The Seventh Scroll - Smith Wilbur - Страница 13

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forced to do so.

There was another ditch in their path, this one choked with an almost

impenetrable, thicket of brambles. Some of the larger dogs, like the

Labradors, balked at entering such a thorny barrier. Georgina whistled

sharply and Magic's ears went up. He was soaked and his coat was a

matted mess of mud and buffs and thorns. His pink tongue lolled from the

corner of his grinning mouth and the sodden stump of his tail was

wagging merrily. At that moment he was the happiest dog in England. He

was doing the work that he had been bred for.

"Come on, Magic," Georgina ordered. "Get in there.

Get them out."

Magic dived into the thickest and thorniest patch, and disappeared

completely from view. There was a minute of snuffling and rooting around

in the depths of the ditch, and then a fierce cackle and flurry of

wings.

A pair of birds exploded out of the bushes. The hen led the way. She was

a drab, nondescript creature the size  of a domestic fowl, but the cock

bird that followed her closely was magnificent. His head was capped with

iridescent green and his cheeks and wattles were scarlet. His tail,

barred in cinnamon and black, was almost as long again as his body and

the rest of his plumage was a riot of gorgeous colour.

As he climbed he sparkled against the lowering grey sky like a priceless

jewel thrown from an emperor's hand.

Royan gasped with the beauty of the sight.

"Just look at them go!'Georgina's voice was thick with excitement. "What

a pair of crackerjacks. The best pair today. My bet is that not one of

the guns will touch a feather on either of them."

Up, and then on up, the two birds climbed, the hen drawing the cock

after her, until suddenly the wind boiling over the hills like

overheated milk caught them both and flung them away, out over the

valley.

The line of beaters enjoyed the moment. They had worked hard for it.

Their voices were tiny and faint on the wind as they urged the birds on.

They loved to see a pheasant so high and fast that it could beat the

guns.

"Forward!" they exulted. "over! and this time the line came

involuntarily to a halt as they followed the flight of the pair that

were twisting away on the wind.

In the valley bottom the faces of the guns were turned upwards, pale

specks against the green background. Their trepidation was almost

palpable as they watched the pheasant reach their maximum speed, so that

they could no longer beat their wings, but locked them into a back-swept

profile as they began to drop down into the valley.

This was the most difficult shot that any gun would face. A high pair of

pheasant with a half gale quartering from behind, dropping into the shot

at their terminal rate of flight, set to pass over the line at the

extreme effective range of a twelve-bore shotgun. For the men below it

was a calculation of speed "and lead in all three dimensions of space.

The best of shots might hope to take one of them, but who would dare to

think of both?

"A pound on it!" Georgina called. "A pound that they both get through."

But none of the beaters who heard her accepted the wager.

The wind was pushing the birds gently sideways. They started off aimed

at the centre of the line, but they were drifting towards the far end.

As the angle changed, Royan could see the men at the pegs below her

brace themselves in turn as the birds appeared to be heading straight

for them, and then relax as the wind moved them on. Their relief was

evident as, one after the other, each of them was absolved from the

challenge of having to make such an impossible shot with all eyes

fastened upon him.

In the end only the tall figure at the extreme end of the line stood in

their flight path.

"Your bird, sir," one of the other guns called mockingly, and Royan

found that instinctively she was holding her breath with anticipation.

Nicholas Quenton-Harper seemed unaware of the approach of the pair of

pheasant. He stood completely relaxed, his tall frame slouching

slightly, his shotgun tucked under his right arm with the muzzles

pointing at the ground.

At the moment that the leading hen bird reached a point in the sky sixty

degrees  ut ahead of him he moved for the first time. With casual grace

he swung the shotgun up in a sweeping arc. At the instant that the butt

touched I I his cheek and shoulder he fired, but the gun never stopped

moving and went on to describe the rest of the arc.

The distance delayed the sound of the shot reaching I Royan. She saw the

barrels kick with the recoil, and a pale spurt of blue smoke from the

muzzle. Then Nicholas lowered the gun as the hen suddenly threw back her

head and closed her wings. There was no burst of feathers from her body,

for she had been hit cleanly in the head and killed instantly. As she

began the long plummet to earth Royan heard the thud of the shot.

By then the cock was high over Nicholas's head. This time as he mounted

the gun in that casual sweeping gesture he arched his back to point

upwards, his long frame bending from the waist like a drawn bow. Once

again at the apex of the swing the weapon kicked in his grasp.

"He has missed!" Royan thought with a mixture of satisfaction and

disappointment, as the cock sailed on seemingly unscathed. Part of her

wanted the beautiful bird to escape, while part of her wanted the man to

succeed.

Gradually the profile of the high cock altered as the wings folded back

and it rolled over in flight. Royan had no way of knowing that his heart

had been struck through, until seconds later he died in mid-air and the

locked wings lost their rigid set.

As the cock tumbled to earth, a spontaneous chorus of  heers ran down

the line of beaters, faint but enthusiastic on the icy north wind. Even

the other guns added their voices with cries of, "Oh, good shot, sir!'

Royan did not join in the cheering, but for the moment her fatigue and

cold were forgotten. She could only vaguely appreciate the skill that

those two shots had called for, but she was impressed, even a little

awed. Her very first glimpse of the man had fulfilled all the

expectations that Duraid's stories about him had raised in her.

By the time the last drive ended it was almost dark.

An old army truck came mbling down the track through ru the forest along

which the tired beaters and their dogs waited. As it slowed they

scrambled up into the back.

Georgina gave Royan a boost from behind before she and Magic followed

her up. They settled thankfully on one of the long hard benches, and

Georgina lit a cigarette as she joined, in the chat and banter of the

under-keepers and beaters around her.

Royan sat silently at the end of the bench, enjoying the sense of

achievement at having come through such a strenuous day. She felt tired

and relaxed, and strangely contented. For one whole day she had not

thought either of the theft of the scroll or of Duraid's murder and the

unknown and unseen enemy who threatened her with aviolent death.

The truck ground down the hill and slowed as it reached the bottom,

pulling in to the verge to let a green Range Rover pass. As the two

vehicles drew level, Royan turned her head and looked down into the open

driver's window of the expensive estate car, and into the eyes of

Nicholas Quenton Harper at the wheel.

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