This Towering Passion

by Valerie Sherwood

  She careened around a comer with the wind whipping her hair and saw Geoffrey beckon from up ahead. Lenore reined in and watched doubtfully as he leaped off the bay, ran up the stone steps of a church, and swung open the big peaked wooden doors. She frowned and hesitated.

  “Come on,” he called desperately. “ ’Tis our only chance!” He was leading the bay horse inside as he spoke.

  Lenore dismounted, tossed back her long damp hair, and led Snowfire up the slippery stone steps and down the center aisle of the empty church. His hooves rang on the stone flooring and echoed eerily from the vaulted ceiling lost in dimness above them. Beside her the bay horse gave a lonesome whinny as Geoffrey closed the doors on the pouring rain outside and joined her, a tall shape in the dimness.

  “It does not seem right,” she murmured, looking up with a little shiver at the great vaulted ceiling and the stained glass windows, dark and murky against the rain.

  “Sanctuary in churches,” Geoffrey said flatly. “An ancient Saxon right. I claim it.”

  “But to bring horses into a church!”

  “Did ye not know that horses were stabled in Worcester Cathedral during the Civil War, Lenore? They—” Geoffrey’s voice cut off abruptly as outside the sound of hooves thundered by, combining with the pelting rain to make a tumultuous sound like demons trying to get in.

  “I suppose—under the circumstances . . she said haltingly.

  Geoffrey’s eyes gleamed in the darkness. “They’ve gone on by,” he said with relief. “It did not occur to them to look for us here. You see what I mean by sanctuary?”

  She might have appreciated his humor more had not a sudden bolt of jagged blue lightning chosen that moment to strike the church steeple. Lenore screeched and clutched Geoffrey as the stained glass windows were lit with a sudden fearful brilliance, illuminating the church’s interior as if it were day. Snowfire and the bay both reared up in terror as a roll of thunder shook the building and stones from the broken steeple bounded in a thunderous avalanche over the roof and down to the cobbles below. Geoffrey seized the maddened bay’s bridle, nearly receiving a kick in the head from a pawing forefoot, and Lenore, who had only managed to catch her fingers in Snowfire’s mane, was dragged halfway down the church aisle before he came to a trembling halt.

  She patted and soothed him while Geoffrey brought up the bay, eyes rolling and ready to rear again. Lenore winced herself as the vivid lightning, striking again through red stained glass, streaked a slash of red down Snowfire’s snowy head. For a moment it looked like blood gushing from a wound. She hugged Snowfire in a sudden rush of worry for the gallant horse—none of this was his fault

  “We’d best leave,” muttered Geoffrey. “People may come to investigate the damage to the church.”

  They walked their skittish horses through the church and out a peaked side door into drenching rain. The thought came fleetingly to Lenore that the muddy hoof-prints their horses had left on the church aisle would further feed the legend of the Angel of Worcester—the gullible would be saying she’d ridden into church and disappeared again! And this time doubtless in the company of a demon! She sighed and bent her head to avoid a wind-whipped tree branch, gasped as it poured a stream of water down her neck, and followed Geoffrey, sloshing through the rain. She was soaked through before they reached the tent-like shelter of some big oaks that lined the way to the vicarage stable. As they entered, another bolt of lightning struck nearby and lit up the interior brilliantly. It was deserted, save for an old bony gray horse —probably the vicar’s mount—who looked at them with momentary curiosity, whinnied once, and returned placidly to munching his oats. Lenore tossed back her wet hair and looked about her with relief. For the moment they were alone in a cozy world with the rain beating outside and only a couple of dripping roof leaks within.

  “Looks safe enough for a while,” said Geoffrey grimly. “I doubt me those who come to the church will notice our tracks—they’ll be too occupied with viewing the steeple, what’s left of it.”

  Guided by the lightning flashes, Lenore led the horses to the water trough, calling to Geoffrey to pitchfork down some hay. He climbed the wooden ladder to the hayloft and dropped the hay down through a big square hole cut in the flooring for the purpose.

  “That’s enough,” she said. “ ’Twill be all they can eat.”

