Hooves thumped out a breakneck beat, pounding the iron-hard earth. Sword scabbards bounced, saddles and straps creaked, and buckles, metal fittings and tack jingled. The frigid night air scoured Mun’s face, dragging tears across his freezing cheeks and biting through his gloves into raw finger bones. And he would have wagered a shilling that even their father, out in front on his noble black stallion, Priam, was finding it exhilarating, that even he was charged with the mad thrill of it. It takes him back to his years at Theobalds House hunting with King James, Mun thought. It reminds him of when he was young. In the dark the moon-touched sandstone hills loomed, mere pimples compared with their lofty cousins to the east, yet standing like ancient sentinels and made more ominous by night’s veil. The Rivers men flew across this darkling countryside, like the shadows of owls sweeping close to the ground after prey. And yet they came to Minister Green’s house too late. ‘They took him,’ Martha sobbed, hurling herself against Tom who wrapped his arms around her as though to shield her from the night itself.
