The Shadowy Horses

"Oh, I intend to begin in the southwest comer, regardless. Robbie's very certain that there's something there, and it's as good a place to start as any."

He sounded so certain, I thought. Frowning, I scratched Charlie's ears. "Mr. Quinnell..."

"Peter."

"I'm sorry to be such a skeptic, but I just don't see what proof you have that the Ninth Legion was ever here."

"No proof," he admitted, amiably. "Though it's not quite as random as it may seem, my choosing Rosehill. I've been chasing the Ninth for fifty years, now, and I've developed something of a sixth sense myself, where the Hispana is concerned. You know, of course, most modern historians believe the Ninth was simply sent to Lower Germany, that it wasn't destroyed at all—at least, not here on good old British soil. But I feel it in my bones, my dear. I feel it in my bones." His mild eyes moved past my shoulder to the window, where the chestnut tree shaded the gravel drive. "The Devil's Causeway came this way, the Roman road from York. For years, I thought the Hispana must have marched northwest, but now I don't believe that. They came along the east coast," he said calmly. "They came here. Even if Robbie hadn't seen his Sentinel, I'd still have found this field. It was the name of the house, you see, that intrigued me."

I failed to grasp the connection. "Rosehill?"

"Not after roses," he explained. "There's not a rose in sight, and I have it on good authority that there never have been roses here. No, one of the locals told me that this used to be called 'Rogue's Hill,' until the seventeenth century, when the house was built. The family didn't care for the name, I suppose. Wanted something more genteel. So Rosehill it became."

"But I don't quite understand," I said, "how even 'Rogue's Hill' ..."

"Well, there weren't any rogues, either, that's the point. Not even so much as a hanging tree. But," he added, "it struck me that the word 'rogues' could have been derived from ragus."

Beside me, the cat started upright as though I had slapped it. Sending me a quick look of alarm it leapt to the carpet and vanished beneath the leather sofa. "Rogus,' I repeated, slowly. The Latin word for "funeral pyre."

It was a possibility. Place names could often give one dues about the past, and if the Ninth Legion had, in fact, perished here, there would of course be bodies, thousands of them—or ashes ... Did the Romans still cremate their dead, in the reign of Hadrian? I was struggling to remember, when Quinnell's quiet voice interrupted my thoughts.

"I must admit, I chose you for your name, as well."

"I'm sorry?"

"Verity." He smiled. "The truth. It's what we're searching for this season, here at Rosehill. It's what I hope to find. And I thought, if you would join us ... well, I rather viewed you as a talisman, you see. A good luck charm."

Damn the Irish, I thought. They could be so incredibly persuasive. Stoutly, I reminded myself that he'd given me the weekend to decide, and this was only Friday afternoon. Plenty of time to consider things, before I gave my answer. Atop the bookshelf by Quinnell's shoulder, the black cat Murphy stirred and stretched and stared at me with placid, knowing eyes. You're going to say yes, anyway, he seemed to be saying. You like the old man, you haven't the heart to refuse him. Which was quite right, of course, but still, I wanted to wait a day or so, to make it appear that I'd given the matter some thought.

Quinnell leaned forward again and reached for the teapot. "No need to make your mind up yet," he said. "Here, have another biscuit." He offered the plate with a casual hand, but his eyes, like the cat's, sensed victory, and I knew full well that when I finally answered "yes" on Sunday, when I finally accepted the job, it would come as no surprise to Peter Quinnell.

I sighed, and took a biscuit, and the black cat closed its eyes.

VI

The train lurched sideways and slowed, and my nodding head bounced against the window as we rattled over the points. Above me a speaker popped with static and a cheerful voice announced that we would shortly be arriving at Berwick, and would I please remember to take all my belongings with me, when I left the train.

Forcing myself awake, I rose to stand in the swaying aisle, steadying myself between the seats. The woman behind me looked up and smiled. "Good thing you woke up," she said, kindly. "The train doesn't stop again till Dunbar."

I smiled back. "Yes, I know." And I had no intention of repeating my ordeal of... heavens, had it only been a week ago? It seemed longer. But no, it had definitely been last Thursday, and now here I was on the following Friday, taking the same train north, having settled my affairs in London and packed enough clothing to see me through the summer season at Rosehill.

Well actually, I conceded, as I edged my way along the aisle, my sister Alison had done most of the packing. Very organized, was Alison, which explained why I was lumbered with three suitcases. The smallest, the size of a briefcase, was for toiletries; the next largest held shoes and odd-shaped things, and then came a giant-sized one that I felt sure contained my entire wardrobe. I was half afraid to look. Together the three cases took up nearly the whole of the racks at the end of the second-class carriage.

They were murder to move. Even the porter, who'd offered to help, looked rather winded by the time he'd wrestled the last case down onto the platform. "D'ye need..." he wheezed, then sucked in air and tried again, "d'ye need a hand up the stairs?" It was gallant of him to offer, but I shook my head.