Draft opening scene:
"This one's still alive." The voice was nearby, clear and unhurried. John Havery, the fourth son of the Earl of Pollock was meeting his death with a pleasant calm. Unable to move since the the blow that had knocked him from his horse, he gazed impassively at the waving grass and blue sky that made up his last view of earth. He could hear the voices of several people, and although he could not make out all that they were saying, they had the sound of people going about their work with calm good humor.
"Never. I had the head near off his shoulders. As good a blow as I ever made. He must just be jittering a bit, they can do that for a while."
Gradually, Havery realized that they were talking about him. He felt movement and heard footsteps just behind him.
"Get that horse, Charity. Charity, leave that nonsense alone and get his horse," shouted one of the voices.
"No, no, you're right, he is still alive. Well I never seen the likes of that, look, his head is cracked clear open, see."
Havery could hear the sound of the grass being crushed as figures crouched down behind him. He tried to move, or speak, but nothing worked. There was no pain, and no memory of how he came to be lying here.
"That's a good coat," said one of the voices.
"Hardly a drop of blood on it," said the other.
"A fine gentleman."
"A finer horse. Charity, I will not tell you again, fetch that horse and leave that silliness for later."
The voice of a young woman answered. "It'll blow away, the horse is happy where it is."
The young men muttered to each other, then the young woman's voice shouted out again.
"Caught it, I caught it, look, is it not the prettiest thing you ever saw?" There was a moment's pause then her voice sang out again. "What are you two looking at, what's going on?"
"This one's still alive."
"Alive? Well, Abraham, you must be loosing your strength. I saw you knock him down like a rabbit, but he is still alive? You need to eat more and build up your strength."
Slowly, like a long forgotten memory images began to form in Havery's mind,. He and his wife had been riding, he in front, the baggage pony behind, and she in the rear. They had been in a hurry, but had been making good time. Trees, there had been trees, but they were almost clear of them. Her words came to him, "Are we far?" That was the last thing he had heard her say. She was ever impatient and did not know the road. He had turned in his saddle to tell her that Edinburgh would be easy to see from the crest of the slope. The dirty smudge on the horizon was smoke from the city's chimneys. He had opened his mouth to speak and something had happened. Several things had happened. The world had turned on its side, the short trees around him had spun and the ground had rushed towards him. His horse had reared. Behind him he had seen the earth, the grassy humps along the side of the muddy road move and sweep over his wife. She had been been swallowed by the ground like a foundering ship. His wife had given a single, startled cry, then disappeared into the earth, apart from that there had been silence.
There was still no pain, but a dull feeling was creeping over the back of his head, a coldness. He was able to move his eyes, but could still see nothing except a few clouds and the waving grass.
"He's alive and kicking, right enough," said the young woman's voice.
"He is passed kicking," said one of the men. "Look at that crack in his head."
"How come there is so little blood, I mean, his head is split like an old boot?" said the woman.
"Best ask Pa, he knows all sorts like that. Did you get the horse?"
"The horse is fine, look, she's fine. What about this though?"
"It's just a hat Charity, and it´s a stupid one. Your job is the horse, wait till Pa hears you were chasing hats."
The image of his wife, the conversation of the young people standing behind him and the feeling at the back of his head all began to come together for John Havery, the fourth son of the Earl of Pollock; he had been attacked, knocked from his horse and these people were talking about him as though he was not there.
"If we´re careful we can save that neckerchief," said the woman. "There is barely a spot on it."
"All right, you do it if you're so clever," said one of the men.
"Righty-ho, watch this," said the woman.
Havery saw a flash of movement to his left as the figure of a young woman stepped over him and crouched down in front of him.
"Give me your knife Abraham," she said.
The bright sun shone in her face and loose hair danced in the breeze. She reached up and took a long knife from one of the men and peered at Havery´s head then, her face a picture of concentration she moved the point of the blade like a woman threading a needle.
The last image that Havery had on earth was of the smiling but intent face of Charity Bean wearing is wife's bonnet leaning towards him with the knife.
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