Miriam Bibby - Mistress Meg 02 - Mistress Meg and the Silver Bell (28 page)

George knew
that he needed to tackle the stream and the bank at exactly the right angle as
well, because that would gain him some valuable time and advantage. He saw it
in his mind over and over again, knowing that it was critical. The time he
gained would be balanced against the time Widderis would lose in needing to
steady The Fly until George had cleared the bank. Then, George thought, he and
Galingale needed to keep that lead and run like the devil to the end of the
woodland, because if he hadn’t worn down The Fly by that stage, The Fly would
once again have the advantage when they got back out onto the open turf.

These were
his thoughts as they saddled up Galingale. Then he cleared his mind of
everything but the feel of the horse under him and the sight of the ground in
front. He did his best to collect the energy of Galingale under him, asking the
horse, in his mind, to hold that power until the moment came - and …

“And -
off!” said the starter, dropping the cloth. George took Galingale straight
into a blistering gallop that took the others by surprise. The Fly leaped in
the air at the start, losing time, but Widderis quickly brought him back and
drove him after Galingale with all the power he possessed. George, leaning
forward over Galingale’s neck and keeping just the lightest touch on the
horse’s mouth, felt the black mane lash across his face. He realised that the
horse still had great reserves of power in him. He could hear the hooves of The
Fly just behind him and the horse’s harsh breathing. Why was it so tempting to
look back?

He sensed
rather than saw The Fly’s nose coming up towards his left boot and put a touch
of pressure on Galingale’s right side. He was not sure whether Galingale or his
boot touched The Fly, but it seemed to him that the horse fell back. George
kept his eyes on the track into the woodland, keeping to the left as he now
knew that was where Widderis was trying to push through. Widderis would not
have time, now, to move out to the right to get past George, who was confident
that he would hold the lead along the woodland track. He just needed to have
the courage to keep his speed up along the first part of the track, where it
was fairly broad; and then slow down where it narrowed and went downhill
towards the stream, forcing Widderis to keep his place behind Galingale.

The mud and
fallen leaves on the surface, already churned by galloping hooves, were turning
into black mire but George kept his speed as far as he dared. Then, judging the
moment, he steadied Galingale as the descent began. The trees, mainly willows
on either side, had been cut back somewhat but still pressed in closely as they
rode downhill. Now he was seeing and experiencing the descent as Widderis had
experienced it whilst in the lead. A willow wand whipped against his boot. Then
he realised, with some shock, that Widderis was trying to push through. He felt
the Fly collide with Galingale’s haunches and the black horse rolled his eye
backwards in alarm. George urged him on. Perhaps it had been unintended; The
Fly simply getting the better of Widderis and taking temporary control. Again,
he felt a shock as The Fly’s shoulder touched Galingale and this time George
lashed backwards with the whip he had not used up until now.

“Keep
your distance here, you young fool!” he shouted in genuine concern.
“D’you want to kill us both? There isn’t the room to pass.” Widderis
ignored him. Again, George felt The Fly make contact with Galingale. Now he was
not in any doubt; Widderis was trying to ride him off the track. He could just
make out the horse’s nose, to his right now, and far, far too close. He glanced
round quickly, to see The Fly coming up alongside. Far, far too close, with the
stream just ahead …

“Have
a care, Sir George!”

The Fly
disappeared behind George as Philip Widderis pulled him up in a sudden halt.
George, taken by surprise, glanced ahead to see that the rotting tree that had
stood by the edge of the stream now lay across it at an angle.

“God’s
body …” There was scarcely time to think, or prepare; George, assuming
that Galingale would leap the stream and the log in one, trusted the horse with
his head. Galingale, thinking differently, flung his head in the air and
skidded to a halt. Even as he was rolling over the horse’s shoulder and
preparing to hit the ground, George was impressed by Galingale’s ability to
stop. Was there no end to the horse’s skills? Then, he found himself lying half
on the bank, half in the water, shocked but uninjured. Idiotically, a memory
came into his mind of Pommely and the time he had fallen off him in front of
his father, whom he had been trying desperately to impress. His father had simply
said, “I believe that’s the seventh time, my boy; now you’re a true
horseman.” Why did he think of that, now? Dripping with water and covered
in mud, George got up and grabbed Galingale’s reins. The horse looked at him as
though he had gone mad. George retrieved his hat from the water and whacked it
hard on the stump. Water and mud flew everywhere. Now to deal with that
Widderis boy.

The
Widderis boy was disappearing at top speed through the woodland, upstream away
from the course they were supposed to ride. The big chestnut’s tail streamed
out behind him as he galloped and his nose was stuck firmly in the air. As
George watched open-mouthed, he saw Philip Widderis turn round and, he thought,
heard him shout, “Your pardon, Sir George!”

“Well,
I’ll be … ” murmured George. Had the boy lost control? It certainly
looked like it. Well, that was not his concern. His concern was to finish the
race, and that he intended to do.

His arm and
shoulder ached, but somehow he managed to get back into the saddle. Galingale
swung himself around, ready to follow The Fly. George turned him back and in
doing so, nearly collided with the undersheriff’s son who was just coming down
the track towards the bank. George apologised and warned him about the log.
Then, gauging the distance perfectly, he set Galingale at the obstacle and felt
the horse soar under him. Taking it steadily, he rode back through the wood
towards the start.

