‘Yes, of course, he’s in the loose box on the other side, next to the big fellow.’ Mr Underwood pointed through the hall towards the other end of the stable yard. Sage could see Warhorse’s huge grey head peering around the railings of his stable, his long white neck stretching out of his woollen blankets and thick padded rug. Rafe settled down in the ancient old armchair in the tack room, lifting up the grumbling, sleepy stable terrier, Sixpence, who protested with a growl and then curled up again, with a noisy huff, onto Rafe’s lap, snoring loudly with one eye open. Mr Underwood began to fill Rafe in on the horses’ progress while his weathered hands instinctively, through long practice, put home-made conditioning soap on the soft brown leather of a double bridle.
The tack room had blue wooden panelling attached to the brick walls and these panels were lined with blue-painted saddle and bridle racks the whole height and width of the large room. There were probably more than a hundred saddles of every description. There were general-purpose saddles, racing saddles, pony saddles, a side-saddle and a western saddle. Gymkhana ribbons lined the blue picture rail around the top of the wooden panels and every conceivable sort of bit, from an eggbutt snaffleto a hackamore, lay on the blue shelves. A fire crackled in the far wall and in the middle of the stone floor stood a huge wooden saddle horse on legs, on which saddles were put to be cleaned. The room was ancient, dusty and well lived in; it had not been touched since Rafe’s great-grandparents had lived at Crockford and it was the place in which Rafe felt most at home.
Sage tripped happily along the passage to find Ajax’s stable. The iron-grey horse was munching contentedly on haylage from the rack in the corner of his loose box. He had just been bathed and his dark mane lay neatly combed on his dappled grey coat; he was wrapped up in three thick padded rugs. He whickered softly when Sage let herself into his stable and moved slowly over to see if she had any treats for him. Sage produced a lump of sugar from her pocket that she had taken from breakfast and Ajax gobbled it up with eager, gentle, whiskery lips. Sage leant into his neck and breathed in the comforting scent of horse, straw, linseed, barley and oiled leather. Ajax moved unhurriedly back to his hay rack and Sage jumped up to sit on his empty manger. There was nothing more comforting than just sitting and watching a horse chew their hay, their cheekbones criss-crossing as they ground their teeth rhythmically, their legs knee deep in fresh, sweet-smelling straw.
Sage sat for a long while, thinking about how distant Santiago felt in that moment. She stayed in a peaceful trance, cooking up a plan that might hopefully keep him far away from them for good, until the grooms came along to plait up. Sage felt as though she was in the way and slid surreptitiously off the manger. The lad who came in smiled respectfully and carried on with his work. Heading back along the passageway to the tack room, she listened to Rafe and Mr Underwood chatting away in full racing flow, the cadence of their deep voices echoing soothingly.
At half past ten, they were back in the yard and the horses were led out by grooms to the stone mounting block that rested against the wall in the now sunlit cobbled yard. Lord Walter was already sitting on his huge bay gelding with a hogged black mane and banged tail that hung well above his hocks. Lord Walter was wearing a black top hat and swallow-tailed red coat above immaculate white woollen breeches and shining champagne-topped long leather boots. A cigar hung from his mouth as he waited, chatting to Mr Underwood, who was dressed in a spotless tweed coat and bowler hat; he was mounted on a wild-eyed young thoroughbred. The baby racehorse wheeled about and plunged exuberantly while Mr Underwood calmly continued his conversation with the boss, totally unconcerned, and before very long the horse ran out of nervous energy and decided, warily, that it was a better idea to settle down and stand quietly. Sage felt like a princess as the beautiful Ajax was brought out for her and all she had to do was get on. Hal was lifted up onto the sweet, gleaming Custard whose lemon coat had been clipped out and his flaxen mane plaited up; even his shining cream tail was plaited and sewn up to keep it out of the mud. Constance clipped on a lead rope and led them proudly forward as Rafe, less flamboyantly dressed in an understated black coat, black velvet cap and brown-topped boots but just as elegant, effortlessly vaulted onto the eighteen-hands-high Warhorse from the ground.