  “Oh, just a bit more for our backsides to lie on,” he protested. “For we’d best stay downstairs with our mounts, in case we have to leave suddenly!”

  “All right, but get some grain from that bin while I curry Snowfire—he’s very hot and steamy from running and I don’t want him to catch cold.” She hugged the white horse, burying her face in his heavy mane, and her voice was husky. “ ’Twas Snowfire brought us through.”

  Geoffrey’s sigh was inaudible against the pounding rain, but he got the grain, and as Snowfire ate, Lenore worked with brush and curry comb until his white hide glistened. Geoffrey, meanwhile, curried the bay. Snowfire gave a low whinny and nuzzled her as she finished.

  “What happened midway down the course, Lenore?” Geoffrey tossed aside the curry comb. “I couldn’t see, for a fellow waving a big hat got in my way, and when I brushed the hat aside, I could see Hobbs was nearly upended and Snowfire was leaping in front of him.”

  “Hobbs tried to run us head-on into a wagon tongue that stuck out over a rut,” explained Lenore tersely. “He tried to crowd us into it.”

  “My God!” Geoffrey stared at her aghast. “Lenore.” He bent down from his great height and took her by the shoulders. His voice was rich and deep. “I want you to know I never thought there was any danger in your ride— just that you’d be lighter and more apt to win.”

  “I know.” Lenore leaned against that broad chest and sighed. Tense and keyed up from recent happenings, she had only just begun to realize how weary she was. “It doesn’t matter, Geoffrey. It’s over now and we have money again.”

  “I’ll not risk you again,” he promised, his voice deep timbred as he held her to him.

  Lenore, thinking this no time for lovemaking when the vicar’s servants might at any time come out to the stable to see how the gray horse fared, twisted away from him. “Where do we spend the night?”

  “Far from here, I hope,” he said, letting her go reluctantly. “We’ll slip out of the city at dusk with the homeward-bound crowd.”

  “We cannot leave in these clothes,” pointed out Lenore “We’d be recognized at once.”

  “Aye.” Geoffrey waved his arm as a flash of lightning illuminated some old clothes hanging on a nail. They looked ragged enough to drape over scarecrows and perhaps that was what they were intended for. “Those should disguise us.”

  Lenore shuddered. “Oh, I couldn’t wear those—they’re filthy!”

  “Better filthy than dead,” said Geoffrey grimly. “The grime we can wash away once we’re clear of Wells, but death has a nasty permanence.”

  Grimacing, she took the big ragged shawl he handed her, held it with two fingers and said, “Ugh!”

  “Put it on,” advised Geoffrey with callous cheerfulness. “If I can put on this ragged red cloth cloak, you can wear that!”

  She held the shawl at arm’s length. “But won’t everyone recognize Snowfire anyway?” she protested. “He’s so—so striking.”

  “Easily remedied,” said Geoffrey with a heartless grin. “I’ll splash some mud on his legs as we leave and we’ll drape those old horse blankets over both horses.” He indicated a pile in the corner. “Meantime, I saw the remains of a fire someone had built under the lean-to shed out there—doubtless they scorched the roof, but ’twill serve our purpose.” He went out and returned with a handful of ashes. Over Lenore’s anguished protests, he proceeded to turn Snowfire’s snowy head and mane into a mottled gray.

  “In the dark, no one will be able to tell the difference. He’s a gray horse now,” he declared cheerfully.

  Lenore thought Snowfire looked indignant. “What about the bay?” she asked d
oubtfully.

  Geoffrey shrugged. “Wells is full of bay horses. He’ll attract no notice. But bind up your long hair, Lenore. That no one could miss!”

  Swiftly she twisted her damp hair into a thick coil around her head and draped the big shawl over her head. “You might pretend to be drunk,” she suggested, “and sprawled over your horse. That way they won’t see your face.”

  “Good,” he said. “And you can sport a black eye that I gave you while drunk!” He rubbed the ashes around her right eye until it looked very bruised, stood back critically to consider her in a lightning flash. “We’re indeed an indifferent-looking pair,” he said with satisfaction. “We don’t look like people anyone would wish to get close to—let alone touch!” He laughed.

