The Silver Falcon (42 page)

The noise of the gunshot had exploded in the Falcon's ear. Suddenly the lethargy, the instinct that knew he had been beaten, vanished with that sudden assault upon his nerves. His ears went flat; hate boiled up in him, imperious rage at the presence of the human enemy. He sensed danger, and his reaction was instantaneous. He reared up and launched himself. Andrew Graham fired a second time, but the bullet sang its way past Isabel, as she dropped to her knees by Tim Ryan.

There were people shouting, and running, converging on the stricken man and the woman trying to support him. The crowd hid them from view; a horse began to plunge and rear with fright on the end of its rope, refusing to go up the ramp of a waiting horsebox, infected by the panic in the yard. Somebody running towards the scene heard a terrible scream coming from one of the boxes, but only remembered it afterwards.

The full weight of the horse struck Andrew Graham from behind; the hooves crashed into his back, knocking him to his knees; he shrieked with pain and terror, and the Falcon, maddened with rage and panic by the noise, rose up and crashed down upon him again. It was the classic fight to the death in the colt's mind. He reared and trampled, reared and trampled as he would have done to a fallen contender to his title for leadership of the herd. With his teeth he savaged the crumpled body in the straw and turning contemptuously on it, lashed out with his hind feet. He sensed death and neighed in triumph. He had forgotten how his heart had burst in vain on the racecourse, forgotten the humiliation of spirit as he was passed by his rival, in spite of all his savage striving. He had killed the enemy. He stood still at last, trembling in the quarters and the forelegs, breathing hard. Then he turned away and pulled a few wisps from the hay in the rack above his head.

It was a long time before anybody opened the box.

It was an afternoon of sudden showers and brilliant sun; the sky was a patchwork of prussian blue and rolling rain clouds. Ireland in late summer, with the trees dropping water on the walkers underneath whenever the wind blew. The driveway was smooth, its edges clipped and the surface gleaming with new gravel; the house waited for Isabel and Richard at the end of it, framed in the clouds, with the sun striking off its grey slate roof and the unshuttered windows, splendid with glass. Richard drove slowly; it was the second time they had been to see it since Tim Ryan's funeral. His father was waiting there to welcome them. It was nearly three months since they had bought the house; he had taken her away on a honeymoon that was as far from recent places and events as his imagination could devise. They had got married after Tim Ryan was brought back to Ireland and buried in the cemetery near his home. And Richard had known that what Isabel needed was change and time. He took her to Sicily, and they wandered through the ruins of the Arab and Greek civilizations, and from there to North Africa until the heat drove them back to Europe, and finally he decided that the peace and beauty of the Loire valley would complete the process of healing before they came back to England. And then on to Ireland, where they were to make their home. Beaumont was sold in the high summer; he didn't even show her the cable telling her the record price it had fetched. They were in Taormina at the time, staying in a villa perched on a hill, where the flaring magnificence of Etna provided the backcloth to their nights.

It was she who decided when they should return. She put her arms round him one evening, when they had come back from a long, lazy stroll through the French countryside, and said quietly, ‘Darling, I think it's time we went home.' Richard booked on a flight two days later.

He had bought the Ryans' family home and given it to her as a wedding present. And they had gone to see Tim's father together and asked him how he wanted the money to be distributed. He had taken some time to answer; his son's death had made him hesitant, the shock was too recent to be absorbed. He wanted very little for himself – Tim had two young nephews that he had been devoted to – it was such a lot of money. When Richard and Isabel asked if he would leave its disposition to them, he had merely nodded, anxious to avoid decisions. But time had healed him too; he had written to them reporting progress on the house, and asking if he might go there and meet them when they arrived from England. To welcome them, the letter said, on behalf of his son Timothy. And his grandsons, who'd been so handsomely endowed. As they stopped in front of the entrance, Richard held her hand. Her face was fuller, with a healthy colour from hot suns; being loved by him had made her beautiful, and there was no longer any shadow in her eyes. Instead there was a new serenity, a spirit strengthened by absolute trust and love. He thought suddenly how different she looked, and couldn't quite see why.

The crumbling plaster façade had been renewed; the walls were a soft pink, the stucco pillars splendidly white, and the steps led up to a handsome mahogany door. They walked up together, and for a moment he felt Isabel hesitate.

