Storm and the Silver Bridle

by Stacy Gregg

  “So?” Issie said.

  Francoise reached and grasped Issie’s hand in her own. “So if we win, we can choose Nightstorm as one of the five. We can get the colt back.”

  Issie had never expected Roberto Nunez’s hacienda to have email access. The traditional Andalusian stone villa was over two centuries old. The very last thing Issie had expected to stumble across was a hi-tech media room.

  Issie had found the room by mistake before dinner that evening. She had walked in, thinking it must be the bathroom, and had been confronted by computer screens and electronic gadgets. Francoise had laughed at Issie’s amazement when she spoke about it at dinner that night. “El Caballo Danza Magnifico performs around the world. We’re a big international business, so naturally we are very well-equipped here.”

  After dinner, Francoise lent Issie one of the laptop computers from the office. “It is wireless, so you can access the internet and your emails from anywhere in the house, including your room,” she explained.

  The first person Issie emailed of course was Stella. It was an enormous long email all about everything that had happened so far. Issie told Stella about the shock of discovering that Avery and Roberto were old friends. She described in detail how beautiful and exotic the surroundings were at the hacienda. She wrote about riding Angel for the first time and Francoise’s suspicions that Vega was the one responsible for taking Storm.

  Stella emailed back immediately and her email was just one line.

  Ohmygod! she wrote, Alfonso sounds really dishy. Is he handsome? I bet he is! He probably looks just like one of the Jonas Brothers!

  Issie groaned when she read it. Typical boy-mad Stella!

  Alfonso is really nice, Issie wrote back, and yes, I suppose he is handsome. But in case you’d forgotten, Stella, I already have a boyfriend—his name is Aidan!

  Issie hadn’t forgotten about Aidan. She thought about him all the time, even if she hadn’t seen him for months since she left Blackthorn Farm. Aidan had sent her a few emails since then. He had written to say that the film job, the one that had previously fallen through, was now back on and they were back in the movie business. He and Aunt Hester had loads of well-paid work and the farm was now financially secure.

  She was about to start on an email to Aidan when there was a knock at the door and Avery came in.

  “Francoise told me you were doing some emailing,” Avery said. “I just wanted to remind you to write one to your mum. I promised her that you would let her know once you’d arrived safely.”

  “OK,” Issie replied. She stifled a yawn. What was the time, anyway? She looked at the clock over her bed. “Wow. It’s nearly midnight.” She was surprised.

  “They stay up late in Spain,” Avery said. “We’ll have to get used to their timetable. They eat dinner at ten, they go to sleep at midnight and they have siestas in the afternoons. The whole place stops for a nap at three o’clock.”

  “Even the grown-ups?” Issie was amazed by this. “How long do they sleep for?”

  “A couple of hours,” Avery said. “They do it because it’s too hot in the afternoons to do any work. It’s the tradition here.”

  “Yeah, there are lots of weird traditions here,” Issie said darkly.

  Avery looked at her. “You mean the Silver Bridle?”

  Issie nodded. “Tom, I just don’t get it. Storm is my colt. Why do we have to wait to run some stupid race to win him back? Why don’t we just go to Vega’s stables and force him to give Storm to us?”

  “I think we have to trust Roberto on this one,” Avery said to her. “He knows the culture here and if he says the race is our best chance to get Nightstorm back from Vega, we have to go along with him.”

  Issie wasn’t sure about this, but she was too tired to argue. “I’m gonna email Mum and then go to bed,” she told Avery.

  “Good idea,” her instructor said. “Get some sleep. It’s a big day tomorrow.”

  Chapter 8

  Preparations for the feria took the entire morning. Saddles were polished until they glistened and every rider in El Caballo stables put on their best vaquero costume. It was the horses, though, who got the most attention. Their coats were groomed until they shone and their manes were plaited, not in the traditional English way seen at gymkhanas, but with thick double-rows of French plaits that ran in two braids down each side of the horse’s neck from one end of the mane to the other. Their tails too, were dressed, the top halves plaited into a long French braid and then the switch of the tail elaborately knotted up at the end.

