The Trials of Alaric (Twist Upon a Regency Tale #8)

Chapter Seven

M r. Redhaven was excellent company. Bea enjoyed her walk with him and was flattered he had taken her into his confidence. Now on the range, she discovered he was a competent archer, but not as good as some of the others. They had split into heats this time, since there were more competitors, and Mr. Redhaven was knocked out in the second heat.

He then joined the onlookers and spent the remainder of the match cheering impartially for whoever struck the targets, and making light conversation. Charming conversation, but since he spread his charm equitably amongst all the ladies, and never trespassed into flirting nor gave a compliment that wasn’t true, Bea acquitted him of insincerity.

She wondered about the story he had told over lunch. Trust Beverley to try to make trouble for one of his rivals. He would have done himself no favors with her father! Papa, she knew, was seeing the entire house party as part of his trials. And, unless she was very much mistaken, every servant in the castle—no, probably every inhabitant of the island—would be reporting back to Papa on how the suitors behaved when not under Papa’s eye.

Which was frequently. With the excuse that he was busy with his duties to Claddach, Papa spent much of his time sleeping, presumably in his study, for he had not yet shared the seriousness of his condition with Mama. The situation made her sad, and she turned her attention back to the archery.

Her cousin Beverley was predictably patronizing to the other archers, particularly the women. When someone else shot better than he did, he muttered under his breath and scowled. At least he was less vocal about his irritation than Sir Henry, who once again had all sorts of reasons why his shots had been impaired by some factor beyond his control.

Lord Lucas won, with Lady Eleanor running a close second. “As winner,” he declared, “I beg a boon of the ladies. Will you walk along the cliffs with me? Perhaps to the beach? We have plenty of time before dinner, do we not, Lady Claddach?” His eyes were on Lady Eleanor, who smiled and blushed. Why is Lord Lucas courting me, when he is clearly taken with Eleanor?

Mama said, “Yes, of course, Lord Lucas. Beatrice, dear, you would love to walk with Lord Lucas, would you not?”

Bea could have laughed at Lord Lucas’s expression. The poor man. She took pity on it. “We shall all go,” she proposed. “Or, at least, anyone who is interested?” She looked around at the young ladies, and then the gentlemen, most of whom were nodding.

So, it was quite a large group that set off down the cliff path to the beach. Bea had time to have a quiet private word with Mr. Redhaven before they left. “I cannot show you the other items you wanted to see, Mr. Redhaven. Do you know where to find them?”

He nodded. “I do, my lady.”

But when she saw him in the drawing room before dinner, he reported he’d not found anything to help in his hunt. “Perhaps it is right in front of me, and I cannot see it,” he fretted. He had more to say, she could tell, but he would not speak where they could be overheard.

It suddenly occurred to her to wonder if some of the others would make her their confidant. She hoped not. It would be too awkward to keep track of which man had told her what idea. On the other hand, perhaps they did not all have the same clue. She had not seen any of the others examining clocks or sundials.

Mama had paired her tonight with Sir Henry Dashwood. She allowed him to escort her into dinner and prepared to be bored.

*

Bea woke to another splendid day, which promised well for the day’s activity. Papa had planned a steeplechase—a horse race in which the riders would travel cross-country, choosing their own path, from village to village around the island, using church steeples as their guide point. Those who did not choose to compete could travel from lookout to lookout, watching progress, or could remain in the town to amuse themselves and receive the racers when they returned to the town square, which was both starting and finishing point for the race.

“My riding habit, Eunys,” she told her maid.

“You are never competing, my lady!” Eunys exclaimed.

Bea would like nothing better, but neither Reina nor Christina were competent riders and Bea’s Hetherington cousins had been horrified at the idea of competing with the men.

“No, Eunys. I am taking out the big shooting brake with some of the ladies.”

All of the young ladies, in fact, she discovered when she came out into the courtyard beyond the stables. Also, Aunt Joan, who had agreed to come along as chaperone when Aunt Lewiston had objected to her daughters traveling in an open carriage on her brother-in-law’s land without one.

Aunt Lewiston was upset that Papa had continued with his trials rather than welcoming her son with open arms and handing Bea over as his bride. Bea giggled at a sudden picture of herself, bound and gagged, so she could neither run from the church nor protest at the altar. For that was what it would take for a wedding between her and Beverley the Beast. Not even if Papa requested it of her, and he wouldn’t.

There Beverley was now, mounted on a restless stallion, telling everyone else he had the best mount in the stables. Light-foot Lochinvar didn’t have the stable name of Looby by chance. It was a corruption of the word Lhoobeyr , the local word for a trickster, and a trickier more self-willed beast one couldn’t wish to find.

