The Third Horseman

Chapter One

Leicestershire, England

The sound of hooves filled the air. In a blur of black, the first rider appeared over the hill. Lord Waterford’s top hat was the first thing to be seen, set off by a pheasant’s feather stuck into its rim at an insolent angle. It bounced with joy. His face contorted as he struggled to maintain control of his hunter. His eyes were pale and rheumy, his cheekbones streaked red from the chase. On his breast pocket shone a silver seal with rays of light emanating from his family crest at its centre. His fingers held the reins high as he glanced behind him and kicked his heels into his ride. He spoke back over his shoulder, the hectoring tone of his voice softened by the hint of an Irish accent.

We’re losing him, we’re losing him! He had a deranged air as he twitched in the saddle, in keeping with his nickname of ‘The Mad Marquis’. He laughed at nothing in particular as he raced down the hill and sought his quarry. His horse baulked at the steep angle but the rider kept the animal on the route he had chosen.

Behind him, on a borrowed grey mare, George Henry Moore appeared over the ridge. He was a master horseman, but his mount was no thoroughbred. As he challenged the man ahead, he bent low to speak to his animal. In response, the horse shot forward. George Henry grunted in satisfaction. His eyes widened as he marvelled at the garden-like manicure of the land, so unlike the wild moors and mountains of his own estate back in the West of Ireland. Addressing the hoof marks in front of him, he pulled at the reins and pointed his horse in their leader’s wake. Horse and rider thundered down the hill.

His companion ahead would not be boasting that evening, if he had his way. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes to the wind. He was finding the hunt invigorating, his hair plastered to his forehead as he adjusted his body to fit the English saddle.

This grey mare left over for him in the stables was weak in the chest and wary of the jumps, but all the more satisfying to master. On the ride, the reluctant beast had improved and taken jumps better since dawn. The mare had not had a run out like this in years, he suspected, and both horse and rider relished the chase. The mare’s eyes were red with exertion and the blood was starting to rise in George Henry too. The hunt was in full flood.

His younger brother Augustus was the next rider to appear over the Leicestershire crest, his chosen mount a square flanked black hunter with bulging eyes. He conquered the rise, seeming to defy gravity as man and horse floated in the air like an apparition. The two brothers could not have appeared more different. Taking after his part Spanish mother, the younger man had a mane of thick black hair, grown unfashionably long. His handsome face was animated and flushed from the autumn breeze. He stood erect in the stirrups as he drew level with George Henry. He stared at the back of the man in front, their host and the only one to beat.

You have a nag on your hands, and no mistake! Augustus nodded across at his brother as he pulled ahead, to rush down the hill at speed. He leaned back, to compensate for the gradient. The brothers maintained a fierce pace to keep them ahead of the others. They moved in tandem for a moment, the hooves like drums.

George Henry flicked his hair out of his face. I have so. She doesn’t like to exert herself too much. I’m getting the best of her, by degrees. But you have no such excuse, so don’t let me hold you back. He gestured with his head, and let his own horse relax a pace. Augustus nodded his assent and gripped the reins tighter. He shot ahead with a cry that was carried away on the breeze.

Their quarry the fox scurried across the next field, his black tipped ears pricked up to catch the progress of the hunters. He listened once more, picked up the pace and loped away, his eyes gleaming.

In a rush, and with the pounding of many hooves, the rest of the hunt approached the leaders. They flashed across the hill and shouted above the din to hear each other. The humans screamed at their horses. There were over a dozen young men, aristocrats and men of leisure like the Marquis, shouting to each other as they tore across the English countryside. In a cacophony of voices, they tumbled down the hill, their mounts complaining and ploughing up the land with metal shoes. Like the two Irish brothers ahead of them, they were dressed in jackets of many colours, some red, some yellow and some purple. A pack of hounds ran at their feet, darting in and out. Their yapping was sharp. The hunting dogs had the fox scent on the wind and it drove them wild. They snaked across the meadow at the base of the hill in pursuit. The horses and riders almost mowed them down as the speed quickened.

