Copyright © 2012, 1997 by Susanna Kearsley
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Cover design by Susan Zucker
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Originally published in Canada in 1997 by McClelland-Bantam, Inc. Originally published in Great Britain in 1997 by Victor Gollancz, an imprint of the Cassell Group.
“He Bids His Beloved Be At Peace” by W.B. Yeats from Later Poems by W.B. Yeats, Macmillan and Co., Limited © 1922. Reprinted with permission of A P Watt Ltd on behalf of Gráinne Yeats.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kearsley, Susanna.
The shadowy horses / by Susanna Kearsley.
p. cm.
1. Women archaeologists—Fiction. 2. Excavations (Archaeology)—Fiction. 3. Scotland—Fiction. I. Title.
PR9199.3.K4112S53 2012
813’.54—dc23
2012024977
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
First Horse
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Second Horse
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Third Horse
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Fourth Horse
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Requiescat
Chapter 36
Author’s Note
An excerpt from The Firebird
Reading Group Guide
About the Author
Back Cover
To the people of Eyemouth
So many of you have had a hand in the creation of this book, and I have spent so many hours in your company that now your streets, your homes, your harbor have a warm familiar feel, and I no longer feel a stranger to your town. But I do not belong to Eyemouth. Despite my best efforts I’m sure there will be places in this book where you will find I’ve got some detail wrong, or used a turn of phrase that’s not your own. I can only hope that you’ll forgive me any errors. And I hope that you will all accept this novel as a gift of thanks, from one to whom you’ve always shown great kindness.
I hear the Shadowy Horses, their long manes a-shake,
Their hoofs heavy with tumult, their eyes glimmering white…
O vanity of Sleep, Hope, Dream, endless Desire,
The Horses of Disaster plunge in the heavy clay:
Beloved, let your eyes half close, and your heart beat
Over my heart, and your hair fall over my breast,
Drowning love’s lonely hour in deep twilight of rest,
And hiding their tossing manes and their tumultuous feet.
—William Butler Yeats
“He Bids His Beloved Be At Peace”
First Horse
…that delirious man
Whose fancy fuses old and new,
And flashes into false and true,
And mingles all…
—Tennyson, In Memoriam, XVI
Chapter 1
The bus had no business stopping where it did. We should have gone straight on across the Coldingham Moor, with Dunbar to the back of us and the English border drawing ever nearer, but instead we stopped, and the shaggy-faced cattle that lifted their heads on the far side of the fence appeared to share my surprise when the driver cut the engine to an idle.
A fierce blast of wind rocked the little ten-seater bus on its tires and drove a splattering of cold spring rain against the driver’s windshield, but he took no notice. He shook out a well-thumbed newspaper and settled back, humming tunelessly to himself. Curious, I shifted in my seat to peer out my own fogging window.
There seemed, at first glance, nothing to stop for, only the cattle and a few uninterested sheep, picking their way across a ragged landscape that was turning green reluctantly, as if someone had told it only yesterday that spring had come. Beyond the moor, lost somewhere in the impenetrable mist, rose the wild, romantic Lammermuir Hills I’d read about as a child. And in the opposite direction, although I couldn’t see it either, the cold North Sea bit deep into the coastal line of cliffs.
The wind struck again, broadside, and the little bus shuddered. I sighed, and watched my breath condense upon the chattering window glass.
Impulsiveness, my mother always said, was one of my worst flaws, second only to my habit of speaking to strangers. After twenty-nine years I’d grown accustomed to her heavy sighs and shaking head, and to her firm conviction I’d end up a sad statistic on the nightly news. But now, as I squinted out at the bleak, unwelcoming scenery, I grudgingly admitted that my mother had a point.
It had been impulse, after all, that had brought me from my London flat to Scotland in the first place. Impulse, and the slick, persuasive writing style of Adrian Sutton-Clarke. He knew me too well, did Adrian, and he had phrased his summons craftily—his promise of “the perfect job” set like a jewel at the center of a long letter that was so deliciously mysterious, so full of hints of grand adventure, that I couldn’t possibly resist it. Adrian, for all his faults, had rarely steered me wrong. And if today was anything to go by, I decided, he hadn’t been lying about the adventure.
Not that one could really blame British Rail for what had happened. My train had certainly set out from King’s Cross cheerily enough, and even after we’d spent twenty minutes on a siding waiting for a points failure to be corrected, the engine had pushed ahead with vigor, determined to make up the time. It was only after our second delay north of Darlington, because of sheep on the line, that the train had begun to show signs of weariness, creaking and rolling from side to side in a rocking motion that lulled me instantly to sleep.