‘I did exactly this with Tim,' she said. ‘It was the same sort of day.' And then the door opened and Frederick Ryan was waiting for them. He took Isabel's hand, and she bent forward and kissed him.

‘Welcome, my dear,' he said. ‘Come in.'

The interior was light, with delicate Georgian colouring, and the beautiful double cube room, with its painted ceiling, was completely restored. There was no furniture, or carpets, just the smooth shell of the house, waiting to be made into a home.

Frederick Ryan paused. ‘It's looking as beautiful as it did when I brought my wife here, forty years ago. I know you're going to be very happy.'

‘We are,' Richard said. ‘It's a new start for us, Mr Ryan. And we both need it.'

‘You're young enough,' the old man said. ‘You can overcome the evil in the world. I used to pray that my son's children would grow up here one day. Now it's your children I hope I shall see. And because of your generosity, my family has a chance to start again. My daughter's sons.… Tim would be so happy about what you've done for them.'

Isabel looked at him. ‘He loved this house so much,' she said. ‘And the horses. I felt he was quite near when we arrived.'

The old man smiled, ‘You're sounding very Irish, Mrs Schriber,' he said. ‘But why shouldn't you be right? He loved the house and he loved his horses. That grey colt of yours – and you. You don't mind me saying that, Mr Schriber – my son loved your wife very much.…'

‘I know,' Richard said, ‘and I don't mind.'

They walked through the rooms together; Frederick Ryan pointed out the view from the main bedroom on the first floor. ‘I was born here,' he said. ‘And my father and grandfather before that. And all my children. I have a few things in store which belong here. I would like you to have them.'

‘Thank you,' Isabel said gently. ‘We'd love to have them.'

They paused by the window; the view was magnificent, rolling green fields with a background of low hills, veiled in purple clouds.

‘Your stallion boxes are all finished,' the old man said. ‘And they're well ahead with the foaling boxes and the rest – it's looking splendid. I hope you'll invite me over to see the horses.'

‘As soon as they arrive,' Richard promised.

‘Will the Silver Falcon be standing here?' He turned to look at them. Isabel hesitated.

‘He's killed one man, and nearly killed another. You can't pass that temperament on.'

Frederick Ryan looked at her and then at Richard. ‘He saved your wife's life,' he said. ‘He killed my son's murderer. Horses have more sense than men. Are you telling me he's dead?'

‘No,' Isabel said. ‘We were advised to do it, but I couldn't.… I wanted time before I made up my mind.'

‘Race him, if he'll train on,' Tim's father said. ‘That's what he's bred for. Let him fight his own kind on the racecourse.'

‘Nigel wants to try for the Arc de Triomphe,' Richard said.

The old man nodded. ‘He'll win it for you. Tim wrote to me once and said that he believed he could take that prize as well as the Derby. I'll leave you now, and let you wander round your new home by yourselves.

They shook hands and he kissed Isabel. ‘Goodbye, my dear,' he said. ‘And God bless you. Be happy.'

Richard put his arms round her; they stood together in silence for some moments. ‘He's a wonderful old man,' Richard said. ‘I'd forgotten there were people like that left.'

‘I think we're going to love it here,' Isabel said. She looked round the bedroom; there was a magnificent marble fireplace, decorated with vines and flowers in different coloured marbles. The same decoration had been copied by the plasterers who moulded the cornices round the ceiling.

‘I love this room,' she said. ‘I think we'll carry on the tradition and have our first child here.' She saw the look of surprise on his face and she smiled.

‘In about seven months' time,' she said.

About the Author

Evelyn Anthony is the pen name of Evelyn Ward-Thomas, a female British author who began writing in 1949. She gained considerable success with her historical novels—two of which were selected for the American Literary Guild—before winning huge acclaim for her espionage thrillers. Her book,
The Occupying Power
, won the Yorkshire Post Fiction Prize, and her 1971 novel,
The Tamarind Seed
, was made into a film starring Julie Andrews and Omar Sharif. Anthony's books have been translated into nineteen languages. She lives in Essex, England.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1977 by Anthony Enterprises, Ltd.

Cover design by Mimi Bark

ISBN: 978-1-5040-2467-9

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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