The young men were not simply hunting Old Reynard, they were also vying with each other to win, like pups in a litter. They sparred with each other for sport. Some held whips with long leather tongues. They flicked them at their companions and rode wildly. Apart from the Moore brothers, they were all part of a fraternity, dedicated exclusively to mayhem and to pleasure. They had fine houses and drinking clubs scattered across England and Ireland where they drank and caroused. They held masked balls that outraged their parents. They gamed with any money they could lay their hands on. Their illicit midnight liaisons would seldom see the light of day. They had consecrated their lives to hedonism, with Lord Waterford at their head as their acknowledged leader. They had scandalised society. And horses and the need for speed were at the centre of their lives.

They hurled friendly abuse at each other as they flew across the heights together. The young bucks were covered in mud and grass. Their horses foamed at the mouth as golden sweat streamed down their manes. As they caught up with one another, they jostled their companions. They searched for genuine alarm in the faces of their brethren before they broke off their dangerous games, experiencing a frisson of excitement when something shocking happened in their midst. To take a tumble was an occupational hazard as a member of this club. It happened most days to one or other of their number. The losers would be left behind, sitting on their rumps in a field, an evening of ridicule ahead of them. The animal ahead was the prize.

A horseman called Tom Beckworth tickled the flanks of George Henry’s mount with his whip as he caught up with him. The Irishman looked back without curiosity and did his best to ignore him in the chase as he lined up his hunter for the fence ahead. Their knees touched and bruised one another. Tom grunted and went hard at him, pushing his shoulder into the man he had tagged. Danger was needed for the game to be complete. He shrieked with laughter as he tried to upset things.

Give her no quarter, George Henry. Take the Marquis! Here, let me help you! Your poor old grey needs some encouragement. The whip grazed the Moore horse rump, making the mount swerve away with nerves.

Doggedly, George Henry resumed his own rhythm and indulged the red faced young man at his side. In silence, they raced in each other’s shadow for half a field until George Henry pushed the interloper away with a boot pressed against the thigh of his tormentor. With a curse, his fellow rider shook his head in defeat, peeled away and fell back with the rest of the pack. The pace had beaten him. In a cool voice, George Henry cried out at his mare to maintain the gallop. He drove forward and ignored the rest of the field, his lips set, putting space between him and the pack behind.

The Moore brothers were in a game of their own, a tournament where horses ruled over everything and these young revellers came a distant second. With a rueful laugh, Tom fell back with the others as the group watched the familiar spectacle of the three Irish riders streak out far ahead of them. The leaders seemed to merge with their mounts. They rushed in the direction of the setting sun, already in the next field.

Far in front of the stragglers, Lord Waterford took a low hedge, to put himself in the same meadow as the fox. Close behind him, Augustus coaxed more from his hunter. He laughed and spoke softly. He took his ride over the same spot as the leader, landing well and goading his charger into a gallop as he closed the ground between them.

George Henry rounded a corner by himself, followed eventually by the flash of jackets as horses and hounds crowded into the field in pursuit, many furlongs behind. The men were working up a thirst and dreaming of cold white wine later. The hounds crashed through breaks in the Midlands hedges, their sterns erect as they picked up the stronger scent. Their liver spot coats quivered with the chase. Strident hunting horns goaded them on, making a primitive sound that cut through the air.

After much labour, George Henry came close to the heels of Augustus’s horse. He pointed ahead and willed his brother forwards. He’s there. Go on. Have him. For heaven’s sake, Augustus: you can’t let The Mad Marquis beat us again. We’ll never hear the last of it! He pushed himself harder but could not draw alongside. His brother had the edge on him with horses. His link with them was almost supernatural.

Augustus looked back a few lengths and bared his teeth at his elder. He fought for breath. Don’t worry. I’ll catch our man. You take the fox. Save the brush for me, brother...