  Issie was riding Angel again for the parade and had saddled him herself that morning with a rainbow saddle cloth for the occasion. The stable grooms had helped her get ready too, showing her the Spanish way of tying brilliantly coloured red, orange and violet bobbles into the stallion’s mane.

  By eleven o’clock all the riders were mounted and ready to go. Except for Francoise.

  “What is taking her so long?” Avery checked his watch.

  “Here she is!” Issie said.

  Francoise emerged into the cobbled courtyard, not in her usual uniform of vaquero trousers and jacket, but in a hot-pink flamenco dress covered with large black polka dots. The dress hugged tight to Francoise’s body all the way down past her hips and then turned into a riot of frills and flounces around her legs. She wore her hair tied back severely in a bun, with a gigantic red rose securing it in place.

  “It is traditional.” Francoise shrugged when Issie and Avery both stared at her wide-eyed as she walked over to join them, taking the reins of her mare. “Although I cannot say I am happy about having to ride side-saddle in this dress,” she added grumpily. “One cannot control a horse properly riding side-saddle.”

  Francoise had chosen one of El Caballo’s chestnut Anglo-Arab mares to ride to the feria today. Issie was riding alongside her, Roberto was riding Marius, and Avery had been given one of Roberto’s best stallions, a bay Lusitano called Sorcerer. Six other vaqueros, including Alfonso, were also riding with them today, each of them on one of El Caballo’s grey Lipizzaner stallions.

  As the riders headed out through the gates of the hacienda they instantly fell into groups. Avery and Roberto rode ahead together laughing and chatting, at ease with each other as only old friends can be. Alfonso rode out at the front of them alone, holding the El Caballo flag. Behind all of them rode the El Caballo horsemen, and then Issie and Francoise, bringing up the rear. Apart from Francoise, who was riding a mare, Issie noticed that all of the other riders had something in common.

  “Why does no one ride geldings here?” Issie asked Francoise as they trotted out of the El Caballo gates, heading up the dusty hillside road that would lead them the short distance to the village.

  “In Spain it is only stallions,” Francoise explained. “The Spanish stallion is not as wild and uncontrollable as other breeds. Indeed he is so well-mannered that even small children of three or four years old can be seen riding a stallion.”

  Francoise looked over at Issie’s horse. “Angel is such a typical Andalusian stallion,” she said. “I remember when we first brought him to El Caballo as a young colt. He had been so badly mistreated by Vega and he was terrified of men, but even then he would always let me near him, and his nature was so gentle, so sweet. He is nearly eleven now, but he has not changed. Whenever I am home at El Caballo, I ride him each day and I marvel at how willing he is. He will do anything for you. You will see.”

  Issie knew what Francoise meant. When she had ridden Destiny there was always the sense of a power struggle between her and the black stallion. He was wilful, with a mind of his own. Angel wasn’t like that at all—he was sensitive and willing to please. It made Issie even sadder about the scars on Angel’s nose. Why would Vega use a barbed metal noseband on such a sweet-natured horse as this? It didn’t make sense.

  The village was on the hill rising up above El Caballo Danza Magnifico. It was a pretty sight with its whitewashed terraced houses with terracotta roofs all built
right next door to each other. The houses all clustered around the central square, which was where Issie and the other riders were heading. They trotted their horses up the winding cobbled streets and gathered at the entrance to the square, where the other riders were organising themselves into their haciendas, preparing to parade under their racing colours around the fountain at the centre of the square.

  Issie realised now that the red, orange and violet bobbles tied in Angel’s mane were not purely for decoration—they denoted the colour of El Caballo Danza Magnifico’s hacienda. As each of the twelve haciendas assembled by the entrance to the square their flag bearer rode to the front so that the other riders representing his stables could line up behind him. Each flag bearer held aloft the colourful banner that bore their hacienda insignia. El Caballo’s flag was golden and in the middle was a red letter C with the red heart stamped inside it. Carrying the flag, Alfonso rode to the front of the El Caballo riders, smiling at Issie as he cantered past her.

  “Look!” Francoise said to Issie. “It is so high up here, you can see all the way back to El Caballo. The hacienda looks beautiful, doesn’t it?”

