The cottage had a low, dry-stone wall and a simple iron gate. It wasn’t too hard to imagine a terrified toddler pushing it open and wandering away in the dark. Looking at the house, seeing how close it was to open countryside, Gillian’s actions in the weeks following the fire made some sense. Evi eased back on the reins to bring Duchess to a halt.
Lord, it was hot. Duchess was damp with sweat and so was Evi. She dropped the reins and tugged off her sweatshirt, fastening it around her waist. The cottage in which Gillian Royle and her husband had spent their married life had been rented from one of the older families in the village. After the fire the couple had been offered a one-bedroom flat above the general store. Peter Royle had since moved on, was living several miles away with a new, now pregnant girlfriend. Gillian was still in the flat.
Duchess, ever the opportunist, set off towards a patch of grass growing beneath a gate opposite. Evi gathered up the reins. There was nothing here to see, no insights to be had into her new patient. Just black stones, a few pieces of charred wood and a tangle of brambles. She lifted Duchess’s head and gently flicked her whip on the horse’s left flank.
They passed two more cottages, each with small gardens packed with root vegetables, fruit bushes and canes of runner beans; then the houses on either side of the lane became more uniform, stonebuilt, with slate roofs.
closer to the town centre, the cobbles were smoother. On both sides of the street, three-storey stone buildings towered up. Evi turned Duchess and headed up the hill, drawing closer to Heptonclough’s most famous landmarks: the two churches.
The remains of the medieval building stood alongside its Victorian replacement like an echo, or a memory that refused to fade away. Even seated on Duchess, the great stone arches of the ruin towered above her. Some of the old walls soared towards the sky, others lay crumbled on the ground. carved pillars like standing stones stood proudly, thumbing their noses at gravity and the passage of time. Flagstones, smooth and shiny with age, covered the ground, and everywhere she looked, the moor was bursting through, pushing up corners and stealing into gaps, as it tried, after hundreds of years, to reclaim the land.
The newer building was less grand than its predecessor would have been, built on a smaller scale and without the large, central bell tower. Instead, four smaller, apex-roofed turrets sat at the roof corners. About three feet high, each was constructed from four stone pillars. On the other side of the narrow street stood tall darkstone houses.
There was no one in sight. Evi and Duchess could almost have been alone in this strange town at the top of the moors.
The large house closest to the churches was new, judging by its pale stonework and the untouched small garden at the front. On the doorstep, like the only signs of life in a ghost town, stood a tiny pair of pink wellington boots.
A high-pitched squealing broke through the silence and something brightly coloured shot past Evi’s left shoulder. Duchess, normally unflappable, gave a little jump and slipped on the cobbles.
‘Steady, steady now.’ Evi was tightening the reins, sitting straight and still in the saddle. What the hell had that been?
There it was again. Twenty yards away, flying along, pennants flapping. Evi urged Duchess up the hill, away from the churchyard. With any luck she’d be able to turn higher up and get back on to the moor.
It was coming back, heading straight for them. Duchess skittered backwards into the wall of a house. Evi had been thrown off balance but she grabbed a chunk of mane and pushed herself upright. ‘Don’t come near us,’ she yelled. ‘You’re scaring the horse.’
She made eye contact for a fraction of a second and knew she had a serious problem on her hands. The boy on the bike knew perfectly well that he was scaring the horse.
Evi pulled hard, turning Duchess to face the hill. If the horse was going to bolt, they had to go upwards.
There was another one, travelling in the opposite direction. Two teenage boys, on high-performance bikes, riding round the high wall that circled the two churches. It was utter suicide, they were going to collide, to fall six feet on to hard, flint cobbles. The boys got within two feet of each other and then one disappeared, his bike finding some ridge that took him down into the churchyard. The remaining rider shot past Evi as she fought to get Duchess under control.
There were more of them. Four young stunt-riders, travelling at impossible speeds around the old walls, pennants flying from their handlebars, brakes screaming as they spun around corners.
