Spiral of Hooves

by Roland Clarke

  Should I accept that by cheating death I defer an end to my guilt? What price will I pay for my failure? Is this the burden of surviving when I’m responsible?

  Tragically, the storm had spared him, but at a price. Odette Fédon’s horse had returned—riderless. After a fruitless search for the head groom, the Québec Provincial Police declared it another winter misadventure that must wait until the spring thaw for resolution. Another loss in the snow. Tears choked inside.

  Everyone at Du Noroît Stud had been unnerved at losing such a popular member of the team; all except Gilles’s father Roman, who remained unmoved by the tragedy. Gilles distracted himself with a spate of parties and long weekends away, while Lina locked herself into work, as did Armand. The others never knew about his personal connection with Odette, but it added to his distress and tormented him, even now.

  I’ve lost the only person I could share my pain with. Why her?

  But he was grateful for the support of Lina and Gilles when they persuaded him to move with them to England and make a new start, out of reach of Roman. Until a more suitable replacement could be employed, Armand was given Odette’s grooming job. He found that the extra work distracted him from his mental anguish as the horses gave a noble purpose to life. His temporary role meant more duties, and the horses proved soothing companions, healing for his troubled mind. He was sometimes relieved if Lina, the team’s nutritionist, helped, even when Gilles exerted his authority as stud owner and deemed that Armand lacked the appropriate expertise.

  Armand’s desire for simplicity and normality allowed him to accept this situation, but in moments of paranoia, the troubled faces of his friends made him imagine a new crisis, even in tranquil England, far away from the snow. Could he trust them to resolve the problem if there was one beyond his imaginings?

  Yet, two months after the accident, he had no basis for these irrational fears. Problems existed but nothing sinister, just the usual dynamics plaguing a family with money like the Boissards. After arriving in England, everything settled down without any interference from Gilles’s father Roman—who was back in Canada—even Lina’s nutrition programme. If her problems had continued, Armand wondered about checking out the stud’s genetically modified feed trials, which Lina and Gilles had rejected. Perhaps Roman’s obsession piqued Lina’s professional pride, which was understandable as she was the one amongst them who held the Animal Biology degree with Honours.

  She’d be the first to challenge any feed issues. I’ll let her judgement guide me, for now. I have to trust her. My hallucinations are false demons deluding me and feeding my suspicions. The medics in France insisted recovery would be gradual—and ongoing.

  *

  Half-an-hour later, Armand had put three horses into the walker, a horizontal wheel-like machine that exercised them as it slowly turned. He was in the tack room cleaning saddles and bridles when he heard Gilles and the blonde stroll into the yard, so he went outside to receive the expected order.

  “Can you get Drac ready and—”

  “Willow hasn’t been ridden yet,” said Armand.

  “No way, I need something classier than her.”

  Gilles walked towards a stallion that was watching them.

  “Pin is amazingly laid back but moves like a dream. He’ll be perfect. You’ll find he has beautiful paces, Tara chérie.”

  Armand agreed since Gilles rode Pin at the intermediary level in pure dressage. The blonde’s nod indicated she knew what she liked. As the groom, Armand was expected to ready both horses while Gilles continued his seduction to one side.

  Mounted, the couple rode out towards the back drive, then Gilles stopped and turned towards Armand who standing by the empty stables, expecting more instructions.

  “Oh, and you can ride the Witch. She won’t mind if you just hack her out. Keep to the field verges in case she rears.”

  Once again, Gilles was maligning the poor mare that had never attempted to buck Armand off. She reserved her rebellion purely for Gilles in a bad mood. Once, she had leant over her stable door and nipped Gilles, after he had sworn at her.

  Armand put a bridle on the mare, and she nuzzled him. He had tried to get the stud staff to call her Willow, instead of the derogatory stable-name Gilles deemed appropriate. Gilles dismissed the alternative name, even though it was also derived from her competition name of Sorcière des Saules—Sorceress of the Willows in French.