  Issie looked across the square. Francoise was right, you could see the house and stables quite clearly from here. At the gates she could make out an El Caballo flag, the same as the one that Alfonso was carrying, fluttering in the wind on the flagpole.

  There was a mood of anticipation now, as the flag bearers shouted out to their riders as last-minute preparations began. Issie wanted to get excited too, to get into the spirit of the feria, but she couldn’t. She was still so desperately worried about Nightstorm. She hadn’t really been concentrating when the flag bearers explained what to do, and she couldn’t speak Spanish anyway. She suddenly felt overwhelmed and bewildered.

  “It’s OK. Stick with me,” Francoise told her. She pulled her Anglo-Arab up to ride alongside Issie. “All we must do is ride once around the square so that everyone can admire our horses.” And then she added under her breath, “Of course, this admiration comes at a price. Most of the haciendas are here trying to decide which horses they will claim from their rival stables if they are lucky enough to win the race.”

  Which horse would Issie choose if she won? The truth was, as she looked around at the stallions, mares, fillies and colts being paraded in the feria, Issie would have chosen all of them. Each horse seemed more beautiful than the next. And then, one particular horse caught her eye. He was a gigantic jet-black stallion, enormous, almost seventeen hands high, and solid with it. Unlike the other stallions in the parade, who all seemed to share the placid Spanish nature, this black stallion had fire in his belly. He skipped and danced beneath his master as they rode back and forth. While the other riders in the parade marched obediently behind the flag bearer, the man on the black stallion paid no attention and rode ahead, circling his flag bearer and horses like a shark. Issie looked at the flag, which was bright yellow and black with a capital V surrounded by curlicues on either side .

  “Which hacienda is that?” Issie asked, pointing it out to Francoise.

  Francoise didn’t have the chance to answer Issie’s question before a string of young horses came into view behind the yellow and black flag. The young horses were riderless, a string of colts and fillies, all wearing neck collars that joined together with leashes so that the line of horses formed a cobra.

  Leading the cobra was a man on a grey stallion with a stock whip. He kept the young horses in line behind the man who carried the yellow and black flag. There were four colts in the cobra. The first three colts were almost identical, all of them steel-grey, with the classical physique of the Spanish Andalusian. But the fourth colt was quite different. He was a bay, with a broad white blaze and an elegant dished face with pretty wide-set eyes. Issie saw him and her heart leapt.

  “Storm!” she called out across the square.

  Before anyone could stop her, she had turned Angel and was barging her way back through the crowded parade, going against the tide, pushing past the other horses and riders. She could no longer see Storm, he was lost in the crowd now, but she kept her eyes on the yellow and black flag that marked the spot where her colt must be.

  “Storm!!”

  There was no way the colt could possibly hear Issie’s cries over the noise of the parade. Was she even getting closer to him? It was hard enough to hold her ground against the crowds who were pushing past her, going in the opposite direction. She kept losing sight of the yellow and black flag. Where was Storm?

  Panic-stricken, she pulled Angel to a halt, took a deep breath and gave two short, sharp whistles—the same signal she used to call Storm in the paddock at home.

  The bay colt heard her call and he returned it with a heartfelt whinny, letting her know that he was there.

  “Storm!” Issie kicked Angel on again, heading in the direction of the colt’s cry, forcing her way on through the crowd. Behind her, Alfonso had been the first one to realise what was going on. He had turned too and was trying to follow her through the parade, but his flag was making it hard to manoeuvre. Francoise was right behind him, making apologies to people as they barged through the crowd, pushing past the other riders as she tried to catch up.

  There was a brief moment when the procession suddenly swelled around her and Issie lost Storm once more in a blur of horses and colourful flags—and then she urged Angel on and suddenly they were through and on the other side of the parade. The crowds had cleared and Issie was sitting there on Angel, staring directly at the man who held the cobra of colts.

  “Hey!” Issie shouted at the man. “Where did you get him from? That’s my colt!”

  The man, who clearly didn’t speak English, looked at her blankly as she pointed at Storm.

  “You have my horse,” Issie repeated slowly, “and I want him back.”

