Chapter Three
Three
Despite his late night Gabe woke to the birds’ dawn chorus. He smiled and stretched languorously. He felt alive and eager to meet the day, in a way he hadn’t for years.
He slipped out of bed, padded to the window, and looked out. A chill, clear dawn greeted him, gray warming to palest gold. Wisps of mist hugged the ground. It held the promise of a beautiful day.
He dressed quickly. Her door was still shut as he passed. She’d sleep for several hours more, he thought. She and the boy had been exhausted.
Grabbing a couple of apples from the bowl on the kitchen sideboard, he bit into one with relish, pocketing the other.
He’d break his fast properly and have a shave when he got back.
He headed out, noting to his surprise that the kitchen door was unlocked.
Barrow was up early. Surprising, after such a late night.
Opening the stable door, Gabe paused. Someone was talking in one of the stalls and it wasn’t Barrow. He listened, but couldn’t identify the speaker. He approached the stall, stepping softly…
“You do like them, don’t you?” the light, high voice was saying.
He heard a deep whuffle, as Trojan responded.
Gabe grinned. That horse was as close to human as a horse could be.
Young Nicky was standing on a bale of hay, biting off chunks of apple and then tossing them over the open half door to his horse.
Interesting, for a boy who was scared stiff of horses.
Juno sat beside him, watching the passage of apple piece to horse with a jealous eye.
“Trojan is very fond of apples,” Gabe said.
The boy jumped and whirled around, dropping a piece of apple. He clambered hastily off the stool, then to Gabe’s amazement, stood rigidly to attention, like a small soldier awaiting punishment.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the boy said stiffly. “I know I should not have come.” He spoke English well, but with a faint trace of accent. His mother had no accent at all. Juno nudged the boy’s leg, trying to snaffle the fallen apple piece. He stumbled, then straightened to attention again.
“Juno also likes the occasional piece of apple. As for coming in to the stables, as long as you didn’t wake your mother, I don’t mind,” Gabe said easily. “I headed for the stables at every opportunity when I was your age. Come to think of it, I haven’t changed much, have I?”
The child regarded him solemnly. His eyes were not quite as green as his mother’s. After a moment he said, “At home I was not permitted in the stables without Papa or my guar—another man.”
“I thought you didn’t like horses, Nicky.” Gabe finished his apple and held the core out to the boy. “Here, give him this. Only don’t toss it in. I told you, Trojan won’t bite.”
Nicky shook his head, so Gabe cut the core in half and demonstrated. “Hold it on your palm, with your fingers flat, like you’re serving it on a plate.” He fed the morsel to his horse and Nicky watched, wide-eyed, as Trojan extended his nose and took the core delicately from Gabe’s palm.
“It is because he is your horse,” the boy said.
“No,” Gabe said. “He’ll be friends with anyone who brings him apples. Why don’t you try?”
“Very well.” His eyes alive with misgivings, the boy took the other half of the core and climbed back on the stool. With fingers held flat he extended his hand over the half door and waited, his face screwed up in anticipation of disaster.
Trojan leaned forward, lipped the core delicately, then lifted it from the boy’s palm.
“He took it! He didn’t bite me at all, not even a nip!” Nicky exclaimed. “Any one of Papa’s horses would have had my hand off!”
“Fierce, are they?” Gabe pulled out his knife, cut a slice of the second apple, and handed it to the boy.
“Oh yes, they were bred for war, you know,” Nicky said, as he fed it to the horse. “Papa’s are the fiercest horses in all the land. I thought Trojan would be fierce, too, because of his name. And because he’s so magnificent.”
“I see.” And Gabe thought he did. “Is that why you don’t like horses?”
“I—I like them well enough, though I don’t like to be bitten. It’s just…I cannot ride.” He said it as if confessing something shameful.
Gabe kept cutting slices and handing them to him. “How old are you?”
“I will be eight next month. His lips are so soft—like velvet!” He was feeding the big horse now with confidence.
“Plenty of time yet to learn to ride. Most people don’t learn until they’re much older.”
Nicky shook his head. “In England perhaps,” he said dismissively. “But not in Z—where I come from,” he amended. “There we ride from the age of four or five.” He looked away. “They ride,” he muttered.
“Your mother can’t ride.”
“Yes, but she is a lady and English.”
Gabe shrugged. “Lots of English ladies ride. I know ladies who can ride better than most men.”
Nicky looked doubtful.
“Besides, what does it matter if she rides or not?”
“It matters in Z—where I come from. We are famous for horses and horsemen. Everybody rides—all the men and most of the women. Horses are my country’s heritage.”