The beast—the four-legged one—was undoubtedly handsome, though, and the pair looked the part. It remained to be seen whether Cousin Beverley would look as smart and as smug after Looby had landed him in a stream or the thickest part of a hedge. Looby had the strength and the stamina for a steeplechase, and could fly over hedges as if on wings—if he felt like it. He lost interest quickly, though, and if the ride bored him, he was prone to tossing his rider just to add some excitement.

Should she warn him of the probability? Only Papa had ever succeeded in making Looby mind his manners for an entire ride, and the fact that Papa had been choosing a quieter horse was a measure of his slow decline.

But no. She would not warn Beverley. If she said anything, he would take it as an attack on his ability as a rider, and not as an expression of honest concern.

Crebbin, the stable master was standing by the shooting brake. “How did my cousin Lord Beverley come to be riding Looby?” she asked him.

The stable master cast a glance heavenward, as if praying for patience. “He came down last evening, my lady, to choose a horse. Looked right through the stables and declared that yon demon-sprite was the best horse in the stable, and he would have him for the steeplechase.”

He shook his head. “We tried to tell him what the horse is like, my lady. He wouldn’t listen.”

As she had thought. No point in her repeating the same warning, then.

Several more men emerged from the house and attracted the stable master’s attention. Then Redhaven walked out of the stable with Woodpecker Bay, affectionately known as Dhone , which meant brown . Dhone, a big and muscular gelding, was a good choice.

Dhone was steady. He’d be as determined and focused at the end of the day as he was now. His alert ears were turned to Redhaven while his eyes surveyed the courtyard. “Yes, my fine gentleman,” Redhaven was saying. “We are off for a ride. Do you like being in front? I imagine you do. You shall have your chance, Dhone.”

He paused when he looked up and saw Bea and changed direction to come to her. “Good morning, Lady Beatrice. A lovely morning to see more of your beautiful Claddach.”

“We have been fortunate with the weather,” Bea told him. “Though here on Claddach we insist we have better weather than any of the nearby lands.” Is he well enough to ride? No point in asking. He would certainly not tell her that he wasn’t.

He chuckled. “Yes, Colyn was telling me that on Claddach, it only rains between midnight and dawn, and a man can walk around na—in shirtsleeves—all year around.”

“But of course,” Bea agreed, laughing with him. “I see you chose our Dhone for your mount.”

“I think he and I will suit,” Redhaven told her. “He seems like a sensible fellow.”

Mr. Redhaven somehow seemed to use up the air in his vicinity, so she felt breathless and a little dizzy. It was very annoying. To give herself something to do, she gave Dhone a pat. “Any luck with your treasure hunt?” she asked.

“Not yet. I feel I am missing something. Fortunately, none of the others are crowing about completing the first clue. They would, would they not?”

“Are you so determined to win, Mr. Redhaven?” Bea asked, and then wished she had bitten her tongue before she asked the question. He would think she was flirting or asking for a compliment.

He took her seriously though, regarding her with his face open and his eyes frank before he said, “Increasingly so, I find. I hope that is acceptable to you, Lady Beatrice.” But he did not wait for her answer, twisting his mouth in a self-deprecating way and saying, “I beg your pardon. I should not ask. We have days of trials yet.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of Aunt Lewiston and her daughters. “Is this our conveyance, Beatrice? Well, girls, up you go and take a seat. Use your parasols to shade your complexions.” She gave Beatrice a smile that was closer to a baring of the teeth. “We are happy to wait while you encourage all of the competitors, dear Beatrice.” Her expression as she turned her gaze on Mr. Redhaven was closer to a glare.

Mr. Redhaven seemed to find it amusing but managed to change a bark of laughter into a cough.

Bea admonished him with a frown and obediently went to speak with the other riders.

*

Today’s steeplechase was one of the trials. Lord Claddach had told them so last night, after dinner, and several of the men had hurried down to the stables straight away, anxious to pick the best horses. Alaric left them to it. He had dropped by the stables before dinner to take another futile look at the clock, and had fallen into conversation with the stable master, who turned out to be Colyn’s uncle.

He’d been given a private tour of the stables, which were admirable. Clean, spacious, organized, and all the horses in magnificent condition. The stable master must have been pleased with his compliments, for when they came to Dhone, the big bay he was currently astride, the man had said, “I’ll reserve this fellow for you for tomorrow’s steeplechase, Mr. Redhaven. He has a steady temperament and great heart. He’ll do you proud.”

