by Unknown
‘You came!’
She couldn’t speak for emotion. She wanted to scream at him to stop, not to do it, but when she opened her mouth, nothing came out.
‘I’m riding this race for you,’ he shouted to her.
Tears slid from her eyes. She knew he was riding for so much more. He was riding for his life, and Bevis’s death. He wasn’t riding against fifty other horses. He was riding against unseen ghosts, against prejudice and hatred, and a village made up of rumour and envy.
The crowd had turned to stare at Ellen, agog at the sudden pre-race distraction. And she suddenly realised that history was repeating itself. Spurs was shouting his head off as he had on the day Bevis had died. She shook her head, clasping her hand to her mouth, willing him to stop. But it was as though unseen hands had closed around her throat to strangle her. She couldn’t say a word.
‘If I win this, I deserve to be happy.’ He stood up in his stirrups and told them all. ‘If I win, I deserve Ellen. If I win, you can all go fu—’
At that moment, Giles’s PA let out a deafening shriek as he switched it back on. ‘Testing, one . . . two . . . three. Test-eeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiiii!’
White Lies reared up, almost throwing Spurs. It spun in fear, nostrils trumpeting red, ears flat back like a fighting cat’s. A woman in the crowd screamed.
To Ellen’s horror, Spurs simply dropped the reins and spread his arms wide, laughing his head off.
‘Oh, no, Spurs, no,’ she murmured, as he blew her a kiss.
I would die for you, his silver eyes transmitted a silent message.
Ely’s guests murmured and gasped in surprise as the huge grey horse suddenly planted itself stock still, dipping its nose to its chest and letting Spurs calmly gather the reins.
‘It’s TIME, ladies and gentlemen!’ Giles announced theatrically as, further along the bank, Ely clambered on to a riverside podium holding a flag. ‘When Mr Gates gives the signal, the thirty-seventh annual Devil’s Marsh Cup will be under way. It only remains for me to wish the very best of luck to all the brave souls taking part, and to remind them that there are no rules – the first horse across the line wins. Over to you, Ely.’
Ellen waded up to her thighs, her legs dragged back by river weed that tangled around her ankles, almost pulling her over. Ahead of her, Spurs turned the big horse, jostling for position.
With gothic aplomb, Ely held his flag aloft and glared at Spurs. ‘Under starter’s orders,’ he hollered, ‘and . . . AWAY!’
The thundering of hooves across turf was deafening as the field exploded into action. Horses galloped the wrong way, reared, refused to go. Several riders fell off, others found themselves clinging blindly to their galloping horses’ necks, and one hairy Shetland calmly turned on its heel and started trotting determinedly back towards the bridge, despite its rider’s furious protests.
But Ellen didn’t notice any of this as she watched, tethered to the riverbed, her eyes not leaving Spurs and his white charger as they raced along close to the front of the field.
‘Oh, please, no.’ She dragged her legs free and stumbled back to higher ground to keep him in sight.
Although he headed the stampede, it was obvious straight away that something was wrong. He kept looking down at his left leg in concern. With one hand on the reins, he tried to reach down beneath his boot, cannoning into the horse beside him. Gripping handfuls of white mane he readjusted his balance and tried again.
But then, without warning, he slumped over the horse’s neck like a soldier shot in action.
‘No!’ Ellen screamed, her cry drowned in the passing cavalry charge. ‘No, no, no!’
The big white horse veered dramatically away from the field and bucked, desperate to rid itself of the dead weight on its back.
Ellen heard somebody wailing like a battered dog, then realised that the noise was coming from her own throat – an unstoppable, agonised cry of anguish.
But Spurs stayed put. There was no blood, no lifeless death-slide to the hoof-hammered turf below. Ellen splashed back into the river again: he wasn’t unconscious or paralysed by a gunshot. He was clinging on for dear life.
She heard a shout of laughter in the crowd. ‘Belling’s girth’s broken. Christ, he’ll be mincemeat in a moment.’
A long strap was flapping around beneath the big grey’s belly – the girth. Even at speed, it was obvious from the sheared ends that it had been cut almost right through, the little that had been left to hold the saddle in place breaking as soon as the horse was galloping.
‘Good God!’ The cynical voice took on a different tone. ‘Will you look at that?’
