It was a cool, crisp March morning, and dappled sunlight fell through the trees. Tom felt a keen sense of anticipation as the horn sounded, and the hounds quickened down the stony track. The dogs had found the scent and he kicked his horse into a stiff canter to keep up. But almost immediately the horses in front of him bunched up sharply, and he heard the whipper-in calling: "Fuckers."
The huntsmen had entered a wide, muddy clearing on the edge of the forest, where thirty or forty protestors were waiting for them. Tom saw a ragtag bunch of students and layabouts, mostly dressed in jeans and trainers. Most were holding banners or placards; others grasped sheaves of leaflets. As the hunt moved through the clearing, Tom heard angry taunts from the protestors: "Killers!", "Bastards!", "Scum!".
Tom reined in his horse alongside a girl holding a placard marked "murderers". He regarded her with amusement.
"You know this is a drag hunt?" he said. "We haven't murdered anything for years."
"And we're here to make sure you don't," she retorted. She was a pretty thing, he noticed, tall and slim with short tousled hair, though dowdily dressed in jeans and a body-warmer. She was standing with an unshaven man with a placard marked: "Filth".
Tom turned and patted his saddle in invitation: "Why don't you join me?"
"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped.
"I'm serious. If you want to monitor us, then what better way?"
She looked reticently at the man beside her, who himself appeared uncertain. Tom reached down. She hesitated a moment longer, then took his hand. He helped her get her foot up into the stirrup, and her leg over the horse's back. Her movements were awkward and her breath had quickened: he sensed her apprehension.
"Get comfortable," he said. He felt her adjust her weight behind him in the saddle.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Laura."
"Tom. Have you ridden before?"
"No."
"Then hold on."
He whipped the reins and the horse set off at a swift trot to catch up with the rest of the hunt. Laura held awkwardly to the saddle, but the bridleway was stony and uneven, and as the horse gathered speed she quickly became unsteady in the saddle.
"Hold onto me," Tom advised.
She hesitated again, but was glad of the support as she wrapped her arms round his red coat. The group of horses moved on apace, quickly passing through the thin strip of forest and emerging onto open farmland. Ahead, she could hear the dogs barking. The horse was strong and beautiful, and, rather in spite of herself, she felt excited to be up in the saddle.
Over the next hour, the hunt moved through fields, villages, valleys and scrubland. The huntsmen would shout to each other, and the horn would sound periodically, calling the hounds to heel. Tom explained to Laura what was happening. He showed her how the whippers-in kept the pack of dogs together, stopping them from straying or chasing other quarry. After an hour or so, the huntsmen's calls began to become more excited, and the horses gathered pace.
"They're onto him," Tom called, whipping the horse forward. "Hold on tighter."
Ahead, the hounds were dashing down through a muddy stream bed. Tom urged the horse on, over the broken dirt of the field. Laura grew anxious, and Tom felt her clutching him harder as the horse jumped and cleared the ditch. Beyond, the group of horses widened into a semi-circle, surrounding the baying hounds.
"Look," Tom instructed, and Laura saw the dogs ripping at a ragged piece of cloth: the drag. "There's your murder."
They went after three more drags that morning, and afterwards circled back towards the stable.
"I'll take you back," Tom said. He called to one of the other huntsmen, then broke away and rode back through the woodlands at a stiff trot. At the clearing they had originally left, Laura's unshaven companion was waiting with a few of the other protestors. Tom helped her down from the horse.
