Free Runaway by Marie-Louise Jensen Page B

yourself,’ hissed Phillips. ‘There’s half a dozen lads here should’ve had this position ahead of you.’
    ‘You’re nothing. Dirt under our feet,’ added Matthew.
    I tried to slip past them, not wanting to get drawn into an argument. But Matthew stuck out his foot and I tripped, falling full length onto the mucky floor of the stalls. I picked myself up, but Phillips caught my arm and Matthew punched me in the stomach. I doubled over, winded, gasping helplessly for air. The stalls and my assailants swam giddily before my eyes for a moment. I thought I was going to throw up. Something in me snapped suddenly. The fear I’d been living with, the bottled up grief, my anger at their resentment; all combined to make me feel red-hot rage. I threw myself at Matthew, clawing at his face and kicking him. I caught him off guard and bore him backwards into the straw. I bit him on the ear and punched him in the face before a hand grasped me roughly by the seat of my breeches and hauled me off. Still spitting with rage, I fought to get away, until I realized it was Bridges. I went limp in his grasp.
    ‘Are you going to lead out your new master’s horse, boy, or are you too busy brawling?’ he asked icily. They were the first words he had spoken to me.
    Hot with anger, my throat choked up, I couldn’t speak a word in my own defence. Instead, I limped to the gelding, who was fretting at the noise and disturbance nearby. I soothed him with soft words, stroking him before I untied him. The necessity of being calm for the horse, and his familiar, comforting scent, helped me let go of my anger. When I led him out, both the horse and I were quite collected.
    I walked past Matthew and Phillips without looking at them, my chin jutting defiantly. I hurt all over. My belly felt tender and bruised, as did my ribs, and I suspected from the soreness of my face, that I would soon have a black eye once more.
    ‘You fight like a girl, Weaver!’ Matthew taunted me as I passed. I flushed deeply.
    Lawrence looked narrowly at me as I led his gelding to the carriage, but he said nothing. His gaze shifted to something behind me. I glanced over my shoulder to see Matthew had emerged from the stable, a dirty pocket-handkerchief held to a bleeding ear, his face scratched. He was glaring at me. Lawrence exchanged a glance with Bridges as I backed the horse up to the carriage beside his partner. Bridges helped me harness the horse in silence. I knew I was in disgrace. My heart sank to think I had made such a bad start to my new employment.
    When both horses were harnessed, Bridges climbed with some difficulty into the seat beside his master. I looked up questioningly, wondering where I was to travel. ‘You can stand up behind, Charlie,’ Lawrence told me.
    I’d often seen grooms and servants perching on the back of a chaise, but had never tried it myself. I scrambled up so my feet were on the narrow ledge that protruded from the back of the carriage. There I clung as Lawrence drove the horses out of the yard and onto the road. I felt precarious in the extreme, every bump of the road threatening to shake me free. My existence, I felt, was as precarious as my perch.

 

     
     
    I was used to long days in the saddle and all kinds of weather. And I’d become used to long days of walking with the packhorses. But the next two days tried me nonetheless. The clouds brought several heavy bursts of rain and the wind was sharp. We travelled slowly to spare the horses as they were accomplishing the whole journey without changes.
    We broke the journey, of course but, when we stopped, my duty was to care for the horses, not to take a rest myself.
    ‘Take the gelding, boy,’ Bridges ordered me each evening as he led the beautiful stallion to the stables. I groomed Velvet, the gelding, to the best of my ability but Bridges always went over him as though I hadn’t done a proper job. He rarely spoke to me.
    Once or twice I cast an envious glance at Mr Lawrence