The mare picked her passage daintily. From a distance her pure grey colour blended with the overcast sky. She champed on the snaffle bit, one ear going backwards and then forwards, intent upon her rider and his mood. She felt a tiny nudge at her flanks. Instantly responsive she swung into a rolling canter. Ears pricked now, eyes bold and bright, small head with flaring nostrils and dished nose—she carried herself with the regal pride of the pure bred Arabian.
John loved the grey mare. No other horse even remotely compared to her but, for once, he sat oblivious to the charm of her ride. He was too engrossed in his own thoughts. A few hours ago, the knowledge that a wench he had loved was to have a child was interesting but not startling. Yet quite suddenly his emotions had transformed. This was not just any serving girl. This was Betty Howard. Sweet, gentle Betty who had shown no fear or hesitation for him. A Betty who would make a loving wife. A wife of his own choosing.
He wondered at his past, callous stupidity. Why had it taken him so long to analyse and understand his feelings? He loved Betty. He would never love anyone else. A life without her at his side was plainly unthinkable. The problems ahead appalled him.
That his father would approve such a match, he knew to be out of the question. Even thinking such a thought made sweat appear across his forehead. His mother would side with him, but her feebleness would provide little real tangible help. What he had to do he must do himself.
‘Wed Betty Howard I will—if she’ll have me!’ he vowed.
This new thought made him draw back on the reins. The mare slithered to a halt and stood patiently waiting.
‘What if she turns me down?’ the thought horrified him. ‘Betty left Mayo’s under a cloud of disgrace and fear. She might loathe me, despise me, scorn me!’
He ground his teeth together, cursing himself soundly. Why had he not understood his feelings before and spoken sooner to Betty?
His father! John Mayo frowned. There would be a row if nothing else but, his mind decided, nothing would make him deviate from his chosen path now.
A baby! His child! He touched the mare with his heels and she bounced into her springy canter again. They rode up the fields heading towards the woods and the direct and shortest route to Betty’s home.
He slowed the mare back to a walk. Under her hooves the sodden ground squelched. The mare snorted slightly. The grass was ticklish to her feet. She wanted to bound forward and thrash along in a gallop, but she was too well trained to disobey her rider. She jingled fretfully at the snaffle and twitched her tail with impatience.
The trees gradually thickened, bunching together in groups then extending in an unbroken line of dark trunks. Overhead the branches reached out and touched each other, murmuring in the wind. Old leaves tumbled down, thickening the rich carpet underfoot.
John turned the mare to the left and nudged her into a canter. They were on the ride. Now for a gallop!
The mare felt his change of mood, swung up her head and danced in excitement. She bounded forward. Eyes sparkling, nostrils flaring extra wide, ears pricked forward, keen and alert. Her legs thrashed down as she increased speed. Her neck extended, her tail flowed out almost horizontal.
The boy eased his weight out of the saddle. His knees gripped the saddle flaps, heels low, hands just feeling the reins each side of the mare’s neck. His hair tumbled forward, his cheeks reddened and he laughed wildly. This was the way to live. This was the supreme joy, being on the best horse in the world, going at a flat-out gallop to see the girl who was to be his wife.
He yelled with excitement, drummed with his heels and the mare increased her speed yet again. They were moving fast now, chunks of mud flew in every direction, a thin line of sweat could be seen dappling her grey coat.
The grass ride narrowed until the trees allowed just enough passage for a rider. They flew over the rich green carpet, hurtling down to where two trees stood almost parallel to each other.
The mare suddenly twitched one ear. She raised her head an inch and looked to the left. Her nerves tensed as her instinct warned of danger but it was too late to halt their wild pace.
With exact precision Joseph Howard jerked the strong twine inches from the mare’s flailing hooves. She saw it and, at the last second, endeavoured to jump. The powerful hocks thrust downwards but her hind hooves slithered unable to make a purchase on the mud. Then the twine slapped against her knees as rigid as a stone bar.
The mare felt herself falling and tried to turn her head sideways. She had no time. She fell forward, straight and true, throwing the boy from the saddle. Her dainty muzzle touched the mud. Her fast, moving body ploughed on and, unable to stand such strain, her neck snapped. She was dead before the whole of her body landed.
John Mayo had no idea what was happening. He felt the mare going under him then his body was leaving the saddle, arcing into the air. He caught a floating glimpse of a dark figure standing behind a tree, a dark line of something under the mare’s legs, then the ground came up hard and fast. He hit the wet grass with a bump and rolled over and over. His body carved a trail of torn grass, water and spray before he lurched to a halt and lay spread-eagled on the ride. For five seconds he lay still, his mind bemused. Then, with the quick resilence of youth, he scrambled to his feet and stood swaying slightly. He looked back down the ride trying hard to understand what had happened.
The mare lay ominously still and in a flash he knew she had broken her neck. Now he remembered a sharp crack as he flew through the air. The mare dead! Horror and misery snatched at his throat. He felt a dampness behind his eyes. The mare dead? It couldn’t be true!
