Free Saxon's Bane by Geoffrey Gudgion Page B

with his legs widely spaced, and prodding at the ground as he walked. But it was progress.
    Eadlin sat behind the desk in the jumbled room that served as an office. Once, this room would have been the front parlour of the farmhouse, a place of dogs and heirloom furniture. Now the desk was angled across one corner, and the original leather armchairs spilt their stuffing onto a muddy, threadbare carpet. A fire of chopped logs had been lit in the open grate.
    “I bought some carrots for the horses at the village store.” Fergus waved a brown paper bag in her direction. “Can I scrounge a cup of coffee?” His greeting was a quiet, gravel croak that made Eadlin glance more closely at his eyes.
    “Did you have a good evening?”
    Fergus grunted, looking around the room while she mixed instant coffee. Large posters of horse breeds framed the fireplace, and a notice board informed him that ‘Hat’s Must Be Worn At All Times When Riding’. Eadlin grinned at him as she handed him a chipped, unsanitary-looking mug. Fergus sipped gratefully, more interested in the caffeine than the bugs that might come with it.
    “So was it a late night?” she prompted.
    “More like a liquid evening, and not a lot of sleep. I was led astray by some friendly choristers, then had a bad night trying to get my head around something.” He parked his coffee on the arm of one of the old sofas and lowered himself into it, toppling the last few inches and grunting as he hit the leather. God, he sounded decrepit.
    “You had an evening chasing choirboys?” Eadlin’s smile was provocative and almost flirtatious. She had returned to her chair, and slouched back with her thumbs hooked into the pockets of her jodhpurs.
    “These choirboys had grey hair and fine baritone voices. And I met your Vicar. Something he told me kept me awake last night.”
    Again, Eadlin raised a single, questioning eyebrow. Fergus would have found the mannerism cute if the subject hadn’t been so troubling. He told her about his conversation with John Webster.
    “Well, I guess we’ve either got an elusive tattooed tramp in the area or people are getting a bit, like, hysterical. Or maybe, just maybe, there’s something in it.” Eadlin leaned forward over the desk, her manner less relaxed.
    “That’s what’s kept me awake.” Fergus sipped coffee, hoping he didn’t sound ridiculous. “That moment when the guy with the tattoo stood by the car, it’s locked in my head. It’s one of the memories that keep replaying in my mind and it’s all so bloody real. It’s never occurred to me that he wasn’t… that he might not be…” Fergus didn’t want to give the alternative a name.
    “You said yourself you went a bit mad in the crash.”
    “True. But I hope I’m never sick enough to imagine some of the things I can remember. Shall we go and see some of those four-legged doctors of yours?” Fergus veered the subject away, not wanting to go near the pit again. Besides, it was easier to talk if there was a shared focus to look at, like a horse.
    “Well if you’re going anywhere near Trooper, you’ll need to leave that thing behind.” Eadlin nodded at his stick. “Troops has been beaten with a heavy stick at some stage. He’s terrified of them. And whips, come to that.”
    Fergus looked down at his legs and spread his arms, wondering how to explain. A walk around the stables was slightly more ambitious than the previous day’s few steps on soft sand.
    “Come on.” Eadlin stood and held out her hand to pull him to his feet. “I’ll keep you upright.”
    Fergus swallowed his pride and accepted her support, letting her lead him arm-in-arm towards the barn like an old married couple.
    “One thing puzzles me.” They managed well together. Fergus just needed help with his balance, and he’d have enjoyed the close contact if it hadn’t made him feel so inadequate. “You read about Victorian spooks or even Elizabethan spooks, but never about Saxon spooks. If such