The younger Moore brother noticed the hounds had picked up the scent of the fox and veered away from the route taken by the eccentric Irish Lord, who had become carried away with himself and his own private chase, jumping ever higher and more difficult hedges and fences in the distance, beyond the present field. Waterford was in a world of his own, as usual. Boxing against himself, attacking shadows and invisible things. While George Henry and the others concentrated on the scent of the fox, Augustus resolved to follow the crazed aristocrat. Where one led, the other came soon after. It was their established way. Augustus was taking him on at last. He arched in the stirrups and sought the best route he could discern to the lonely figure ahead.

The main group of horses turned away in a group, with George Henry at their head. The hunt would continue on its way, the noise becoming less. As the rest of the horses veered off, a stain of blue disentangled itself from the rest of the pack to chase a stain of black that had streaked ahead. There were now two separate hunts in prospect. Both parties covered the ground in strides that were leading them to an unknown destination. High above the ground, the riders leapt and shouted.

Chapter Two

On the hilltop, Waterford allowed his mount a moment’s trotting. His horse breathed more easily, moving in shorter strides as they both cooled down. He looked around him to check he had lost his pursuers. He removed his black hat and wiped his forehead with his sleeve to prevent sweat blurring his vision. He blinked away moisture and stretched his cramped legs in their stirrups. His breathing came hard. His horse foamed at the mouth and steamed in the autumn air. He heard something ahead of him and grimaced. Augustus flew across a hollow and raced his horse to bring him to a dead stop, nose to nose with Waterford’s own hunter. He had overtaken him, to arrive from a new direction.

I’ve caught my fox and now I’ll beat you home. Augustus cried out.

Waterford tried to appear stern but could not prevent a laugh from greeting his friend. They drew close together. He tapped his friend with his whip, like a benediction. In companionable silence, they rested their horses and surveyed the scene together. Augustus leant over and offered the Marquis a handkerchief to wipe his face. With a grin, the dark figure used it and stuffed it deep into an inside pocket, bowing low to his companion.

Thanks. I’ll give you something to sweat about, soon enough! the young lord promised.

From their vantage point, they stood high in the stirrups and orientated themselves to their new surroundings, enjoying unbroken views of open country in all directions from the uplands. A patchwork of green and brown spread out before them. The umber of autumn was upon the land.

Augustus spoke first. He exhaled with pleasure. What’ll it be today? A race to the next church steeple or some testing jumps? It’s fine hunting country. You chose the route well!

I love this freedom! A natural race course, if ever I saw one.

They savoured the moment together, looking over the valley. The sweat grew cool on their brows as they hatched their plan. It made them shiver, despite themselves. They could hear the rest of the hunt as a distant echo, but it did not hold their interest. The sour trumpets and the muffled horseshoes on turf receded into the distance. As they paused, the sound diminished. This hill would be their starting line, the only one that counted.

Waterford cleared his throat after his exertions. He looked at Augustus sideways. And they say I’m the mad one. The fox is three fields away. They can have it. I’m fed up of chasing a ball of fur. What do you say to a small wager? Nothing for low hedges but a shilling for clearing a big one and three shillings for a monster?

Augustus shook hands from the saddle and smacked his leg with his whip in agreement. Done. I was going to fall asleep with boredom before. Let’s find ourselves some decent hazards! You have your bet. Look to you...

Lord Waterford spurred his horse into action. It vaulted off the mound into the air before hitting the sloping ground on the far side of the hill. Augustus sprang into the space behind him, staying aloft still longer. Their bodies flattened to the contours of their animals as they leapt forwards, galloping down the incline towards a bank of high hedges a few hundred paces away.

The hat was crushed down onto the aristocrat’s head to keep it on safely. The pheasant feather fluttered behind it. The peacock coloured coat flew out in Augustus’ wake. Together, they sped down the slope and into the lea beyond. Falling in step, the two horses lined up for the first hedge side by side, to take it in unison and land on the far side.

Satisfied with their practice jump, they raced like twins across a second field. The hooves made a thumping sound as their horses collided as they sought to distract one another and take the lead. Augustus pushed at Waterford with his free leg, but his old friend was wise to this tactic and steered his horse away. He laughed his disdain. By way of response, he swooped in close to let Augustus steal ahead by a length. He came up fast behind him and pulled his friend’s foot from his stirrup. The ruse failed to slow him down and Augustus hooted his derision as his foot was in the metal hoop once more. He made a childish face and kicked mud up in his friend’s face.

