CHAPTER TEN
As she came closer to him she noticed that there was a clean fresh scent of heather and grass and leaves about him, almost as if he were made of them.
Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden
By four o’clock, the sun was descending gently into the western horizon, turning the sky an inky blue and casting long shadows over the freezing, stiffening grass.
The temperature had plummeted and Sage purposefully walked Ajax about to prevent him getting cold while the huntsman turned his hounds for home, idly putting them into a spinney made up of a couple of ancient oaks, hawthorn and sapling bushes.
Trusting them implicitly, he stopped to unobtrusively roll and light a cigarette; the brown-grey smoke spiralled up into the crisp air, curling into obscure shapes before melting away into the shades of twilight.
Then, the ecstatic yet tentative note of an inexperienced first-season hound piped up.
The huntsman waited patiently, standing stock-still, poised in anticipation and wholeheartedly believing in the youngster’s halting, wailing prophecy.
Unhesitatingly now, other hounds joined in, cheering the puppy on and validating his claim, yelling in agreement as they fanned together to scramble through some scrubby bushes and out the other side of the thicket before tearing off decisively back down the hill and into the gloom.
Sage spun Ajax around. His head was held high like a periscope, his ears pricked and eyes bright with feverish eagerness. She caught Rafe’s eye.
‘Is Warhorse OK? Not too tired?’
‘Warhorse never gets tired,’ Rafe scoffed, wheeling the big horse around and plunging off into the half-light.
Laughing into the wind, Sage charged after him, exulting in the thrill of the chase and power of the horse beneath her.
The heady mix of the unsettling feelings she was fighting about Rafe, the adrenaline from riding and the glory of Mother Nature – who was now painting the sky a tumble of mackerel pink, purple and dark orange as the sun began to set – was intoxicating and it was impossible to dwell on anything other than this present, inebriating moment.
A field ahead, Sage could just see hounds spilling over a stone wall with their huntsman flying over it on their flank; he kept out of the way, a silent guardian on standby just in case they needed his help.
They were really bowling along now, screaming in ecstasy and true to the line, and for the time being, they needed no help at all.
Ahead of her, the fieldmaster’s bay showjumper hopped over the high dry-stone boundary wall as though it were a log on the ground.
Sage closed her eyes as Ajax took off two strides early, propelling himself into the stratosphere, his only keen thought to stay with hounds.
Rafe landed lightly beside them; Warhorse, now hell-bent on catching up, was pulling with uncustomary bullishness at Rafe who just laughed and gave the clever horse his impatient head.
They surged on neck and neck, galloping with long, ground-eating strides, effortlessly covering the miles on sure, athletic legs.
Finally, they reached an open picket gate that led down onto a lane.
The light was now fading quickly but the Major resolutely turned left.
‘I can hear them on the other side of the village,’ he cried, gesturing in the direction in which they had gone; then, swearing in frustration, he slowly pulled up.
‘My lad is cooked – I don’t want to break him.
I only had one horse today and the old boy’s getting on.
Stay with them, you lucky buggers!’ He reluctantly turned his weary horse for home, letting the relieved big bay have his head.
Rafe, lifting his cap at the retiring fieldmaster in a respectful salute, surged on.
Sage stayed right beside him. As they cantered up the lane, sparks flew from the horses’ iron shoes.
There were a few stragglers behind them but much of the field had been shaken off, gradually weeded out by gates and walls.
The hair-raising symphony of the rippling pack was still in full flood and hounds were flowing like the tide under a sturdy wooden gate off the road and into a field of plough.
The huntsman jumped the gate behind them, his red coat disappearing into the dusk as he called out, ‘Watch it, it’s deep in here – keep to the side.’
They leapt over the gate, Ajax jumping slightly wildly this time as he started to tire, and Sage had to hold him up on landing as he pecked.
‘He’s getting tired, Rafe,’ she called out, worried.
‘He’s fine – just help him along a bit, he hates soft ground.
It’s grass again when we get out on the other side.
