The Wild One

by Danelle Harmon

  ~~~~

  King Henry VIII on a rearing charger had been the focal point of the green — and the pride of the village — since Gareth's great-great-grandfather, the first duke, had had the statue erected some time back in the previous century. Towering above Ravenscombe's oft-used crossroads through which traffic to and from Newbury, Swindon, Wantage and Lambourn all passed, it was a fine work, commanding the eye as well as the attention. The magnificent stone horse, rearing back on its hind legs with its front hooves slashing the air, was noble and fiery; the monarch who rode it, fiercely imperious. But tonight, poor old Henry had to have been as miserable as any of his unfortunate wives ever were, for a group of his most high-born subjects was clustered around the statue's base, and they were up to no good.

  No good at all.

  That is, all but one of them stood around the statue. Ten feet above their heads, their leader — who had agreed to do the deed only because everyone had bet money that he wouldn't dare (an incentive to get Gareth to do just about anything) — was hanging from a rope slung around the steed's neck, his feet braced against the statue's pedestal, his hand thrust up beneath the stallion's hind legs.

  "Having a good feel up there, Gareth? Sure are taking a damned long time about it!"

  "Can't blame him. Tisn't every day that a man gets to grope a stone horse!"

  "Wish I was hung half so well!"

  "You mean you aren't, Chilcot?"

  "Lord Gareth is!" cried Tess. "Why, 'e's built foiner than any stallion Oi've ever seen, stone or not!"

  Drunken laughter rang out, both male and female, and yet another bottle of Irish whiskey made its way among the shadowy figures who stood, or rather swayed, beneath poor Henry on his about-to-be-disgraced charger.

  "Hey Gareth! Didn't know yer pref'rences ran to — hic! — bestiality! What else haven't you tol' us about yershelf, eh?"

  "Shut up down there, you bacon-brains," Gareth said. "D'you want to wake up the whole damned village?" But he was as foxed as the rest of them, and no one took him seriously.

  "Hic! — c'mon, Gareth, it can't take you more than five minutes to — hic! — paint its bollocks blue!"

  "This is not blue, it's purple. Royal purple. As befits its royal rider."

  Chilcot gave a credible imitation of a neighing stallion. Cokeham snorted, horselike, and clutched his stomach as he tried to contain his laughter. But the Irish whiskey was too much for him, and, losing his balance, he fell face‑first into the damp grass, still guffawing and holding his side. "Oh! Oh, I fear I shall cast up my accounts if this keeps up ... oh, dear God...."

  Without missing a beat, Gareth dipped his brush in the paint and flicked it over the bewigged and powdered heads of his friends below.

  Howls pierced the night as he calmly went back to his task.

  "A plague on you, Gareth! — hic — you've jesht ruined my best wig!"

  "To hell with your damned wig, Hugh, look what he just did to my coat!"

  Chilcot gave another equine whicker, tucked his chin, and with his beautifully turned out leg began pawing the ground.

  "Shhhh‑h‑h‑h‑h‑h‑h!"

  "Oh ... oh, I do feel sick...."

  "Keep it up, you pillocks, and I shall dump the entire bucket on your heads," Gareth called down from above. Wrapping his hand around the rope, he pulled himself up a little higher to relieve the tension on his left arm and began smearing paint on the horse's other testicle. "One done, one to go, just call me ... Gainsborough."

  A mouthful of whiskey shot out of Hugh's mouth and he collapsed in a fit of laughter. Perry made choking noises, and guffaws echoed all around.

  "Reynolds, Romney, Ho‑garth, God help me, I'm going to barf," cried Cokeham, still rolling on the ground and laughing. "Oh, that's horrid, Gareth, positively horrid!"

  Gareth grinned, quite amused with himself. "I'm no poet and well I know it. More paint, my dear fellows. And mind you don't trip and spill it. We're starting to run low."

  He tossed the empty bucket down, not particularly caring where it landed. It hit the statue's base, making a dreadful, clanging racket that could probably have been heard all the way to the Seven Barrows. Hugh dumped in more paint. Chilcot, still pawing the ground, picked up the bucket handle with his teeth and, whickering, cantered once around the statue, the bucket swinging precariously and splashing paint all down the front of his elegant lace cravat and expensive waistcoat. Snorting and neighing, he pranced to a stop just beneath Gareth where, with the help of his cohorts, he managed to hook the bucket on the end of a long pole and push it up toward their leader.

  It swayed back and forth near Gareth's ear, threatening to tip its contents over the primped and powdered heads below. He snared it and loaded the brush up with more paint so he could apply a second coat to his masterpiece. "I can't see a damned thing up here," he said, pushing the brush up into the darkened cavern between the steed's hind legs and hoping he'd found the right spot. "How the devil am I supposed to paint its balls if I can't even see them? Fine mess we'll be in if I paint its stomach instead!"

