by Toby Bishop
“My lord,” Herbert said, with a shallow bow. “We wasn’t expecting you.”
William swung down from his saddle, and tugged his vest into place. “I need Crisp.”
“Not here yet, sir.”
“Where’s the new colt? The one from the Uplands?”
At this Herbert paused, his mouth a little open, his eyes darting past William to the Hall. William felt a cold surge of fury. “Every horse here belongs to m—to my father, Herbert, and I act for him. If I wish to see the colt, I need no one’s permission.”
Herbert still looked doubtful. “Well, my lord. Rosellen can show you to his stall.”
“And I want to speak to Eduard Crisp the moment he arrives.”
“Expected any moment, my lord.”
“Good. I’ll breakfast in the Hall while I wait.” William slapped his thigh with his quirt. “After I see the colt.”
At a gesture from Herbert, the stable-girl, in boots and a well-worn tabard and skirt, stepped out of the shadows. She bobbed to William, keeping her eyes down. Heard of him, apparently. Well, good. A little fear would be useful today. Maybe this Rosellen had some connection with Crisp. He must try to find out. He could use that, if she did. She wasn’t much to look at, but that didn’t mean someone might not care about her.
He tucked his quirt under his arm, and followed her through the stables. The winged horses tossed their heads as he passed, and he kept a careful distance from them. No point in raising questions.
The stable-girl stopped beside a modest stall. Still not meeting his eyes, she mumbled, “Here he is, m’lord. The Uplands colt.”
William took a half-step forward, enough so that he could see into the stall, not close enough to the colt to make the stable-girl curious. The colt lifted his head, and gazed at him through wide, intelligent eyes.
His chest was beginning to fill out, the muscles that supported his wings already ridging his chest. His croup was flat, his back short, his legs clean and fine. He was disappointingly small, his head barely reaching William’s shoulder.
Mouse Queen had been small, of course, a plain little dun. She was one of those Ocmarin curiosities, born without wings for no apparent reason. But the stallion had been bigger, and known for throwing colts that matured early. Still, this colt was the first of his get with wings. And he had allowed William to get closer than any winged horse had ever done. Oh, yes, Isamar would be interested in this one.
He took another step closer. Something moved in the straw, and a little brown head poked up over the stall gate. It had drooping ears and a scraggly beard, and it eyed him with what seemed like suspicion.
William spat, “In Kalla’s name—what is that doing here?”
“Goat, m’lord,” Rosellen said in an offhand tone.
“I know it’s a goat! I have eyes, girl! But why is it in the colt’s stall?”
“Goat suckled him, kept him company. The young lady wouldn’t leave her.”
“Young lady.”
“Yes, sir.” For the first time, Rosellen’s eyes slid up to his, then quickly away.
William gripped the quirt tighter in his fist, restraining his temper. “What ‘young lady’ would that be?” he said. He knew the silky quality had come into his voice, the tone that made Slater cringe. This stable-girl, apparently, was too stupid to notice.
“Larkyn Hamley, that would be, what’s bonded to the colt.”
“Hardly a lady,” William muttered under his breath. “An Uplands farm brat.” Rosellen slid him another glance, but did not press the point.
The sounds of treble voices carried across the courtyard as the door from the Hall opened. Breakfast must be over. Flights would be beginning, and Crisp would be here at any moment. William stepped back from the colt’s stall, thinking furiously. The colt was small, it was true, but he wanted him intact. He had wings, and that was the whole point.
PHILIPPA stood beside Margareth’s desk while Eduard Crisp was speaking. Larkyn Hamley stood opposite, glaring at the Master Breeder. Eduard, a stout, ruddy man with thinning hair, utterly ignored the girl.
“Margareth!” he snapped. “I hardly expected to be met with an argument this morning. The Master Breeder has been entrusted with these decisions since the days of old Duke Francis!”
Margareth rose stiffly from her chair. “Eduard. She has been here only three days, and has hardly had time to get used to our ways.”
Lark repeated, “He’s too young to be gelded!”
Eduard sputtered, “Margareth, since when are your students experts in these matters?”