I’ll have my revenge! Waterford attacked again, pretending to jab at his friend with a whip in front of his face, but Augustus swatted him away with ease. Moore concentrated hard on the terrain as his mane of hair grew damp and trailed behind him. They raced neck and neck across a ploughed field to the next obstacle. The going was harder where the ground had been tilled for winter wheat to be sown. Their horses clashed and recoiled repeatedly until their tracks had crossed and re-crossed many times on the furrows and the chosen jump loomed up ahead of them. They braced themselves and measured their steps to the barrier ahead. The mud from below hit them like bullets.

Above the hooves, Waterford spoke, his breath catching in his throat. This big hedge for the first shilling bet.

Done.

Together they came to the base of the agreed hedge. Up close, it was a stockade of hawthorn, alder and ash. Its shadow fell over them. They braced themselves and leapt it like linked figures. Both horses grazed the top of it, landing hard on the other side. The earth shook and so did they. The recoil juddered through them. No winner this time, a dead heat. Instantly, they picked up the race again and lurched to the horizon, equally matched. The horses wavered with signs of tiredness and glistened with sweat as the air chilled on their flanks. The men leapt forwards, looking around them for a challenge.

Augustus indicated a new barrier. That one ahead for the three shillings. It’s where the fox was heading before.

The money’s mine! exclaimed his dark shadow.

Panting side by side, the two men galloped across the next valley. The horses remained in step. They leapt the next high hedge with less assurance. One after the other, they landed on the far side, the riders jarred in the saddle. No money would change hands yet: they were evenly matched so far.

They recovered their balance to establish their bearings in the new field. This place was less cultivated, with grass and wild flowers rising in profusion to stirrup height. It had not been touched by man in many years and the vegetation slowed them down. They saw an unexpected flash of the fox through a hole in the huge hedge in front of them. Its henna coat taunted them from the other side of an impenetrable screen of trees. They corrected their route and raced towards it. Let them give it a scare. In another dash of colour, some way behind the animal, they glimpsed the rest of the hunt struggling to keep up with their quarry. But there were barriers of ditches, shrubs and high bushes between the two riders and the country lane that both the fox and hunt had taken.

In frustration, Waterford pulled up and wheeled his horse in circles in the long grass, looking for a way out of this tangle. He tried his horse in one direction after another, but drew back each time. The way was uncertain.

It’s no good. Augustus. This field is like a fortress. There’s thorn all around. We’ll never get out. We’ll have to return the way we came...

Augustus wound the reins around his fingers, lowered his head and patted his horse. Looks like we’re quits. No one gets the bet money today. I think it’s time to join my brother in the lane, don’t you?

Waterford paused, not understanding the meaning of his companion’s words. Augustus seized the moment to drive home his advantage. He yelped at his horse and it reared in response. Without warning, he charged off through the wilderness towards the point in the hedge where the fox would be in a few minutes time, in the obscured lane bordering the field. He had calculated the exact angle of intersection in his fine mathematical brain. He homed in on it with fanatical accuracy. The shrubs loomed ever larger, but still he pressed his boots into his horse to achieve the extra velocity. The trees jumped towards him as the tall grasses pulled at his legs.

There was no obvious way through, Lord Waterford realised, in his wake. He would be the one to follow and not lead. He cursed anew under his breath and urged his own horse to follow the obsessive rider in blue who could not be stopped. Frustrated horns sounded on the far side in the lane and signalled the hunt day was drawing to its close. The fox was drawing away from them. The fun was waning.

Chapter Three

Little Killeen, County Galway, Ireland

Hundreds of Irish families lived in these turf huts on the moors, each dwelling surrounded by vegetable plots where the potatoes had been harvested, leaving trenches of upturned peat in their wake. The furrows were empty. The Lumpers had been taken from every open plot and rock crevice to the far horizon. Each family needed bucket loads of the tubers boiled up several times a day simply to survive. The new harvest was stored beneath the earth to stay fresh, creating small storage mounds close to the huts in all directions. They resembled thousands of graves.

