Hold the Dream. Barbara Taylor Bradford

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СКАЧАТЬ was also much of his mother’s ancestry in him.

      Now on this crisp Friday afternoon, Shane O’Neill stood with his horse, aptly called War Lord, high on the moors overlooking the town of Middleham and the ruined castle below. It was still proud and stately despite its shattered battlements, roofless halls and ghostly chambers, all deserted now except for the numerous small birds nesting in the folds of the ancient stone amongst the daffodils, snowdrops and celandines blooming in the crannies at this time of year.

      With his vivid imagination, it was never hard for Shane to visualize how it had once been centuries ago when Warwick and Gareth Ingham, an ancestor on his mother’s side, had lived within that stout fortress, spinning their convoluted schemes. Instantly, in his mind’s eye, he saw the panoply unfolding as it had in a bygone age … glittering occasions of state, princely banquets, other scenes of royal magnificence and of pomp and ceremony, and for a few seconds he was transported into the historical past.

      Then he blinked, expunging these images, and lifted his head, tore his eyes away from the ruined battlements, and gazed out at the spectacular vista spread before him. He always felt the same thrill when he stood on this spot. To Shane there was an austerity and an aloofness to the vast and empty moors, and a most singular majesty dwelt within this landscape. The rolling moors swept up and away like a great unfurled banner of green and gold and umber and ochre, flaring out to meet the rim of the endless sky, that incredible blaze of blue shimmering with silvered sunlight at this hour. It was a beauty of such magnitude and stunning clarity Shane found it almost unendurable to look at, and his response, as always, was intensely emotional. Here was the one spot on this earth where he felt he truly belonged, and when he was away from it he was filled with a sense of deprivation, yearned to return. Once again he was about to exile himself, but like all of his other exiles, this, too, was self-imposed.

      Shane O’Neill sighed heavily as he felt the old sadness, the melancholy, trickling through him. He leaned his head against the stallion’s neck and squeezed his eyes shut, and he willed the pain of longing for her to pass. How could he live here, under the same sky, knowing she was so close yet so far beyond his reach. So he must go … go far away and leave this place he loved, leave the woman he loved beyond reason because she could never be his. It was the only way he could survive as a man.

      Abruptly he turned, and swung himself into the saddle, determined to pull himself out of the black mood which had so unexpectedly engulfed him. He spurred War Lord forward, taking the wild moorland at a flat out gallop.

      Halfway along the road he passed a couple of stable lads out exercising two magnificent thoroughbreds and he returned their cheery greetings with a friendly nod, then branched off at the Swine Cross, making for Allington Hall, Randolph Harte’s house. In Middleham, a town famous for a dozen or more of the greatest racing stables in England, Allington Hall was considered to be one of the finest, and Randolph a trainer of some renown. Randolph was Blackie O’Neill’s trainer, and permitted Shane to stable War Lord, Feudal Baron, and his filly, Celtic Maiden, at Allington alongside his grandfather’s string of race horses.

      By the time he reached the huge iron gates of Allington Hall, Shane had managed to partially subdue his nagging heartache and lift himself out of his depression. He took several deep breaths, and brought a neutral expression to his face as he turned at the end of the gravel driveway and headed in the direction of the stables at the back of the house. To Shane’s surprise, the yard was deserted, but as he clattered across the cobblestones a stable lad appeared, and a moment later Randolph Harte walked out of the stalls and waved to him.

      Tall, heavy-set, and bluff in manner, Randolph had a voice to match his build, and he boomed, ‘Hello, Shane. I was hoping to see you. I’d like to talk to you, if you can spare me a minute.’

      Dismounting, Shane called back, ‘It will have to be a minute, Randolph. I have an important dinner date tonight and I’m running late.’ He handed the reins of War Lord to the lad, who led the horse off to the Rubbing House to be rubbed down. Shane strode over to Randolph, grasped his outstretched hand, and said, ‘Nothing wrong, I hope?’

      ‘No, no,’ Randolph said quickly, steering him across the yard to the back entrance of the house. ‘But let’s go inside for a few minutes.’ He looked up at Shane, who at six feet four was several inches taller, and grinned. ‘Surely you can make it five minutes, old chap? The lady, whoever she is, will no doubt be perfectly happy to wait for you.’

      Shane also grinned. ‘The lady in question is Aunt Emma, and we both know she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’

      ‘Only too true,’ Randolph said, opening the door and ushering Shane inside. ‘Now, have you time for a cup of tea, or would you prefer a drink?’

      ‘Scotch, thanks, Randolph.’ Shane walked over to the fireplace and stood with his back to it, glancing around the room, feeling suddenly relaxed and at ease for the first time that afternoon. He had known and loved this study all of his life, and it was his favourite room at the Hall. Its ambience was wholly masculine, this mood reflected in the huge Georgian desk in front of the window, the Chippendale cabinet, the dark wine-coloured leather Chesterfield and armchairs, the circular rent table littered with such magazines as Country Life and Horse and Hounds, along with racing sheets from the daily papers. A stranger entering this room would have no trouble guessing the chief interest and occupation of the owner. It was redolent of the Turf and the Sport of Kings. The dark green walls were hung with eighteenth-century sporting prints by Stubbs; framed photographs of the winning race horses Randolph had trained graced a dark mahogany chest; and cups and trophies abounded. There was the gleam of brass around the fireplace, in the horse brasses hanging there, and in the Victorian fender. On the mantelpiece, Randolph’s pipe rack and tobacco jar nestled between small bronzes of two thoroughbreds and a pair of silver candlesticks. The study had a comfortable lived-in look, was even a bit shabby in spots, but to Shane the scuffed carpet and the cracked leather on the chairs only added to the mellow feeling of warmth and friendliness.

      Randolph brought their drinks, the two men clinked glasses and Shane turned to sit in one of the leather armchairs.

      ‘Whoah! Not there. The spring’s going,’ Randolph exclaimed.

      ‘It’s been going for years,’ Shane laughed, but seated himself in the other chair.

      ‘Well, it’s finally gone. I keep meaning to have the damn thing sent to the upholsterers, but I always forget.’

      Shane put his glass on the edge of the brass fender and searched his pockets for his cigarettes. He lit one, said, ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’

      ‘Emerald Bow. What do you think Blackie would say if I entered her in the Grand National next year?’

      A surprised look flashed across Shane’s face and he sat up straighter. ‘He’d be thrilled, surely you know that. But would she have a chance? I know she’s a fine mare, but the Aintree course … Jaysus! as Blackie would say.’

      Randolph nodded, stood up, took a pipe and began to pack it with tobacco. ‘Yes, it is a demanding course, the supreme test for a man and his horse. But I really do think Emerald Bow has a chance of winning the greatest steeplechase in the world. The breeding is there, and the stamina. She’s done extremely well lately, won a few point-to-points, and most impressively.’ Randolph paused to light his pipe, then remarked, with a twinkle, ‘I believe that that lady has hidden charms. But, seriously, she is turning out to be one of the best jumpers I’ve ever trained.’

      ‘Oh my God, this is wonderful news!’ Shane cried, excitement running through him. ‘It’s always been Grandfather’s dream to win the National. Which jockey, Randolph?’

      ‘Steve СКАЧАТЬ