Reagan (Hengist-People of the Horse Book 3)

by Jacky Gray

  ‘But that’s exactly what we need. It would save so much time if we could get the rest of the information.’

  ‘I think he intended to make a full account of all the horses, but I understand he only made a fair copy of the first six. When he died, his son published what he’d completed so far. There are copies in every librarie from Oxford to Glastonburgh, it’s one of the most successful books in recent years.’

  ‘Do you think this son would talk to us? How could we get in touch with him?’

  Kalen returned from a fruitless search. ‘If he still has all the notes, it could save us weeks in repeating his work.’

  ‘Reeve, I think the name was. Or Reid possibly. A strange name for a smith, but there’s probably more than one in the village. You could try asking at the librarie.’

  ‘Can we go tomorrow?’ Reagan’s eyes were shining.

  Malduc smiled at Kalen. ‘I can remember when you were every bit as keen. Young people always want things now if not sooner. You must promise me one thing, young Reagan.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  ‘We have seen how much there is to learn and with all the other instruction you’re getting from Kalen, you don’t need to be draining yourself by trying to solve puzzles with Blaise every night. In three weeks’ time, the moon will be at its peak power again. By then, you will be much more familiar with the individual horses and know their idiosyncrasies.’

  Reagan agreed, happy at the thought of an adventure.

  ‘Even if this Reeve isn’t there, it won’t be a wasted journey; we could visit some white horses so I can recognise them more easily when Blaise takes me there.’

  ‘Alright, I’m convinced. I just hope Lintun doesn’t demand too heavy a task in exchange for the loan of his pony and trap.’

  ‘Could we maybe come back a different way? I checked the map and if we return via Ogbourne, we could follow the Michael line to Hackpen and maybe even Broad Town. Or, if we went south toward Milk hill …’

  ‘Stop right there. I don’t like to travel, even in such a smart vehicle as this one. And if we do get these notes, you probably won’t need to see all the horses. Most of them have some feature that distinguishes them from the others and, if Malduc’s right about the dates thing, you will be able to predict in advance which ones are next anyway.’

  ‘Oh.’ Reagan slumped in his seat. Maybe this wasn’t going to be the big adventure he hoped it would be. How much could happen in eight miles? Not that he expected the sort of adventures which happened to Archer and his friends. The sort of adventures which ended with Gaelic Sound, the best band ever to play at festivals, writing their most popular song of all time, “Archer son of Sedge.” There was no chance anyone would ever write a song about him no matter what he did. He wasn’t brave or handsome or athletic like Archer, whose name would make most of the girls in his class blush and giggle as they whispered about him.

  Kalen sighed at the dejected look on the boy’s face. ‘Oh, alright then. If we don’t have any luck getting the information, and if we have time, then I might consider it.’ Shaking his head, he smiled at the way the lad went from hopelessly disheartened to bubbling with enthusiasm in the blink of an eye.

  ‘That’s awesome. It’ll be great. You won’t regret it.’

  But regret was exactly the emotion Kalen felt two hours later as he tried to think of a way to remedy the situation. In front of him stood the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, getting increasingly exasperated. And the source of her amused annoyance was him.

  17 Reeve the Smith

  They made good time to Marlburgh because Kalen had decided not to bother going to the librarie. Wrong decision. Reagan felt sure the librarian would have given them the vital piece of information which would have avoided this whole predicament. Having spent a while convincing his friend Lintun he was competent at handling his precious carriage, Kalen was in a hurry to press on before the day disappeared. The well-maintained, wide road made the journey straightforward and they soon entered the arched gateway. Leaving the buggy in the stable of a local hostelry, they followed the friendly innkeeper’s directions to the blacksmith’s workshop where he assured him the smith’s son would be working.

  But as Malduc had suggested, there were several smiths in the village – two of them had workshops on the same street. Neither was the son of the smith who had written the book about white horses. The second smith, a giant of a man with a huge belly covered in a leather apron, directed them to a street on the other side of town, past Merlin’s mound.