The soldiers advanced through the early morning mist. They moved in a line, with a purpose. They emerged from the fog in tall diamond shaped hats. There were around twenty of them, looking young and unhappy, in their red coats with dull silver buttons. At their head, a glum looking boy banged a kettle drum to order the advance and keep time. His companions followed him with their rifles levelled in front of them, their white spats sinking in the mud. One fired into the sky. Another copied him.

Heads poked out of the huts to investigate the crack of guns as the red line formed a noose around the settlement. Doors opened and closed. People panicked and stumbled in all directions. The drum came louder. The sound was harsh and metallic. It cut through the mist. There were shouts of alarm on every side. Peasants ran from house to house, rousing their neighbours as dawn broke. Many villagers screamed.

Stray dogs ran for cover as soldiers slashed at them, their yelping bringing more people outdoors, sleep banished by their terror. One dog was shot through the head before its guts were drawn out by a bayonet. A piglet broke loose from its tether and ran in circles, squealing like a rusty door hinge. It was bayoneted and had a bullet put in its head to kill the noise.

At the front of the platoon marched Captain Shaw, dressed in the red coat of war. His lower half was dominated by black boots of coarse leather that rose stiffly to his thighs. He walked awkwardly in them but did not seem to care. He moved with deliberate strides across the plain, bellowing orders.

The people of Little Killeen poured from their cabins into the dew of dawn. Their faces were pale with shock. Some sobbed while others chattered incessantly in Irish. Many were silent, frozen to the spot. Dressed in rags, with clothes too thin to keep out the elements, they milled around in the mud, turning in on themselves.

An old woman raised her hands as high as she could in supplication. She spoke with a broken voice and seemed to be reciting some tale of ancient woe. Captain Shaw moved towards her at speed. He shook his head to admonish her and barked at her to cease. She continued to mumble to the heavens in a language he did not understand. The peasants heard her, and hesitated in their movements. They stopped to watch her.

The commander growled a curse in English and kicked her in the direction of the road. She lost her balance and fell into the mud. With an easy movement, he lifted her by one arm to send her wheeling through the puddles and on her way. She skidded along the ground on her back, her mouth a circle of black. Her features disappeared in a sea of brown. He caught up with her and dragged her by the arm towards the rifles of his junior soldiers. He grumbled at the villagers who were watching him. The peasants began to move as he bared his teeth at them.

Clear the ground! Captain Shaw shouted at the top of his voice to his men. He waved his sword for emphasis. He pointed it at the grey faces watching him and stabbed at them from a distance. Leave no stone unturned. Make an example of them all!

In response, his soldiers made a point of kicking down the hovels they searched, the walls caving in easily as the people fled before them. They fell to the lightest of touches. Padded red shoulders pushed at mud walls that tottered and imploded. The turf crumbled onto the uniforms and gave way. Rifle butts battered at the sides of doorframes. The lintels collapsed in heaps. Scores of cabins fell in to the onslaught, leaving only knee high ruins as the soldiers moved on. Behind the first line came other infantrymen with lit torches to drive away any who resisted or were slow. The firebrands dripped burning tar onto any thatch they could find. Blazes erupted as hearths were overturned and black smoke rolled across the plain. The heather caught fire and burned in a lacklustre way. The wet turf smouldered, emitting black vapour.

Captain Shaw cleared his throat and stabbed in the air anew. Onto the road all of you! he shouted at the shivering villagers. He glared at any who were not yet moving. His sword cut arcs in the sky. He stabbed at a group of immobile faces. You are evicted for non-payment of the rents. Out, so we can get a new lot in!

To one side, John Scally hissed to his young daughter in Irish, cowering at his side. She looked alert, but fearful. Watch these fine men at work, girl. Mark my words. In these parts, leases are short, giving us no rights. That way, they can throw us out of our homes at any time, Bridget, with no redress in law. What do you think of that? It’s all controlled by cursed middlemen, the ones who took our money.