‘Show off!’ said Sage, with a laugh. ‘What’s wrong with a perfectly good mounting block?’
‘He just doesn’t like them.’ Rafe looked down, smiling, and bashfully patted Warhorse’s white neck.
‘Are we all set?’ Constance’s voice rang out, echoing in the enclosed walls; she was eager to get around to the front of the house to where hounds were meeting, so that she could greet her guests.
The sun was now high in the pale blue sky, and the clock tower from the stable yard struck its customary chime to mark the quarter of the hour. The mounted followers began to arrive in their droves, their horses’ hooves crunching on the honey-coloured gravel as they loudly congregated in front of the house, talking, shouting, laughing, eating and accepting silver crested goblets of port or whisky as they waited for their day of sport to begin.
Finally, the huntsman cleared his throat and tried to make a speech to thank his hosts and to state that he was hunting within the law, how they were chasing a man-laid trail and not an animal, but his words were largely drowned out by the baying of his frantic, feverish hounds who were eager to set off and knew that the time was nigh. Laughing, and raising his palms to heaven in a helpless gesture, he picked up his reins and gently urged his horse into a jog, trotting slowly down the drive, hounds flowing about his horse’s legs like barley swaying in the wind, to draw the first covert. The field of riders jostled and elbowed to get into position, vying for the prime position behind the fieldmaster, who today was Lord Walter. He knew this bit of country better than anyone else, except perhaps his gamekeeper, Mr Stagg. Walter always accepted the plea to act as fieldmaster from the hunt, but only for the Chipping Crockford meet. He set off, his horse stepping out proudly in front, cantering along the edge of the drive and hopping over the park railings that led out into a long grass field. This sloped gently down to a thick wood that backed right up to the parkland. It was a great joke for Walter not to open the big, elegant, black-railed gate, and he had bets with his sons as to how many horses would make it over before someone opened the gate.
The rest of the field were waiting by the edge of the wood, their horses already steaming in the chill of the morning, greatbanks of pale condensation rising steadily skywards. The din of people blithering and yapping incessantly was fierce. Sage stood slightly apart, next to Rafe who loathed riding in the melee of horses and normally took his own line. This was especially easy at home as there were no farmers or landowners to upset.
‘Stay with me, we can keep out of the rumpus. Poor Dad will be desperate in all that. He hates it when he can’t hear anything. When we hear something I’ll signal to him.’ As he spoke, they heard the sweet music of hounds in the wood, their voices rising up out of the trees in a melody that made the hair on Sage’s neck stand up. ‘That’s our cue. They’ve gone out already – hear them on the far side coming out into the open?’ Rafe made a hand gesture to his father who was looking to him frantically, not being able to hear anything at all, and off they went. Rafe indicated for Sage to follow him and set off right-handed, cantering around the top side of the wood and up to the boundary wall that must have been at least five feet high.
Oh no … please don’t let that be our first jump, thought Sage, her heart sinking in dismay. The dry-stone wall loomed higher and higher as they got closer.Surely he’s not going to put Warhorse at that, not so soon.Rafe looked over his shoulder and laughingly said, ‘Kick him on a bit into this, there’s some drop on the other side.’
He flew over the wall and disappeared from sight.
Sage was only two strides out now, and it would be more dangerous to turn Ajax away than to urge him on. They needed to get some speed up though, so that they did not land in a heap in the chasm on the other side.
You beast, Sage thought murderously at Rafe, but she gave Ajax a nudge in the ribs and a slap on the shoulder with her whip. ‘Forgive me, boy – but better safe than sorry,’ she muttered, with a wince.