Gabe nodded, understanding the implications. “Would you like me to teach you?”
The boy shook his head. “Papa tried many times. I just fall off—like a baby! Useless!” He thumped his crooked leg so hard it must have hurt. “This leg is no good. Not strong enough.”
Gabe passed him the last slice of apple. “Many people with bad legs can still ride.”
The boy shook his head. “Not me. Papa had me examined by the best physicians. My leg cannot be fixed. So I will never ride.”
“Maybe,” Gabe said. He entered the stall and slipped a bridle onto his horse. “My brother Harry’s leg was hurt when he was tiny. He still limps, but he rides like a demon.”
There was a silence. Gabe placed the saddle on Trojan’s back and bent to tighten the cinch. “Harry will be here in a few days. He’s bringing some horses.” He glanced sideways at the boy’s face. The boy made no sign he’d heard.
Gabe untied Trojan and led him out of the stall. Nicky hung back, still nervous of the big horse. When Trojan made a lunge toward him, he flattened himself against the wall. His fear faded when Trojan gently lipped at his shirt and nudged impatiently at his pocket.
“He wants more apples!” the boy exclaimed, laughing. He hesitantly stroked the horse’s nose, then patted him with increasing confidence.
Gabe gave them a few minutes, then led the horse outside.
Nicky followed, his limp very much in evidence. “Where are you going?”
“I thought I’d see if I could retrieve your mother’s portmanteau.
” He mounted and turned the horse toward the driveway.
“If anyone wonders where I am, say I’ll be back by bre—” He broke off.
Turning unexpectedly, he’d caught on Nicky’s face such a wistful expression he couldn’t stand it.
“Would you like to come with me, Nicky?”
“Me? Come with you?”
“You could ride with me. Trojan wouldn’t mind. He likes you.”
The boy hesitated, gave a longing look at the horse, and glanced back at the house.
“I’ll have you back before your mother even wakes.”
Still the boy agonized.
“You won’t fall off, I promise,” Gabe told him. “You can sit in front of me.”
“Like a baby?”
“No, like Harry and I used to do when we were boys and only had one horse between us.” There was a short silence. Gabe added, “Soldiers do it all the time, too—double up, when there’s only one horse.”
That was the clincher. The small boy drew himself up, gave Gabe a stiff bow and said solemnly, “I accept.” Another boy might have jumped for joy, or clapped his hands or even just grinned with pleasure. Mrs. Prynne’s child gave a correct, formal bow. Or was that Papa’s child?
“Excellent. Now, grab onto my hands, and when I count to three, you jump and I’ll do the rest. One, two, three!” He swung Nicky up in front of him. The child sat facing the front, his hands clutching Gabe’s forearms tightly.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
Gabe nudged Trojan and his horse walked down the drive. The boy sat stiffly, holding on to Gabe’s forearms in a death grip. Like mother, like son, he reflected.
Poor little lad, to have been forced onto horses only to keep falling off. Gabe remembered Harry falling off a great deal, but it had been Harry’s choice to try and try again. Harry couldn’t stay away from horses.
As they came to the open downs Gabe said, “We’ll go a bit faster now, shall we?”
Nicky nodded. Gabe signaled Trojan to trot. Nicky held on tight, but soon caught the rhythm. “It’d be easier if you had a saddle that fits you,” Gabe told him.
“I have never used a saddle,” the boy said. “The only way to learn is bareback. That way one learns to master the horse. My father tried—” He broke off. “I’m not supposed to talk about Papa.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Gabe said easily. He was starting to form a picture of the boy’s father. “Shall we try a canter?”
“Yes,” Nicky said firmly.
“Let me know if you want me to slow down.”
Nicky said nothing. Trojan was a very smooth-gaited horse. They cantered until the sea came into sight, glittering in the brilliant morning sun. His horse’s pace didn’t alter, but he raised his head and snuffed the air eagerly. Trojan was itching for a gallop. So was Gabe.
“How about if we go a bit faster? You won’t fall off, I promise.”
The boy nodded, so Gabe allowed his horse to pick up speed. The boy made no objection so, after a moment, he gave Trojan his head. They thundered along, the horse’s mane streaming back, his hooves cutting up the turf beneath. The boy made not a sound. His small hands clung to Gabe’s forearms.
Soon they reached the narrow cliff path and Gabe reluctantly reined in his horse.
“How was that?” he asked the child. There was no response. Gabe leaned forward and turned the boy’s face so he could see it. His eyes were shut tight, his pale little face blank of all expression.
Gabe winced. Why the devil had the child not said something if he was so frightened? He felt like a bully. He opened his mouth to apologize.