I had stayed sleeping right through Durham, then Newcastle, and finally Berwick upon Tweed, where I was meant to get off. When the train lurched to a stop at Dunbar, I’d scrambled down onto the p
latform with the familiar resigned feeling that told me I was lost. Well, not so much lost, really, as diverted. And the fact that my train had been an hour late coming into Dunbar proved something of a complication.
“You might have taken the 5:24,” the stationmaster had informed me, in an effort to be helpful, “or the 5:51. But they’ve both gone. There’ll not be another train to Berwick now till 7:23.”
“I see.” Nearly an hour and a half to wait. I hated waiting. “I don’t suppose there’s a bus?”
“To Berwick? Aye, there is, at…” he’d searched his clockwork memory for the time, “…6:25. Just round the corner, there, and up the road a ways—that’s where it stops.”
And so I’d wrestled my suitcase round the corner and up the road to the small bus shelter, my spirits lifting somewhat as I read the posted timetable telling me the bus to Berwick traveled via Cockburnspath and Coldingham and Eyemouth.
Eyemouth, Adrian had written in his letter, pronounced just as it looks, and not like Plymouth, if you please. You’d love it here, I think—I remember how you waxed rhapsodic about the north coast of Cornwall, and this is rather better, a real old-fashioned fishing town with smugglers’ ghosts round every corner and the added lure of… but no, I shan’t give the secret away. You’ll just have to come and find out for yourself.
I’d have been only too happy to oblige, I thought wryly, but for the fact that I was now stuck in the middle of Coldingham Moor, with the bus idling on and the driver still reading his newspaper.
There seemed little point in questioning the stop; apart from a couple of love-struck kids fondling each other at the rear of the bus, I was the only passenger. And the driver was bigger than me. Still, my curiosity had almost reached breaking point when he finally folded his paper with a decisive rattle, sat himself upright, and pulled on the lever to open the door.
A man was coming across the moor.
It might have been the fogged window, or the wild weather, or the rough and rolling landscape that, like all the Scottish Borderlands, held traces of the harsh and violent past—the echoed din of charging hooves, of chilling battle-cries and clashing broadswords. Whatever it was, it tricked my senses. The man, to my eyes, looked enormous, a great dark giant who moved over bracken and thorn with an effortless stride. He might have been a specter from a bygone age, a fearless border laird come to challenge our rude intrusion on his lands—but the illusion lasted only a moment.
The stranger pulled his collar tighter against another punishing blast of wind and rain and jogged the final few steps to the bus door. No border laird, just a rather ordinary-looking man in his mid-thirties, fit and broad-shouldered and thoroughly modern in jeans and a leather jacket. Well, I amended as he smoothed back his curling black hair and grinned at the bus driver, maybe not exactly ordinary-looking…
“Heyah,” he greeted the driver, swinging himself up the final step. “Saw me coming, did you?”
“Aye, well, ye do stick out, lad. Thought I might as well wait for ye, save ye the walk back.” The doors swung shut and, joy of joys, the bus sprang forward once again as the new passenger dropped into the seat across from me, planting his feet wide apart on the floor to brace himself.
He and the driver chatted on like old friends, which I supposed they were, about the state of the weather and the latest rebellion of the bus driver’s daughter and the health of the younger man’s mother. It had been some years since I’d spent time in Scotland, and I’d forgotten just how musical the accent was. This was a thicker accent than I was accustomed to, and I couldn’t catch each word as it was spoken, but I did my level best to follow the conversation. Just for practice, I told myself. Not because I was interested.
The bus rattled noisily over the moor, dipped into Coldingham town and stopped for a moment to let off the teenagers. Shifting round in his seat, the bus driver sent me a courteous glance. “You’re for Eyemouth, lass, aren’t ye?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
The man from the moor lifted an eyebrow at my accent, and glanced over. For a moment, my mother’s face rose sternly in my mind. Never talk to strangers… But I pushed the image back and sent the man a friendly smile.
The bus driver carried on speaking, over his shoulder. “Are ye up here on holiday?”
Having received little response from the man opposite, I turned my smile on the driver instead. “Interviewing for a job, actually.”
“Oh, aye?” He’d politely modified his speech, as most Scots did when talking to a non-Scot, and though the accent was still there I found him easier to understand. “What kind of job?”
Well, that was just the question, wasn’t it? I didn’t really know, myself. “Museum work, of sorts,” I hedged. “I’m interviewing with a man just outside Eyemouth—”
The dark man from the moor cut me off. “Not Peter Quinnell, surely?”