  ‘If you head for the white horse, you won’t miss it, the workshop looks out onto the hill.’

  ‘Which might explain his father’s fascination for the subject, if he spent all day looking at the white horse and dreaming of its adventures.’

  The smith gave Reagan a curious look as he took up his hammer and tongs. Before returning to his task he winked and asked Kalen to, “Tell Reeve that Blackie sends his regards.”

  Assuring him they would, they walked through the streets, Reagan drinking in the smells and sights.

  ‘Come on lad, we have no time to dawdle; it’ll be lunch time soon and we don’t want to risk missing him. He might be prepared to spend some time talking to us if we buy him a pie and a pint for his troubles.’

  From the two he’d observed, Reagan knew enough about the nature of these big friendly giants to see the sense of this. A moment after spotting the white horse, they heard the clang of the smith’s hammer. It stopped as they reached the front stall displaying some of the wares for sale. Reagan was fascinated by the elaborate patterns worked into the beautiful, hand crafted tables, chairs and gates on display.

  Kalen peered through into the darkness beyond, when a pretty young woman came through to ask how she could help them. She was drying her hands on a small cloth as though she had just left a busy kitchen. The smudge of what looked like flour on the end of her nose backed up this notion.

  Kalen bowed courteously. ‘I wonder if I may speak to your husband, I have some business with him.’

  She replied with a wary tone. ‘I have no husband.’

  Kalen peered past her into the darkness beyond. ‘Your brother then.’

  Her eyes flicked at Reagan and he saw a flash of something vaguely wicked, but her tone became neutral, almost bored. ‘I have no brother.’

  Kalen mistook her look for impatience, pouring charm into his tone as he tried to make amends. ‘I’m sorry to pull you away from your baking, but I’m trying to find Reeve, the son of the Marlburgh smith. If he’s not your brother or husband, I can only assume you’re his cook or housekeeper.’

  Reagan turned away, picking up a pot stand to cover his amusement as Kalen dug the hole ever deeper.

  ‘I heard him working earlier on and wondered if we could have a word with him. I’d like to buy him some lunch because I think he has some information which would be useful to me. Us.’ His gesture included Reagan, who was wondering how long he could let his mentor’s misunderstanding continue.

  One look at the exasperation spreading rapidly over her face convinced Reagan her amusement had its limits. He must redeem this, quickly. He held out the intricate ironwork he’d been studying. ‘You must be Reeve, I’m Reagan and this is Kalen. You’ll have to excuse him; I think his brain is addled by the lack of food. Did you base this design on one of the crop patterns?’

  She took the heavy trivet, throwing a pointed glance at Kalen. Her eyes crinkled as she swept her gaze over Reagan with an intensity which made him glad he was wearing his good tabard and best canvas breeches. Although ten years younger than her, he was strongly attracted to her striking face and the shapely curves emphasised by the tight leather waistcoat laced over her linen tunic. He felt his face warm under her scrutiny but she had moved on, following the lines of the pattern with her strong, brown fingers.

  ‘Yes.’

  Her terse answer made him babble. ‘But you had to give it symmetry, not like the original configuration at Barburgh
hill fort. The design with six curved radii must have been difficult to make, but you managed it perfectly.’

  ‘I know. I can’t explain why. It just didn’t feel right with the three different shapes. It’s my most popular design, but one or two people have complained it’s not a faithful representation.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I tell them it’s just a trivet for standing their hot pots on and that it would not be as strong if I used the true pattern. You are very astute, Reagan. Much more so than your father.’

  Reagan gasped. ‘He’s not my father,’ just as Kalen protested, ‘I’m not his father,’ then laughed out loud.

  Holding out his hand, Kalen stepped forward. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you, Reeve, and I’m sorry to have jumped to the same half-cooked assumptions as you just pretended to do. But if you will go around wearing flour on your nose, I think most people would arrive at the same conclusion. Especially when everyone we spoke to referred to a smith’s son, not daughter. And Reeve is normally a boy’s name.’