’ Rafe’s eyes had taken on a fanatical gleam; he was not going to be left behind now.
Hounds were hurtling down to the far end of the field, slipping through the gaping ditch and crawling under the thick blackthorn.
The huntsman, catching up with the tail end of the pack, jumped cleanly over the drain, but halfway over the hedge his horse seemed to run out of impulsion and clambered through the thorns, landing in an untidy tangle of brambles on the bank.
Somehow, the huntsman remained seated in the saddle.
‘It’s wider than it looks,’ he groaned to the two of them still following behind. His horse shook himself like a great dog after a swim and they were off again, galloping into the shadows of the wintry afternoon. Hounds sounded louder now, but it was getting difficult to see.
Sage became increasingly worried as they approached the fence.
The ditch looked bottomless in the gloom, gaping wide and lethal in front of six feet of unforgiving woody barbs and prickles.
Thinking only of the potentially dire consequences should any thorns get into their horse’s joints – not to mention the fact that if they were to drop a leg in the gully, they would turn a somersault – Sage once again closed her eyes and gave Ajax an enormous kick in the ribs.
Startled at such an insult, he put on his turbocharger and took off so far away, leaping so high into the air that Sage was catapulted out of the saddle.
She landed in a jumble of reins and lost stirrups on his dark grey neck, desperately clutching onto a couple of plaits to save her from the indignity of crashing to the ground.
‘Cows in the field! Come and help hounds!’ came the deafening roar of the huntsman.
‘Bloody hell, are you all right?’ Rafe asked Sage, hauling her back into the saddle by her coat-tails. ‘Got your stirrups?’ He made to wait for her, although Warhorse stamped his dinner-plate feet in frustration.
‘Go! I’m fine. I’m right behind you,’ cried Sage, her blood singing elementally; she was infuriated with herself for having been so ungainly, and was impatient to carry on.
She apologized to Ajax and, wanting to give him time to get his heaving flanks under control, she let him walk for a moment as Rafe disappeared out of sight.
Then a frantic call came out of the near-darkness.
‘Sage, hurry!’
Kicking a willing but flagging Ajax, Sage cantered cautiously into the field and saw the stark outline of Warhorse’s white figure illuminated by the rising yellow moon.
There were black-and-white cows everywhere.
Rafe was on his feet by the gate out onto the road.
The cows were eyeing him speculatively, a wild look in their huge bovine eyes.
Hounds had gone through and were milling about on the road, tongues lolling and panting furiously as they tried to cool themselves down, having hunted in a straight line for about six miles.
Some were flopping down to rest on the wide verges. Rafe opened the gate.
‘Quick, go through and take Warhorse with you.’ He swiftly handed her the reins.
‘These buggers are trying to burst through when I open it. They almost stampeded over the poor hounds just now, running them off the line.’ Sage quickly led Warhorse through.
Ajax stared the cows down comically, his eyes bulging in alarm, and he aimed a warning snort at them, plumes of smoke shooting out of his dilated nostrils.
The huntsman stood in a gateway on the opposite side of the road; like Rafe, he had dismounted and was loosening the girths on his big horse, whose sides were also heaving.
‘I think we’d better call it a day – we’ve completely lost the light.
I’m going to ring for the lorry.’ He looked directly at Sage.
‘Well done for staying with us though – there aren’t very many who can stay with His Lordship’s boy.
That wasn’t a bad hunt at all. It’s a shame not to have a happy ending for these boys after they tried so hard but …
’ He trailed off and, walking his horse slowly up the road, began to press buttons on his ancient Nokia mobile.
Sage turned to Rafe, who had secured the gate without letting out any of the field’s rampant, bellowing occupants. He was also now on his phone.
‘We’re next to the church at Ridlington,’ he was saying. ‘Can you come and get us? Is Louis back with you? Oh right, fine. See you shortly.’
‘Oh Christ. What’s happened to Louis?’ Sage asked, feeling appalled at having forgotten all about him.