Bridget huddled close and whispered. She pointed. Who’s that man, daddy?

That’s the bully who calls himself their captain. Look at him with his gallon boots and flashing sword, a coxcomb if ever I saw one. What do you say to that? Today’s your history lesson. The landlords hide behind these fine soldiers here. The absentee landlords get their fill while we get only spuds and debts. They know we missed a payment so this is what happens to the Irish. You remember that. Stay out of harm’s way, my little darling...

The other people of Little Killeen collected as many potatoes as they could carry and limped forwards, remaining one step ahead of the steel blades. Few of them spoke. The soldiers were also quiet, intent on their work as they cleared the land. Children watched their oppressors with open mouths as they dug the potatoes from the stores with their hands, hurried on by their parents, who did the same. Others made aprons out of their rags in which to carry the food from the lazy beds of stored potatoes. They scrambled to retain their load as it fell through holes in the material or slipped away to be crushed on the road. The villagers fumbled in panic as they moved to the lane, a few carrying sacks. Nervous shouts erupted and children wept. Invisible screams rent the air as a woman fled the fire in her roof. She dived out from her front door. Her children tumbled out after her, their clothes smoking. Still the soldiers advanced and did not falter. A watery dawn appeared through the mist as smoke rose to greet it.

Standing bent, covered in rags, John Scally shook with mute rage as the big booted Englishman set fire to the neighbouring house. The straw curled to invisibility with a bright flame. The cabin collapsed in on itself after his kick, leaving a black core of ashes and dying sparks where the hearth had been. The smoke choked them and made the Scallys cough as the wind changed. Bridget stood behind her father with watchful eyes, his fanned fingers protecting her. She hopped from leg to leg like a bird as she cleared her lungs. She peered at him intently, concern showing on her lumpy face.

Stay back, Bridget, Scally murmured to his cowering daughter. He turned towards the approaching English captain and placed himself in front of her. He waved his hands in protest.

Stop, stop, stop! he shouted in broken English. No money here! Harvest very bad. Go. Go away. Stop. No death.

Captain Shaw shrugged. Move on or die where you stand, he shouted back. You have already eaten more than the rent’s worth. I know there’s no money. It’s dried up. Very naughty of you. We have new tenants galore to take your place.

John Scally advanced a step, his hands outstretched. No place to go.

That’s no concern of mine, Shaw answered. He lit another fire with his torch and raised his sword as the flames added smoke to the fog. And for your insolence... With an expert lunge he stabbed Scally in his leg, just above the knee. There’s a small, neat wound for you, my noisy man, no tendons cut. It’ll heal in time.

John Scally fell and rolled on the ground in agony, his daughter rushing around him like a small brown bird, her mouth forming a poetic stream of curses aimed at their persecutor. She goaded Shaw in Irish with all the dirty words she knew. She stemmed the spurting blood with a piece of moss and hugged her father. Hastily, she tore strips of her rags into bandages and pressed them to his wound, using her other hand to keep the soldiers at bay.

Oblivious to Bridget’s weak screams, Captain Shaw moved on to set light to another house. He watched the orange flames he had created across the plain, almost mesmerised. She stared after him with baleful eyes but clung to her stricken father, rocking him in her arms and stemming the blood. He groaned and tried to stroke her hair from his stricken position.

Shaw confided in a young soldier as he watched the smoking plain and the people absorb his message and depart from their ruins, their bodies sliver and grey with misery. I like to leave my mark on things. It makes it easier the next time, you remember that. Get a bit of a reputation for yourself. Make them fear you. Clear the way. This here blind hatred’s a simple thing to deal with. Let the new lot of peasants clamber over each other to get in. Let them see what we’ve done here today. Let them remember. Warn them to pay regularly... and you keep your feet dry. That’s my advice. Get big boots like me and line them with clean straw each day! Watch and learn. Show them who’s the boss. Curse this wet country!

Chapter Four

Leicestershire

Exhilarated from his horseback duel with Lord Waterford, perspiration beading his face, Augustus gritted his teeth at the high hedges penning him into the untilled field. He wheeled around, his long