Still at full pelt, Spurs pulled the saddle from underneath him and cast it aside, kicking on to steer back on course and catch the leaders. The whole manoeuvre – lightning fast but precision perfect – was over in the blink of an eye. He barely seemed to move a muscle on the horse’s back, but it was a feat of horsemanship that left the doubter in the crowd reeling.
Ellen tried, and failed, to breathe again.
‘You’re here!’ Pheely had appeared at her side, clasping her hands together tightly as she watched the action. ‘Look at Dilly! She’s doing so well. And lovely Rory is riding alongside her to make sure she comes to no harm. He really is a sweet boy.’ She calmly took her hat from Ellen’s shaking hands and plonked it on her own head, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
Ellen was too terrified to say a thing, chattering teeth eating her hands a knuckle at a time as she waded back out of the water.
‘I think Spurs might win it – as long as he doesn’t come unstuck round the bend. That’s where a lot of them lose it. Why on earth is he riding without a saddle?’
At the very far end of the water-meadow, the field was expected to turn back on itself and charge the length of the marsh again in the race to the finishing post opposite Manor Farm. It was a notoriously tricky feat on a horse travelling at close to thirty miles an hour. Over the tannoy, Giles reminded the crowd cheerfully that most years the field dwindled in carnage as riders were dispatched, or horses refused to turn back and instead careered on over the hedge and out across the valley. ‘Get those cameras ready!’ he suggested, as Spurs reined back White Lies and balanced him ready to turn.
Pheely locked her arm through Ellen’s and crossed herself as the first of the field – including Spurs – executed the turn safely and started hurtling back along the marsh.
‘They used to turn anti-clockwise, towards the river, but since the – accident – they turn away.’ She craned so far forward to keep an eye on Dilly’s progress that she almost pulled them both down the riverbank. ‘Here they go. Oh, slow down, Dilly! Oh, God—’ She covered her eyes and then, a moment later, peeked through her fingers. ‘Oh, hooray! Clever girl. She’s made it. Lord – Spurs is a long way ahead. Who’s that upsides him?’
Spurs was already a third of the way back to the finish and kicking White Lies on as though his life depended upon it – which it almost certainly did.
Having stayed out of the barging, bumping horse traffic because of his horse’s sheer speed, he could not shake off one rival, a huge dark bay ridden by a hunched determined figure in red silks and shaded goggles. Whipping his horse frenziedly, the opponent started edging closer and closer to Spurs’ grey steed.
‘Good God, don’t tell me they’re trying to ride one another off? That’s madness.’ Pheely let out a little squeak as the rider in the red silks lifted his crop even higher.
Down came the whip on Spurs’ back. And again, trying to knock him off balance.
The two horses’ huge shoulders crashed together and they stumbled, heads bobbing towards the rushing turf, swerving in shock and flattening their ears.
Galloping, body-slamming and fighting in a blur of speed and colour, they raced dangerously close to the river. On the inside, Spurs glanced across to the point where the bank dropped away, just inches from his horse’s hooves and kicked on hard. His rival wielded his whip direct
ly at White Lies’ rump.
‘No!’ Ellen yelled.
With a great surge of effort, the grey pulled ahead just in time to avoid the blow, and the man in the red silks struck out into thin air. Unable to keep his balance, he tumbled out of the saddle and rolled down the bank, causing Spurs’ big grey to swerve away and its rider to hang on by just a lower leg. The man in red silks threw down his crop in disgust as he struggled muddily up to chase after his horse.
‘And we have another faller!’ boomed Giles, who had been keeping up an excited commentary throughout. ‘The Patriot has dispatched his rider, leaving White Lies alone out front. Can Belling keep this up to the finishing post? He looks pretty precarious having lost his saddle. This is a very brave ride indeed,’ he conceded reluctantly, clearly willing Spurs to fall, along with most of the crowd. Then his hyena screech of laughter said it all as the huge grey horse stumbled and Spurs lost his grip, disappearing from sight.
‘Oops! He’s gone!’ he announced, with more relish than necessary, before taking in a surprised breath. ‘Or is he . . . ?’
Ellen found the scream dying in her throat and reforming as a laugh: she had recognised his favourite trick. ‘Oh, please, yes. Please do it. You can do it!’
