The Silver Horse (9 page)

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.

‘C
ome on, Alida! Down!' Emilia cried. Alida shuddered all over, then bunched her muscles and leapt over 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 like 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.

‘You just keep your nose clean, my lord,'
Coldham said threateningly, ‘and know we've got our eyes on you.'

Lord Berkely looked bored. ‘Yes, yes,' he said. ‘We know you Roundheads suspect any man who doesn't care to crop his hair of plotting to overthrow your Lord Protector. Well, I'm an old man and prefer the fashions of my youth to this ugly modern craze of wearing nothing but black, and practically shaving your head bald. As far as I know, you can't yet arrest a man for long hair. Now, if you don't mind, I must get back to my guests. Hudson, please show this man the way out.'

At once his servant stepped forward, inclining his head briefly, and gestured out the door. Coldham stood glowering for a moment, then turned on his heel and marched out, followed by the soldiers.

There was a long moment of silence, then Lord Berkely said, in a much altered voice, ‘It is no longer safe for the duke to be here, Matthew. We
must get him away. As soon as those bloody blue-noses are gone, will you have my coach brought round? There's a safe house in Salisbury I know of, we'll get him there, and see if we can arrange safe passage for him back to France.'

‘Aye, my lord,' Matthew said. ‘You can count on me, my lord.'

‘I know, old friend,' Lord Berkely said. His thin, blue-veined hands gripped the silver knob of his walking-stick tightly. ‘That it should come to this!' he burst out. ‘The Duke of Ormonde, forced to travel in disguise like a common criminal, driven from one safe place to another, and hounded by . . . by the likes of that dreadful man Coldham! What has the world come to?'

‘Hush, my lord,' Matthew said. ‘Don't be getting yourself into a state. All will be well. We will get the duke away safely, don't you fear.'