Free The Last Horseman by David Gilman Page A

line.
    ‘They’ll use the whip on their horses and on you,’ Pierce reminded him.
    ‘You don’t need a whip on this horse. He’ll run for you without one. Remember what I told you,’ said Radcliffe.
    The boy had already done as Pierce and his father had coached him. He held a handful of mane and then wrapped the reins around wrist and hand. Nothing would dislodge his grip, and he had a free arm to ward off any blows struck against him.
    Radcliffe covered his son’s hand with his own. ‘Stay away from the pack. Don’t mix in with them. You hold back and choose your moment. Once they break through the valley you’ll be out of sight. That’s when it’s dangerous. You’ll get to the farm walls; they’ll jostle and make mistakes. Those walls are high: you need to get through the open gate.’ He could feel the concern creeping into his voice. He smiled and patted his son’s leg. ‘Five miles and you’re home.’
    Kingsley’s voice bellowed over the hubbub of bookmakers and gamblers. The betting was fierce but Kingsley’s presence on the back of a trap gathered their attention. ‘To the line! To the line!’
    ‘You’ll be here, Father? At the finish? I’m going to win for you!’ said Edward as he controlled the skittish horse that sensed the excitement of the moment.
    ‘Of course!’ Radcliffe said, but saw the look of doubt on Edward’s face. ‘I promise, son. I’ll be here.’
    Pierce had the last word. ‘Stay away from that man,’ he said, nodding towards Belmont. ‘He doesn’t like poetry.’
    *
    Outside Radcliffe’s house a horse-drawn cab pulled up and a neatly dressed man hurried to the front door, instructing the cab driver to wait. The man banged hard with his fist and pulled the bell chime with unmistakable urgency. The cab driver watched as he repeated his actions until a flustered woman opened the door, causing the man to doff his bowler hat. The scowling woman looked to be the housekeeper and vigorously shook her head at his questioning. Without bidding the woman farewell the fare climbed back into the cab and instructed the driver to proceed with all haste to the hundred guineas race.
    *
    Kingsley held a large patterned red handkerchief above his head. He teased the moment, watching the line of snorting sweating horses straining for the off, their veins pumping with blood. Edward Radcliffe looked across the tense men to his friend Lawrence Baxter, but that young man only gave him a brief nod and a worried smile and then, like the others, fixed his eyes on Kingsley’s lifted handkerchief.
    His arm swung down. ‘Go on with you then!’
    The horses lunged into the wind and stinging rain.
    For the first half-mile the pack nudged and barged their way forward, each rider finding the space he needed. It didn’t take long for the first whippings to take place and Edward steered his father’s hunter into open space. The horse wanted to surge ahead but the boy kept it on a tight rein and a steady rhythm with his hands and body, controlling its urgent energy, letting the horse feel his mastery. Other riders’ aggression caused their horses to veer away and two men had already been unseated, their horses barging and getting in the way. He saw Lawrence Baxter take a whip across his shoulders which made him heave on the reins. Had his friend not been such a good horseman he would have surely fallen beneath the pounding hooves.
    At the mile-and-a-half turn there were only eight riders still in the saddle and Edward’s strategy had kept him on the flank in fourth place. He saw Lawrence pull up his horse; it had gone lame. The desperation on his friend’s face said it all, but he saw Edward looking back over his shoulder and pumped a fist in the air, urging the sixteen-year-old boy on.
    Two riders boxed Belmont in. It was obviously a strategy they had decided upon, knowing the cavalryman was the better rider. As one laid his whip across Belmont’s neck, the other barged his horse. Through the