  “I don’t find it very funny,” said Lenore, thinking how she had just curried Snowfire and now he looked terrible. “I would we could get it over with—think you it is dark enough to leave?”

  “ Tis dark enough,” he said quietly. “For the rain has quenched the light. And if we’re careful to attract no attention, we can be a pair of farmers returning home from the fair. Few will notice us in the rain.”

  Grimly Lenore pulled the rough wool shawl around her. Already it was making her skin itch. “Then let’s get on with it.”

  As they went through the stable doors, the rain stopped as the thunderstorm took itself elsewhere. Lenore did not know whether that was an omen for good or ill.

  CHAPTER 8

  In the gathering darkness the pair slipped into a narrow alley behind the stable and managed to avoid the church. From thence they blundered their way toward the main thoroughfare, finding easy passage through the muddy streets until they reached the press of home-returning fair-goers plodding soddenly toward the city gate. Unobtrusively they joined this flow of humanity, Geoffrey lolling as though drunk across the bay’s back. The rain had given the air a bitter chill, and Lenore had reason to give thanks for the extra warmth provided by the big tattered shawl which was draped over her head and enveloped her to the ankles. She looked down at Snowfire, glad to see him covered by a big horse blanket, but looking dirty and woebegone to her eyes, so used to seeing him white and glistening.

  Around them people sloshed along, talking companionably about the fair, and just ahead a farm family plodded along in a cart. But Lenore kept her head down, her great shawl clutched about her, hoping to escape notice in the procession.

  If only they would move faster! But the pace slowed and slowed, finally coming almost to a halt. Past the high farm cart she saw that up ahead loomed the city gate. Beyond that gap in the walls lay the dark road—and freedom.

  But there was a bar to freedom. A lantern swung at the city gate, and Lenore, her hands clammy, saw that people were filing through and a young trooper, backed up by several more who lounged in the background, was questioning each one.

  “Can you see what’s holding us up, Mister Boone?” queried an old woman behind Lenore.

  “I think they do be looking for the Angel of Worcester, Mistress Lennox—her that won the race today,” a tall-hatted farmer responded patiently.

  Lenore stiffened. This was no casual check for Royalists, then. Those troopers were looking for them!

  Behind her the old woman cackled. “If ye mean that young woman who rode the white horse, she looked to be no angel to me!”

  “Ye’d best keep your voice down, Mistress Lennox,” warned the farmer nervously. “For tempers are tricky today, what with the cloudburst and all, and they may take it into their minds to punish scoffers by questioning everyone at length. Then we’ll be here till cockcrow!”

  Beneath the scratchy woolen shawl Lenore felt perspiration trickle down her neck. Questions ... a vision of the rack loomed up in her mind, and herself screaming in agony as she was broken upon it. The picture faded to a bloody red as behind her a younger voice interposed eagerly, “I did not see the Angel, Mistress Lennox. How was she in appearance?”

  “About the size of that woman ahead,” said Mistress Lennox, and Lenore felt as if an arrow had just entered her back. Mistress Lennox was indicating her.

  “I was told she was very fair,” muttered the farmer, “as an angel should be. But very tall and stately. ’Twas said her hair was sun-gold and she wore a green dress."

  Lenore thanked God for the darkness which obscured the narrow green line of her skirt which showed beneath her great shawl. Nervously she studied the lantern ahead. That young trooper was bending and staring into people’s faces as he talked to them, shining the light in their faces. She prayed he would not push back her shawl the better to see her face, for if the lantern light were to fall on her golden hair ...!

  Behind her Geoffrey lolled in apparent helplessness, mumbling a snatch of bawdy song off key, as he lay along the neck of the bay horse. His long legs stuck out from the shapeless tattered red cloak he had thrown over his own, and the hat which rode so perilously on his drooping head looked as if it had been trampled by an army. But Lenore. sensed the tension rising in him as just ahead the farm cart was stopped for questioning. The farmer gave crisp answers; his wife beside him was sleepy and muttered her answers. Lenore saw the guard flash the lantern in her face and play it over the three sleeping children piled together on the hay in the back amongst some bags and kegs of vegetables.