Larkyn jutted her small chin. “I asked the man who drives the mail coach.”
Without looking at her, Eduard said, “Even a new girl should understand that a winged horse is a very different creature from a coach cob!”
“Eduard,” Margareth said. “I believe Larkyn thought, as I would have, that this decision wouldn’t be made until the colt was at least a year.”
“This colt’s different,” Crisp said. “Testes descended already, like a Foundation, though he’s too small for that bloodline. Everything’s wrong with him—his croup is too flat for a Foundation, he’s black like a Noble, but he has the body of an Ocmarin. Nothing there we want to carry down the line.”
“You’re being a bit hasty, Eduard,” Philippa put in. “There may yet be characteristics to develop . . .”
“No. Definitely not. I’ve called for the surgeon, and he’ll be here within the hour.”
Lark said, “And will you have a potion for the pain? We always give one to the goats.”
Crisp still refused to look at her. “Margareth, I’m not having your students tell me my business! Why are you making me defend myself to a half-ignorant farm girl?”
Philippa began, “Come now, Eduard,” but Margareth intervened.
“Eduard,” she said quietly. “Our girls make great sacrifices, and they deserve respect.”
“So do I,” he snapped.
Through all of this Larkyn had stood, her cheeks burning. Philippa had seen the sunset and sunrise of Larkyn Hamley’s color before, and she sensed an outburst coming.
“Eduard,” Philippa said. “It’s natural for us to feel protective of our horses.”
“Well and good,” he retorted. “But the bloodlines are my responsibility.”
“As the winged horses are ours,” Margareth said firmly. “Philippa is right, Eduard. Larkyn’s concerns are perfectly natural.”
“I trust you,” Crisp said dourly, “to tell Miss Hamley that I am not a cruel man.”
“But Tup is—” Larkyn began.
For the first time Eduard spoke directly to the girl. “You will stop using that name!”
Lark leaned forward to force the Master Breeder to look at her. “My colt,” she said, in her strong country accent, “will have a potion, or I won’t let you do it.”
“Let me!” Crisp whirled to face her. “You have no authority in this matter! And I’m telling you, young woman, it doesn’t hurt that much!”
“Doesn’t hurt?” the girl cried. Her back had gone ramrod straight, and her vivid blue eyes blazed. “And how would you be knowing that, sir? Perhaps you’ve had the experience?”
Eduard Crisp stared at the Uplands girl, his mouth agape.
Philippa snapped, “Larkyn!”
Margareth commanded, “Silence, girl!”
Lark stared at both of them, her lips gone white. She threw Crisp one last, agonized glance before she spun on her toes and stamped out of the office. The Master Breeder folded his arms and glowered at Margareth. Margareth coughed, and covered her mouth with her hand. Philippa looked at her curiously.
Eduard turned a grim eye on Philippa. “Not,” he growled, “a good beginning.”
Philippa shrugged. “Well,” she said. “We have greater concerns than that.”
“I demand an apology,” he said.
Margareth dropped her hand, and her eyes narrowed. “Have a care, Eduard. We are not biddable sisters or de
pendent daughters. The Duke’s bloodlines are worthless without riders.”
He threw at her, “There are other riders.”
“Not for these horses, Eduard. They are already bonded.”
There was no denying that. Philippa, watching Eduard control his temper, felt a pang of sympathy. He looked at each of them for a speaking moment before he departed, stiff-necked and dignified.
Philippa, relieved, got up to close the door behind him. When she turned back, she found Margareth collapsed in her chair, her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking.
“Margareth! Margareth, my dear, are you all right?”
Margareth lifted her face, and Philippa saw that she was laughing.
“Why, Margareth—what is it? You’re surely not laughing at poor Eduard?”
“It’s that girl!” Margareth said, and then, for long moments, couldn’t speak at all. She laughed till tears ran down her cheeks and she had to gulp for air. At length she managed to say, “I thought I would burst into hysterics watching a slip of a girl face down the great Master Breeder of Oc! Oh, Kalla’s heels, what a sight!” She was off again, hiccuping with laughter. Philippa couldn’t help chuckling, too.
