Horses of Hemlock Hall

Harvey Sarah

Description

Lalla lives for Saturdays and her riding lesson, so she is dismayed to hear that not only will she be missing her visit to the stables this week, but she is being packed off to the west country to spend a week of the Easter hols with a great aunt and uncle she has never met before. She protests but her father's mind is made up, he knows she will be safe and well cared for there while he takes her mother away for a few days - after all, what could possibly happen in sleepy Devon? However, 'Hemlock Hall' has a history and it is not long before Lalla finds herself caught up in fulfilling a task set 400 years ago by Monsieur de Chevalaine, a warlock who once lived there. The task is to seek and return four mythical horses to its secret valley and sanctuary. This has to be completed by a descendant of the warlock who must also be an only child of an only child. Lalla meets the oddly dressed boy Hal and the quest begins, but she is not alone in trying to track the horses down.The wicked Professor Alwyn Mortlake from Slorterham Laboratories has her own designs on them. Nor will Lalla be an only child for much longer as she learns that her parents' trip has been cut short and the baby her mother is expecting is now due to arrive sooner than expected. Time is not on her side and this will be a ride she will never forget. Set in the 1980s, The Horses of Hemlock Hall is a thrilling children's story that will appeal to fans of fantasy fiction aged 9 and above.

Sujets

• Children's

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 mai 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781785894954
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Horses of Hemlock Hall

Sarah Harvey

Copyright © 2015 Sarah Harvey
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Illustrated by Jessica ‘Bunny’ Levy
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the
publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with
the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries
concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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ISBN 978 1785894 954
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
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Printed and bound in the UK by TJ International, Padstow, Cornwall
Typeset by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK
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Converted to eBook by EasyEPUB

