Chapter Eight - Gideon

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From the front, Chesterton Hall resembled a square block of grey stone sitting on top of a great hill of rock. At one time Tudor bricks had covered the front elevations but those were long gone. Instead large beige sandstone blocks faced the entire facade. At the back, and usually unseen by visitors to the estate, was the original hall.

It was built some time after the conquest as the great hall. There were even dungeons still lurking beneath the original structure. Gideon could recall exploring them as a lad once, but dank, eerie caves weren't really interesting to his younger, horse-mad self. They were mostly utilized as kitchen storage back then and no doubt still were.

On either side of the old hall were two separate wings, erected in the time of King Edward the third. The wide frontage was built in the time of the Stuarts and reflected the more elaborate tastes of that era. At one time the whole place had sparkled with life, the gardens well tended, the stone polished and gleaming. A home to take pride in.

Now Gideon was appalled at the gloomy air of neglect and depressing emptiness that hung over the whole place as he rode up the long sloping path. He hadn't cared for the obvious signs of neglect that he'd noticed at Belle Cottage but at least he had expected that. Father had been ignoring the little cottage since well before Grandfather passed away. But to allow Chesterton Hall, the family seat, to fall into such ruin and decay. It was simply beyond the realm of comprehension.

He guided his mount around the main house and approached the stables which were at the rear and slightly down hill. These buildings had seen better days as well. He could remember a stable full of prize animals. Hunters, jumpers, carriage teams, racers and pacers. His father's taste in horseflesh was unparalleled. Now, he saw only one old dappled grey pony and the two dark bays he'd seen pulling the carriage yesterday, milling about the yard. There seemed to be fresh hay piled in the corner and open access to the barn through the huge doorway. The door itself hung askew, leaning drunkenly against the wall as if it hadn't been closed in years.

Gideon pulled the mare up to the fence and sat for a few minutes, examining everything. He waited but no one came out to greet or challenge him. The place would have felt deserted if not for the animals. He listened but heard no sounds of human habitation. Not that he'd expected to have a full roster of staff still working at the Hall but surely there had to be someone in residence.

Deciding he would have to go looking, he swung down. His ankle protested when he set his weight on the injured foot but he ignored it as he limped over to the gate. After leading the mare through into the yard, he removed her tack and sent her to join the other animals at the water trough. He was just closing the gate when he heard a hacking cough from inside the barn.

Gideon followed the sound, stepping over the threshold and into the semi-darkness. As he paused to allow his eyes to adjust, the familiar smell of horse and hay, manure and dust assailed his nose. He was suddenly swamped with memories. Mucking out stalls, braiding rope, listening to the stable hand's stories of heroic deeds and then, as he got older, conquests of a more intimate nature. He'd even tumbled a maid or two himself, here in the soft hay. One particularly lovely Irish lass had made a lasting impression on him. A memorable evening in the straw-filled loft. Many nights he had spent revisiting that wonderful night as he lay on the cold ground, awaiting the battle to come.

Movement from the nearest stall caught his attention and he limped forward. That hacking cough came again and Gideon detected a familiar tone. He racked his brain for a name, certain he must know the man. And it was a man, he could see quite plainly now. An elderly fellow with deep age furrows in his face and a horseshoe of longish grey hair around his bald pate. His clothes were the rough-spun wool of a working man. He sat on a crude bench just inside the first stall, working on repairing a bridle in the light of the open doorway. His full attention was on his task.

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