Highest Stakes (29 page)

Charlotte, in assisting Robert with the final preparations, was completely puzzled by his instructions.

  "Hold his tail up for me, Charlotte. I daresay he won't care much for what I am about to do." Charlotte's eyes widened, and Mars kicked out to demonstrate his immense displeasure as Robert inserted a large syringe into the horse's rectum.

  "What in heaven's name are you doing?" she asked in bewilderment.

  He answered matter-of-factly, "Using every weapon in the arsenal. A bit of alum and water will cause him to tighten his sphincter muscles, thus preventing him from taking in air thru the rectum that might later cause abdominal cramping."

  Robert then removed his neck cloth and tore a narrow strip from the fine linen. Charlotte looked her question this time.

  "I am going to tie his tongue down," he answered the silent query.

  "Why would you do such a thing?"

  A horse's wind is every bit as important as his legs. With insufficient air, he cannot last. By tying it down, the horse's tongue cannot obstruct his airway while running."

  "But you did none of this before," she remarked.

  "I did not feel it necessary when challenged by no better horseman than your cousin Charles. But in this contest, we have need of every advantage."

  Suddenly feeling the weight on her shoulders, Charlotte swallowed hard in apprehension.

  At precisely 9:45 a.m., the jockeys presented to the clerk of the scales where Charlotte mumbled her responses exactly as rehearsed. The preparations moved forward without incident, until shocked and dismayed, Charlotte discovered the identity of her adversary. Rather than mounting one of his own grooms on Rascallion, Sir Garfield had hired Jake Harrow to ride!

  Harrow was a small, mean-spirited veteran of the turf, who had reputedly never lost a race. He knew how to bully it all out of his horses, pushing them to their limits, and some beyond. All his mounts won, though some never raced again.

  Charlotte was astonished that Jeffries would allow this cruel and callous man anywhere near a horse he had trained, let alone ride one of his best. Noticing for the first time Jeffries's conspicuous absence, she could only surmise he had no say in the matter. If so, he likely wouldn't even watch the proceedings. Her uncle was very desperate, indeed, to hire such as Jake Harrow.

  At precisely ten o'clock, and in fine form, the sleek, leggy colt Rascallion eagerly pranced alongside the leading groom as he proceeded to the start. Once his rider mounted, the horse practically cantered in place in his impatience to start. Raring to go, the young horse appeared the sure bet, but as Rascallion pulled alongside Mars—snorting, head tossing, and eyeing his competitor—the jockey took him forcibly in hand.

  Holding hard at the starting post, horse and rider gave their competition an aggressive once-over, scornfully eyeing Charlotte and her battle-scarred mount. "Bloody snot-nosed apprentice! Should have demanded another ten quid from the ole gaffer for this!" Jake snorted derisively and intentionally loud enough for Charlotte's ears.

  Avoiding Jake's eye, Charlotte struggled to compose her jangled nerves.
Focus. Focus. Can't think about him. Breathe. Just breathe!

  Mars tensed in anticipation, but except for the occasional flicker of his ears, he was as a statue compared to the tightly wound beast beside him. One unacquainted with Mars might misperceive his manner as lethargic, but that would be a grave error. Mars didn't expend his energy injudiciously. He amassed it, kindled it into a pent-up flame, and at the signal would ignite with the sheer force of it.

  Coiled and poised for his signal, the stallion closely attended to his rider. In the months following Dettingen, Robert had spent countless hours training Mars for battle and honing one key trait, a trait even deviant to the equine nature… patience. Patience was for the predator in stalking his prey, but to the prey animal, it was unnatural and perilous. Patience meant certain death.

  As a charger, Mars had been taught to entrust his very life unto the master, to conquer his innate fear and charge without hesitation into the full fury of battle. In so doing, the horse had transitioned in his mind from prey to predator. He had learned to anticipate his master's signal and succumb to his will. He awaited that signal now, and as the starter lowered the flag, Charlotte gave Mars what he most desired. They were off!

  Mars surged forth from the start, head low, nose to the ground, hooves digging and clawing at the soft, moist earth, tearing a blazing trail down the turf. Rascallion, long forelegs stretching, reaching, slicing the air, also broke remarkably strong. Both horses fought valiantly from the start for the elusive prize, the yearned for, coveted, oh-so-precious early lead.

  Though Rascallion was unquestionably improved in the past few days, Mars was still stronger. With little encouragement from Charlotte, he lengthened his stride, eating up yards of turf, gaining a clean lead with Rascallion chasing nose to tail behind them.

  Although Mars claimed his lead effortlessly, Charlotte's dilemma was how hard to press him. If she asked, he would put such distance between them that Rascallion would be hard at it ever to catch up, but this risked using Mars up. Although he performed superlatively in their training, Mars was a warhorse. Did he truly have the heart and soul of a running blood?

  How long could he sustain this blistering speed? Moreover, could he produce the same in a second heat? Did he have it in him to answer when the time was ripe? As she debated holding back, these were the unknowns. They
needed
to take the first heat, but if she used him up to claim it, he might have nothing left in the second and be obligated to fight to the death in the third. If they won now and she preserved just enough of him to take the next, he need not run the third. Her decision was critical. Her future with Robert rested on her judgment.

  Though it would mean a hotter contest now, she determined to conserve him. Almost imperceptibly, Charlotte's fingers crept along the reins. Remembering Robert's words about the silken thread, she took up slack by minute degrees. Mars reluctantly conceded his will, snorting in protest and letting Rascallion creep back into his line of sight.