Spurs had landed on his feet and was running alongside the horse, a great hunk of white mane clutched in his hand. Letting out a banshee howl, he jumped back on again.
Pheely’s jaw hung open. ‘Tell me I’m not seeing things!’
‘You’re not seeing things.’ Ellen was bursting out of her skin with love and pride. ‘You’re seeing my wish come true.’
As he galloped the last hundred yards he turned to salute her. He was riding for her now, and her alone. Beneath him, the huge white horse pricked his ears, mane flying, froth flecking the air, legs blurred as he carried his rider to victory. Spurs was standing on the highest wave in the ocean, forcing the tide to stand still.
‘Belling is past the post!’ Giles was cackling a moment later. ‘With that circus trick of his, Belling has won the Devil’s Marsh Cup. Whoa! Whoa, Spurs. It’s over now.’
But Spurs carried on driving the huge horse onwards. They plunged on, checked, then turned towards the river.
‘Good God!’ Giles squeaked, losing his composure as Spurs headed straight towards his commentary spot. ‘What is the man doing? You can collect the cup later, Belling – there’s a bridge to come over. Wait! Shit!’ With a final shriek of feedback he fled his post.
The brave grey didn’t falter as Spurs asked him to take the huge leap over the river. Even at its narrowest point the Odd was a bubbling torrent, with deep, uneven banks and a gaggle of screaming hat-wearers on the landing side. Trusting his rider implicitly, White Lies leaped from the Devil’s Marsh to the Oddlode bank without hesitating.
The only person to keep her eyes open as he did so was Ellen, and those eyes filled with tears as he landed safely and thundered across the garden towards her.
White Lies halted and danced beside her, steam rising from his flanks and foam flying from his mouth. On his back, Spurs held out a hand that danced too. ‘I love you! I’ll grant your wish. I’ll grant every wish you make from now on.’
Ellen stared up at the blur of muscle and sweat and power and love, and no longer cared whether it was sport or whether it was dangerous. It was love.
He stretched his hand lower. ‘Need a lift?’
She nodded happily. ‘We have a plane to catch.’ Then she stepped forward, took his wrist against hers and jumped.
‘Stop!’ Hell’s Bells shrieked, huffing up as fast as her short and sturdy legs would carry her, curls springing out from beneath her ostrich hat. ‘What about the wed—’
But Ellen had her arms closed tightly around Spurs’ waist and they had already turned to gallop away, jumping over the garden wall and clattering along the lane.
Desperate to cover up the mortifying sideshow that had just taken place in the middle of his garden party, Ely wasted no time in regrouping and adopting damage-limitation tactics. Booting Giles back on to the PA podium to announce the beginning of Roadkill’s performance, he hurried to the marquee to cue his daughter and prepare a placatory speech.
Hell’s Bells hopped after him, ostrich feathers flying. ‘We can still save face,’ she panted. ‘Jasper won’t get far. He has no money and no passport. I’ll arrange roadblocks.’
‘Already in motion – Giles is making some calls,’ Ely muttered into his collar. ‘My girl will stay true. She may be broken-hearted, but she is brave. She will sing through her sorrow while we fetch him back. This wedding will go ahead.’
‘Yes – quite.’ Hell’s Bells cast him a doubtful look.
But when Godspell took the microphone, she was singing from a different hymn sheet. It was the moment she had been preparing for all week, coached by a professional rebel. Instead of launching straight into the band’s first number, she started to talk, addressing the crowd – an unfamiliar husky voice that was far more compelling than her cat-on-heat vocals.
‘It’s time to tell the truth about this family,’ she told the bemused guests, her words amplified across the village by a great stack of speakers. ‘It’s about time somebody fucking did.’
The Wyck clan – who made up almost half the audience – let out a great raucous cheer. A small smile twitched at Godspell’s black lips as she winked at them.
‘A good friend told me recently that love is like clay – you can only mould it once, when it’s new and impressionable. As soon as it’s fired, you’re stuck with it until it shatters.’ She looked at Pheely for reassurance and received a hearty thumbs-up from beneath a battered red hat. ‘And this friend wisely says that people who play at matchmaking aren’t sculptors at all, as you might think, but bulls in china shops.