  Should he remind Gilles that he had bought the mare believing she had great potential? It would be difficult because Odette Fédon helped find Willow, and contact with the French breeders resurrected too many memories for Armand. He had detached himself from those who were back in France, those who had lived with his failure. Distance might even have healed the wounds he had inflicted; yet, the bond would never be broken. At least at Fenburgh, everyone was unaware of his past, and nobody ever needed to know.

  *

  An hour later, Armand was untacking Willow when Gilles and the blonde returned, straw-tangled hair betraying them. Gilles handed him the reins of the two stallions and then reached into his breeches’ pocket, pulling out a sheet of paper.

  “Nearly forgot, here are the events I have to do. Can you send the entries? Not sure when the closing dates are, but find out.” He turned away, put an arm around Tara, and sauntered off towards Fenburgh Hall.

  Merde, why does he always risk leaving his entries until the last moment? He presumes he won’t be balloted out.

  Odette had once said that Gilles forever depended on the goodwill of long-suffering entry secretaries and the presumption that his late entries would always be squeezed in. Glancing at the list, Armand smiled. He had already second-guessed his pleasure-distracted friend and entered the correct four horses in the season opener at Isleham. However, Gilles wanted to compete two more a week later at Poplar Park, another nearby venue that should favour local runners. Once again, the Canadian’s organisational inefficiency would go unpunished, as entries remained open for another two days.

  Once inside the yard office, Armand took three minutes to access the entries websites and complete the two forms for the later events, which left time to check through Fenburgh’s extensive computerised records. Any files that would simplify his environmental impact assessment of proposed improvements to the equestrian facilities would be invaluable since a visit to the local council had yielded basic plans but no more.

  Scrolling through the morass, he noticed documents on a dozen Boissard horses placed in a “transit” folder, which all related to Canada. Curiosity kindled, he opened a few files and studied them. He struggled to find any irregularities, but the obsessive detail of the records could be obscuring the obvious. He hesitated and resisted re-filing the documents as re-organisations annoyed Gilles, who needed to remain in control. Obsessive like Roman, their common trait fed one area of their business feud.

  Perhaps the jumble is intentional. Is Gilles’s ongoing search for new bloodstock or Lina’s attempt to improve the horses’ nutrition post-GM behind this?

  Although nothing seemed illegal, Armand had learnt to suspect anything secreted or camouflaged, except this appeared more akin to a filing error and was probably best ignored.

  Gilles would deal with the mistake, as he was integral to the Boissard Équestre’s setup and was determined for the enterprise to succeed. The year they had all met, Gilles had discovered Fenburgh as a potential UK base when he competed in Europe with Odette Fédon. She had only been employed as Gilles’s groom for a few months when she was promoted and allowed to attend the international events.

  She should be here with us. England was part of her dream. Another tragedy.

  Three years later, the move to the stud in Suffolk was proving an invaluable chance to regroup beyond Roman’s tyranny.

  Armand glanced again at the documents and noticed some Du Noroît records. Had someone created a computer link to Du Noroît that allowed Roman to monitor the new stud in England? Roman was vindictive and irrational enough t
o undermine his own son’s share of the business using any information gleaned. Any agreement that each stud would be independent of the other must have been ignored. Perhaps Gilles was hacking into his father’s records instead?

  Before his assumptions diverted him, Armand pulled back, forcing rational deductions to pull him free. Now was the time for careful surveillance; observations and hard facts were required, not gut reactions. Experience taught him to be prepared for all eventualities, but first, the horses required his commitment as the proxy groom.

  THREE

  The next morning, Armand headed into the hay barn with its regimented storage areas and tossed some bales off the end stack. Remaining invisible behind the academic image was no longer an option, even if he could hide his muscles. When Gilles and Lina had first met him on a university field trip, Armand had just recovered from his injuries, so the inept bookish image had deterred any awkward questions. It was simpler to continue to foster this persona and allow his new friends to believe they had introduced him to new outdoor challenges. Oblivious to the truth, they had helped rebuild his life, so the researcher emerged and now this role as a groom.

