Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [66]
Feeling my fixed stare, the young man shifted from one booted foot to the other and smiled uneasily. “Good morning, madam.”
In my surprise I had forgotten my duty to my irate husband, but fortunately Ramses had intervened in time to save the viscount from bodily harm. Apparently he had admired the latter’s horse, for when I returned my attention to the others, I was in time to hear Everly giggle foolishly and remark, “Yes, young feller, he’s a dazzler, all right. Want to try him out?”
“Ramses,” I cried. “I absolutely forbid—”
But Ramses was already in the saddle, and if he heard me, which I rather think he did, he pretended not to.
Ramses was not an unskilled equestrian, but he looked very small perched atop the great white stallion. Emerson stood watching with a foolish look, half smile of pride, half frown of exasperation, as the boy put the animal to a walk. I caught his arm. “Emerson, stop him. Order him to dismount.”
“Don’t fret yourself, ma’am,” said his lordship, with another imbecile giggle. “Caesar is as gentle as a kitten.”
Our men had gathered around to watch. They were grinning proudly, and Abdullah said in Arabic, “He will take no harm, sitt. He could ride a lion if he chose.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when a gun went off, practically in my ear. The stallion reared and bolted. Ramses stuck to his back like a cocklebur, but I knew he must fall; his feet were a good eight inches above the swinging stirrups, and his arms had not the strength to hold the reins.
Deafened by the sound of the shot and dazed by horror, we stood frozen for several seconds. Emerson was the first to move. I have never seen a man run so fast. It was a splendid effort, but of course quite senseless, since a man on foot could never hope to catch up with a galloping horse.
His lordship reacted more quickly than I would have expected. “Don’t worry, ma’am, I’ll save the lad,” he cried, and ran toward the other horses, which were standing some distance away with a pair of grooms in attendance. Before he reached them, however, a flying form cannoned into him and sent him sprawling. The newcomer vaulted into the nearest saddle. With a shout, and an answering neigh, they were off, man and equine moving as one. The flying robes of the rider blew out behind him like great wings.
Our men started running after Emerson, shouting and waving their arms. After some confusion, the viscount and his followers mounted and galloped off in pursuit. The two grooms looked at one another, shrugged, and sat down on the ground to watch.
Whether by accident or because Ramses had managed to regain some control over the horse, it had swung in a wide circle. If this was indeed designed by Ramses, it was a serious error on his part; for the steed was rapidly approaching one of the wadis, or canyons, that cut through the western desert. I could not see how deep it was, but it appeared to be a good ten feet across. The horse might be able to jump it. However, I felt reasonably certain Ramses would not be able to stay on it if it did.
As the Reader may suppose, my state of mind was not so calm and collected as the above description implies; in fact, “frozen with horror” would be a trite but relatively accurate description of my condition at that time. However, I could do absolutely nothing except watch. There were already enough people running and riding wildly across the countryside.
His lordship had outstripped his men. Whatever his other failings—and I felt sure they were extensive—he rode like a centaur. Even so, he was far behind the first pursuer, who was rapidly closing in on the large horse and its small rider. As one might have expected, Emerson was a considerable distance behind, with the rest of our men strung out behind him like runners in a race.
The unknown rider—of whose identity, however,