‘A month ago,’ she rasped, crashing a tambourine on her bony hip for emphasis, ‘my father made me sign a contract. He told me that if I refused to, he would burn all my . . . all my beloved pets alive.’ She closed her eyes, thinking of her precious snakes, lizards, insects and arachnids. The tambourine hit the hip again. ‘Today, ladies and gentlemen, you were all supposed to witness a wedding organised by a bull in china shop. My father,’ she pointed him out with the rattling tambourine, ‘Ely Gates, your so-called upstanding villager, a Christian and a family man, is so desperate to get his hands on Oddlode Manor that he blackmailed me into marrying Jasper Belling. Today was to be our wedding day, although it felt like both our funerals.’
There was a shocked intake of breath from the rapidly gathering crowd.
‘Oh, yes.’ Godspell lifted her pointed chin over the microphone. ‘But it seems Jasper’s just got even over Oddlode at last.’ She started to giggle. ‘You all thought he had feet of clay, but he doesn’t. They have wings, like Hermes’. It was his heart that was made of clay, until he fell in love.
‘Only he didn’t fall in love with me. He fell in love with Ellen, who has wings on her feet and her heart and her back. Seeing Spurs with her just for one night taught me that love isn’t something you can manufacture. It’s a one-off, like a sculpture. And I’m grateful. My life, am I grateful – I could almost marry the bastard for teaching me that!’ Her loopy laugh echoed around the marquee. ‘You see, I love somebody too. I want to introduce you to my love, my hero and my one-off . . .’ She turned to her drummer and blew him a kiss, crashing the tambourine against her hip. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Saul Wyck!’
He gazed at her over his snare, one hand automatically seeking out the unicorn tattoo on his bicep with its dark, sultry rider, the other hand rattling out a loud drumroll between bass and torn with shaking sticks.
Uncertain if this was some sort of theatrical sideshow, there was a smattering of applause throughout the marquee. Then the Wyck clan let out another raucous round of cheers and the tent exploded with a delighted, clapping ovation.
Godspell stilled her rattling tambourine against her chest and waited to get their attention back. ‘This is a song I wro
te about what’s been going on. It’s called “Ma Rage and Pa Son Money”.’ A moment later Godspell had clutched the microphone to her twisted black mouth and emptied her lungs, causing women and men to flee the marquee as it almost collapsed under the deafening cacophony of Roadkill’s opening number, ‘WHY did you STAND back and WATCH the LAMBS to the SLAUGHTER? Was it because HE worships at another’s ALTAR? He was a PIMP and a WIMP to a SLUT in a RUT, but I AM YOUR DAUGHTER! WHEAAA-AAAAAAEEEEEEEEE-IEEEEEEE!’
Pheely clenched her fists in victory and started to head-bang along so excitedly that her hat flew off and was trampled by the pogoing Wycks family. Beside her, Ely had pressed his fevered brow to Hell’s Bells substantial shoulders and was openly weeping like a child.
‘Oh, do dry up,’ Hell’s Bells snapped.
Giving Godspell a victorious thumbs-up, Pheely joined the mass marquee exodus, dashing to greet Dilly and Rory, who were trotting across the lawns on their horses, oblivious of Ely’s gardener’s irate protests.
‘You wonderful, loved-up children – well done!’ she gurgled. ‘Now go after Spurs and Ellen and, for God’s sake, catch them before they leave. Tell them we have plenty of time for that farewell drink. Godspell is going for bust – which reminds me.’ She turned to the Wyckses, gave them a Dick Emery wink and shouted, ‘Cue the unveiling, boys!’
When the white awning finally fell from Felicity Gates’s floral arrangement, the few loyal guests still tolerating the decibels in the marquee turned away gratefully from Roadkill’s performance, then drew in a collective breath of even greater shock.
The blooms were perfect, the arrangement divine and the colours exquisite as always. But the centrepiece was as shocking as it was beautiful.
It was obscene. It was flagrant. Nobody could take their eyes from it.
For nestling among the orchids, Asian lilies and cabbage roses was a bronze of a couple, an inseparable couple, giving off so much white-hot heat that each and every person who saw it stepped back.
The figures depicted were unmistakably of Spurs and Ellen.