Promises and Lies

The foam flecked horses topped the rise and came out into the blaze of the low, early morning, sun. The two riders reined in and leaned forward shielding their eyes. One wore a large, black, low crowned riding hat and black leather coat; the other, a high hat, dark green coat and black britches. One was a white man, the other, black. ‘This is it Thomas; it’s exactly as he described it. See...’ the black hatted man pointed down into the still shadowed valley, ‘...there’s the village; Fontwell it’s called. See the river, and over to the North East, just before the bridge, should be the gates to the Montaigne Estate.’ ‘Well, if he didn’t lie about this valley Alexander. Maybe everything he say is the truth.’ The big black man took off his high hat, revealing long, silky, dark brown hair pulled back into a queue, and wiped his forehead with a red kerchief, for the day was growing warm. They’d left the Cock Inn, in Shaftesbury, a good hour since; well before sunup, and the ten mile ride, taken at a good pace, had passed quickly. Alexander Revere felt a shiver of excitement, mixed with a curious sense of having come home. The result, he supposed, of the time spent tending to the dying man, who couldn’t stop muttering and crying out for this place. He stared down at the valley with its surrounding ramparts of beech tree covered hills, now fresh in their new dress of the pale green leaves of early Spring. He dug out, from a large pocket of his riding coat, a sheet of paper, at which he peered closely. ‘The Inn’s called, ‘The Spread Eagle’. It’s where the Post Stage changes horses, between Salisbury and Shaftesbury.’ ‘Why so soon? ‘Tis only an hour’s ride...’ ‘It would be the hills Tom...steep, if you pull a heavy load. Come then..’ and the white man kicked his black horse into a gentle canter for he was eager to see what he had come so far to see. Standing, just inside the gates of the Estate, was a pony cart with a stout, tweed clad man, whip in hand, sitting on the driver’s board, who watched the road that lead up out of the valley to the west. He had waited stolidly for some time but now, seeing the dust of distant riders approaching, he climbed down slowly, then walked to open the gates. They were stiff from disuse and he made a mental note to bring oil for the hinges. By the time one half was open the horsemen were upon him and as he peered up into the light all he could see were black shapes against the sun. ‘Mr Revere?’ he called out. ‘The same...and this is Mr Maybe.’ The black hatted rider swept wide his arm to gesture then he slid down from his horse and, even as he did so, he threw the reins to the other man. ‘Mr Jardine I presume?’ ‘Indeed I am sir. Steward of the Montaigne Estate these past ten years.’