* * * * *

“Sir
George! Sir George! You won! And Gally, my beauty, my beauty!” Amelia
kissed Galingale on the nose. “He is my favourite, you know, Sir George. I
prefer him to Galliard or Gallus. Father told us Gallus was away for the
summer. He didn’t even tell
us
what was happening.”

Galingale
was soon cooled down, watered and blanketed. George, as was his usual practice,
made sure that the horse received attention before he did.

“George,
I need to talk to you. Amelia, go to see your mother, who is waiting for you
over there and wishes you to attend her to her cousin’s house in Marcaster. And
Amelia, do not stop to speak to anyone. Hurry now!” Sir Richard watched
her run over to where her mother waited and then turned back to George. He
looked serious. “George, the undersheriff’s lad has lodged a complaint
with his father about you and the undersheriff is claiming the victory for his
son.”

George
looked at him but couldn’t find any words for the moment. Then he shook his
head in disbelief and laughed.

“On
what grounds?” he asked.

“That
you impeded his horse and prevented him from passing you, thus losing him the
match.”

George
looked at Sir Richard.

“He
…” he began and then stopped, letting his breath out in disgust.
“Where is he now?”

“Yonder.”
Sir Richard nodded. George looked across and saw the pugnacious face of the
undersheriff. His son did not look particularly concerned. At least he had got
down from his horse and was no longer using it as a chair. As George watched, a
woman, evidently the boy’s mother, brought him some food and smoothed back his
hair. Much though George wanted to go over and tell the undersheriff what he
thought, he simply drew a deep breath and looked away. The boy was young and
under the thumb of his father; not much more than a child, really and he, George,
was supposed to be mature and in control of his passions. Sometimes, though, it
would be good to be able to revert to the fisticuffs of his youth and the
undersheriff looked like a worthy opponent. Taking a deep breath, George
dismissed the lad and his father from his mind. No point in arguing the case,
he felt; but then, there was Galingale to consider. The horse should receive
his due as winner.

Richard was
looking at him with understanding. “It is very difficult,” he said.
“As well as having his son ride in the match, he has his official
responsibility to oversee it and we - Sir John and I have certainly taxed him
to the limit regarding that. If Philip Widderis had managed to complete we
might have had a stronger case to run some more trials.”

“And what
of Philip Widderis? Is there any news of him? This is one of the strangest
situations I have ever been in.”

“No
news of Widderis and no sign of the horse. George, my boy; leave Galingale to
the groom and come along for a drink and a bite to eat.” Reluctantly,
George followed Richard towards the Marfield Hall horses and the vehicle that
contained food and drink for Richard’s contingent.

George sat
down in the shade of the little carriage and took a long, long drink of ale. It
was good. There was nothing, he thought, like riding a horse to make life feel
sweet. The breeze was cool through his shirt, which was wet with sweat. One of
the servants brought him some bread, cheese and pie and he ate. He would have
been completely content if it had not been for the thought of Galingale. The
horse had run with intelligence and heart and now - to be denied recognition.
Still, thought George, horses cared nothing for prizes or cheering or
congratulations. Galingale’s rewards were a cool drink of water, the apples George
had given him and the knowledge that he was, simply through existing, splendour
personified. Or whatever the equine equivalent of personification might be. Now
Galingale, in the care of grooms, was making his way quietly back to Marfield
Hall and the attention due to a winner.

After a
time Richard returned. He had been arguing the case with the undersheriff and
the members of the corporation. He seemed slightly embarrassed. George rose to
his feet.

“George,
I scarcely know how to say this; I have done my best, but to dispute further
will bring nothing but difficulty for me. It - it goes hard with me to see you
and - my horse so treated …”

“Say
nothing more, Richard. I understand. But this touches Sir John as well. What
does he make of it?”

“For
obvious reasons, he is more concerned for his son and his horse, who are even
now being sought; but other than that, he is, as far as I can tell, of like
mind. This is a dirty business.”

“Perhaps
young Widderis fears his father’s wrath and is in hiding for the day.”

Richard
laughed. “Jack Widderis has a bark that’s worse than his bite. And Philip
is the apple of his eye. The only one at home, now his sisters are married and
the other lad’s at Oxford.”

As they
talked, there was a sudden warning shout and The Fly, his reins dangling, came
hurtling riderless across the grass.

“My
God …” said George, as both he and Richard Grasset ran forward to help
catch the horse. The Fly, sweating profusely, dodged around a group of men and
women and narrowly avoided collecting one of the booths in the process. As a
mixed group of Grasset and Widderis grooms ran forward, The Fly, knowing he was
caught, shuddered to a halt and drew in his breath in great rasping gasps.
Sweat poured from him and he looked completely, utterly exhausted. His head
hung to the ground. A Widderis groom grabbed the horse’s reins and soothed him.
The man’s face was shocked and everyone present knew what he was thinking.
Where was Philip Widderis - and was he alive or dead?

Sir Richard
went immediately to Sir John Widderis to offer him all the help he needed.
George picked up his jerkin and followed, preparing to join a search party. His
shoulder gave a stab of pain and he did his best to ignore it.

“Thanks
for your help, George, we’ll find a horse for you …” Richard went to
gather up his servants.

George
walked about, stretching his limbs. The whole field was alive with gossip,
conjecture and concern. George ignored it, mulling over the day’s events. It
was all so odd. He tried to make sense of it, but couldn’t. As always, he
wanted to act, not think. Action always helped. Thoughts just went round in
circles aimlessly.