Read Online The Last Horseman by David Gilman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Gilman
Ads: Link
allow the Irish nationalists any sense of victory in disrupting what had become an institution that gathered horsemen from across the county. Wealthy landowners and sons of aristocracy who had the quality of horse to race the five miles across broken countryside were the main competitors, but this year the newly arrived cavalrymen were invited to submit a contender for the purse. No one within the squadron opposed Claude Belmont.
The letter that had been delivered several days earlier beckoned Radcliffe to Kingsley’s stables. It was barely first light and Radcliffe knew the race could not start until the burly Irishman took himself off to the starters’ line. Kingsley was a man of influence and wealth, and it was he who posted the hundred guineas’ prize money. The meeting he had requested in the letter had nothing to do with the morning’s race.
Kingsley and Radcliffe strode towards the stables across the yard as a stable lad opened the big doors for them. At the end of the stalls was a special enclosure that at first glance seemed to Radcliffe’s eyes, in the dim light, to be a small show ring, and, set aside from the others, another stall that was almost in darkness. The wooden slatted building creaked in the wind and something moved in that darkness. Kingsley gave a curt nod to the stable lad, who hoisted a couple of oil lamps on to wall hooks and then he made himself scarce. The big doors closed behind the two men.
For a moment Radcliffe thought he might have walked into a trap. It was well known that Kingsley spoke out against the Fenians, and should there be any animosity towards Radcliffe it would not be difficult to have a man killed and his body disappear. He quickly dismissed the wild imaginings. When Kingsley offered the flask of brandy, Radcliffe took it and let the warmth from the liquid seep into his chest. Kingsley nodded, pleased that the man had not kept him at arm’s length. He did not wipe the silver flask’s spout when he put it to his lips.
Kingsley’s attention had wandered across that darkened ring. ‘In my father’s time there was only one registered thoroughbred saddle horse in America. My daddy bought from that stock and bred from it. There’s limestone under the grass here, it gave the offspring bones like iron and the constitution of a steam train.’
It seemed the burly Irishman nourished himself with the pride of what his father had achieved in the Irish stud business. Radcliffe stayed silent, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness of his surroundings. There was that movement again. He concentrated and the shadow seemed to quiver. A sliver of light caught the reflection of a horse’s eye.
Kingsley barely moved his head as he checked whether Radcliffe had seen it or not. The horse stood stock-still. It was watching them. Kingsley made a barely audible sound and out of the darkened stall stepped the most magnificent horse Radcliffe had ever seen.
‘Now this is the fella I was talking about. He’s stronger, faster and tougher than your American saddle horse. He’ll burst his heart for a good horseman. There isn’t a man with enough money to buy this horse, and my God they’ve tried.’
Radcliffe watched as the uncouth Irishman reached out his hand and the horse stepped forward to nuzzle it. It was obvious to Radcliffe that there was a bond of love between the sharp businessman and his pride and joy.
‘This is a horse that only a Valkyrie could ride,’ Kingsley said. And looked at Radcliffe, waiting for the obvious question to be asked.
‘What do you want, Kingsley? You’re no friend of mine.’
‘It’s not what I want, it’s what I can offer,’ Kingsley said. This time Radcliffe refused the offered flask. ‘When Colonel Baxter and his glorious Royal Irish Regiment of Foot get on that boat to go and fight in this damned silly war, you will not have the friendship of anyone in authority or influence.’
‘And you are offering yours?’
‘Why not?’
‘In
The letter that had been delivered several days earlier beckoned Radcliffe to Kingsley’s stables. It was barely first light and Radcliffe knew the race could not start until the burly Irishman took himself off to the starters’ line. Kingsley was a man of influence and wealth, and it was he who posted the hundred guineas’ prize money. The meeting he had requested in the letter had nothing to do with the morning’s race.
Kingsley and Radcliffe strode towards the stables across the yard as a stable lad opened the big doors for them. At the end of the stalls was a special enclosure that at first glance seemed to Radcliffe’s eyes, in the dim light, to be a small show ring, and, set aside from the others, another stall that was almost in darkness. The wooden slatted building creaked in the wind and something moved in that darkness. Kingsley gave a curt nod to the stable lad, who hoisted a couple of oil lamps on to wall hooks and then he made himself scarce. The big doors closed behind the two men.
For a moment Radcliffe thought he might have walked into a trap. It was well known that Kingsley spoke out against the Fenians, and should there be any animosity towards Radcliffe it would not be difficult to have a man killed and his body disappear. He quickly dismissed the wild imaginings. When Kingsley offered the flask of brandy, Radcliffe took it and let the warmth from the liquid seep into his chest. Kingsley nodded, pleased that the man had not kept him at arm’s length. He did not wipe the silver flask’s spout when he put it to his lips.
Kingsley’s attention had wandered across that darkened ring. ‘In my father’s time there was only one registered thoroughbred saddle horse in America. My daddy bought from that stock and bred from it. There’s limestone under the grass here, it gave the offspring bones like iron and the constitution of a steam train.’
It seemed the burly Irishman nourished himself with the pride of what his father had achieved in the Irish stud business. Radcliffe stayed silent, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness of his surroundings. There was that movement again. He concentrated and the shadow seemed to quiver. A sliver of light caught the reflection of a horse’s eye.
Kingsley barely moved his head as he checked whether Radcliffe had seen it or not. The horse stood stock-still. It was watching them. Kingsley made a barely audible sound and out of the darkened stall stepped the most magnificent horse Radcliffe had ever seen.
‘Now this is the fella I was talking about. He’s stronger, faster and tougher than your American saddle horse. He’ll burst his heart for a good horseman. There isn’t a man with enough money to buy this horse, and my God they’ve tried.’
Radcliffe watched as the uncouth Irishman reached out his hand and the horse stepped forward to nuzzle it. It was obvious to Radcliffe that there was a bond of love between the sharp businessman and his pride and joy.
‘This is a horse that only a Valkyrie could ride,’ Kingsley said. And looked at Radcliffe, waiting for the obvious question to be asked.
‘What do you want, Kingsley? You’re no friend of mine.’
‘It’s not what I want, it’s what I can offer,’ Kingsley said. This time Radcliffe refused the offered flask. ‘When Colonel Baxter and his glorious Royal Irish Regiment of Foot get on that boat to go and fight in this damned silly war, you will not have the friendship of anyone in authority or influence.’
‘And you are offering yours?’
‘Why not?’
‘In
Similar Books