‘Get lost, you stupid buggers!’ she managed to shout. Horses hated bikes at the best of times, the combination of silence and speed completely unnerved them. And these four were buzzing around her like mosquitoes. They kept coming back, disappearing behind the wall and then reappearing somewhere else. Here was a fifth, sneaking up behind her, cutting in front. Duchess threw up her head, spun on the spot and set off at a fast canter down the hill.
Urgent shouting. Hooves skidding. A short smack of something that might have been pain but at the time felt more like outrage.
And then silence.
Evi was lying on the ground, staring at a piece of litter that had caught between two cobbles and wondering if she was still alive. A second later she got her answer. A drop of blood landed on the stone and she watched it tremble in the breath from her mouth.
She knew there was pain waiting for her, but the part of her brain that normally took charge was spinning away, leaving her behind. She was lost amidst cold, white softness, but feeling hot – so very hot – and watching a tiny stream trickle away from her, wondering why a mountain stream should be crimson and knowing, even in that first moment, that her old life was over.
‘Hold on, I’ll be there in a sec!’
Someone had called to her, that last time, in a language she couldn’t understand. Someone had yelled instructions at her in a Germanic tongue and she’d stared upwards, at the bluest sky she’d ever seen, and known that movement was beyond her. Might be beyond her for the rest of—
‘Don’t move. I’m almost done. Alice! Tom! Can you hear me?’
And then she’d been surrounded by tall, fair-haired men who’d smelled of beer and sun-cream and they’d sent words down to her, meant to comfort, to keep her calm, while they trussed her up and pinned her tight and sent her spinning away again, down the mountain …
‘It’s OK, don’t try and get up. I’ve caught your horse, he’s perfectly safe.’ A man was kneeling beside her, one hand gently on her shoulder, speaking to her in a strange accent. ‘I’m going to call for an ambulance but I’ve left my phone in the church. I can’t leave you in the road … Alice! Tom!’
Evi raised her head and moved it slowly from right to left, up and down. There was a pounding in her forehead but her neck felt fine. She flexed her right foot inside her boot and then her left. Both did what they were supposed to. She put both palms on the cobbles and pushed. There was a sharp pain in her ribs but she knew, instinctively, that it wasn’t serious.
‘No, don’t move.’ The voice was close to her ear again. ‘The Fletchers were here a minute ago. They can’t have gone far. No, I really don’t think you should …’
Evi was sitting up. The man kneeling beside her, though tall, looked too slightly built to be German or Austrian. And these hills all around her weren’t mountains. They were moors, just turning the soft, deep purple of a fresh bruise.
‘Are you OK?’ asked the fair-haired man, who was dressed in shorts and a running vest. Boys on bikes. Duchess panicking. She’d been rescued by a passing jogger. ‘Where does it hurt?’ he was saying.
‘Everywhere,’ grumbled Evi, discovering she could speak. ‘Nothing serious. Where’s Duchess?’
The jogger turned to look down the hill and Evi did the same. Duchess was tied to an old iron ring at the corner of the church wall. Her head was down and her huge yellow teeth were making short work of a nettle patch.
‘Thank God you caught her,’ said Evi. ‘Those stupid bastards. She had a nasty bruise o
n her foot a few days ago. Did she seem OK?’
‘Well, obviously starving to death, but otherwise fine. Not that I’m much of an authority on horseflesh, I’m afraid.’
Duchess was standing squarely on all four legs. Would she be eating if she were in pain? Quite possibly, knowing Duchess.
‘Are you sure you’re not hurt?’ asked the man, who, she noticed now, was wearing deck shoes. And the shorts weren’t running shorts. They were blue and white striped cotton, almost to his knees, and the hair on the back of his calves was blond and thick.
‘Quite sure,’ she said, taking her eyes away from his legs. ‘I’m a doctor, I’d know,’ she added when he looked uncertain. ‘Do you think you could help me get out of the road?’
