Wicked
The sun had barely risen, its pale light struggling through a thin veil of mist that clung low to the ground. The air held a sharp edge, not winter’s bite, but enough to numb fingers and sting noses. Every breath rose in faint clouds, mingling with the steam drifting from the horses’ flanks.
The recruits stamped their boots against the hard earth, shoulders hunched against the chill as they formed into line. Dew still slicked the grass, and patches of frost lingered in the shaded hollows of the parade ground. The horses shifted restlessly, snorting, pawing at the damp soil.
One animal stood out among them all, a great black stallion. His coat shone like wet ink beneath the weak morning sun; his eyes bright with intelligence and something very near mischief.
Major Darcy stepped forward, his coat buttoned high at the throat, his breath steady in the cold air. “Today, you will ride. All of you,” he said, his voice carrying clear across the field. He lifted a gloved hand, indicating the stallion. “And you will ride this one.”
A murmur rippled through the line. Lieutenant Marshall raised a brow. “That is Wicked, is it not?”
Major Darcy inclined his head, calm but resolute. “Indeed. He is the final test. If you can stay on him for even a moment, you will prove yourselves ready for more than drills. But be warned. He does not forgive mistakes. If you cannot control him, you will fall.”
Elizabeth felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air. She had never ridden astride, never attempted to master a horse with such a reputation. Yet already she understood that there would be no avoiding this trial.
Major Darcy allowed the murmur to fade before he spoke again.
His eyes swept the line of recruits, pausing briefly upon each face.
“Some of you have begun to acquit yourselves well,” he said, his voice measured.
“I have seen improvement in your drills, in your posture, and in your attention to command. There is progress, and I acknowledge it.”
He shifted slightly, his gaze narrowing. “Others, however, remain careless. Discipline does not come by accident. Without it, no skill will carry you through the field.”
His eyes lingered, a fraction too long, upon Lieutenant Bennet. Elizabeth felt the weight of it settle like a stone in her chest. She tightened her jaw and kept her shoulders square, determined not to betray unease.
Major Darcy let the silence stretch, then turned back toward the stallion. “Today will show us which of you possess both discipline and courage. Wicked does not pardon weakness.”
The stallion tossed his head with a sharp snort, steam flaring from his nostrils as if to echo the Major’s words.
Elizabeth fixed her gaze on the black sheen of the animal’s coat, refusing to look away. Behind her, she could sense William’s presence, steady and silent. He did not speak, and for that she was grateful. Had he done so now would only draw more eyes toward her.
Major Darcy gave a curt nod to the sergeant. “Begin.”
The first recruit stepped forward, a broad-shouldered farm lad whose confidence seemed to grow with every cheer from his companions.
He mounted quickly, but Wicked surged under him with sudden violence.
The boy barely had time to grab the reins before the stallion twisted, reared, and sent him sprawling into the mud.
Laughter rang out, cut short when Major Darcy’s voice commanded silence.
“Next.”
A second recruit tried, then a third. Each fared no better. One was thrown over the horse’s head, another clung desperately to the saddle before crashing sideways into the dirt. Wicked tossed his mane, stamping the ground with restless pride, as if the contest amused him.
Elizabeth’s throat tightened as she watched. None lasted more than a few breaths, and every fall drew more unease through the line. She forced her face to remain calm, though her palms prickled with sweat inside her gloves.
William Lucas stepped forward when his name was called.
He mounted with practised ease, his jaw set and his hands firm upon the reins.
For a moment it seemed as though he might hold the beast, but Wicked’s strength was greater.
With a violent twist the stallion broke free, and William was pitched to the ground.
He rolled and rose quickly, brushing dust from his coat, his dignity intact, if not his seat.
Major Darcy’s voice cut across the parade ground, low and stern. “Not one of you has yet shown command. You are soldiers, not children at play. You must master yourselves before you can hope to master a mount.”
Elizabeth’s heart pounded. Each attempt had ended in failure. She knew her turn was coming.
“Lieutenant Bennet,” Major Darcy called.