  All the time he was talking, she regarded his hand as if deciding whether or not she would bother with someone so dim. But she hesitated a moment too long and Kalen obviously thought some kind of dramatic gesture necessary. Leaving his outstretched hand where it was, he bent on one knee and tried one last tactic. ‘I humbly beg your pardon for being an addle-brained simpleton with poorer manners than a squire and the sensibilities of a knave. Even my apprentice has more wit to recognise a master craftswoman when he sees one.’

  Laughing, she offered her hand which he kissed most gallantly, then held onto it for a second as he added, ‘Blackie asked me to tell you he sends his regards.’

  She snatched her hand away with a smile, matching his decorous manner. ‘That rogue. I can see his handiwork in this. I’m sure if we look around we will find him waiting to profit from the mischief he has fashioned.’

  ‘Can I make amends by offering you lunch at the hostelry of your choice? It will all be perfectly innocent and we will have young Reagan to add respectability.’

  She pretended to consider it for a moment, but it was perfectly obvious to Reagan she’d already made her mind up to comply. He watched the way Kalen gently dusted away the smudge from her nose with a scrap of linen, showing it to her to confirm his mistake. She giggled, explaining about the chalk dust she’d been using earlier to polish candlesticks for a handfasting gift.

  Half an hour later, as they waited for the food, Reagan thought anyone watching the way Kalen was looking at Reeve would be forgiven for thinking they were courting. Reagan could not help a twinge of jealousy; she seemed smart and knowledgeable about all the things which interested him. She was fierce and brave and strong, running the smithy on her own since her father died. But also kind and gentle, with a wicked sense of humour. In fact, everything he thought he would want in a girlfriend. He recognised so much of himself in Kalen, it made perfect sense he would be smitten too.

  Nothing would normally tear Kalen away from his job. But right now, when it was important he should be absorbed in the task, he allowed himself to be distracted by this enchanted creature. For she must be some kind of nymph; no-one could be so beguiling, so exactly right. Reagan had no choice; someone had to remind them why they were here.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your exploration of each other’s childhoods, but we need to focus on the records.’

  ‘Oh Reagan, loosen up. Have another ale.’

  ‘No, Kalen, he’s right. I need to get back to work even if you don’t. I have to create and sell things to put bread on my table.’

  Reagan heard the thought forming in Kalen’s head and knew for sure he was under the influence of some kind of spirit, either of the ethereal or liquid variety. He stood. ‘Kalen. We simply cannot take up any more of this good lady’s time and we can’t stop here until she finishes because we have to get back before it gets dark.’

  ‘But I …’

  ‘I know you would like to spend more time with the lovely Reeve and I think she knows it too, but maybe another day. How about Saturnday? I think you will both be free after the morning’s market is over.’

  18 Patterns & Dates

  Reagan looked at the table he’d drawn with some concern. As he found out more information, it had outgrown the small slate he drew it on initially. Now it covered the big blackboard which filled one of the walls in Kalen’s office. Every time he discovered a new horse, it meant re-writing the table to add in the new row. This quickly became far too much effort, so he put it at the end and drew an arrow to the right place.

  When this happened for the third time, he felt like ripping the board off the wall. Recognising his frustration for what it was, he decided a brisk walk would clear his mind. His wanderings took him close to the sports ground where the Worthies were practising for the archery round. Molan and Taryn seemed pleased to see him and they exchanged news.

  ‘What do you think of this mystery sickness?’

  ‘Is this one of your jests, Molan?’

  ‘No, it’s serious. Children in all the neighbouring villages are coming down with it. It’s spreading like a pox.’

  Reagan could believe Taryn but, as usual, Molan had to go for the big news. ‘Apparently Edlyn’s been throwing back his lunch. Godryk was moaning he’d be sure to get it too.’

