The Silent Boy. Andrew Taylor
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.
‘The village can’t be far,’ Savill said.
The groom jerked his thumb towards the gateway. ‘I’m not going near that thing.’
Suddenly, the hedge spoke up. ‘Good afternoon,’ it said in a crisp, ladylike voice. ‘Are you in need of assistance?’
The young lady had a sunburned face and was dressed for walking. Her cloak was spattered with mud. She wore heavy winter pattens that squelched across the field as she approached. The town-bred groom stared at her, as well he might, to see a lady walking alone.
‘You’ve met with an accident, sir.’
‘You are quite right, madam,’ Savill said. ‘I am obliged to you for pointing it out.’
‘And I don’t much like the look of that bull.’
‘Nor do I.’
‘Is there a stile there, ma’am, or a gate?’ the groom burst out.
‘Of course there is. I didn’t get here by magic.’ She was still looking at Savill. ‘Just beyond that chestnut tree. Can’t you see it? There is a path along the field boundary.’
‘I think that animal’s coming,’ the groom said.
‘Unharness the horse,’ the lady told him. ‘What are you waiting for? Quick! Cut the traces if necessary.’
Her brisk tone freed the groom from his trance-like state. He unharnessed the horse with remarkable speed and led it limping down the field. It was fortunate that it hadn’t broken a leg.
Savill picked up his portmanteau and offered the lady his arm. The bull watched the proceedings.
‘It’s Farmer Bradshaw’s bull,’ the lady told him. ‘We shall send a message to Mr Bradshaw and have the animal safely confined. No doubt he will have your chaise brought up to the village.’
‘What’s left of it,’ Savill said. The chaise had a broken wheel and the end of the axle had splintered.
As they passed through the gate, he glanced back at the field. The bull had lost interest in them and was grazing beside his harem.
Savill felt ridiculous, even cheated. A crisis was one thing but an anticlimax was quite another, particularly one which must lead to so much inconvenience.
He walked with the lady along a narrow path, strewn with rocks, that ran between hedges. The groom followed, muttering under his breath, with the horse plodding after him.
‘It was most obliging of you to come to our assistance,’ Savill said, breaking the silence long after it had become awkward.
‘I don’t think I’ve provided much of that, sir.’
‘At least you had the kindness to come and share our fate.’
‘Don’t be too sure of that, sir.’ She smiled up at him, revealing very white teeth. She was older than he had thought, perhaps in her thirties. ‘I should have run off directly the bull began his charge.’
‘I hope we are not taking you out of your way.’
‘Not at all. Where are you going, sir?’
‘Charnwood Court.’ Savill flicked water away from his face. ‘Is it far?’
‘The other side of the village. I thought you might be going there.’
‘And why is that?’
‘You weren’t coming from the village or you couldn’t have got the chaise into the field, not with the gate at that angle. I suppose you might have been going somewhere in the village, but I can’t think where. I know you’re not expected at Norbury Park or the Vicarage. So that only leaves Charnwood, really. There’s nowhere else, you see. You can’t get any sort of vehicle much beyond Charnwood.’
There was a silence. The rain continued to fall steadily from a soft grey sky. Savill glanced at the lady. She had dark curls between the top of her collar and the brim of her hat.
He cleared his throat. ‘My name is Savill, ma’am. I have business with Count de Quillon at Charnwood. Perhaps you know the gentleman?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That is to say, I have been introduced to him. Have you come far, sir?’
‘London, ma’am.’
‘It won’t help,’ the lady