He found her horse grazing the grass at the edge of the forest, but as he approached, she cantered away. Of Isobel there was no sign. Confused, he retraced his path, but the fading light made tracking impossible. She had tricked him, this time, but he would find her, and when he did, she would feel the pain and pleasure of his anger.
He darted through the trees, and the downward slope increased his speed. So—Isobel had an accomplice. Who was he? Had he helped her escape? Why was nobody looking for them? No one had come searching from Parklands.
He leapt over a fallen branch into the clearing where the heap of black and white ashes hid the charred remains of Mister Ridley’s bones, and where he had left his horse tethered to a tree.
Disbelief turned to anger. The horse was gone. Its bridle dangled from the branch, the reins torn and frayed, as if they had been snapped. Poachers?
Then he saw the blood, the dark red smear drying on the tree bark, and the glistening spots spattering the grass at his feet. His horse’s bloody remains lay scattered across the clearing covered in clouds of black flies.
He drew his knife, and spun first one way, then the other, studying the shadows, watching for movement between the trees. Last night he heard a wolf howl, and had hidden amongst the roots of a large tree, waiting and watching until dawn. Wolves didn’t roam the wild anymore. He thought it might be a pet that escaped, and made its lair in the forest. His tethered horse would be easy prey.
Nothing moved and, satisfied, he contemplated what to do next. The walk back to Parklands would take two hours; Isobel’s tracks might fade if the weather changed. He had no choice, and ran back into the forest.
He reached the broken gorse branch and climbed to the top of the hill. The rooks were still airborne, but tiny black dots far away. She was well ahead of him, but he had the advantage of pursuit. He was already gaining on her.
Chapter Nineteen
Isobel followed Gregor over a low stone wall, then up a short steep bank onto a compacted dirt track that snaked through the fields.
“This is London Road, this way we go.” Gregor pointed westwards. “Village very close. Where horses for hire.”
Isobel wanted to rest. The long walk over rough ground had left her panting, but Gregor strode away. Rain clouds gathered away to the east, casting their huge grey shadows across the hills.
She ran after him. “How long will it take to reach the village?”
“One hour perhaps. You want stop?”
“No. It looks like it’s going to rain.” She glanced behind her. “And we’re so exposed out here, I don’t feel safe.”
“Yes—easy for seeing. Maybe—I have apple. You eat it?”
“Thank you. I would like that very much.”
The sweet juice quenched her thirst and renewed her energy. She gulped it down in hungry chunks and tossed the core down the side of the bank. Two rooks dived out of the sky, squawking with fury in their determination to claim this meal as their own. Their squabbling snapped the apple core in half and silenced their cries.
After about a mile of silent trudging, they reached a crossroads. One track led off to the right, one to the left. No sign indicated the destinations of where the tracks might take them, but coming down the right track was a man leading a horse and cart.
“Let’s get a ride,” she suggested eagerly. “He must be going to the village.”
“You talk.”
“What’s the name of this place?”
“I know not.”
“Excuse me.” She smiled, in what she hoped was a pretty and winning way. “Are you going to the village?”
The man stopped and stared. A large ginger beard obscured most of his red face and he wore a patched leather apron and a heavy pair of muddy boots with no laces. His huge cart horse took this unexpected opportunity of a stop to munch the grass beside the track. The man stared at Isobel, seeming to expect someone else to answer her question.
She tried again. “We have been climbing in the hills you see, and didn’t know how tiring it was. And I think it’s going to rain.”
The man’s eyes twinkled behind the mass of ginger curls, and he opened his mouth, and grinned. And he went on grinning, until his whole face bunched up into one big grin and his eyes were just tiny glittering slits.
Isobel blushed. This wasn’t going well. “No—you see, we are from London. Not used to such long walks. Is the village this way?” She pointed down the left track. “Are you going in that direction?”
The man’s open mouth appeared devoid of a single visible tooth, and still he went on grinning.
She smiled back and gave a little wave. This was hopeless. “Let’s start walking.” She pulled Gregor after her.
They took the western track, but after walking just a few yards, she heard the heavy rumble of cartwheels rolling over rough ground and glanced back.
The grinning man urged his horse forward, and she and Gregor stepped aside to let him pass.
Isobel called out; “Can we have a ride please?”
Not waiting for an answer, Gregor leapt onto the cart and, holding on with one hand, reached down to help her. “Come.”
She clambered up and dropped down onto the rough planking floor littered with dirty straw. Gregor stumbled to the tail-board at the back, and waved to her to join him. They sat down together, with their legs dangling over the edge.
The cart jolted and swayed and a strong smell of manure wafted over them in waves. Gregor took a drink from his leather skin and passed it to her.
Isobel poured water into her hand and splashed her face. Refreshed, she shut her eyes and let the wind dry her skin. “I’m so pleased you’re with me Gregor. The thought of running back to London by myself frightened me.”
“It is lucky we meet.”
“I know.”
She studied his scarred cheek. The cut was deep and broad and the new skin had grown into a lumpy ridge. Had the wound pierced his cheek? How had it happened? She wanted to ask, but she sensed Gregor’s reticence or an unwillingness to talk about it, which she didn’t want to provoke. She wasn’t frightened of him anymore, but he was guarded, which suggested secrecy, and that made her wary.
Gregor suddenly asked; “Where James?”
Isobel remembered her promise from the night before, but caution tempered her reply. She wanted to know more about him first. “In London.”
“You tell me that, but where you do not say.”
“I think he is a prisoner.”
“In prison?”
“But I’m not certain.”
She couldn’t remember James ever speaking about a Russian named Gregor. She needed clarification of Gregor’s story about coming to rescue her, and until then she would treat him with caution.
“Some people, you know, don’t like the work he does with The Classical Beauties. It offends them. That’s why he’s always on the move, but this time I think the authorities caught up with him in London.” She spoke with airy unconcern, concealing her real worry for his welfare.
“Prison is bad.”
“That’s why I have to get back to London to get him out.”
Gregor’s mouth twisted into strange shapes, as if tasting the right words to ask the next question. “Is it—your brother—does this to him?”
“Yes. He caught us together. He brought me back here, and threw James into prison.”
“He does not like that you are together?”
“Not one little bit. I’m a lady, or so everyone keeps telling me, and James is an actor. Our paths should never have crossed. When William brought me back to Parklands he put drugs in my food to keep me quiet.”