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| read an excerpt |
1812
The March wind was sharp and Will Fraser buttoned up his jacket over his wool waistcoat and thrust his hands into his pockets. He paused for a moment to look about him and allowed himself a rare smile. The sheds were weatherproof now, the barns full of hay, the yard newly swept and all the tools repaired and cleaned. He raised his eyes to the hills where he could just make out the sheep, white dots sheltering from the wind against the drystone walls that crisscrossed the pasture.
The light was fading and he headed for the farmhouse, already anticipating the warmth of the fire, the freshly baked bread and hot drink that his mother would have prepared. But then, suddenly something made him stop. An unfamiliar sound. He frowned and listened intently.
It was faint and came from a distance but he was immediately alert. His training as a spy had never left him and his every sense was heightened. Even here, deep in the countryside on his father’s farm, he could never entirely relax. He still had enemies.
He turned around and looked down the track that led up to the farm. He could see little in the gloaming but instinctively he was in defence mode and he felt for his dagger, then remembered immediately that he’d not used it for over a year and that it lay rusting in his bedroom in the farmhouse. All he found, deep in his pocket, was the knife he used for cutting twine. It would have to suffice.
The sound was getting a little louder and now Will was able to identify it as the distant thud of hoofbeats, muffled by the grass along the track. The track was long and bounded by high hedgerows. It twisted and turned so Will could still see neither horse nor rider. They would not be visible to him until the track straightened out. Grasping the knife, he moved with practised stealth to hide behind a bush beside the gate that led into the farmyard.
They seldom had visitors and those that came would never risk riding here at this time of day. It was nearly dark. What could be so urgent that the horseman could not wait until daybreak?
Will waited, silent and still as a statue, his heart beating a little faster. A sudden stab of apprehension overcame him. Whoever it was, their business must be pressing. Were they bringing bad news to the family? Or had one of his many enemies tracked him down and was seeking revenge?
The hoof beats were more easily distinguishable now and finally, by screwing up his eyes he could make out the horse and rider as they came into view, but their forms were indistinct in the half light. Will tightened his grasp on his knife.
He waited until they reached the gate. They paused then, as Will knew they would, and the rider bent down to unlatch it.
It was then that Will emerged from behind the bush and confronted them.
‘What’s your business here, stranger?’
The horse reared up in fright and the rider dropped the reins, cursing loudly.
Will recognised both the voice and the curses immediately. His shoulders untensed and he began to laugh.
The rider only had one arm and he was lurching in the saddle as he tried to regain control of his mount, continuing to curse and blaspheme as he did so.
‘For Christ’s sake, sir, d’you want to unseat me!’
Will was still laughing. ‘Duncan Armstrong! By all that’s holy, what in God’s name are you doing here?’
‘Come to see you, that’s what,’ said Armstrong, still fighting to regain control of the horse. Will grabbed the animal’s reins and calmed him.
‘Huh,’ muttered Armstrong. ‘This nag’s been steady as a rock all the way from Durham and now you bloody well go and unsettle him.’
Will looked up at the familiar figure, at the bullet shaped head and the empty sleeve, suddenly overwhelmed by a rush of intense emotion. He didn’t trust himself to speak so he busied himself with opening the gate and leading the horse through to the farmyard. He’d not seen his old friend and sergeant for over a year and the suddenness of his appearance brought back a rush of memories of all they had shared in the past, some of which he had forced himself to suppress.
Until now he had fooled himself that he’d been successful.
When they reached the stables, Armstrong had to be helped off the horse. ‘Christ I’m that stiff I’ll never walk straight again,’ he said, staggering as his feet hit the floor.
Will unsaddled the animal and rubbed him down while Armstrong looked on.
‘You’re a real farmer now ain’t you sir? Look at you all togged up in your rough breeches and jacket and hat.’
Will smiled. ‘I’ve learnt a lot about country ways this past year’ he said.
He fetched water and hay and set them down in the stall. Armstrong turned to go out but Will put a restraining hand on his shoulder.
‘Tell me why you’re here.’
‘Got a job for you.’
‘What!’
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| My thoughts |
Code Of Honour, the third part of a consecutive trilogy, was engrossingly paced, and - as far as I know regarding this particular period (mostly gleaned from the Sharpe books)- well researched.
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