Plump flowers of wisteria and summer jasmine hung like bunches of fruit and water droplets sparkled like a thousand moths captured by the flickering gaslight. There was a quiet murmur of horses and stable boys playing blackjack in the rooms above the stable block, and the air was filled with a warm peace. No guns, no cannons, no screaming ... just a soft, warm peace. Time stood still. He looked down at the bowling green on the lower terrace. The grass was smooth and glistening, and two black and white cats were sitting in the middle. One was perched alert; its eyes wide as it stared into the black woods; the other gracefully, if not elegantly, began to chew the head of a limp mouse. In the distance foxes barked, their desperate cries echoing through the still night, and the badgers tumbled and fumbled amongst the bracken and scurried deeper into the dark tunnels. Ever since he could walk, he remembered charging around the paddocks at home on a wooden play horse. A pretend sword in the hand, and teeth gritted, he would gallop up to the small bail of straw, swishing at it feverishly, cursing aloud all those who stood in the way of the British Empire and greatness. . next »