  ‘Can’t think of a more deserving pair.’ Reagan happily contemplated the two of them suffering for a change until he caught sight of Rowena. He paled. ‘I need to get back.’

  Hurrying back to Kalen’s office, he tried to convince himself this was merely a coincidence, probably nothing more than the usual round of chicken pox. No way was Rowena going to catch some dreadful disease from her brother and pass it on to Amiera. But a small dark voice argued it could be related to all the other incidents and he needed to step up his efforts to find the solution before it affected everyone he knew.

  He felt certain the key lay in the white horses, if only he could spot the pattern. All he had to do was organise the facts and it would become clear. Not a trivial task. Reeve’s father had talked to over a hundred people in the three years prior to his death. He’d scribbled notes from every meeting in a notebook, but with no logical order to the places he’d visited. The date and time of every meeting were meticulously recorded and several sketches could be recognised from the book, but it was obvious why so few of the findings had been published. As the arthritis in his hands made it more painful for him to write, he resorted to an increasing number of shorthand notations and abbreviations which made it almost impossible to read.

  Reeve had obviously spent some time with the notebook trying to decipher her father’s spidery hand. She had journeyed with him in his final year, taking over the note writing using a logical order and colour coding the information.

  ~*~

  Kalen had been full of admiration when she explained her system. ‘Impressive. Are you sure you don’t want to give up this menial labour and come and be my research assistant? I could use someone with your talent for organisation.’

  ‘Thank you, but no. This menial labour, as you call it, gives me so much more satisfaction than sitting in a dusty office somewhere with nothing but books for company. I believe I would wither away and die if I could not spend the day creating something useful and decorative.’

  ‘Everyone has to use their skills, but I can’t imagine working with metal is as satisfying as working with wood.’ As he spoke, his fingers had followed the smooth contours of the impressive carved inlay on the table displaying her products.

  ‘They may not have grown on top of the earth, but each piece of metal came from the earth and has its own character. It’s just as important to feel the resonance. If you try to fashion a piece of metal into something it was not meant for, it will fight you.’

  ‘No. That makes no sense.’

  ‘How like a man.’ Her eyes flashed an apology at Reagan as she railed against Kalen’s prejudice. ‘See that scrap?’ She pointed at pile of misshapen objects. ‘Those are
all the rejects from Blackie and Smithson. They insist on being the master of everything which dares come near their forge.’ She shrugged. ‘They try to bend it to their will. You can see the result.’

  ‘Surely you’re not saying metal has a soul?’

  ‘Not like wood, no, but there is definitely something. I make a fine profit buying up their rejects at knock down prices and turning them into things which decorate many people’s homes.’

  ‘Let me guess. Are most of your customers women?’

  ‘Strange you should say that.’ She smiled at Reagan. ‘I’ve never really thought about it before, but yes, I think you’re right. Obviously there are some more male things like the armour plates, but I don’t get asked for many of those.’

  As if to prove a point, two women came in, exclaiming with delight over the trivets. Reeve’s smile was welcoming.

  Reagan picked up a long, curved strip of metal which had once bound a wagon wheel, giving it strength and durability against the tiny sharp stones which would otherwise embed themselves into the wood and weaken it.

  Returning from the sale, Reeve watched his examination. ‘Take a good look. What do you see?’

  As Reagan’s eyes registered the lack of pits in the surface, his fingers traced its smoothness. ‘It’s not as rough as your iron.’

  ‘Because they’ve used a process to get rid of all the impurities. Now look at the ends.’

  ‘It’s rusted through.’

  ‘Because it’s the impurities which make it resistant to the corrosion. The moisture in the air turns the pure iron into the red compound called ferrous oxide. This makes it weak and it crumbles.’

  ‘So why do they do it?’

  She shrugged. ‘Because it’s a new technologie? I don’t know. Sometimes, it seems men do things just because they can.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’ Kalen was quick to defend his fellow men. ‘I’m sure there’s a good reason they tried this new process. If you don’t try different ways, you will never make any progress.’