"Not as much as I'd like, Miss Lockwood," Cecilia said carefully, eyeing Persephone's spirited beast. "I do find, however, that a morning canter does set the pulse to beating, don't you?" Her mount was a pretty dappled mare of more docile habit than the Arab, and the groom adjusted the robust side-saddle with a slipper stirrup for her.
Kydd's horse was brought out: a powerful-looking mahogany bay, which he approached with caution. Its eye followed his every motion and when he swung up it skittered and snorted, tossing its head, feeling the bit.
"Oh, that's Sultan—do you take no nonsense from him, Mr Kydd. Sometimes he can be quite a rascal if he gets it into his head."
Kydd strove to let the horse feel his will and, after some i ll-tempered gyrations, it seemed to settle and he brought it next to Cecilia. He stole a glance at Persephone: she looked breathtaking, her handsome straight-backed posture set off by the fall of her habit. "There will be a hamper and champagne for us at Hele Tor, should we deserve it," she said. "Shall we?"
They clopped across the cobblestones of the courtyard then turned in single file up a leafy lane, Kydd happy to allow Cecilia to follow Persephone cautiously while he rode behind on his fractious steed. The groom with the pannier of necessities brought up the rear. It was now clear that no one else was to join them, and he glowed to think that they must have been specially invited.
The lane stopped at a gate, which Kydd opened and held for the ladies. It led to the open moor, the vast swell of heathland romantically bleak and far-reaching, with only the occasional dark clusters of rocks, the mysterious tors, to intrude on the prospect.
"At last!" laughed Persephone, and urged her horse straight into the wild openness. Kydd's horse whinnied as the others went ahead and he had no difficulty in spurring it on, feeling its great muscles bunch under him.
He passed Cecilia, who was concentrating on finding her rhythm, and quickly came up on Persephone who threw him a surprised but pleased glance, her eyes sparkling. "Have no concern, Mr Kydd. The footing here is excellent."
Kydd was having some difficulty reining in his horse and Persephone increased pace to keep with him. She swayed effortlessly in her saddle round rambling patches of furze and laughed into the wind, her cheeks pink with exertion.
Kydd glanced round and saw that Cecilia was trailing, but the groom had stayed with her so he turned back to the reins.
As they cantered further into the moorland Kydd was struck by its wild immensity—not a tree, hedgerow, or building in sight. It was an awesome loneliness—not unlike the sea in a way. The rhythmic thudding of hoofs on the turf came together in a blood-rousing thrill of motion.
A sudden flutter of wings made Kydd's horse rear, its hoofs flailing, the whites of its eyes showing in terror. He fought to stay aboard, dropping the reins and seizing the animal's mane with both hands as it teetered, then crashed down to leap forward in a demented gallop. Kydd hung on in grim desperation as the horse's panicked flight stretched out to a mile or more. He tried to claw forward to retrieve the flying reins but in vain. Instead he lay along the beast's neck, hoping its pace would slow as its energy gave out.
Eventually Sultan's frenzy lessened and Kydd dared to loose one hand to snatch at the flying reins, then transferred the other, his thighs gripping his mount's sides as he did so. He saw a watercourse of sorts disappearing into a wooded fold and coerced the animal to head for it, hoping the thicker going would slow it.
The first bushes whipped past, then more substantial trees, and the horse slowed. The gallop fell to a canter and then to a trot. With a sigh of relief Kydd straightened, only to be summarily ejected from the saddle as the horse bucked unexpectedly. Kydd whirled through the air and landed in a tangle of boots and undergrowth.
He lay on his back, staring up and panting. A breathless, concerned Persephone came into focus. "Oh, my poor Mr Kydd!" she said and knelt down, her gloved hand on his. "Are you hurt? May I help you up?"
"Miss Lockwood," Kydd managed, and hauled himself to his elbows. "That damned mutinous beast!" he gasped. "Which is to say that I should clap him in irons as would teach him his manners to an officer."
He pulled himself to a sitting position. "Your pardon while I recover my senses," he said, pulling greenery from his hair and feeling his leg cautiously.
"Of course." She sat demurely next to him. "The groom will take care of Miss Kydd and I see Sultan is not to be troubled." The horse was browsing contentedly nearby, on the lush verdancy by the edge of a stream.
Persephone turned to face him. "You know I am glad to have met you, Mr Kydd. We are both . . ." She dropped her head and toyed with a leaf.
When she looked up, Kydd's eyes held hers for a long moment. As he helped her to her feet they found themselves together in a kiss, which took them by surprise. She froze, then said, with just the faintest quiver in her voice, "We must find the others now."
CHAPTER 9
"GET Y'R HEAD DOWN, Y' NINNY!" hissed Stirk. Luke Calloway crouched lower in the hedgerow as a horse and rider clopped down the narrow lane in the darkness. "Mr Stirk, an' we're safe now, isn't we?" Calloway said, aggrieved.
Stirk listened for any others who might be coming, then stood up and stretched. "Shut y' trap, younker, an' do as I says." Even though they had made it this far, just a mile from the tiny fishing village, they were not safe yet.
Stirk hefted his bundle and they resumed their journey. It got steeper. The village glimmering below was nestled in a coombe, a deep valley with precipitous sides, and seemed shoehorned into a tiny level area.
The lane had become not much more than a path when they finally reached the first houses by a little stream. "Bless me, Mr Stirk, but th' place stinks," Calloway protested. A strong, insistent reek of fish was thick in the night air. Stirk stopped and listened again: strangers would be viewed suspiciously in this small community as possible spies for the Revenue, and all it needed was for some frightened widow to raise an alarm . . . but there was no sign that the inhabitants were in a mind to roam abroad in the dark.
"Where d' we kip, Mr Stirk?"
"First we finds th' kiddleywink," Stirk snapped.
"Th' what?"
"What the Janners call a pothouse, lad," he said, looking around. Even a village this size should have two or three. They headed towards the snug harbour and on the far side near the fish-quay buildings the Three Pilchards was a noisy beacon of jollity. Stirk checked about carefully, then he and Calloway passed by a blacksmith's shuttered forge and hastened into the tavern.
It was small but snug, and dark with the patina of age. The aroma of spilt liquor eddied up from the sawdust on the floor and the heady reek of strong cider competed with the smell of rank fish from outside.
The tavern fell silent. Half a dozen weathered faces turned to them, distrust and hostility in their expressions. The tapster approached them, wiping his hands. "Where youse come frum, then?" he demanded.
"As is none o' y'r business," Stirk said mildly, and crossed to a corner table from which he could survey the whole room, "but a shant o' gatter 'd be right welcome," he said, sitting and gesturing to Calloway to join him.
The tapster hesitated, then went back to pull the ale. One of the men sitting at a nearby table fixed unblinking eyes on Stirk and threw at him, "'E axed yez a question, frien'."
Stirk waited until the ale came in a well-used blackjack, a tarred leather tankard. "Why, now, an' isn't this a right fine welcome f'r a pair o' strangers?" He took a long pull, then set it down quietly. He felt in his pocket and slapped down a small pile of coins. "This'n for any who c'n find us somewheres t' rest. Maybe two, three days, nice an' quiet like, an' then we'll be on our way." He clinked the coins patiently. After a few mutters with his companion the man came back loudly, "I knows what thee are—ye're navy deserters, b' glory."