When they woke in the morning the weatherman was gone, and so was the roan, and so was Geoffrey’s purse.
VIII THE TOWER
He had left the piebald horse and Maddox. Also a square of red cloth containing some bread and mutton and a letter.
Dear Colleague,
I know you will understand when I tell you that I have changed my mind. I am not really (as you so evidently are) the stuff of which high adventures are made. So, learning that there was a decent billet for a weathermonger of my abilities at Weymouth, I realized that it ill became me to deprive you of a share in the honor and glory (if any). You have but twenty miles to go, while I have half a country. I was sure (and therefore decided that it was kindest not to wake you) that you would, in the circumstances, have pressed upon me a loan which it would have
been embarrassing to refuse. If the burghers of Weymouth are as free with their money as your sister implies, I shall be in a position to repay you next time you pass that way, when no doubt we shall have much to talk about.
Meanwhile I remain your devoted admirer Cyril Camperdown (not, of course, my real name) P.S. You should be able to sell the piebald for two sovereigns (ask three) provided you don’t let the purchaser inspect his left hind foot. Maddox might be edible, stewed very slowly for several hours.
Sally said “He never liked poor Maddox, not since he bit him.”
Geoffrey said “What are we going to do?”
“What he says, I think, except for eating Maddox. If it’s really only twenty miles, we could sell your horse and take turns to ride Maddox, and we ought to be there for supper.”
“And what then?”
“Oh, Jeff, I don’t think that’s a very sensible question. Absolutely anything might happen, so there’s no point in thinking about it, like you said last night. I think we’ve done jolly well to get as far as we have done, honestly.”
“I expect you’re right.”
He felt muddled by the weatherman’s treachery — sorry that somebody who he’d liked and who had been helpful should turn out such a stinker; glad to be on their own again. They ate the bread and mutton and decided on a story — Sally couldn’t cope with Geoffrey remaining officially dumb. It seemed easiest to stick to the weatherman’s basic lie, simply adding that they’d been sent ahead but had missed their master on the road and had to sell the piebald to get home.
This worked surprisingly well. The first farm they tried didn’t want another horse, but gave them each a mug of milk for nothing. The second was full of squalling dogs so they gave it a miss. But at the third the farmer seemed interested. Geoffrey held the piebald and Sally kept Maddox as close to the suspect foot as she could. The farmer went through the ritual of prodding and feeling, but when he came round to the off hind quarter and bent down Sally gave Maddox a little more rope and he lunged and bit the farmer’s ear. The man swore. Geoffrey apologized and spoke crossly to Sally. The farmer’s wife leaned out of an upstairs window and jeered at him. He didn’t seem to fancy any more feeling and prodding, but took the horse for two and a half sovereigns.
It turned out that Maddox wouldn’t let Geoffrey ride him, even with Sally leading. This suited Geoffrey very well, as it allowed Sally to ride and rest (it wasn’t like real riding — no bumpity-bump-ity — more like traveling on a coarse, swaying sofa) while he walked beside her. The pony’s pace exactly matched his, and they ambled west in a mood extraordinarily different from yesterday’s. Then they had felt invaders, alien, blasting their way between the growing greens of early harvest; now they were part of the scenery, moving at a pace natural to their surroundings. Haymakers straightened from scythes and waved to them, shouting incomprehensible good-days. For two miles, between Orcop and Bagwy Llydiart, they walked with a girl of about Geoffrey’s age, a plump, bun-faced lass who talked to them in a single incessant stream of lilting language — about her relations and acquaintances, never pausing to explain who anybody was, but assuming that they both knew Cousin William and Mr. Price and Poor Old John as well as she did. The idea that anybody really lived outside the span of the immediate horizon — closer now as the foothills of Wales grew steeper —was clearly beyond her. Two or three times she referred casually to the presence of the Necromancer, twelve miles westward, as one might refer to the existence of a river at the bottom of the paddock —a natural hazard that must be reckoned with but which nothing in the ordinary round of life could affect or change. Listening to her with less than half his mind, Geoffrey found himself thinking about the General and his missiles. He had only the vaguest idea about these weapons, but he was fairly certain that they could not be guaranteed to land, pat, on the spot they were aimed at. Twelve miles off target wasn’t much in a trajectory that length, and then there’d be no bun-faced girl striding along a lane and prattling about Cousin William.
She left them before Bagwy Llydiart, in mid-sentence. Geoffrey and Sally got the subject and verb, and the girl who opened the farm door to her got the object.
In the village, which is really only an inn and a couple of houses, they bought bread and bacon and cider. Geoffrey had been rehearsing his story for the last half mile up the hill, but found it wasn’t needed. The bar had five old men in it, all talking eagerly about the demon-driven engine which had been slain on the bad road by a storm from over the mountains. The accounts of the two demons were exciting but confusing, because two different stories seemed to have arrived in the village together. In one the car had been driven by monsters, horned, warty, blowing flames from their noses; in the other by a man and woman of surpassing but devilish beauty. Both stories agreed that no remains had been found in the car, which made the supernatural quality of the drivers obvious. Then the landlord joined in the talk, after doing complicated sums with Geoffrey’s change — England seemed to have some very peculiar coins these days.
“I did hear,” he said, “as how Lord Willoughby had hunted un all the way up from Hungerford, and precious near caught un last night. And they’m sending south for his lordship’s hounds, as may still have the scent in ’em, after nosing round where the engine stopped in the dark. I don’t reckon ’em for demons. What need would there be for the likes of demons to go stopping in the dark? You mark my words — they was nobbut wicked outlanders, who seed the storm a-coming and left their engine in time. S’posing his lordship brings the dogs up in coaches, they’ll be on the bad road two hours since. Then there’ll be fine hunting.”
“Lot o’ sposins,” said one of the old drinkers. “They’m demons for my money.”
The argument circled back on to its old track, and Geoffrey left, sick with panic. Fifteen miles start, perhaps, and there’d been a good stretch yesterday evening when everyone was riding. That should confuse them. On the other hand the hunt must have guessed where they were making for by now, and once they'd been traced to Overton Farm there’d be descriptions available, of a sort.
Sally had become bored with waiting, and was trying to balance, standing, like a circus rider, on Maddox's back. It can’t have been difficult on the broad plateau of his shoulders, but she looked nervous and sat down the moment she saw Geoffrey. “What’s the matter?’" she whispered.
“Nothing. I hope.”
“Oh you must tell me. It isn’t fair being left in the dark.”
“Something they said in the pub. It looks as if we’re still being hunted by those hounds.”
“Oh bother. Just when everything seemed so easy and right. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Plug on, I suppose. They can hunt us wherever we go, you see.”