Then he saw the man. A muddy, soaked figure who, at first, he did not recognize. Slowly, recognition came to John. Howard stood watching. In one hand was a tangle of twine. John refused to believe what he saw. The whole thing was too horrible to be true. A person didn’t deliberately set out to kill a horse—or did they? He raised his eyes to Joseph Howard who had started advancing towards him with slow, deliberate steps.
There was a look about him which John Mayo recognized. It promised violence and revenge. It was meant for him. The man was snarling, teeth bared, like a wild animal. His eyes were hot pools of red fire, fists balled into bony clubs.
The boy sprang forward, trembling with fury. The man sprang at the same time. They clashed in a whirl of flailing arms, kicking legs and snapping teeth. They fought like two dogs over a bone. Neither was human. The man struck with his great fists, hammering the boy’s face, splitting the lips and bursting both nostrils. The boy fought back in wild desperation. He, too, hit, kicked and gouged in his fury. With his youth he was everywhere.
To the older man he was a wraith of energy and activity. Howard fell back a step, arms in front of his neck and face, while his narrowed eyes watched for an opening. He had the strength, he had the wisdom gained from other fights in his youth. The boy could not keep up this pace for long.
John sprang forward again, his right leg coming up in a vicious kick aimed at Howard’s crotch. The man grasped the foot, twisted and flung all his strength into throwing the boy off his balance. Then, with surprising speed he jumped on him, both hands straining to grasp his neck.
John Mayo felt sudden fear. His first wild rage had abated. He was now fighting in a cold fury but on the ground, under the heavier man. He realized his disadvantage. They fought in complete silence.
The boy felt two hands slide round his throat. He struggled to move, kicking with his legs, his hands working like pistons in the man’s face.
John suddenly knew the fear of death then. He stopped hammering with his fists and struggled to break the grip of the fingers round his neck. His eyes bulged. His chest swelled for air and, quite suddenly, he knew he was going to die.
The man’s fingers tightened even further. Pain of an unbelievable intensity exploded in the boy’s brain, shattering all his senses in a bang. His lips strained to form a word. His throat gave one last contortion of protest and he died.
Joseph Howard slowly released his grip. Breathing hard, he stood, leg muscles twitching. The top half of his body was covered with his blood and that from the dead boy. The woods were still. Not a leaf moved or bird called. He turned aside as pains retched in his guts. He vomited, uttering gasping moans. Slowly, the paroxisms ebbed and, leaning against the beech tree, Joseph Howard’s brain cooled. He returned to the land of the sane.
As the drumming in his temples receded, his breathing steadied and he turned and coolly looked down, first at the dead boy and then the still mare. This was revenge! The sweet taste for which he had waited so long. The dirt, blood and fury had been like a drug. Now he was cooling rapidly. Reason overtook passion with a burst of clarity that left him appalled.
‘What have I done?’ he cried in anguish.
Slowly, moving with infinite care, he bent over the body. Carefully he touched the boy’s cheek. The face, now a grotesque mask with a swollen and protruding tongue, nauseated him.
‘I have done right! I have done right! I have killed a monster!’ he shouted.
In vain he fought to convince himself, yet growing larger with every second came the realization of the enormity of his action. He had murdered!
The sweet and sickly taste filled his mouth again as his bile rose. He turned away and stared at the dead mare. Now flat and covered with streaked mud she was ugly and repulsive.
He leaned against a tree, rested his forehead on his hands and shuddered. Great sobs racked his body until his shoulders shook. He cried like a child.
Slowly, the sobs diminished and wiping his eyes with his dirty hands he turned back to look at the scene. For this they would hang him. He was doomed. No matter where he went or what he did, they would find him. They—James Mayo—his vengeance would be too terrible to contemplate. Sarah! Betty! They must live without him.
He heard a sound, whipped around, then darted behind a tree. His heart sent fresh waves thudding into his ears. The wind brushed in the tree tops. It had started raining again. There was movement.
‘Joseph! Joseph! Are you there?’
He flinched. Sarah! Of course, come to find him and Betty. He hesitated, not knowing whether to run, hide or stay. While he dithered she came into view, pushing her way through the trees on an animal track. She stepped into the ride and halted. Horror chased over her face. One hand covered her mouth as she took in the scene, read the signs and looked at her husband.
Joseph made towards her.
Gently, he touched her hand, his fingers begging, his eyes beseeching. She looked up at him, mute and frightened. He drew her onto his chest, kissed the top of her hair, then held her at arm’s length.
‘It had to be,’ he said quietly.
‘But to kill him! Oh Joe, they’ll hang you for this!’
‘I expect they will but I’ll give them a run for their money first. Sarah, you’re on your own now, you know that?’
She looked at him too bewildered and horrified to grasp the full truth.
‘Listen, I’ve not much time,’ he told her urgently. ‘I’ll come back with you. Let me have a crust then I’ll be gone.’
‘Where will you go?’ she asked him terrified, clinging to his arm.
‘Go? I’ll go to Bristol. Easier to get lost there. Then I’ll try and get on a ship to America. I’ll send for you.’
‘Oh Joe, you’ll never do it. You know you won’t. And me and Betty . . . ?’ She started to weep.