  The man shrugged at her and then turned away and shouted something in Spanish that Issie didn’t understand. A moment later, the ranks of riders wearing the yellow and black colours of the hacienda opened up to let through the man on the gigantic black stallion, the one that Issie had first noticed in the crowd.

  Now that she was closer Issie could see that although the horse was large, the man was not. He was short, and far too fat for the traditional vaquero costume that he was wearing. His gut bulged over the black satin cummerbund of his trousers. Underneath his black oiled hair, beads of sweat kept forming on his forehead and he dabbed at these with a white handkerchief. His eyes were beady and small, his face dominated by a very thick, bushy moustache.

  “Hey chica! Little girl! What’s going on?” the man on the stallion mocked her. “Do you not understand Spanish or do you think you are being funny? You’re blocking our way. The parade has begun. Get a move on!”

  Issie didn’t move. “You have my colt,” she said. “That bay colt there—he’s mine and I want him back.”

  “You cannot make a claim on the property of Miguel Vega!” the man said dismissively

  “Miguel Vega is nothing but a thief,” Issie said, shaking with fury, “and I’m not making a claim. I’m telling you. That colt does not belong to Vega—his name is Nightstorm and he is mine.”

  As Issie said this, Alfonso finally reached her side. “Are you OK?” He looked at Issie. She shook her head. “Alfonso, that’s him. That’s my colt. He’s got Storm.”

  Alfonso turned to face the man on the black stallion.

  “You’ve got a nerve stealing that colt and then bringing him here, Miguel.”

  Miguel? Issie suddenly clicked. Of course! This man in front of them was none other than Vega himself!

  Francoise had joined them now. She had a steely look in her eyes as she rode past Issie and Alfonso, taking up position in front of them to confront the grinning man with the moustache.

  “Miguel. You’ve gone too far this time. You know that the colt belongs to this girl and she has nothing to do with our feud, or the race. Why don’t we settle this now? Do the right thing and give him back.”

/>   Vega gave a smirk at this. “You’re mistaken, Francoise. The colt is one of ours. Look at the brand!”

  Issie looked down at Nightstorm and as the colt danced about, fighting against his handlers, she caught a glimpse of his hindquarters. Freshly burned into his left haunch was the ∼V∼ brand of the Vega stables.

  Vega sneered at Francoise. “You see? You insult Miguel Vega! I do not need to steal your feeble horses! I will win the five best horses in your stable anyway when Victorioso and I cross the line ahead of you for the Silver Bridle!”

  All this time, as they had been standing there facing Vega, Issie had been struggling to control Angel. The stallion had been pacing and fretting beneath her, fighting her hands, desperate to get away from the man with the moustache. It hadn’t occurred to Issie until now that Angel would have a lingering memory of Vega’s cruelty, and that the stallion would be so terrified of his former master. She was struggling to keep him still so that she could confront Vega. “Steady, boy,” Issie breathed, trying to hold the stallion as he danced beneath her.

  “Ah!” Vega said. “I see you are riding Angel. He still bears the marks of my serreta.” He laughed and reached out a hand to touch the stallion’s scarred face. Angel instantly pulled back and Issie struggled once more to hang on to the reins and control him.

  Vega laughed again and looked at Storm. “We shall soon see how this little one likes the serreta. He is almost old enough, I think, to begin his training.”

  “You leave him alone!” Issie shouted. Before she could stop to think about it she had kicked Angel on and was aiming her horse straight at Vega, her hand raised, ready to strike at the man with her closed fist.

  “Hah!” Vega reached out his own hand and caught Issie’s arm in midair, grasping her wrist tightly. “We have a young wildcat here! You need to control your child, Francoise! I might need to use the serreta on her as well.”

  “Let go of her!” Francoise egged her horse on, riding forward to reach out her hand and free Issie from Vega’s grasp. As she did so, though, Vega’s enormous black stallion reared up. Vega had no choice but to let go of Issie’s wrist as the horse rose up underneath him. But Francoise was still riding forward to help her and as the big, black stallion came back down to the ground his front hoof caught a glancing blow on Francoise’s shoulder.