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motionless. Jenks once again, with renewed oaths, becameengaged in a struggle for control of his restless team as they reacted to the sharp crack of the pistol above their heads, ordering Tom to look lively whilst berating Jed in colourful terms for his gormless stupidity.
    This left Marlbrooke, the horses once again manageable, if it was possible to ignore their bloodshot eyes and fiery nostrils, to approach the still figure on the road. He crouched beside it. A young man, perhaps little more than a youth, as far as he could see. It was too dark to assess any real damage, but he ran gentle hands over the prone limbs to determine any obvious injuries. There seemed to be none, although one arm felt to be swelling under his searching fingers. Probably a blow to the head had caused the unconsciousness, he presumed. He pushed aside the rider’s hat and gently turned the pale waxen features to the searching moonlight. His hand came away dark with blood and there were clear signs of bruising on the temple and above the eye. Marlbrooke grimaced. If the wound had been caused by the horse’s hoof, then matters might indeed be serious. But however dangerous or life threatening the injuries, they could do nothing for the rider here.
    Tom was hovering at his shoulder and moved to kneel beside the still figure. ‘Mr Jenks says we should get out of ‘ere, my lord, as soon as may be. While the horses are quiet. They’re still spooky.’
    ‘Very well, Tom. You’ve done well tonight. You’ll have to help me here.’ Marlbrooke rose to his feet and gave theyoung groom an encouraging grasp of his shoulder. ‘I think he’s sound enough apart from a bang on the head, although his arm might be broken. Help me get him into the coach as gently as we can. I doubt he’ll weigh much. We’ll deal with this at the Priory.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’ Tom stood tall under the praise, swallowing his nerves.
    They wrapped the still figure in Marlbrooke’s cloak to cushion the limbs against any further blows. Then between them they manoeuvred him into the coach where they wedged him onto the seat.
    ‘Right, Jenks.’ The Viscount nodded to his coachman as he pulled on his coat and gloves once more and Tom swung back into his seat on the coach. ‘Let’s get to the Priory before our young man dies on us. It’s been a long day.’ He moved to grasp the open coach door and then turned back. ‘On second thoughts—’ he held out an imperative hand ‘—give me that pistol, Jed. On balance you’re more of a danger than any ghostly highwayman or passing footpad.’
    ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir’ The moonlight failed to hide Jed’s blushes or his sheepish smile as Tom nudged him and Jenks guffawed. The tale would not lose in its retelling in the stables over the coming months.
    Marlbrooke dropped the pistol into his pocket with an answering grin. ‘The Priory, then!’
    Master Oliver Verzons, steward of Winteringham Priory for as far back as any of the local families couldremember, swung open the great oak door at the sound of the approaching coach. He was a stern, austere figure, clad in unrelieved black, his dignity a testimony to his position of trust and responsibility. His white collar and cuffs, seemly and precise with no hint of decoration, were as immaculate as when first donned that morning, despite the late hour.
    ‘Good evening, my lord. Can I be of any assistance?’ He stood back into the entrance hall as Viscount Marlbrooke carried the inert cloaked form up the shallow flight of steps.
    ‘Verzons!’ Marlbrooke conserved his breath until he had lowered the young man to the high-backed oak settle beside the door. He flexed the taut muscles in his back and arms with a grimace before turning to his steward, struck anew by the incongruity of the situation. Why Verzons would have been prepared to remain in service at the Priory under Royalist authority was beyond his understanding, unless loyalty to the estate took precedence over loyalty to