Ajax, putting on his extra turbo boosters in surprise, lurched forward and then launched into the air, giving the wall plenty of space, and Sage shoved her feet forward and her head back in preparation for a steep landing. Ajax pecked slightly on reaching the ground and if her weight had been over his shoulders she would have toppled out of the saddle. Wanting to scream at Rafe, who was checking over his shoulder to ensure they had made it over safely, she had just opened her mouth to hurl abuse at him when he turned back to face forward and galloped away out of earshot. Laughing despite herself, adrenaline surging through her veins, Sage urged Ajax on, reluctant to be left behind.
Sparkling dew glistened where the light frost had melted away and left the air hanging heavily in white clouds above the grass. Pockets of mist swayed across the valley like smoke, and golden light from the hidden sun glowed softly through the trees, illuminating their newly budding leaves. They heard the sound of a startled cock pheasant squawking in a thicket where hounds had run through, and a woodpecker somewhere to the east of them tapped out a feverish staccato in a bid to claim his territory, therap-rap-rapof beak on bark echoing around the dense woods. Sage ducked her head to avoid a low branch that hung in the path as they galloped along into silver spiders’ silk that had been spun from the branch all the way across to the opposite hedgerow, and Sage shook her head to be free from the web that clung to her cheek.
Rafe’s black coat was just visible twenty yards ahead as he slowed up and turned a corner. Pulling Ajax softly back to a walk, taking in the sounds around her, Sage could feel the earth waking from her dormant winter slumber; rustling and chirruping burst from the teeming blackthorn bushes beside her and daffodils and snowdrops lined the sides of the track. She rounded the corner and the path opened up into a wide, round glade.
The huntsman, Tommy, was sitting still, smoking, almost down to the end of his cigarette, watching his hounds who were panting and no longer casting themselves about, crestfallen at having lost the scent of their quarry. Rafe was standing under a large oak tree, giving a breather to Warhorse who was blowing slightly. Tommy went over to him and was asking his advice when Sage and Ajax pulled up beside them. Sage sat quietly and heard the rest of the field approaching. Walter pulled up some distance away from hounds, protecting them from the cavalcade of horses’ hooves. The horde of riders’ breathless shouting and braying floated up in an endless barrage of noise behind him. Rooks wheeled about in the air, rising from the bare branches of the oak in surprise and being flung backwards in the swelling breeze.
The huntsman touched his cap respectfully at Rafe.
‘I’ll try lower down in the valley like you suggested.’ He whistled to his hounds, who eagerly surged around him, watching him intently for instruction, heads lifted and sterns waving hopefully. They headed down towards the dark waters of the River Evenlode, which serpentined its way through the vivid green meadows; a bank of cloud wound its way sinuously along the water, the vapour steaming gently, hovering still and stagnant where the wind could not reach it within the protection from the sloping, wild-flowered hills on either side. Hounds flowed along beside Tommy’s orange horse, and Rafe beckoned for Sage to follow him.
Sage raised an eyebrow.
‘Are you going to aim us at something dreadful, if I come?’
‘With a bit of luck, yes. Why – did I scare you?’ Rafe looked amused. ‘Do you need to go back and ride with my mother and Hal?’
‘How are you such a gentleman on the ground and such a brute on a horse?’ said Sage, biting back a smile.
‘The horse gives me more confidence, clearly,’ Rafe said with a laugh, giving Warhorse a pat. ‘So – are you coming with me, or are you going back to be put on the lead rein?’
Sage lifted her nose in the air and, pointedly ignoring him, rode past. She stood up in her stirrups to look over the hedge to where hounds were casting again, softly encouraged by Tommy who spoke to them in his own language full of uplifting chirrups and rallying whoops. After a few minutes of frantic searching, hounds began to cry, yelping and howling a melody that made Sage tremble, her spine tingling with some deep, primal reaction. She reflected, in wonder, at how miraculous it was that she should feel such joy despite the messy, uncertain chaos of her life at that moment.
It might have been the worst moment to have fallen in love but Rafe had transformed her life into a place where she could feel raw, unfiltered happiness. Even had she wanted to, she could not turn away from him now.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
