A Ruinous Wind (Thomas the Falconer Mystery Series Book 2) by John Pilkington

Author:John Pilkington [Pilkington, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sharpe Books
Published: 2019-11-20T22:00:00+00:00

In the hour before dawn, Thomas lay on his pallet, having given up all attempts at sleep. The music had ceased a short while ago, the torches had been extinguished, and the members of the household, both high-born and low, were gone to their beds. A silence lay over Barrowhill, broken only by the call of barn owls. From the adjacent mews beyond the thin wall of Will’s hut, Thomas could hear the hawks stirring on their perches, sensing the approach of daylight. If only he might be left to his proper work, he thought for the twentieth time. For a falconer, Ben Mallam had said, you keep odd company.

He got up restlessly, pulled on his boots and jerkin and went outside. It was Sunday morning, and within a few hours the entire house would be expected at chapel. He sniffed the air and turned, feeling the wind. It had changed within the past hour, and now came from the south, bringing a faint salt whiff of the sea.

Then he saw the running man.

Only a falconer’s eyes could have made out the figure, with but the starlight and the half-hidden moon to aid him. The man came from the direction of the stable yard, stumbling as if the ground were unfamiliar to him. Gaining the paddock, he climbed over the fence and stopped, half-crouching, his head twisting about. At once, Thomas knew: Anthony Poole had not only freed himself, but was about to steal a horse and make his escape.

In a moment Thomas was running downhill, his boots swishing through the grass. As he neared the paddock he heard the snicker of horses, and saw the Earl’s precious Arabian colts milling about near the wattle fence. Their sound covered his approach, so that, ducking low, he was able to skirt the perimeter and come closer to the fugitive, who he now saw was working his way across the paddock, hoping to cut off the animals’ retreat. A difficult task, he thought, then flung himself down flat in the grass, because Poole’s head had swung quickly in his direction.

He was cursing himself for his foolishness. Had he really thought Poole would merely lie there and wait to be interrogated? Buying time, he had said earlier . . . time to work his bonds loose, or find something to cut them with - the earthenware bowl, of course. Its broken shards would be enough. Unwittingly Thomas had provided him with the means of escape.

But at least now he could act, because Poole had turned away, and was moving towards the horses again. Nervously the colts bunched closely together, stamping and tossing their heads. As Poole worked nearer they edged away, then as one they began to bolt - which was all the opportunity Thomas needed. He jumped up, vaulted the fence and had gained the middle of the paddock before the other saw him. At once he turned to run, but Thomas was quicker. In a trice he had launched himself forward, grabbed the man’s spindly legs and pulled him to the ground.

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