For Benny and magical horses everywhere
Contents

Cover


CHAPTER ONE


CHAPTER TWO


CHAPTER THREE


CHAPTER FOUR


CHAPTER FIVE


CHAPTER SIX


CHAPTER SEVEN


CHAPTER EIGHT


CHAPTER NINE


CHAPTER TEN


CHAPTER ELEVEN


CHAPTER TWELVE


CHAPTER TWELVE AND A HALF


CHAPTER THIRTEEN


CHAPTER FOURTEEN


FOURTEEN AND A HALF


CHAPTER FIFTEEN


CHAPTER SIXTEEN


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


CHAPTER NINETEEN


CHAPTER TWENTY


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER ONE

Since early light the village folk of Trickleford had been gathering in its cobbled market square until quite a throng had assembled. Sunlight broke intermittently through the puffy white clouds drifting above, casting its rays down over them and warming their backs, though it did nothing to brighten their spirits this morning. There would be no market today, and far from being in their usual good humour, bustling about their business, the villagers felt little other than despair. There may have been one or two individuals there attracted out of mere curiosity, some even from some misguided malice, but for the most part, the people had arrived shocked and in disbelief at the news – hoping and praying that there might be some last minute reprieve; mercy for the accused. It was surely some terrible mistake?
For this was the time of the great witch trials… and the accused was their own, beloved and trusted Monsieur de Chevalaine.
***
Monsieur de Chevalaine, the gentleman who lived a few miles hence at Hemlock Hall, was a regular visitor to the village and despite his advancing years he cut an imposing figure. Always, he wore the same dark brown wool cape which extended down over his tall frame, beyond his breeches, to his top boots. His once dark hair had become a soft pewter grey in colour, which fell to his shoulders. Strong eyebrows rose in arches over his watchful silvery eyes, and his generous, though aristocratic, aquiline nose. Invariably, at his lips lay his long stemmed clay pipe, thin wisps of aromatic smoke rising from the home-cured tobacco lit within. With his small grey donkey by his side, to carry his bags, he was recognisable to them all. But more than that , they knew him as a kind man, which was why they could not for the life of them understand the reason for his arrest. On the contrary, had he not, on more times than they could count over the years, been an enduring source of help to those in need? – Healing the sick and injured (both human and otherwise) with his herbal cures and remedies? Comforted the distressed with his wise words? Taken in the wild things, restoring them to health before releasing them?… If, of course, they would leave! Nothing entrusted to his care had ever perished and never would he accept a farthing in payment. His kindness and compassion seemed to know no bounds.
Only two years ago he had taken to live with him his grandson, sent from France upon the death of his parents. Also, just recently a small girl, his great niece, when she too had become orphaned. Were they not happy, positively thriving in his care?… They were.
Yet the Witch Finder General – one ‘Bardolf of Bracton’ – and his officers had arrived, arrested Monsieur de Chevalaine and condemned him to be burned at the stake.
There had been a certain amount of hearsay… Some had said (albeit very quietly) that he practised alchemy. Others spoke (only in a whisper) of him keeping familiars. It was also rumoured that the land belonging to Hemlock Hall included a secret valley which was home to a number of ‘otherworldly’ creatures but this had been hard to verify since no one seemed able to find it. The few people who had visited the house had noted the presence of a black cat, which was, for Bardolf of Bracton, evidence enough of his guilt; furthermore there were tales of a hound as big as a small pony, and reportedly, terrifying to behold. The word ‘warlock’ had been mentioned. All the same, the good people of Trickleford could not bring themselves to believe it possible. This, however, was a dangerous time so neither did they dare protest for fear for of being thought in collaboration with the old gentleman and consequently the possibility of being deemed to be witches themselves; doomed to the same fate. Instead, they held their tongues and kept their heads down.
So it was, on this chilly morning, as the Witch Finder General took up his place next to the great pyre built in the squares centre, the villagers jostled murmuring under their breath and shuffling their feet, eyes cobblewards. After a short while, at the back of the square, there was a stirring. Heads lifted and turned to see.
The old gentleman had arrived. He was being pushed, none too gently, from behind by two black-cloaked and hatted henchmen, an odd looking pair if ever there was. One appeared much taller than the other, his narrow pinched face and cold grey eyes just visible beneath the wide brim of his hat. The other was short, his cloak barely meeting around his fat little body, chubby cheeks puffed out as he struggled to keep pace with his counterpart. They made their way towards the centre, the crowd parting like a tide before them, closing again in their wake as group passed through.
Stifled gasps followed their passage, flowing like the rustling of leaves on a breeze. Some began to weep quietly at the sight. Gone now was his cape, as was his hair. He looked cold in his simple shirtsleeves. On either side of him were the children, the boy not yet quite a teenager, the girl just six years of age. Monsieur de Chevalaine had a hand on the shoulder of each. The little girl was sobbing, clinging to his shirt tails. The boy though clearly fighting back the tears was looking up at his grandfather’s face, listening intently. The old man was talking to him in hushed tones, the boy nodding from time to time in understanding of the instructions being imparted to him.
They approached the pyre, and the stake to which Monsieur De Chevalaine was soon to be tied. Here the old man stopped and turned to address the crowd. Silence fell heavy, like a woollen blanket. The Witch Finder General and several of his officers stood by.
Monsieur de Chevalaine began… “Good people of Trickleford, be not vexed. I know there are many amongst you who would gladly plead clemency for me if ’twere not that your lives would be forfeit for doing so. ’Tis enough to sense the goodness in your hearts. To those of you to whom I have been of some assistance… all I ask is a watchful eye to be kept over these, my two young charges, should they have need,” he paused… “My life I give this day in exchange for their liberty to which the General here,” he turned to acknowledge the Witch Finder, “has conceded… they are innocents.” He bent his head down towards them to utter a few final words, but not even those standing within earshot would have been any the wiser on hearing the unfamiliar language being spoken, and no one saw as the old man discreetly drew a small roll of parchment from his sleeve and press it into the boy’s palm, who, in turn, quickly secreted it deep in a trouser pocket. Bending lower he planted a kiss on each of their heads and bade them leave. “Go my little ones, look after one another.” He pushed them gently away from him. Chin trembling, the boy took the girl’s hand – her other was still clutching the warlock’s shirt. The old man tenderly plucked the small fingers free, squeezing them briefly before releasing them and pushing her, more forcefully now, towards the crowd. “Allez mes enfants, vite.” The arms of the women of the village reached out drawing the pair to them.
The henchmen now seized the warlock, dragging him up onto the pyre, and tying him to the stake. In a moment the first flickering flames signalled that the fire was alight – they grew quickly, the wood crackling and spitting in the heat. The little girl screamed. The boy pulled her to him holding her head to his chest so she could see no more. Tears of anger and hurt now flowed down his cheeks.
All this time, the Witch Finder General had stood on the side-lines trying to suppress the smile that was creasing the outer edges of his eyes and making the corners of his mouth twitch – and all that time, Monsieur de Chevalaine had been watching him.… Now with the flames licking at his boots, the warlock’s voice rose above the crackling of the fire.
“This is not the end, oh brother of mine, you may have destroyed me but you have not destroyed ‘ them’ , and long after we are both gone from this world, with the aid of my descendants, ‘ they’ will return to roam f