He soothed her as best as he could.
‘When I’m gone go see the Squire. We got on all right in the old days, me and him, and I know he doesn’t think all that much of Mayo. He’ll help. Get you a little cottage somewhere. Have Betty with you. Look after her—and the baby,’ he said quietly, knowing he would never see his grandchild now. He also knew instinctively that with his going Sarah might indeed be better off. A woman and daughter left alone in his family’s circumstances would engender both scandal and pity. With pity should come practical help.
‘Are you listening? You’ll have to get work, regular work too, but maybe the Squire’s wife can help out there. At least you’d not have to go to the workhouse. I’m sorry, Sarah, lass. I love you. Why did it have to come to this?’
She comforted him now, suddenly philosophical for the future. This was the end for her. Life could never be the same again. What James Mayo would do horrified her. What had so recently happened appalled her. But Howard was her man. In these last precious minutes their love for each other was as strong as at the beginning.
‘Oh Joe! Joe!’
‘Where’s Betty?’ he asked.
She nodded to their rear.
‘I sent her back to the hut,’ she told him. They walked, arm in arm for the last time.
* * *
Inside the hovel she hastened to wrap the little food she had, tying it in a rough square of cloth. Joseph looked around him. This filthy wet hovel was suddenly so very precious. He watched Sarah, bustling about making too many nervous actions with her hands. He could see she was trying to hide her fear while Betty huddled in the corner, staring at him in terror.
‘Betty girl, what’s done is done,’ he said to her awkwardly. ‘Don’t think too badly of me?’ he pleaded, but the girl was in shock. She just gazed back at him in awe.
‘Here Joe, take it and go!’
‘Sarah!’
Then she was in his arms, crying softly, her heart breaking. He felt a lump block his throat. A salt taste ran down his cheeks into his bloodied lips.
He gave her one last gentle kiss, looked at his daughter, ducked under the sack and vanished from their sight.
Sarah rushed to look out but already he was gone, melting into the rain and gloom as evening approached. In a daze she sat on the chair. Reaction was setting in.
The rain streamed down again, splattering at the hovel’s inadequate roof. Life without Joe—how could she carry on? They had been through so much together. Without him life would be sterile because she knew she would never never see him again. She dare not think of the future. She just sat, huddled, frozen and waiting.
* * *
Joseph Howard ran wildly for half a mile then stopped to catch his breath. Already it was quite dark. He would have the whole night to put distance between himself and those woods. He must hide by day.
He considered his position. It was hopeless. When he had told Sarah he would go to America it had been a foolish statement to try and bolster her morale.
To the north were the Cotswold Hills. High, wide open spaces. No place for a man on the run. To the west was the width of the mighty river Severn. If he could only cross the river and get to the Forest of Dean his chances would be brighter. He had no money for a ferry and no man could swim that treacherous river and live. To the east the town of Chipping Sodbury with the turnpike road to Bristol through Iron Acton.
He hesitated. Which way to go for the best? While he thought he ate the little food then wrapped the cloth around his neck. Somehow the soaking material seemed to hold Sarah’s touch. He was miserably wet through to his skin and cold to the marrow of his bones.
He made up his mind. Bristol it must be, over the country. Perhaps, if he were lucky, he could hide up tomorrow and steal into Bristol during the next night.
He walked on, forcing himself to keep a steady, brisk pace. He waded through the water-logged fields, slipped into over-flowing ditches. He started to warm up with the exertion.
‘As long as I keep moving,’ he muttered to himself, but he was tiring. The fight and emotional shock of the whole dreadful day were hitting back at him.
He halted as he came upon a wide track. He guessed it led to a farm and there would be dogs around. He turned away, wondering at the time and how far he had come.
Faintly a greyness smudged the sky as dawn approached. So soon! He thought he must have come six miles but it was difficult to estimate. He started looking for somewhere to hide. He must rest and sleep. He could go no further. His limbs were trembling. He reeled as he walked.
Half a mile ahead he saw a cluster of trees. He headed slowly for them, his spirits lifting as he realized this was another wood. It was dawn now and he hastened to reach cover, driving his aching legs forward relentlessly.
He pushed his way in among the trees, sighing with relief then started hunting for a hide. The growth was not thick enough and the trees stood too far apart.
The bushes would not give cover to a mouse. He started to fret with worry, then he saw the tall oak. It was an old tree. Its lowest branch just above his head. The foliage was still relatively thick and he saw a fork where he could spend the daylight hours.
He staggered around, studying the tree and also noting his footmarks. There was nothing he could do about them though. He must hope for more rain to wash his tracks away.
He bent at the knees and eyed the lowest branch. With a wild spring, one hand grasped the wood and he scrambled at the trunk with his feet, pulled with the other hand and hauled himself inelegantly into the boughs. He leaned against the trunk, shaking and trembling with fatigue.
As he settled down in the fork, his arms were twitching as his eyes closed. With one hand clasped around a comforting branch he drifted into an uneasy sleep. The cold stole into his joints, numbing them, freezing his skin. Even asleep, he shivered in gentle spasms.