‘Of course, sorry.’ The fair-haired man leaped to his feet and bent down, holding out his right hand for Evi, as if offering to help her up from a picnic rug.
She shook her head. ‘That won’t work, I’m afraid. I can’t stand by myself. If you don’t mind, can you take me under the arms and lift? I’m not that heavy.’
He was shaking his head, looking worried. ‘You said you weren’t hurt,’ he said. ‘If you can’t get up by yourself I don’t think I should be lifting you. I think we should call for help.’
Did he need it spelling out?
Evi took a deep breath. ‘I’m not hurt now, but three years ago I had a bad accident and seriously damaged the sciatic nerve in my left leg,’ she said. ‘I can’t walk unaided and my leg is certainly not strong enough to support my weight while I get up from these cobbles. Which are not very comfortable, by the way.’
The man stared at her for a second, then she watched his eyes fall to her left leg, unnaturally thin and ugly inside the crimson jodhpurs.
‘Does this road get much traffic?’ asked Evi, looking up the hill.
‘It doesn’t. But you’re quite right. Sorry.’ He knelt again and put his right arm under her shoulders. His left hand slid under her thighs and even though she’d been expecting it, had been quite prepared to be touched, she felt a shock running through her that had nothing to do with pain. Then she was upright, leaning against him, and he smelled of skin and dust and fresh male sweat.
‘OK, ten yards up the hill there is a bench for weary shepherds to stop and take succour on. I don’t imagine they’ll mind if we borrow it. can you make it that far?’
‘Of course,’ she snapped, although it was easier said than done. She had no choice but to wrap her arm round his waist. He was hot. Of course he was hot, it was a hot day and she was hot too and she probably smelled of horses. Evi moved her right leg, and her left screamed at her to stop this stupid moving business right now.
‘Bugger it,’ she muttered, trying without success to bring her weaker leg forward. Come on, you useless, bloody …
She stumbled and almost fell again, but her companion tightened his grip around her waist, bent lower and lifted both legs clean off the ground. Instinctively, she reached her free arm up to clasp him around the neck. His face had turned pink.
‘Sorry, didn’t want you going down again,’ he said. ‘Can I carry you to the bench?’
She nodded and a second later he was putting her gently down on a wooden bench close to the church wall. She leaned back gratefully and closed her eyes. How could she have been so stupid? Bringing Duchess all this way. She could have seriously injured them both. Why the hell did life have to be so bloody difficult? She waited, eyes closed, until the tears had slipped back where they came from.
When she opened her eyes again she was alone. He’d just left her? Christ, she hadn’t exactly been Miss Congeniality but even so …
Pushing herself forward, Evi looked all around. Across the street the windows were dark and empty. A heavy stillness seemed to have settled over the moors. The bike riders had disappeared – hardly surprising given the trouble they’d caused – but where was everyone else? So many houses, so many windows and not a soul in sight. It was Saturday afternoon, for heaven’s sake. Why was no one looking out to see what was going on?
Except, maybe they were. Behind one of those dark windows someone was watching her, she was sure of it. Without appearing to look, she let her eyes scan left and right. Not the faintest hint of movement that she could see, but there was someone there all the same. She turned slowly.
There it was. Movement. Way up high. Evi raised her hand to her eyes to shut out the sun. No, it was impossible. What she thought she’d seen was a shape scurrying along the top of the church. No one could be up there. She’d seen a bird. A squirrel maybe. Or a cat.
She unfastened the chin-strap and removed her hat. The pressure in her head eased immediately. She lifted her hair with her fingers, letting the air get to her scalp and soothe it.
She could hear footsteps. Her ginger-haired knight in shining stripy shorts was back, half jogging along the church path towards her, carrying a glass of water.
‘Hi,’ he said as he drew closer. ‘I can do tea as well but that takes a bit longer. How’re you doing?’
How was she doing? She’d been harassed by feral teenagers who could move at warp speed, she’d fallen off a fifteen-hands horse, had to lie in the road like a beached whale, and then, just on the off chance that she had a shred of dignity remaining, she’d been hoisted off her feet by a ginger-haired twit who smelled like … like a man.
