Andrew Taylor - The Silent Boy

‘That backsliding priest,’ Rampton said. ‘A traitor to his God as well as to his king.’

‘Yes, sir. He arrived in England after the massacres in September. I believe he took the lease for Charnwood in the spring, which suggests he is remarkably far-sighted. He declines to call himself an émigré, however.’

‘In other words, he’s sitting on the fence,’ Rampton said. ‘Waiting to see what happens with the King. Besides, most of his wealth is in France and he doesn’t want to lose it if he can help it. But he’s a clever devil, Savill – if he’s at Charnwood, he’s a man to watch.’

Malbourne cleared his throat. ‘And a charming devil, sir, as well. Monsieur Fournier is a man of great address and he is very adroit at worming his way into intimacy with those who he believes may further his interests.’

‘What if Mr Savill needs to summon a magistrate to enforce his claim?’

‘He should communicate with Mr Horton, sir, the Vicar of Norbury. He is the nearest Justice now. The village is less than a mile from Charnwood.’

Rampton turned to Savill. ‘The coach leaves tomorrow. You should be back with Charles by Saturday at the latest.’

Malbourne showed Savill out. The porter in the outer hall did not move from his stool when the inner door opened. His eyes were closed.

Malbourne stopped. ‘Jarsdel!’

The eyes snapped open. ‘Sir?’

‘Stand up and make your obedience, damn you.’

The porter rose from his stool with the caution of a snail emerging from his shell. He bowed ponderously.

‘This gentleman is Mr Savill,’ Malbourne told him. ‘He is a particular friend of Mr Rampton’s. If he calls again, you are to admit him directly and show him every courtesy. Is that understood?’

Malbourne followed Savill down the steps and on to the pavement.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ he said. ‘Jarsdel’s an insolent fellow. It amuses Mr Rampton to make a pet of him, and he’s inclined to give himself airs in consequence. If we do not bring him up occasionally, he grows intolerable.’

Savill smiled and nodded, but said nothing.

‘I hope your journey prospers,’ Malbourne went on.

All that money, Savill thought, all those papers – and all this for a little boy.

‘I wonder what it is you really do here, sir,’ he said.

Malbourne glanced back at the house and smiled: and that was all the answer he gave. ‘I wish you a safe journey, sir,’ he said. ‘And a happy return.’

It took Savill over twelve hours to travel by the mail coach from London to Bath. Most of that time it rained.

He spent the night in Bath at the Three Tuns inn. It was still raining in the morning, when he hired a gig to take him to Norbury, with a groom to drive him. The owner of the livery stable told him that the village’s situation was remote, far from the nearest post road.

The chaise was open to the elements. Savill sat behind the driver. Despite his great coat, a travelling cloak, top boots and a broad-brimmed hat, the rain found ways to reach his skin.

Their road was narrow and winding; the rain filled the ruts with puddles and turned the higher parts to mud. The country was generously provided with hills, which no doubt would have afforded a variety of fine prospects if the rain and the mist had permitted Savill to see them.

As the day passed, they laboured on, mile after mile. The driver muttered under his breath. The horse was a tired, broken-down creature that seemed incapable of going much beyond a foot-pace. They stopped twice, ostensibly to rest the unhappy animal but really for the groom to dose himself against rheumatic fever with gin and hot water.

There was said to be an inn at Norbury. Savill had intended to put up there, order his dinner and then call at Charnwood Court to make the necessary arrangements to take the boy away in the morning. But he realized that he had been too optimistic before they had covered half their distance. They would be lucky to reach the village before evening.

The light was already beginning to fade when they came to a small but swollen river that surged between high green banks, its surface mottled with muddy froth. The lane passed over the river by a wooden bridge resting on stone piers that were coated on their upstream side with green slime.

The two men climbed down. The groom led the horse and chaise across the bridge, with Savill behind. The wood was slippery with moisture and in places had rotted away.

‘How far is it now?’

‘A mile, sir. Maybe.’

After another mile, by Savill’s reckoning, they were still no nearer the village. The lane narrowed again and began to twist and climb. They came to a sharp bend with a partly open field-gate on its outer edge. As they rounded the bend, they found themselves face to face with a bull.

It was a large brown animal that to Savill’s eyes seemed the size of a small cottage. The horse came to an abrupt halt, straining against the harness of the chaise. The bull had its back to them. For a moment no one moved. Then the great beast slowly turned round. It examined them with sad, incurious eyes. Its legs were coated with pale mud, which gave it the appearance of wearing stockings.

The groom stared open-mouthed at the bull. There was no room to turn in the narrow lane even if there had been time to do it. But the horse did not wait to be told what to do. It twitched violently and bolted to the right toward the field-gate. It blundered through the opening. The chaise followed. For an instant the right wheel caught on the gatepost. The horse strained forward. Suddenly they were through.

Just inside the gate, however, sheltering beneath the branches of an ash tree, were half a dozen cows, the bull’s harem. These came as a second, equally unwelcome surprise to the horse, which veered to the left, pulling the chaise after it.

It was unfortunate that at this point the field sloped steeply towards a hedgerow running from the lane. The chaise bumped down the incline, its wheels swaying and skidding. The horse stumbled as a hoof sank into the ground. Its momentum carried it forward but sharply sideways, dragging the chaise after it. The hoof came free.

The vehicle fell on its side, tipping out the two men. Wood splintered. The groom shouted an oath. The horse whinnied. Savill felt a stab of pain in his jaw. The impact had set off his toothache, which had been grumbling steadily since his departure from London.

When the pain subsided, he found he was lying on his side in the sloping field. He stared at the sky. Rain fell on his upturned face. The grass beneath him was soggy. Moisture seeped into his clothes. He heard the groom’s voice, swearing, a steady stream of obscenities.

Savill sat up and then rose unsteadily to his feet. The groom was on his back a few yards away. The horse was on its feet, though entangled with its traces, which still attached it to the chaise.

Savill looked up the field. The cows hadn’t moved. They were staring at the visitors with mild curiosity. The bull, however, was taking a more active interest. He had come through the gateway and advanced a few yards into the field. His head swayed from side to side.

‘Get up, you fool,’ Savill roared at the groom.

‘It’ll kill us, sir, I know it—’

‘Be quiet.’ Savill eyed the bull. ‘Free the horse.’

The groom stood up. ‘If that poor beast has to be shot, sir, the master will—’

‘Stop talking. Free the horse. Then we’ll find help.’

‘Help?’ the groom said. ‘Where?’

It was a reasonable question. They were in the middle of a field. Apart from the bull and the cows, there were no signs of life, nor any trace of human habitation. The hedge at the bottom of the field was a dense green wall.