Page 118 of The Meaning of Love
Transparently as bewildered as she, Felix and Damian shrugged.
“Regardless,” Julian said, his features hardening, “we need to mount up.” He met Felix’s and Damian’s gazes, then looked at Melissa. “We stick to our plan, get Gordon alone, and extract all he knows, including what he doesn’t know he knows.”
And then I’ll decide just how complicit our distant cousin is in the attacks aimed at me, my brother, and most importantly of all, my wife.
That, Julian silently vowed, would be one outcome of the day.
He steered Melissa to the castle steps, where grooms were holding their mounts, and lifted her to her saddle. After swinging up and settling in his saddle, today on his own heavy hunter, a steady bay with a huge heart, he glanced around, noting that Felix and Damian had mounted as well, then looked out over the forecourt. Virtually all the guests were mounted and ready to ride, and Phelps and the footmen were circulating with the stirrup cup, which, given the season, was a light summer wine.
Phelps approached and offered Julian and Melissa two small silver tankards. They took them and drank. As Julian returned the empty tankard to the salver, he asked, “Is Herne ready?”
“Yes, my lord. He’s waiting just around the west corner.”
“Right, then.” Julian stood in his stirrups, waved his riding glove over his head, and yelled, “To me!” and all those gathered shifted excitedly and looked his way. “Are we ready?” he shouted.
“Yes!” the crowd roared back.
Into the expectant hush that followed, the sound of small bells tinkling drew everyone’s attention to the castle’s raised front porch, onto which stalked a tall, lanky, gangling figure. Dressed in a strange conglomeration of clothes—leggings and a ragged tabard with odd bits of braid and feathers attached, trailing wispy scarves and wearing a horned mask—he leapt high in the air, whirled, and danced.
With long paddles covered in small bells in each hand, he cavorted and twirled, scarves flaring out around him.
He was grotesque yet strangely graceful, and the dance and his posturing were openly taunting.
Finally, the Herne halted abruptly, as if only just noticing them all gathered below him. Hands lowering to his hips, the paddles sticking out at an angle on either side, he surveyed them, turning his masked face slowly from west to east and back again.
Then in an explosion of motion, he flung the paddles away, whirled once, and bounded off the porch, leaping down and racing off across the lawn, then veering along the drive before plunging toward the woods.
Excited chatter erupted. Horses shifted, and people jockeyed for position, bringing their mounts around ready to ride in the direction Herne had taken.
“Time starts now!” Hockey bellowed and climbed the steps to stand on the porch where everyone could see him.
Phelps and the footmen went around again. People drained the cups and absentmindedly handed them back, their gazes returning to where Herne had vanished around a distant stand of trees.
Julian caught Melissa’s eye. “We give him a quarter-hour start, then Hockey will give the signal to hunt.” They were close to the steps and, therefore, now at the rear of the pack. Julian’s gaze settled on Gordon, a few horses ahead of them in the scrum. “Once we start off, we’ll put our plan into action.”
Finally, the moment came when Hockey, now mounted himself and stationed at the mouth of the forecourt, raised the hunting horn to his lips and blew a long, rousing blast.
The assembled hunters cheered, and the hunt set off, with the riders in the front falling in behind Hockey as he led them out, initially down the castle drive, then veering across the fields, more or less following the line the Herne avatar had taken.
Gradually, as they left the park and advanced across the pastures, the riders spread out, and the steady drumbeat of hooves filled the air and fired the blood.
It had been some time since Melissa had ridden in any hunt; she’d forgotten the welling excitement and the sense of exhilaration fed by the power of the galloping horses, all strong, heavy, muscular beasts.
As per their plan, Felix and Damian steered their mounts to either side of Gordon’s, Damian appearing to assess Gordon’s new mount’s action and trading barbs and comments.
Riding alongside Julian, just a little behind him and more or less at the rear of the pack, Melissa could appreciate how Felix and Damian used the pace of their own horses to slow Gordon’s, gradually edging to the left, subtly separating Gordon from the bulk of the riders, who were streaming ahead in laughing and joyous pursuit of Herne.
She glimpsed the carroty-headed figure of the captain racing ahead. He was clearly caught up in the exuberance of the hunt and, helpfully, wasn’t hanging back with Gordon.
Then the hunting horn sounded again, signaling that the quarry had been sighted, and the chase was on. With whoops and shouts, the hunt surged forward.
Damian used his horse to check Gordon’s mount. When Gordon, wrestling with his flighty beast, remonstrated, Damian pointed to their left with his crop.
Melissa didn’t hear what Damian said, but Gordon looked and willingly turned aside, following Damian onto a little-used bridle path. Felix followed.
Julian slowed, and Melissa slowed with him, allowing the last stragglers—two older couples—to forge ahead. The instant the foursome was far enough in front not to notice, Julian veered after Felix, and Melissa fell in alongside.
With all the riding the three brothers did—it was almost a religion in their family—they knew every foot of the estate, every byway and bridle path, every clearing.