Alaric had almost refused. A steeplechase? When he hadn’t ridden since Brazil and was still recovering from the shipwreck? But what if it was a trial. Though he had been given the right of refusal, stubbornness perhaps, or maybe an unwillingness to give in to a weakened condition, made him say, “Thank you,” instead. Just as well, as it turned out, for after dinner, Claddach confirmed it was a trial, and he might have lost his choice. Not that Claddach had any slugs in his stables. All the men were well-mounted, and they were currently comparing horses.

“You got the big bay!” Versey commented to Alaric, admiringly. “I asked for him last night, but the stable master said he was not available. You sly dog!”

“He is not as fine as Lochinvar here,” Beverley claimed, then his participation in the conversation was halted because his mount objected to the proximity of the other horses. He tried to take a bite out of Dashwood’s chestnut and did his best to unseat Beverley when he curbed the attempt. To give Beverley credit, the horse’s efforts failed.

“He’s going to have trouble with that one,” Fairweather predicted.

Beverley was riding in circles around the courtyard. “He will settle once we are away,” he assured anyone who cared to listen.

Perhaps . The stablemaster had warned Alaric against Beverley’s horse yesterday evening. “Lord Claddach can ride him, sir, but he’ll unhorse anyone else.” Did Beverley ignore the advice or was he not told? Alaric had already noticed that none of the servants liked the young viscount.

The men were all mounted, and all the young ladies were in the shooting brake with a groom at the reins and Lady Joan as chaperone. “Lord Claddach will meet us at the market square, my lords and gentlemen,” said Maddrell.

“Why didn’t you say so before?” Beverley demanded, and without a further word, he wheeled his horse and headed off down the carriageway.

“Papa will not start until we all arrive,” Lady Beatrice commented.

“What of Mama and the other parents?” Dashwood wondered.

“Their carriages were leaving from the front of the house as we came out,” Lady Joan informed him.

“Then lead on, Lady Beatrice,” said Versey, touching his whip to his top hat, and the men formed up around the shooting brake, so it progressed down the carriage way with a guard of honor.

The town was clustered around a harbor on the opposite side of the castle from the beach where Alaric had washed up. The castle crowned the top of the bluff between the harbor and the beach, and a wall winding around the hill halfway up marked the extent of the castle’s park.

On the town side, buildings sprawled up the hill as far as the wall, but the town square was across the bridge at the bottom of the hill. As the cavalcade passed the gatehouse, Alaric could see Beverley crossing the bridge. Even from this distance, it was obvious his horse had not settled.

Nor was it any calmer when they arrived in the square. Indeed, both horse and rider were agitated—the one dancing on the spot and the other casting baleful glances at the other riders and longing looks at one of the streets from the square. The crowd that had gathered to watch the start of the race was giving them a wide berth.

The other riders, Alaric among them, rode to the corner of the square where Beverley waited, and Looby’s dance became more frantic.

From his raised platform in the middle of the square, Lord Claddach lifted his hands, palms out. Everyone—riders, townsfolk, castle guests—stopped talking to listen to what he had to say.

“Gentlemen, the street you will take out of town has been cleared for the start of the race. You have all been given maps of the island, and you know the rules. You must check in with a race steward at each church on the island. You are free to make your own route once you reach the town boundaries. Be courteous to my people and respectful of their lands and livelihood. I warn you, the first rider back may not be the race winner if they lose points by breaking any of the rules. Good luck to you all.”

He nodded to the man who stood beside him, arm raised with a flag in his hand.

“At the drop of the flag, the race starts,” Claddach declared.

The flag dropped. Several of the riders left at a gallop. Looby danced in a complete circle before taking off after them. Alaric and Versey held their own horses to a trot. They had a long way to go before the day was done.

*

The others were still in sight, leaving the church as Alaric and Versey rode into the first village. The man who must have been the race steward waited at the lychgate of the church and gave them each a soft leather bag and a numbered disk. “The bag can go in a pocket or be tied to your belt, sirs. Put the disks you collect at each church into the bag and present it to the race steward in the square at the end of the race. Also, if I might have your names, please.”

It was the same at the next village, except the other riders must have chosen a different path, for the race steward told them they were the first to claim a disc from him. After that, they went cross-country down a ride away from the road, leaping hedges and a couple of streams. Dhone took the obstacles in his stride, as did Versey’s mount.

At the fourth village, they paused to let the horses take a drink from a trough outside a tavern, and the proprietor brought them each an ale. “On the house, gentlemen,” he told them, when Alaric tried to wave his away. He accepted it with thanks, feeling his lack of money keenly.

