Highest Stakes

Copyright © 2010 by Emery Lee

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T
he blue roan colt had the finely shaped head and alert look of his sire, with strong, straight legs, a chest deep and wide, a short back with well-sprung ribs, and a highly muscled hind end inherited from his dam.

  Best of all, this colt lived to run! He was lightning off the line and seemingly grew more energized with every stride. Christened "Retribution," the colt represented all of his owner's hopes for the future, a future in which that gentleman would finally be free to move forward with his life without evermore looking back.

  This race, a test of both raw speed and endurance, would be like no other ever run in Colonial history, the victor gaining both the fame and the spoils. The winning horse would be crowned the indisputable king of Colonial racing, while the owner stood to gain a purse of several thousand pounds.

  The roan was slated to run among a field of over a dozen representatives of the Colonies' finest hot-blooded horseflesh—a surprising number considering the exorbitant entry fee—but the high stakes had acted as a dropped gauntlet to all who took pride in their racing stock, and Virginians, in particular, were known for such pride.

  Although sorely tempted to hire one of the many competent jockeys among his acquaintance and knowing that his actions might put his fine colt to some disadvantage, the man's compulsion to ride his own horse to victory was an overpowering and irresistible force. He needed this win more than anything he could recall, and a vicarious victory would never be as sweet. No. He must ride!

  By entering his colt in the running, he had made the second most consequential wager of his life. The first, made nine years ago, had nearly destroyed him. Cheated, deceived, and betrayed, he had lost his love, his livelihood, even his country.

  And now, on this momentous day, he would finally see if his patiently formulated plan, a plan that had preoccupied both his conscious and unconscious mind for eight long years, would come to fruition.

  Only through this racing trial and, he prayed, a triumph to follow, could he be made to feel whole again. Only with this victory could he have retribution.

R
obert Devington was growing more anxious by the moment. Once more he scanned the crowded and bustling paddocks. The call had already sounded for the first race in which Charles Wallace was to ride the gray mare, White Rose. The filly was entered in this particular race, a one-hundred-guinea challenge for maiden fiveyear-olds, young horses that had yet to win a race. It was a single four-and-a-half-mile heat, ten-stone weight, and about to start with her rider yet nowhere in sight.

  With barely a quarter hour remaining to present the horse and weigh in, Robert was in an agitated quandary. Audibly cursing, he pulled the blankets from the mare's back, just to put them back on again. He considered the only alternatives before him: to deceive the racing judges by presenting the horse in Charles's stead and committing an act of fraud; or do nothing and risk both the forfeiture of Sir Garfield's entry fee—no paltry sum by any standard—as well as this fine young mare's best chance to win a race, a circumstance that would do nothing to improve his standing with his beloved's uncle.

  His future with Charlotte was nearly a hopeless cause to begin with. He could scarce afford to fall afoul of her guardian's temper. Robert searched the milling crowd for the last time, desperately seeking a glimpse of Charles Wallace. Still none, blast it all! His last hope now dashed, he cursed with greater vehemence and led the horse out of her paddock to commit an act of fraud for the sake of love.

The Lichfield races, held annually in September, transformed the Whittington Heath, a three-hundred-acre sheep pasture, into the premiere event for all of Staffordshire. This hybrid of a horse race, garden party, and county fair attracted all classes of people from as far away as Derbyshire, the county's closest equine rival, but this year it drew an extraordinary number of persons of consequence. Lords and gentlemen had arrived from the North of England, Wales, and even the Scottish highlands, but as unusual as this was, never since its inception had this innocuous little village ever attracted a foreign dignitary.

  By far, the most distinguished patron of the races this year was the elegant and illustrious Grand Ecuyer de France, comte d'Armagnac, Master of the Horse in the court of King Louis XV. Rumored to have travelled all the way from Versailles to procure a number of English running-bloods for the Royal stud, Monsieur Le Grand's visit to Baron John Leveson-Gower had propitiously coincided with the Lichfield races, over which Lord Gower would preside.

  With the final preparations for the race in progress, Lord Gower and his eminent guest promenaded the grounds, surveying the field and assessing prospective stock to complement the Royal stud of France.

  "I have heard for a number of years, Lord Gower, that the finest racing flesh resides across the Channel in England. I was of course loath to believe such a thing, but most curiously, after seeing so many specimens of excellence, I must confess that this might be so." He paused in his perambulations to admire a particularly sleek black stallion in one of the myriad paddocks.

"Do you know, what is the breeding of this horse, Lord Gower?"

  "Hastings's Hawke? He is indeed a fine specimen! I believe he is by Francis Lord Godolphin's barb stallion, but I shall inquire further, if you so desire."

  "The Godolphin again! He shall forever plague me, this horse!"

  Lord Gower gave an inquisitive look, and the count bowed to him slightly.

  "It is said that one of the finest producers of racing champions in England was first cast off by Versailles. A very foolish move by the Grand Ecuyer, was it not?"

  "Am I to assume that you refer to Lord Godolphin's stallion?"

  "Indeed! One and the same, but the name was not so. In France, the stallion was called by El Sham. You do not know the history of this horse, Lord Gower?

  "Only these past years while he stands in Cambridgeshire, Monsieur Le Grand."

  "Then I shall recount to you this story,
bien sur
?"

  "Indeed, I am most intrigued."

  "The stallion, El Sham, was presented to His Majesty as one of eight horses—
chevales pur sang arabes
—from the Sultan Muley Abdulah of Moroc. The grand riding master at Versailles, Monsieur de La Gueriniere, the man whom I appoint, finds this stallion wanting, you see. As he is small in stature and not of the form preferred for the dressage, he is cast out from the stud
Royale
. This same horse was then procured by your Englishman, Monsieur Coke, who brings him to England, where he soon becomes the sire of champions! So you see that I,
en effet
, am responsible indirectly for this horse leaving France, and now I come to England to find such a one to take back!
C'est l'ironie magnifique, n'est-ce pas?
" He recounted his tale with surprising good humor.