  "Pass,” said the trooper at last, and Lenore, walking Snowfire forward under the stone gateway with Geoffrey and the bay close behind, froze as Mistress Lennox’s strident voice rang out clearly.

  “The Angel of Worcester,” she insisted stubbornly, “was not tall and stately. I tell you she was the size of that young woman riding up ahead.”

  The young trooper who held the lantern could not have helped hearing. And now he was alerted to the fact that Lenore was the right size. Should he swing that lantern in close and peer beneath the shawl and sight her red-gold hair ...!

  Lenore flung caution to the winds. She came down off her horse like a spitting wildcat. “Call me no more names this night, John Daw!” she shouted in Geoffrey’s direction. “For I’ll take no more from you, drunken lout that you are!” Holding her shawl tight around her throat with her left hand, she whirled and seized the lantern from the astonished trooper’s hand.

  “See that?” she yowled in the thickest West Country accent she could muster. She thrust her face almost into his, holding the lantern so high that the light fell more over the top of her head than her face. “See what my husband did to me this day?” she bawled. “Hit me, he did! And just because I said he’d had too much ale and emptied out his tankard on the tavern floor! Took offense and hit me, he did!”

  From behind her came Geoffrey’s voice, sounding thick as it interrupted his mumbled drinking song. “To be married to a shrew . . . !” he hiccupped. “ ’Tis only on fair days I get me drunk, ’tis only on fair days. . . .” His voice petered out in maudlin fashion and he slumped forward in apparent insensibility on the bay’s neck, one long arm dangling.

  Lenore gave an angry shriek. “ ’Tis a lie!”

  “Your name, mistress,” said the startled trooper sternly, stepping back a pace and recovering his lantern. His vexed frown showed that domestic quarrels were no concern of his.

  Lenore advanced on him threateningly. “Prudence Daw’s my name. And this big oaf, sprawled drunk and useless across yon horse, is my husband John. We live half a league down that way”—she stabbed with her finger—“and down the narrow lane as far as you can throw a butter churn.” Her voice rose. “I can see you’re taking up for John!” She shook her finger in the young man’s face so dose he jumped back for fear of his eyes. “I can tell—you look like you’re sorry for him! Why are all the men so sorry for my husband? I’m the one people should be sorry for, for ’tis me who had the bad sense to marry him, lackaday!”

  The trooper, who was young and confused, flushed under this attack. “Mistress, I said nothing to—”

  “Nay, but you looked it!” squalled Lenore. “You men always stick togethe
r! Like as not your wife is at home right now slaving over washtubs and stewpots with half a dozen little ones clinging to her skirts and another on the way—”

  “I’ve no wife at all!” gasped the trooper. Behind him the other troopers were chuckling.

  “What!” screamed Lenore. “All the spinsters wasting away in this parish and you, a great hulking fellow, are out wenching in the hay instead of getting you honest wed! For shame! Shame, I say! Shame! You—”

  But the young trooper had had enough of Mistress Prudence Daw. “Pass!” he roared, giving her a rough push that sent her reeling away from him. He gave Geoffrey’s horse a hasty slap calculated to move it on faster.

  Lest he remember he hadn’t looked into Geoffrey’s face and mend the oversight, Lenore let Snowfire go on ahead a few steps, then turned as Geoffrey came through and darted back to shake her finger in the trooper’s face once more. “Your day will come!” she cried menacingly. “Bachelor that you are!” She almost spat the words. “Some woman will straighten you out!”

  Amid howls of laughter from his fellow guards, who were vastly enjoying their comrade’s discomfiture, the trooper shouted, “’Pass, woman! Get you gone!” Lenore stomped off, muttering, climbed aboard Snowfire and rode away, leading Geoffrey’s bay.

  She hadn’t realized how frightened she was until she hurried their pace a bit, passing the farm cart at a wide place in the dirt road. Then she realized how icy the wind seemed against her face and knew it was beating against drops of perspiration. She had felt trapped there at the city wall, and her heart had known the terrors of a winged thing beating helplessly against a cage.