I have no desire to have my silver stolen. I have little enough left as it is, thanks to your damn Royalist tax. I can assure you I know nothing about any gypsies, however, apart from the horse-traders up on the Downs. And I know you are already acquainted with them.’
Coldham looked disgruntled. ‘We know what you’re up to,’ he said. ‘Don’t think you can hoodwink us!’
Lord Berkely raised one perfectly shaped brow. ‘My dear fellow, I have no desire to . . . ahem . . . hoodwink you, as you so very colourfully say. I am nothing but a poor country gentleman going about my daily business. I desire nothing more than peace and quiet.’
‘We know about your guests, we do,’ Coldham said.
‘But of course you do. They were up on the Downs with me this morning, when you saw fit to apprehend me, and threaten me, in such a deplorable way. Like myself, Mr Butler has an interest in horseflesh, and was most interested to see what new stock the horse-traders had for sale. If we had had any idea that an illegal horserace was being run, we would not, of course, have ventured anywhere near. But how could we have known?’
Emilia was listening very intently, and she thought Lord Berkely had made a very slight hesitation before uttering the name of his guest. She wondered if Mr Butler was the black-haired man in green velvet to whom Tom Whitehorse had been speaking. If so, Tom had called him ‘my lord’, yet here was his host referring to him as ‘mister’. It was all very odd and intriguing.