When their merriment subsided, she said, “It is funny, Margareth. But we can’t have Larkyn behaving that way. What a tongue the child has!”
“I know.” Margareth’s lips still twitched. She leaned back in her chair, and rubbed her eyes. “Oh, my very ribs ache!” she said. She took a shuddering breath, and shook her head sharply. “There now, that’s enough.”
“It does you good to laugh,” Philippa said. “I only hope there will not be repercussions, for Larkyn and for us.”
“Well.” Margareth took one last deep breath, and laid her hands flat on her desk. “Well, I expect there will be. But we’ll deal with them as we may. For now, we had better get to the stables and see that this is done right, if it must be done.”
Philippa raised her eyebrows. “If it must? Don’t you agree the colt should be gelded?”
“I think, Philippa,” Margareth said, with no lingering trace of laughter in her voice. “I think Eduard is more concerned that this mystery colt doesn’t breed than he is about where he came from. He should have stirred himself long before this, taken himself to the Uplands to assess the foal, tried—as you did—to speak to Frederick.”
“He would not have been allowed.”
“We don’t know that.” Margareth crossed to the door. “But I don’t quite trust him to take proper care. He’s an odd little colt, I grant you, but he’s still one of Kalla’s creatures. Every one of them is a gift. Let’s be sure this is quick, and clean.”
“Shall we keep Larkyn away?”
“I don’t think so. I daresay the girl knows more about these things than any of us.”
Philippa snorted. “And suppose she faints in front of Crisp and the surgeon?”
Margaret paused with her hand on the doorknob. “You know, Philippa, I would be surprised if Larkyn Hamley has ever fainted. Or ever will.”
THEY found Larkyn in Tup’s stall, staring over the gate at the surgeon and his array of murderous-looking knives. Rosellen stood just outside, ready with a basin and a pile of clean cloths. She had a coil of rope on her shoulder. The colt held his head high, neck arched in alarm at the nearness of Eduard Crisp and the surgeon. The surgeon was a skeletal man with graying hair and dirty fingernails. Philippa gritted her teeth at the sight of him. Crisp had repeatedly refused to teach a woman to do what was necessary. He was not the only one, of course, to believe that women were unsuited to such bloody work, yet here was young Larkyn, a calming hand on her colt’s neck. Crisp eyed her as if she might bolt at any moment.
She was like a runty puppy, Philippa thought, tough because she had to be. She looked better now that she wore the uniform of the Academy, and had at least tried to tie her wild hair back. Only when she spoke did she reveal her country roots, and she was silent now.
These were never pleasant days. The proximity of men sent the colts into near-hysteria. They had to be tied down, and held there by whoever was available. Most of the girls hid themselves in the Dormitory, nearly hysterical themselves, sobbing and covering their ears against the frantic cries of their colts. All the instructors dreaded such events, and were giddy with relief when they were over.
The girls collecting their horses from the stables were quiet and subdued this morning. The word had spread, somehow, and they all seemed eager to be away from the proceedings. Philippa saw that Rosellen had already moved the palomino and the sorrel gelding outside the stables, away from the offensive scents that Herbert and Eduard Crisp brought with them. Philippa stepped closer to Tup’s stall, and saw that the brown goat had pressed herself between the colt and the far wall, as far from the humans as she could get. Her wisp of beard trembled.
Trying to speak gently, Philippa said, “Larkyn, perhaps you should go to the Dormitory.”
The girl’s eyes didn’t flicker from Crisp’s face. “Tup needs me,” she said.
Eduard sputtered something under his breath, and Philippa cast him a scornful look. “Eduard,” she snapped. “Forbear, will you? You’ve given her no other name to call him by.”
He opened his mouth, but his response died on his lips. Someone had come into the stables, and Crisp swung about to bow to him. Philippa, too, lapsed into a surprised and wary silence. Only Margareth had the presence of mind to greet their royal visitor.
“Lord William,” she said. She inclined her head. “We had no word you were coming.”