  Coming out of the bend and into the stretch, Rascallion clamored for the lead and surged forth with renewed vigor. Gaining momentum with his refreshed confidence, he crept up alongside Mars, but this wasn't enough for Harrow, who commenced his particular brand of "encouragement." Rascallion, always a willing runner, continued in rare form but was clearly resentful of the crop.

  Charlotte had known Rascallion from his first days under Jeffries. She had watched the trainer work with him and knew his mind. She had never quite taken a fancy to Rascallion, as he been unpredictable and refractory at times, but he had come along well enough under Jeffries's firm but gentle hand. The trainer understood how to work
with
the horse rather than fighting against him, using firm and persistent persuasion rather than brute force to manage the colt's irascible temper. Some horses didn't take well to bullying, and Rascallion was one of them.

  His ire was unmistakable in the angry glare of his eye and in the flattening of his ears with the jockey's every downward stroke. Charlotte had witnessed Rascallion's temper firsthand and mused with a faint smile that it might soon prove Jake Harrow's undoing.

  Holding Mars in check, shoulder at Rascallion's flank, they pounded along, waiting and watching. Charlotte would let them hold the lead, but just barely, just enough to keep the pressure cooking. Holding this position and preserving Mars, she would watch their opponents for any sign of weakness or fatigue, any window of opportunity as they drew nearer the finish. She would not push needlessly but would wait until the time was ripe.

  Charlotte smiled with renewed confidence in her strategy. Her fingers slowly played, releasing first an inch and then two of slack. Mars, in tune with his rider, took his cue, once more gathering just enough speed to creep up along the outside, now shoulder to shoulder in synchronous stride with the increasingly agitated Rascallion.

  Harrow, conscious of their advance, was either too callous to care or completely oblivious to the growing distress of his mount, even with the clear warning signs his colt exhibited as he plied the whip. The heedless jockey, intent only upon the finish line, prepared to thrash more speed out of a horse that was rapidly coming unglued. The colt was near boiling point, straining under the jockey's brutality, now more concerned about the crop than the track under his hooves.

  His distress suddenly morphed into something much more dangerous. His ears pinned flat to his head, his nostrils flared blood red, his tail thrashed in open rebellion, and his eyes rolled menacingly back in a final unheeded warning. Charlotte
almost
felt pity for the jockey and yet again encouraged Mars. Leaning closer, chin to his mane, she loosened her fingers and released more slack. In instant response, he surged forth, and Harrow raised his crop for the very last time.

  Rascallion had had enough!

  The colt insidiously detonated by slamming all of his forward momentum onto the forehand. Harrow pitched ten feet straight into the air, arse over teakettle, before landing in a ghastly tangled, muddy mass.

  Once free of his tormentor, Rascallion rejoiced! He spun, bucking and rearing gleefully, and ran to beat hell, finishing half a length ahead of Mars. The mutinous colt then celebrated his freedom with a victory lap and was halfway again around the track before the elusive Jeffries materialized to take him in hand.

  The crowd went wild to get a firsthand glimpse of the broken body, while the physician called to examine the mangled Mr. Harrow promptly announced the end of the infamous jockey's riding days. He had finally met his match in the murderous Rascallion.

  The stewards, aghast at such goings-on, having never before witnessed such a grisly incident, called a special race meeting. Charlotte, during the deliberations, slipped warily away from the crowds. Meeting Robert, Charlotte dismounted, handing Mars off to a waiting groom for hot walking while they awaited the decision.

  Although Rascallion had technically crossed the finish line ahead of Mars, even an unsanctioned race could not concede the win to a jockey-less horse. The stewards unanimously decided heat number one in Mars's favor and called for a one-hour hiatus, during which time Sir Garfield was required to hire a new jockey or forfeit.

  Sir Garfield called for Jeffries to ride, but the trainer adamantly declared himself unfit. Sir Garfield had completely dismissed his advice regarding Rascallion's readiness to run. He had compounded this transgression against his trainer in hiring such a known scoundrel as Jake Harrow. Thoroughly disgusted by the travesty, Jeffries outright refused to ride.

  Charles, however, perceived in this moment his opportunity to finally prove his worth to his father and to make atonement for his first defeat. Willing himself to overcome his apprehension, he spoke up. "Let me ride in the next race."

  "Absolutely not!"

  "But why not? I've raced him before!"

  "And a damned poor showing you made of it, Charles," his father said. "Besides, after what befell Harrow I could never allow it. Let some other poor sod risk his fool neck."

  Sir Garfield was furious but refused to cry off. He dispatched Jeffries to hire another jockey, but remarkably, in a town full of racing stables, there was none to be hired, leastwise not to mount the "homicidal" Rascallion. Eyes bulging and purpling with rage, Sir Garfield bellowed that he would find another jockey if he had to scrounge the bowels of hell for one.

  With opportunity so blatantly presented, Philip hadn't the will to resist.

"What news?" Robert anxiously inquired of Phillip.

  "Seems we have a predicament, ol' chap. Curiously, Sir Garfield can't find a replacement jockey. Even at quadruple the going rate, he had no takers. Superstitious lot," he scoffed. "Seems they all believe the colt demon-possessed."

  "One can hardly blame them after that performance!" Robert chuckled. "Will he forfeit, then?"

  "Refuses to cry off, but he's requesting a renegotiation."

  "A what?" Charlotte interjected.

  "A renegotiation of the terms," Philip replied matter-of-factly. "The original agreement was for each horse to carry a hired jockey, but Jeffries claims to have injured his shoulder chasing down the obstreperous colt. With no other jockey for hire, Sir Garfield respectfully requests a reversion to Newmarket rules: gentlemen only to ride."