‘Better, I think,’ she said. ‘It’s always a shock, coming off a horse. Especially when you don’t land on soft ground.’
He joined her on the bench. ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to sound rude, but should you really be out on your own, with a weak leg and all?’
Evi opened her mouth and then closed it tight. He meant well. She looked at her watch, giving herself a second. ‘Well, it’s not likely to be happening again any time soon,’ she said. ‘The yard I ride from are very strict. I’ll be doing supervised trots round the manège for the next six months.’
‘Well maybe …’ He caught a look at her face and stopped. ‘How far have you ridden?’ he asked.
‘From Bracken Farm livery yard,’ she said. ‘It’s about four miles across the moor.’
‘Shall I phone them for you? I’m not sure if they can get a horsebox all the way up here, but I can walk—’
‘No.’ It came out louder and firmer than she’d meant it to because she had a feeling there was a battle imminent and, bruised and shaking though she might be, it was one she had to win. ‘Thank you,’ she went on, forcing a smile. ‘I’ll be riding back in a minute.’ Feeling far from ready to remount, she finished the water and put her hat back on, determined to make I’m going now signals, because she knew exactly what was coming.
He was shaking his head. Well, of course he was shaking his head. He was tall and strong, with full use of his limbs, and that made him the boss. ‘I’m not putting you back on that horse,’ he said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Sorry, pet, but you’re disabled, you’ve taken a nasty fall and you’ve probably got concussion. You can’t ride four miles across open moorland.’
Sorry, pet! She looked down at the road so she wouldn’t be able to glare at him, because the disabled aren’t allowed to be angry. If she’d learned one thing over the past three years it was that. Normal people who get angry are just pissed off and that happens to us all; when you’re disabled, any sign of temper means you’re disturbed, you need help, you’re not capable of…
‘Thank you for your concern,’ said Evi, ‘but, disabled or not, I am still responsible for my own actions and I don’t actually need any help to remount. Please don’t let me keep you.’
She handed back the glass and eased herself sideways on the bench. It would be better by far if he were to leave her alone now.
‘How?’ He hadn’t moved.
‘Excuse me?’ she repeated.
‘How, exactly, given that you couldn’t get out of the road by yourself and needed to be carried to this seat, do you intend to walk fifteen
yards down the hill and remount a large horse?’
‘Watch and learn.’
She pushed herself upright. The wall was only two feet away, it would support her weight as she walked downhill.
‘Hold on a second. Let’s do a deal.’
He was standing right in front of her. Getting to the wall by herself was possible; negotiating her way around him first probably wasn’t.
‘What?’
‘If you agree to rest for another ten minutes and then phone me the instant you get back to the yard, I’ll help you mount and walk you back to the bridle path.’
So now she was bargaining for the most basic of freedoms with a man she’d just met. And if I don’t agree?’
He produced a mobile phone from his pocket. ‘I’ll phone Bracken Farm livery yard to tell them exactly what’s happened. I imagine they’ll be on their way over before you reach the end of the wall.’
‘Asshole.’ It slipped out before she could bite her tongue.
He held up the phone.
‘Get out of my way.’
He pressed a series of digits. ‘Hi,’ he said, after a second. ‘I’d like the number of a livery yard …’
Evi raised her hands in surrender and sat back down again. The man apologized to the operator and replaced the phone in his pocket. He sat beside her as Evi pointedly looked at her watch, knowing she was being childish and not giving a toss.
‘Cup of tea?’ he offered.
‘No, thank you.’
‘Another glass of water?’
‘Only if it takes you a long time to get it.’
The man gave a low, embarrassed chuckle. ‘Crikey,’ he said, ‘I haven’t had this much success with a woman since I got drunk at my cousin’s wedding and threw up over the maid of honour.’
‘Yes, well, I’m feeling about as thrilled to be in your company as she must have been.’
S. J. Bolton Page 5