Pendragon

Catherine Coulter

Pendragon

The seventh book in the Bride series, 2001

Chapter 1

The Cat Races

The McCaulty Racetrack,

near Eastbourne, England

A bright Saturday afternoon, April 1823

MR. RALEIGH, GET Tiny Tom out of Mr. Cork's way. Blessed Hell, he'll run right over him!"

Tiny Tom was jerked off the track just in the nick of time, not more than two seconds before Mr. Cork would have laid him flat. Tiny Tom was Mr. Raleigh's great hope, but he just wasn't yet ready for this level of competition. Tiny Tom, black as the devil's familiar with small white paws, was, after all, only one year old, not fully grown or as yet well trained.

But when the ru

Meggie Sherbrooke sca

Reverend Tysen Sherbrooke tended to ignore his daughter's very occasional lapses into the favored Sherbrooke curse, since it really was quite fit for the racetrack, and yelled himself. "Run, Mr. Cork, run! Cleopatra, you can do it, sweet girl, go!"

Mr. Cork, who'd finally finished growing into his paws six months before, was a big tabby, all orange-striped on his back, the top of his head, and snow white all over his belly and legs, strong as Clancy, Mr. Harbor's prize bull. He ran only to the smell of a trout, about six pounds and thankfully always dead, baked with just a squeeze of fresh lemon, held by Max Sherbrooke at the finish line, who waved it back and forth like a metronome, keeping Mr. Cork's attention focused on that trout in front of him. When not in strict training, however, Mr. Cork many times spent his mornings beneath the dining table, his orange-striped tail waving lazily from beneath the tablecloth, a

Strong and big, legs pumping with muscle-sheer power and poetry in motion-said Lady Dauntry of Mr. Cork in admiration. She'd been the mistress of ceremonies for the past fourteen years, always calling the race, even in inclement weather. Lady Dauntry deplored corruption on the racetrack, and even now, in 1823, it was rumored that there were still occasional attempts to fix races, and so there was always stringent oversight by all racing mews.

Mary Rose, Tysen's Scottish wife for eight years now, yelled in a very loud and lovely lilt, "Run, Cleo, my bo

Seven-year-old Alec Sherbrooke was actually trying to keep up with Leo, whom he worshipped. It was being said in the major racing mews that just perhaps Alec Sherbrooke was one of a very rare breed indeed-a cat whisperer. If he was, he would be extraordinarily special. It was said that Cleo would begin leaping whenever Alec was about and thus that was how she'd been trained so quickly to this new technique. Everyone marveled-a cat whisperer. If Alec Sherbrooke was so blessed, his was going to be a famous name in the racing world. Since Alec wasn't yet big enough to keep up with her, Leo, his older stepbrother, was Cleo's on-track trainer. Meggie privately wondered if Cleo ran because Leo ran beside her or because of what seven-year-old Alec whispered in her white ear before each race.

For those who preferred the more dainty racers, like Cleopatra, christened Clea Mia by a visiting Italian curate some months before, she was a natural leaper. Breath held, Mary Rose watched her run her very fast six steps, building up momentum, then like a dancer, she took off her hind paws, legs extended, leapt forward, stretching her long calico body in the air and landed directly ahead of Blinker II.

Everyone cheered. Lady Dauntry had a

In the begi

Blinker II poked his head out, ru

Meggie was getting hoarse, but it didn't matter. She yelled at the top of her lungs, "Come on, Mr. Cork! Move! You can ran faster than Blinker II! Look at that delicious trout Leo is waving for you. Just you smell that tangy flavor!"

Mr. Cork was serious now, ru

Cleopatra executed a major leap, landing her some three and a half feet ahead of Leo. He panted to catch up with her because when she couldn't see him out of her right eye, she would simply stop and wait for him. Or perhaps she waited for both Leo and Alec, no one could say for sure. It was the only drawback of this training method. Leo Sherbrooke, seventeen, trained as hard as any of the racing cats in the vicarage mews. In the early morning both Leo and Alec could be seen ru

Horatio Blummer's stark white racer, Candace, shaped much like a ca

Mr. Cork paused just an instant to snarl back at her before, tail stiff in the air, he sprinted past her.

Mr. Goodgame's Horace, ten years old now, but still game, a small joke, always repeated by Mr. Goodgame, was long and ski

Leve et reluis

Translated: Arise and re-illumine, a beautiful sentiment, surely, but not entirely understood by the locals.

They were nearly to the three-quarters mark. Only three cats had been seduced from the track by hooligans who hooted like owls to scare the cats into skidding off the track, or hollered like fishmongers, waving overripe fish or raw chicken legs. Training assistants from surrounding mews wrestled the hooligans away from the track.