Runaway (8 page)

‘Stop it,’ I told him firmly. ‘Stop it now. Listen to me.’ I began to speak soothingly, with the mixture of words and meaningless sounds I’d always used to communicate with horses, which often seemed to calm them. The stallion tried to bite me again, but this time it was a half-hearted effort and, using all my strength, I managed to hold him. I kept talking.

He was back down on all four hooves now, teeth no longer bared, though his ears were still flat against his head. He was trembling, snorting, and sweating, with the whites of his eyes showing. But I had his attention. His nostrils quivered as he sampled my scent. His head dropped a little lower and, though he stamped his back leg one more time, I could see the tension going out of him.

Behind me, I was aware that the chaise and team had managed to back away. There was nothing further to trouble the young stallion. But I didn’t take my eyes off him and kept talking softly. A little more time, and his ears came forward. He dropped his nose into my hand and I stroked him. Only when I was quite certain he was calm did I risk a glance up at the driver. He was sitting quite still on the splintered box of the light chaise, the reins gathered in his hands. As I met his astonished gaze, I recognized him as the handsome young man who had warned me about the highwaymen in Savernake Forest. What had Martha called him? I’d forgotten. But I remembered she’d said he was from Deerhurst Park.

I gave the stallion’s nose a last stroke and then stepped back. The elderly groom had staggered to his feet and was now standing unsteadily at the other horse’s head. Tom had taken charge of the team and Phillips himself was back in the yard now too, drawn by the rumpus. I noticed the stallion’s driver beckoning me.

‘Thank you, my lad,’ he said as I approached. ‘Did he bite you hard?’

‘It’s nothing, sir,’ I lied politely.

‘Here’s a shilling for your trouble,’ he said, holding out a gleaming coin.

I recoiled instinctively. ‘Oh no,’ I stammered. ‘You don’t need to … ’

I didn’t notice Phillips coming up behind me until he took me by the collar and shoved me away with a kick to the seat of my breeches.

‘Sorry the little varmint is bothering you, Mr Lawrence,’ he said obsequiously. ‘We’ve just had to dismiss him for laziness and impertinence. He’s not at all the sort of urchin you’d want to tip. Scram!’ he said fiercely, rounding on me. I fled.

It didn’t take me many minutes to pack up my belongings, tuck my few valuables into my shirt and leave. As I left the inn yard, I heard the young man giving orders to put up for the night and to have his carriage repaired.

It was late and as I walked along the high street, the heavens opened and the rain soaked me. Instead of setting out for Dorset at once, I was forced to find a shabby little alehouse that rented out a few tiny rooms to travellers far poorer than those who used the main posting houses. I broke into the money I’d got for my hair, ordered a jug of hot water, enjoyed a thorough wash, and sent my clothes for laundering overnight.

When I opened my eyes, the sun was shining brightly outside. I yawned, stretched, and took a moment to enjoy not having been up for several hours already, mucking out stalls. I sat up, wincing at the pain in my arm and pulled up my sleeve. The whole area was bruised purplish-blue and very sore.

I was halfway out of bed when I heard footsteps and a knock at the door. ‘Who is it?’ I asked nervously.

‘Gen’leman to see you,’ the innkeeper’s voice announced through the door. ‘Waiting downstairs.’

I sat frozen to the spot as his footsteps receded back down the rickety stairs. A ‘gentleman’. The only gentlemen who might be looking for me wanted nothing good. I remembered the smooth, well-spoken voices of my father’s killer and the equally presentable magistrate. A man was waiting for me downstairs and it could be either of them. It had been a close call in London. Perhaps the posters had worked and they’d been given information leading them to me.

With a shudder of fear, I silently fetched my laundered clothes from where they’d been left in the corridor and dragged them on. I couldn’t risk using the stairs; they took me straight down into the grubby taproom below. Instead, I forced open my narrow casement window. It gave onto a small yard and a woodpile was stacked up below me. There was no one about, so I dropped my bag through the window, wriggled through the small opening, and jumped down after it. Swiftly leaving the yard, I fled up the road.