“Well, yes, but…”
“Christ, you don’t mean to say you’re Adrian’s wee friend from London?” He did smile then, and the simple act transformed his rugged face. “We’d not expected you till tomorrow. David Fortune,” he held out his hand by way of introduction. “I work with Quinnell as well.”
I shook his hand. “Verity Grey.”
“Aye, I ken fine who you are. I must say,” he confessed, leaning back again, “you’re not at all as I pictured you.”
Everyone said that. Museum workers, I had learned, were supposed to be little old ladies in spectacles, not twenty-nine-year-olds in short skirts. I nodded patiently. “I’m younger, you mean?”
“No. It’s only that, with Adrian recommending you, I’d have thought to find someone… well, someone…”
“Tall, blonde, and beautiful?”
“Something like that.”
I couldn’t help smiling. I was, to my knowledge, the only dark-haired woman who’d ever received so much as a dinner invitation from Adrian Sutton-Clarke, and I’d held his interest only until the next blonde came along. But while our romance had proved temporary, our separate paths, by virtue of our work, kept crossing and re-crossing like some fatalistic web. Truth be told, I probably saw more of Adrian now than I had when we were dating. When one wasn’t actually in love with the man, he could be a quite enjoyable companion. Adrian, at least, understood the restless, independent streak that had made me chuck my British Museum job and strike out on my own to freelance. And he’d learned I never could resist a challenge.
I studied the man across from me with interest, bringing all my powers of deduction to bear. I had already assumed, since Adrian was involved, that the job for which I was being interviewed involved some sort of archaeological dig. Adrian was one of the best surveyors in the business. I glanced at David Fortune’s hands, and ventured to test my theory. “How large is the excavation, then?” I asked him. “How many field crew members are on site?”
“Just the four of us, at the moment.”
“Oh.” For a moment I was tempted to ask what they were all digging for, and why, but I held my tongue, not eager to let on that I’d come all this way not knowing.
He looked down, at my single suitcase. “You’ve just come up from London, then?”
“Yes. I’m a day early, I know, but the job did sound intriguing and I really couldn’t see the point in waiting down in London when I could be waiting here, if you know what I mean…”
His eyes held understanding. “Aye. I wouldn’t worry. Quinnell’s an impatient man himself.”
The sea was close beside us now. I could see the choppy froth of waves beyond the thinning wall of mist, and the jutting silhouettes of jagged rocks. The rain had stopped. Between the racing clouds a sudden gleam of sunlight flashed, and disappeared, and flashed again, and finally stretched a searching finger out to touch the clustered houses curving round the coast ahead of us.
The town of Eyemouth looked to me like
a postcard view of a fishing village, its buildings tumbling in a tight cascade down to the sea wall while a gathering of gulls wheeled and dipped above the rooftops, marking the place where the harbor, yet unseen, cut back into the greening cliffs.
The sunbeam, I decided, held a pleasant sort of promise. And somewhere, not too far away, the mysterious Peter Quinnell was looking forward to meeting me. I leaned forward as the bus dived in among the houses. “Where would you recommend I stay?” I asked my new acquaintance. “Is there a guest house, or a nice hotel?”
“You’ll not be staying in the town?” He raised his eyebrows, clearly shocked. “Christ, Quinnell wouldn’t hear of it. He’s had a room made up for you at Rosehill, at the house.”
I stared at him. “Oh, but I couldn’t…”
“You want the job?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t offend the management,” was his advice. He softened it with a smile. “Don’t worry. They’re all nice people, out at Rosehill. They’ll make you feel at home.”
The bus driver flicked a glance up at his mirror, met my eyes, but didn’t say anything.
I frowned. “It’s just that I prefer to stay on my own, that’s all. I don’t like to impose…”
“You’ll not be imposing. Quinnell loves his company.”
“I’m sure he does. But if he doesn’t hire me, it might prove awkward.”
“Oh, he’ll hire you,” said David Fortune, with a nod of certainty. “That is, he’ll offer you the job, make no mistake. Whether you accept or not, well… that’s for you to say.”
Something in the offhand way he said that made me tilt my head, suspicious. “Why wouldn’t I accept?”
“Have you eaten, yet?” he asked, as if I hadn’t spoken. “You haven’t, have you? And it’s Thursday night, this—Jeannie’s night off. There’ll be no supper on at the house.” He turned to the bus driver, who was following our exchange with interest. “Danny, do us a favor, will you, and drop us at the harbor road?”
“The Ship Hotel?” the driver checked, and glanced again at me. “Aye, it’d be no trouble. It widnae do for the lass to face old Quinnell on an empty stomach.”