He gave her the shallowest of bows. “Headmistress,” he said. “Your Hall was kind enough to give me breakfast, in the charming company of your students.” His glance skimmed Philippa and Rosellen and came to rest on the Master Breeder. “Eduard.”
Crisp stepped close to the stall, making the colt flatten his ears and shrink back, squeezing the little goat tighter against the wall. The Master Breeder pointed to him. “This is the foal from the Uplands, my lord,” he said. “We’re gelding him today.”
“Bit premature, wouldn’t you say, Eduard?” William said lightly. He smoothed the full sleeves of his shirt, and tugged at his embroidered vest. “Before we know who his sire was?”
Crisp’s jowls trembled with indignation. “My lord,” he said. “You can see for yourself the colt’s breeding isn’t true. He may be a throwback, for all we know.”
“Nonsense,” William said. “There hasn’t been a throwback for centuries.”
“Point is, my lord,” Crisp said, with no sign of being intimidated, “we don’t know where he came from, or why he was born to an unknown dam. My job is to protect the bloodlines of the Duke, and I am charged to perform it as I see fit.”
Philippa dropped her head, watching the scene from beneath her brows. Eduard, apparently, had nothing to fear. The same stubbornness which so irked Margareth and herself served him well in dealing with William. She doubted there were many in Oc who could face down the Duke’s eldest son so calmly.
William ran his quirt through his fingers. “His Grace, my father,” he purred, “would like to know more about this colt before we take any steps. And so, I might add, would I.” He turned and spoke to the surgeon. “We won’t be needing you and your knives today, my friend.”
Philippa felt, rather than heard, Larkyn’s breath of relief, but she herself wasn’t at all sure William could make this ruling stick. She doubted the Master Breeder would take his word for Frederick’s wishes.
Eduard put out a hand to stop the surgeon from packing up his knives. “Wait a moment, Hemple.” To William, he said, “My lord, I’ve heard nothing from His Grace. And it’s quite clear to me that we don’t want this colt passing along his dubious traits.”
“Now, now, Eduard,” Lord William said. His thin lips curved in his peculiar slanted smile. “Until he grows, we don’t know that his traits are dubious at all, do we? All we know is that this . . .” He pointed the quirt at Lark. Philippa followed the gesture, an
d saw Lark, pale-cheeked and wide-eyed, tighten her arms around the colt’s neck. “This farm girl found a mare wandering along the Black River, pregnant, as we now know, with a winged foal. Until we have gotten to the bottom of this little mystery, I propose we leave the colt intact. In fact,” he added, forestalling the objection about to fall from Crisp’s lips, “I insist upon it, Eduard.”
“But the Duke—”
“I speak for my father.”
Eduard squinted at him. “I don’t know, my lord. The Council—”
“Let me deal with the Council of Lords, Eduard.” William slapped the quirt against his palm, and nodded again to Hemple. “You won’t be needed today,” he repeated. “Unless Master Crisp has other work for you.”
Eduard Crisp glowered. “We can postpone this for a few weeks, my lord,” he said. “But it should be done. The colt fits none of the standards.”
“None of your standards,” William said, arching an eyebrow. “Keep in mind, Eduard, that the ultimate protection of the bloodlines falls to my father. And . . .” He favored all of them with a cool smile. “And, naturally, to me.” He turned away in a clear dismissal. He inclined his head to Margareth, tucked the quirt beneath his arm, and departed from the stables with a murmured command to Rosellen to fetch his horse.
“Well,” Philippa said softly. “What do you think the Council would make of this?”
“Damnably odd,” the Master Breeder grumbled.
“You’re quite right, Eduard,” Margareth mused. “But it’s wiser not to discuss it now.”
Crisp looked around at Herbert, at Hemple, at Larkyn, and the colt. “Right,” he said grimly. “But this won’t be the end of it.”
ELEVEN
LARK stood hugging Tup as the others left, the Headmistress and Mistress Winter together, then Herbert and the Master Breeder. The surgeon gathered his collection of ugly knives and walked away without a glance at either Lark or the colt. Only Rosellen stayed behind.