Elizabeth stepped forward, her legs heavy, though her face betrayed nothing. She felt the ground hard beneath her boots, the morning air colder still against the back of her neck. Every gaze followed her.
She approached Wicked with measured steps. The stallion’s ears flicked back, his dark eyes fixed upon her with an almost mocking gleam. He stamped once, breath misting in the cold, eyes bright with challenge.
Elizabeth placed a hand upon the saddle. The leather was damp with mist, smooth beneath her gloved palm. Her fingers trembled only slightly as she set her foot to the stirrup. She drew a steady breath and swung herself up.
She pressed her knees hard, recalling the lessons William had given her only weeks before. She had been improving, circling the pasture again and again until she could keep her seat without faltering. For a heartbeat she believed she could hold.
Then Wicked lunged, twisting beneath her with violent force. She slammed against the saddle’s rise and was hurled into the dirt. The breath burst from her chest, pain seared through her shoulder, yet she forced herself upright before the laughter of the men could take hold.
“Again,” Major Darcy commanded.
She swallowed hard, squared her shoulders, and mounted once more.
This time she pressed her knees as William had taught her, recalling his steady voice, his hand upon the reins guiding hers.
For a moment she held her seat, her heart leaping with hope.
Then Wicked reared high, savage and sudden, and she was thrown sideways into the frost-hardened ground.
Gasping, she dragged herself to her feet, mud clinging to her coat.
Her hands trembled as she reached again for the reins.
Her body ached, but her thoughts turned inward.
She remembered Jane’s calm grace in childhood, the ease with which her sister had ridden while she herself had only laughed and walked beside her.
If only she had joined Jane, if only she had been less proud, less content to remain in the safety of the hedgerow.
Now her hands shook, her knees weakened, and she longed for a steadiness she had never claimed.
“Again,” Major Darcy began.
“That is enough, Major.”
Every head turned. A man strode into view from the edge of the mist, cloak drawn back, boots heavy with travel, his bearing calm yet commanding. He carried himself with the assured weight of long command.
“General Fitzwilliam,” Major Darcy said, his tone clipped. “You are returned sooner than expected.”
“So it seems,” General Fitzwilliam replied, his eyes flicking to Elizabeth, mud-streaked and unbowed. “And in good time. If you continue in this manner, half your recruits will be broken before they see a battlefield.”
Major Darcy’s brow tightened, but he did not answer at once.
General Fitzwilliam walked to Wicked, who tossed his head and pawed at the ground.
He studied the stallion with a soldier’s practised eye before turning back to the men.
“This horse was never meant to make soldiers of raw recruits. He is fit for officers, perhaps, but not for lads still learning their seat. If they have lasted a moment upon him, that is lesson enough.”
A murmur of relief rippled through the line. Elizabeth lowered her eyes quickly, unwilling to reveal the rush of gratitude that swept through her.
Major Darcy’s gaze remained hard, but after a pause he inclined his head. “Very well. The lesson stands where it is. Dismiss them.”
The line broke at once, recruits murmuring with relief as they moved to tend their horses or rub the stiffness from their limbs. The frost-slick ground was soon churned with bootprints and hoofmarks.
Elizabeth stood for a moment where she had fallen, her arms heavy and her breath still ragged. Her body ached in every joint, her shoulder throbbed, and her palms burned from the reins. Mud streaked her coat, and her hair, loosened beneath its bindings, clung damp against her neck.
She bent to brush the worst of the dirt away, but her hands shook and the task seemed foolish. At last she straightened, drawing her chin high. She had not stayed seated on Wicked, yet she had risen each time. That, she told herself, must count for something.
A movement beside her caught her eye. William was near, his face pale but steady. He said nothing before the others, only met her gaze for an instant with the briefest flicker of approval. She looked away quickly, but the silent encouragement eased the knot in her chest.
Elizabeth glanced once toward Major Darcy. His expression was unreadable, his stance rigid as he spoke quietly with General Fitzwilliam. Whatever judgment he held, he gave no sign of it to her.
She drew a slow breath, the cold air burning in her lungs, and turned back to her place in the line. She would endure. However many times she was thrown down, she would rise again.