I hadn’t gone far up the busy street before I heard footsteps behind me. There were plenty of people around, but fear gripped me and I broke into a run. I pushed past a farmer and slipped by a stout woman with a basket on her arm, desperately trying to lose myself in the throng. The footsteps behind me quickened, keeping pace easily.

My terror made me behave stupidly. Instead of staying in the busy thoroughfare, I dodged down an alleyway, my urge for swift flight winning over my wiser instinct to stay among people. The footsteps were drawing closer behind me. I dared not even take the time to glance back. I raced around a corner only to find myself trapped in a dead end.

I attempted to dodge my pursuer; as I ducked past him, his hand grasped my sleeve. I used the force of it to swing around and let fly a blow to his face. It was too late to stop by the time I realized that I did know the face, but it wasn’t either of the ones I’d feared.

Even as my eyes widened in horror at the mistake I was making, my fist connected with his chin. I felt the pain of the blow through every bone in my hand and gasped. The young man released me and reeled back, clutching his jaw with an oath.

I staggered away from him but didn’t flee. Instead, I nursed my bruised hand, watching him from a safe distance as I caught my breath, both wary and apologetic.

‘What are you chasing me for?’ I gasped.

‘There’s gratitude for you,’ said the young man, shaking his head as if to clear it. He bent over, panting and rubbing his jaw ruefully, his eyes on me. They were hazel; striking in his rather pale face. As he straightened up, I realized he was quite a bit taller than me. His face looked stern.

‘I sent you a message and the next thing I knew, the maid told me you were running off up the road. You
are
the lad they call Charlie, are you not?’

‘I am.’ I was still wary, watching him suspiciously, wondering what he wanted from me. Was I in some kind of trouble, more than I knew of?

‘Do you recognize me?’ he asked.

‘Yes. It was your stallion last night.’

‘That’s right,’ he nodded. ‘We met once before, didn’t we? On the road to London? You were with Mistress Martha.’

I gave a wary nod, still wondering what he wanted. ‘Why were you chasing me?’ I asked again.

‘I’m clearly mad. I was impressed with your handling of my young horse. I was considering offering you work.’

‘You were?’ I could hear my voice was suddenly eager.

A slight smile crossed the young man’s face. ‘They let you go from the John of Gaunt. Why was that?’

I frowned. ‘You heard what Mr Phillips said.’

‘Yes, but I’d like to hear your version of it,’ he replied.

‘He didn’t like that I noticed a horse was injured before he did. And he didn’t think I worked fast enough.’

‘I see. Well, I know you worked for Mistress Martha while her boy was laid up. I know she was pleased with you, because I’ve seen her and spoken with her recently. I need a new personal groom. Mine is elderly and the work is too much for him; it’s time he had someone to start training up. I’ve rarely seen a lad who can handle horses like you showed me you can yesterday. Nor do I often see lads with that kind of courage. My horses take some handling. If you are honest and hard-working, I’m interested in giving you a chance.’

I stared up at him. ‘Really?’ I managed to say at last.

His eyes twinkled, making his face look less severe. ‘Really. How old are you?’

‘Thirteen,’ I said. It was safer to give him a younger age to explain why I wasn’t as strong as other boys.

‘Parents?’

I shook my head.

‘Bailiffs or constables after you?’

‘No!’

‘Then why were you running off?’

‘You frightened me.’

‘Not in any trouble I should know about are you?’

I shook my head vehemently. He definitely shouldn’t know anything about it. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ I stated honestly.

‘What experience do you have?’ he asked me.

‘I’ve spent my life around horses. I can ride them, groom them, care for them when they’re sick, injured, or in foal.’

‘Can you care for their tack, their harnesses?’

‘I can.’

‘What about driving?’

‘No,’ I said regretfully.

‘That’s something we can address. I think we might suit,’ said the man. ‘You would be paid a shilling a week, after board, lodgings, and clothing have been subtracted. Will you come and work for me?’

I grinned at him, struck by the absurdity of the situation. A few moments ago, I’d been fleeing from him, convinced he was someone trying to kill me. ‘I know nothing about you,’ I pointed out. ‘Except Mistress Martha told me you worked for some lord or other.’