From that village, their planned route would have taken them through fields of hay ready for harvest. After a moment’s consultation with the farmer who happened to be on the path—and the realization they’d interrupt the haying process and perhaps damage the crops—they changed direction for a different village.

Maddrell and Whittington arrived at the next church at the same time as they did. They were participating in the steeplechase, even though they had made it clear in the dining room they were not suitors for Lady Beatrice’s hand. Alaric wondered if they were there as observers to report back on the suitors. It would not surprise him.

“Have you seen the others?” Versey wondered.

“We lost sight of Beverley and Fairweather after the first church,” Maddrell said. “The others went a different way.” His voice was heavy with disapproval.

“Through the hay,” Whittington explained. “Not good form.”

The village was on the slope of a hill, and the road to the next led over the crown, where the ladies in the shooting brake were waiting. Alaric and Versey reined in for long enough to exchange greetings and to admire the view from the lookout they had chosen. They could see Maddrell and Whittington on their way to the next village in the valley they had just left—one that Alaric planned to visit as he came back around the island. Down in the next valley, two groups of riders galloped through fields, the smaller group some distance ahead.

“We have pies,” Lady Beatrice offered. “Would you like one?”

They accepted, and let their horses graze briefly while they ate the offered food. The snack for both men and horses went down well, and then they were off again.

The course took them right around the main island. Claddach was a little jewel of a realm. From what Alaric could see, the land was rich and fertile, the people healthy and happy, the sea never far away and often visible, with the breeze off the water scented with salt and swirling over the fields to make the climate comfortable.

Alaric and Versey stayed together. Time enough, as Versey said, to make a race of it between them for the last two villages, but for now the key was to stretch the horses, not strain them.

Now and again, they caught sight of the other riders, and spoke to two of them. Dashwood was sitting at a table outside a tavern at one of the villages. He was drowning his sorrows in the village ale. His horse had bruised his foot on a stone and pulled up lame, he explained, and so he was out of the race.

Fairweather had parted company with Beverley. “That horse of his is a devil,” he said, when they met him while collecting a disc from one of the churches.

He chuckled. “It dropped him in a stream, you know. It has been trying to unseat him all day, but it finally succeeded. I swear to you, gentlemen, that devil-horse folded its legs and slid out from under him, leaving him in mid-air before he splashed down into the water.” He chortled at the memory. “After that, the pair of them were in a fine temper, and I decided my horse and I were better off taking our own route.”

Fairweather rode with them for a while, then struck off again on his own.

Then there were the spectators. The ladies in their shooting-brake came into view several times, and so did carriages with others of the house guests. In the villages, and outside farmhouses and cottages along the way, people turned out to watch the riders go by and call encouragement.

At several villages, refreshments were waiting. More ale. Cider. Lemonade. Cold meadow tea. Pies and buns with cheese. Grass and water for the horses.

At one church, the race steward offered to sell them disks for three of the other churches. Alaric and Versey both turned him down. Two villages after that, they came upon an overturned cart. It blocked the lane they were following, and a woman sat beside it, weeping into her apron.

Alaric swung down from his horse, and Versey followed a moment later.

“May we help you, ma’am?” Alaric asked the woman.

She lifted her head, her eyes wide with hope. “The cart,” she said, gesturing toward it. “I canna set it right. I don’t have the strength, and that’s the truth of it. I don’t suppose two fine gentlemen such as yourselves…?”

“Of course,” Alaric agreed, and Versey nodded.

It was hard to see how it had happened. It must have hit a rut at speed, but even so it seemed impossible. It was turned so it was almost at right angles across the road. The woman must have released the horse, for it was grazing peacefully a little farther along the lane.

It took the pair of them around half an hour to right the cart and to put the horse back in the shafts. While it was still blocking the way, Beverley came along.

“Give us a hand, Beverley,” Versey called to him, but Beverley just laughed.

“Out of the way, woman,” he told the cart’s driver, and he set Looby to the narrow gap between the hedge and the cart and galloped away.

Once they had the cart back on its wheels and had checked to see there was no damage, they worked together to set the horse back in its traces while the woman expressed voluble thanks.

“It is no trouble at all,” Versey assured her.

“Are you sure you will be safe to continue?” Alaric asked.

The woman smiled. “I shall be fine, sirs, and grateful to you kind gentlemen.”

Alaric swore he could feel his bones creak as he mounted. His body had not appreciated the effort needed to right the cart. The muscles used for riding for the first time in months were complaining loudly. Some of the deeper bruises from the shipwreck were singing counterpoint. And the headache that had dogged the first few days of his recovery was threatening again though it was just an ache at the moment. With luck, it would not get to the pounding, nauseous stage before he’d collected his final four disks.