  He loaded the wheelbarrow with five bales and eased it up. He strained as he turned back towards the courtyard and Gilles stumbled around the far corner. Nine in the morning and the Canadian was either already exhausted or hadn’t slept at all the night prior.

  “Criss—women. I can’t make them out. I gave her a great time.” He caught Armand’s shaking head. “Not just in bed, although that was real wild.”

  “So, what did you do wrong?”

  “No idea. She was up early demanding breakfast, refusing my needs and now she’s in the Orangery reading. Says she’ll stay the weekend, but that’s all. No way are we taking her anywhere. You finished with the horses?”

  “Most of them, but I left you Drac and Pin, as my research is suffering and overdue.” Armand continued as he swept the yard. “You know I’ll always stand by you... like at university when your father didn’t believe in you.” Armand added in a lowered voice, “You did help me find my feet...”

  “Papa never has, though he sounds convinced Drac is ready. Says he’ll let him service more mares this season. Even claims he’ll support me at the major events.”

  Armand grimaced at the idea of Roman agreeing to Gilles’s intentions. “No doubt your father has other plans, which we’ll all regret.” He stifled his doubts as he said, “You still want to go to the dance this weekend? Even without your guest?”

  “Sure thing. The butler will deal with her, and the stud grooms can do the horses once we’ve left. I’ll take Lina—we must celebrate her birthday.” Gilles saw Armand’s expression and said, “No excuses this time, you’re coming too, and no argument. Think of the women—the guys say some real hot ones come to this dance.”

  Armand let his friend weave the dream while they carried more hay into the feed room.

  “Hey Loup, let’s take some horses to Sussex so I can showjump on Sunday. It gets boring competing at our local centres too many times,” said Gilles. “This way, I’ll face different competition, and I can assess new horses for potential. Might even find that elusive head groom—time for a real one, sorry Loup.”

  Glancing around at the heads peering over their shiny wooden doors, Gilles added without waiting for a response from Armand, “I’ll ride Drac and... ” hands on his brow, he stared at a grey head, “... I suppose the Witch. Joualvert, I wish I’d bought another stallion.”

  Two months after they had met, Gilles had competed at Le Lion d’Angers, France’s premier Six and Seven-Year-Old Championships. He was also checking out new stock to buy, as the show was perfect for talent spotting. Gilles had no doubt overlooked the horses for girls, even with Odette there to keep him in order. As Armand had history in France, he’d taken a lead from Lina and pleaded that he had too much studying to do, so Gilles and Odette had found the mare together, as they had Fenburgh.

  Armand didn’t want to remind his friend about the trip to France, but he said, “Are you forgetting Gilles, what you told me after Le Lion?”

  “No, of course not. For eventing, a horse must be good at three phases, a tri-athlete. Sorcière has the paces for dressage; stamina, speed and scope on the cross-country; plus, accuracy in the show-jumping.”

  “You came home saying she had star potential, perhaps in her genes, so you had to buy her whatever the price. So why this reversal in thinking only weeks before the season?”

  “Well, second place three years ago at Le Lion as a seven-year-old proved she had ability, but she’s changed. Now she gets so moody, just like a woman, I never know what scheme she’s brewing. I must show her that I'm calling the shots or she’ll continue to be a problem horse. Her results are erratic and—”

  “She might need a subtler approach, like with women. They can respond to what you’re feeling, even if you say nothing.” Armand’s suggestion might work, but unless Gilles changed his attitude to those he misunderstood, he would attract more obstacles.

  “I’d better school Drac, and I suppose the Witch as well. So, Loup, you get the truck loaded while I do some flat work... oh and drop by the lab. Tell Lina she’s coming to the dance. She’s not working all weekend.” Gilles mounted the stallion and rode out through the archway towards the school, hooves ringing on the cobbles.

  Like his father, expecting everyone to concede to his plans. Armand was sure that business manoeuvres had to be behind this willingness to complicate their 425 kilometres round trip to a dance, which meant Lina would not be there as mere decoration. Gilles must be on a mission to find horses worth buying, and she had more appropriate expertise, having trained in animal biology.

