Page 18 of The Trials of Alaric
“We have pies,” Lady Beatrice offered. “Would you like one?”
They accepted, and let their horses graze briefly while they ate the offered food. The snack for both men and horses went down well, and then they were off again.
The course took them right around the main island. Claddach was a little jewel of a realm. From what Alaric could see, the land was rich and fertile, the people healthy and happy, the sea never far away and often visible, with the breeze off the water scented with salt and swirling over the fields to make the climate comfortable.
Alaric and Versey stayed together. Time enough, as Versey said, to make a race of it between them for the last two villages, but for now the key was to stretch the horses, not strain them.
Now and again, they caught sight of the other riders, and spoke to two of them. Dashwood was sitting at a table outside a tavern at one of the villages. He was drowning his sorrows in the village ale. His horse had bruised his foot on a stone and pulled up lame, he explained, and so he was out of the race.
Fairweather had parted company with Beverley. “That horse of his is a devil,” he said, when they met him while collecting a disc from one of the churches.
He chuckled. “It dropped him in a stream, you know. It has been trying to unseat him all day, but it finally succeeded. Iswear to you, gentlemen, that devil-horse folded its legs and slid out from under him, leaving him in mid-air before he splashed down into the water.” He chortled at the memory. “After that, the pair of them were in a fine temper, and I decided my horse and I were better off taking our own route.”
Fairweather rode with them for a while, then struck off again on his own.
Then there were the spectators. The ladies in their shooting-brake came into view several times, and so did carriages with others of the house guests. In the villages, and outside farmhouses and cottages along the way, people turned out to watch the riders go by and call encouragement.
At several villages, refreshments were waiting. More ale. Cider. Lemonade. Cold meadow tea. Pies and buns with cheese. Grass and water for the horses.
At one church, the race steward offered to sell them disks for three of the other churches. Alaric and Versey both turned him down. Two villages after that, they came upon an overturned cart. It blocked the lane they were following, and a woman sat beside it, weeping into her apron.
Alaric swung down from his horse, and Versey followed a moment later.
“May we help you, ma’am?” Alaric asked the woman.
She lifted her head, her eyes wide with hope. “The cart,” she said, gesturing toward it. “I canna set it right. I don’t have the strength, and that’s the truth of it. I don’t suppose two fine gentlemen such as yourselves…?”
“Of course,” Alaric agreed, and Versey nodded.
It was hard to see how it had happened. It must have hit a rut at speed, but even so it seemed impossible. It was turned so it was almost at right angles across the road. The woman must have released the horse, for it was grazing peacefully a little farther along the lane.
It took the pair of them around half an hour to right the cart and to put the horse back in the shafts. While it was still blocking the way, Beverley came along.
“Give us a hand, Beverley,” Versey called to him, but Beverley just laughed.
“Out of the way, woman,” he told the cart’s driver, and he set Looby to the narrow gap between the hedge and the cart and galloped away.
Once they had the cart back on its wheels and had checked to see there was no damage, they worked together to set the horse back in its traces while the woman expressed voluble thanks.
“It is no trouble at all,” Versey assured her.
“Are you sure you will be safe to continue?” Alaric asked.
The woman smiled. “I shall be fine, sirs, and grateful to you kind gentlemen.”
Alaric swore he could feel his bones creak as he mounted. His body had not appreciated the effort needed to right the cart. The muscles used for riding for the first time in months were complaining loudly. Some of the deeper bruises from the shipwreck were singing counterpoint. And the headache that had dogged the first few days of his recovery was threatening again though it was just an ache at the moment. With luck, it would not get to the pounding, nauseous stage before he’d collected his final four disks.
Chapter Eight
Alaric and Verseyreached the next two villages without any trouble, continuing the easy pace they had adopted all the way through. They were approaching the castle again. It sat on its hill in the distance, between them and the town. The ride they were on curved toward the coast, but the fields in the straight line had been harvested.
“Race from here?” Versey proposed.
Alaric nodded. If the worst came to the worst, he’d cling to the horse and hope Dhone had the sense to follow Versey’s steed. And that he didn’t fall off at Lady Beatrice’s feet.
It wasn’t too bad. Only two hedges to jump until the next village, and Dhone’s gait at the gallop was as smooth as a man with a splitting headache could want. Alaric even arrived a few seconds before Versey and had his disc and was on his way before Versey could remount and follow.
He lost the advantage as they climbed the spine of hill that terminated in the cliffs holdingCashtal Vaaich. The English translation of the name was Castle Death, Colyn had told Alaric. It was on his right as Versey passed him and drew slightly ahead, but Dhone objected to the other horse being in front and put on a spurt of speed as they came down the slope on the other side. They galloped into the last village neck and neck. Versey was a stride ahead to the race steward at the church, but only becauseAlaric had to pause after he had dismounted, clinging onto the saddle to let the dizziness subside.