  "Fine mess we'll be in if your brother finds out who did this."

  "Bloody 'ell, Gareth, hurry up!"

  Snickers, more laughter. The long‑suffering king, silhouetted against the night sky, stared off across the high brows of the downs as though seeking the help of a sympathetic god. Divine intervention would not be forthcoming but ducal intervention very well might, and every one of the Den members knew it.

  Gareth's brother had a habit of turning up when he was least expected.

  Or wanted.

  "Finished!" Gareth announced. "I'm coming down now."

  "Did you get its prick, as well?"

  "Oh, sod you, Perry!"

  Tess called up, loudly, "Paintin' its bollocks without doin' its prick ain't good enough, Lord Gareth!"

  The bucket weaved close, swinging against the night sky. "Ouch!" Gareth cried as it smacked his ear, nearly knocking him from his perch. Angrily, he flicked more paint down on the hapless heads below. "Damn you, Hugh, watch it, would you?"

  More laughter. Gareth, annoyed now and beginning to wish he really had gone home, leaned back against the rope, trying to find his footing. Was he getting too old for this nonsense? For some reason he couldn't fathom, this was no longer even fun.

  Moments later he was finished, tossing the paintbrush blindly over his shoulder, not caring where it landed.

  Thump.

  "Son of a bitch!"

  "That's it. I'm coming down as soon as I get the rope."

  He stood up on the narrow pedestal, one hand braced on the king's thigh for balance as he tried to reach the noose, snugged tight just behind the horse's left ear. Pain, faraway and detached, came from his rib, still a little raw. He ignored it.

  "I can't reach it. Somebody pass me up a stick or something, and I'll try to slip it under the noose and off the head."

  "Could always burn it off," Perry mused.

  "Or make a halter out of it," added Audlett.

  "How 'bout if you —"

  "Just get me a damned stick!" Gareth snapped, growing impatient with both his friends and the situation.

  Cokeham roused himself and, on hands and knees, fell to rooting around in the grass, snuffling and making pig‑like noises. "Oink, oink!"

  Audlett belched.

  Sir Hugh Rochester, baronet, expelled a loud puff of gas that came from regions much lower.

  And the two women began singing drunkenly.

  Oh, God help me. I think I need a new set of friends. Fed up with the lot of them, Gareth hoisted himself up so that he was sitting astride the horse just in front of the king. He drew his feet up beneath him and, holding onto the rope for balance, got to his feet, stretching his body full‑length along the crest of the horse's neck as he reached for the noose.

  He couldn't ... quite ... reach it.

  Damn. He pulled himself forward another inch, his rib screaming in protest even through the haze of whiskey-induced
numbness. Buttons popped off his coat. His shirt tore. Kicking for a foothold on either side of the horse's neck, he found only empty space. He made a desperate grab for the noose. Missed. Far below him, the others began calling bets.

  "Two guineas he won't do it in the next thirty seconds!"

  "I'll up you to five pounds —"

  "Oink, oink, ereeeeeeeeach!"

  And then Gareth felt himself beginning to slide backward.

  Cursing, he dug both knees against the cold stone neck — and kept sliding. Scrambling madly, he made another grab for the rope and had just snared it when Chilcot cried, "Bloody 'ell, Gareth, someone's coming up the road! Crawley must've called in the constable or something!"

  "Damnation!"

  It all happened at once. Cokeham abandoned both the ground and his pig‑impersonations and fled, howling, into the night. Chilcot grabbed the bucket of paint, tossed it into a ditch, and took flight himself, running like a hare over the downs. Perry dashed toward a nearby tithe barn, the two tipsy women collapsed, giggling, against the base of the statue, and Hugh and Audlett scattered, one for the village, the other stumbling after Cokeham and yelling for all he was worth. One by one, his friends all deserted him — leaving Gareth stretched full‑length atop the horse's stone neck with the rope in one hand and his feet sliding mercilessly down toward Henry's loins.

  And then he heard it. Hoofbeats, coming toward him from off in the darkness. Unhurried, steady, like the grim reaper coming from Hades knowing it had all the time in the world.

  Gareth let his cheek drop against the statue's cold neck and swore, knowing who it was even before the rider, astride a savage beast whose hide was as black as the sky above, materialized from out of the night.

  The horseman halted just below the statue and did not even bother to look up.

  "Party's over. You may come down now, Gareth."

  It was his brother. The Duke of Blackheath.