This drew an answering smile from him, and I thought once more how it suited him to smile. He was a quiet, serious man. I had the impression he was as reserved as I was, but his smile seemed to hint at another side of him.

‘I’m sorry. My name is Lawrence. I’m steward and cousin once removed to Lord Rutherford of Deerhurst Park. You’d be working in the main stables at the park.’

I was actually being offered a job at Deerhurst Park! How could a more perfect opportunity possibly come my way? I instantly put my plans to find Henry on hold once more. I would be earning money
and
perhaps I could learn something about my parents.

Lawrence smiled again and I found myself smiling back. I liked what I saw. This was a young man I could imagine working for happily. He would not bully or browbeat. I was amazed he would look twice at a scruffy lad like me.

‘Lord Rutherford was a keen horseman in his younger days and still keeps a large stable. He indulges my interest in gentling difficult horses. You’d have responsibility for some valuable beasts. I need someone with both courage and talent.’

‘And do you often take on new staff by interview in the middle of the street?’ I asked, amused.

‘Rarely,’ he said, ruefully rubbing the bruise I’d given him.

‘I accept,’ I told him.

‘There will be a trial period of a month,’ Lawrence told me. ‘You’ll be working under my groom and learning the ropes. Presumably you can start right away?’

‘I can.’

‘Come with me then, Charlie Weaver,’ said Lawrence. He turned and strode off back down the alley. I trotted after him in wonder. I had no idea what a household such as his would be like. It sounded very grand. I knew nothing of the British nobility, having spent my childhood in the Americas. Would I manage to fit in better than at the John of Gaunt? Mansions were even further outside my range of experience than packhorse trains or posting inns. I simply needed to be thankful, I told myself, that such secure, respectable work had come my way. The relief of not being adrift in the world again, with only the vague possibility of finding Henry, was intense.

It was very strange to enter the yard of the John of Gaunt again. I attracted a few surprised glances from the other boys and a deeply disapproving one from Phillips. He drew Mr Lawrence aside and whispered in his ear, but I was relieved to see Lawrence shake him off in some irritation.

‘Fetch me my carriage and let my groom know I’m ready for my horses, if you please,’ he told him firmly but politely, ‘You can leave me to make my own choice of staff.’ He turned to me. ‘You can put your bag in the chaise. Then Bridges will no doubt be grateful for some help bringing out the horses.’

I stowed my satchel and hurried into the stables. It took me only a second to spot the stallion and the gelding that had pulled the carriage the night before. Both had been groomed far more thoroughly than anyone employed at the John of Gaunt would have time for. I guessed that Bridges was responsible for this. It gave me a good opinion of him.

I soon realized this good opinion wasn’t reciprocated. His expression, when his eyes fell on me, was disapproving. In fact, he looked as though he had smelled something distasteful.

‘Mr Lawrence sent me to help you,’ I said by way of explanation. ‘I’m Charlie.’

‘Hmm,’ was all the response I got as he took hold of the stallion’s lead rein and led him out of the stall. I hadn’t been told what to do, but decided I should lead the gelding out after him. However, before I reached the horse, I was intercepted by Phillips and the eldest stable boy, Matthew. They didn’t look as though they’d come to congratulate me on my new employment.

‘Sneaking off to ingratiate yourself,’ hissed Phillips. ‘There’s half a dozen lads here should’ve had this position ahead of you.’

‘You’re nothing. Dirt under our feet,’ added Matthew.

I tried to slip past them, not wanting to get drawn into an argument. But Matthew stuck out his foot and I tripped, falling full length onto the mucky floor of the stalls. I picked myself up, but Phillips caught my arm and Matthew punched me in the stomach. I doubled over, winded, gasping helplessly for air. The stalls and my assailants swam giddily before my eyes for a moment. I thought I was going to throw up. Something in me snapped suddenly. The fear I’d been living with, the bottled up grief, my anger at their resentment; all combined to make me feel red-hot rage. I threw myself at Matthew, clawing at his face and kicking him. I caught him off guard and bore him backwards into the straw. I bit him on the ear and punched him in the face before a hand grasped me roughly by the seat of my breeches and hauled me off. Still spitting with rage, I fought to get away, until I realized it was Bridges. I went limp in his grasp.