  He walked over to the far side of the complex and entered the secure compound that was guarded by CCTV cameras and alarms. Although fewer than at some racing yards, the surveillance was enough to deter Armand from prying. Reviewing his mental notes on the security as he loaded the horsebox, he wondered whether the phials of semen, laboratory equipment, and bespoke saddles were valuable enough to justify this surveillance, even with the level of yard thefts in the area. One day, the complete 3D visualisation of this target area, down to the idiosyncratic way the security lights flickered when the alarms were switched off, might prove crucial. Maybe something else lurked at Fenburgh Stud—or perhaps paranoia was stalking him again?

  I escaped the oppression of Du Noroît, so why hasn't my anxiety lifted? What did I forget? Or did I bury too much?

  The thought flashed painful images and he clung to a wall, controlling his breathing until the blood and the snow dissolved from his vision.

  FOUR

  Tempted eyes and jealous glances followed the shimmering vision as the redhead walked into the room. The dress, with its angled hemline, showcased her body, and her curls of auburn hair were piled high and fastened with a silver clasp. Unabashed by the attention, the young woman greeted a group at the bar.

  Gilles turned to one of his local mates. “Now that’s one pure dream. Bet those legs are perfect to wrap around a horse or me. She’s amazing. Who is she?”

  “Not sure,” replied a friend. “They all look different out of jodhpurs, can’t always tell. But those guys are showjumpers. Perhaps she isn’t even a rider, just here for the evening and—”

  “Whatever, she's perfect.” He nudged Armand. “So, Lina’s all yours. She’s here to enjoy herself. Time to use that charm we all keep expecting.”

  Armand sighed. I'm not ready. The memory of her is too raw. I’m only here for the meal and the wine. One dance with a friend didn’t mean anything, so he would make an effort, for Lina’s sake.

  The oak-beamed room with the dance floor at its centre was filling up with people of all ages. Everyone had come dressed in their smartest clothes for the event. The women were bedecked in a myriad of dresses and even the men sported a little diversity with colourful waistcoats and the odd kilt.

  At their table, the hors d’oeuvre of melon
and Parma ham waited along with the bottles of Burgundy Pinot Noir and Alsatian Riesling that Gilles had ordered for their group.

  *

  Invigorated by the main chicken dish, Carly was enjoying the chance to chill with friends. She talked and toyed with her Pavlova when she noticed a guy at another table staring at her. While her neighbour kept chatting, her replies became murmurs of inattention. The guy was handsome, although maybe the flowery waistcoat under his dinner jacket was a bit flash. As he tried to flick a stray hair away from his eyes, she realised the thick hair, boyish dark looks and knowing grin had drawn her attention. She hesitated. A bad time to be thinking about another guy, when horses were the real priority. A new boyfriend was inviting trouble.

  She was managing to ignore him when one of her friends leant over. “Have you noticed that really fit one eyeing me? If I wave him over, will you dance with his mate, the other foreign-looking one? Please, Carly? He’s okay, a bit dull though. Don’t misunderstand me. Probably a great dancer with all the right moves, which means...”

  As her friend babbled on and the waiters served coffee, people milled around the room and the band started playing. The fit guy came straight over towards Carly, having pushed his cute friend onto the dance floor with a dark-haired woman who moved like a panther.

  “Bon soir chérie. Tu sais je suis ton destin.”

  He gestured at the dance floor. Carly was cornered, intrigued by the stranger. His movements were purposeful and elegant, and the French words tempted her. She considered what he said—perhaps he was her destiny?

  “Oui, allons danser,” she replied.

  He smiled, eyebrows raised, and then took her hand. At first, they swayed in unison, then the beat washed over them, and their movements became more extravagant. Weaving across the floor, they rode the rhythm of seamless songs.

  When the band stopped, he guided her back to his table. The panther woman was still dancing with wild enthusiasm. Their poor friend was sitting alone, sipping his wine. His face was drawn, and the sorrow in his eyes was too familiar. She wondered if he had lost someone precious. He registered enough to pour her glasses of water and wine. Her tempter sat close beside her, gazing at her face and stroking her hair.