“He can’t be tiring already,” said Roman, “I thought he was fit, Lina!”
“The going’s tiring him, but he’s okay. Gilles will save some for the last part.”
The Hexagon Hedge, with a narrow brush fence set at an angle over a ditch, was coming up too fast. A fall seemed inevitable, but Gilles turned the stallion enough for the right line and scraped over the hedge, Drac finding his legs on landing.
“What an amazing horse!” Carly said, realising her fingernails had dug into Armand’s palm. He hadn’t flinched, but she could see the marks. “God, I’m sorry.” She was confused on whether or not to kiss it. She was stupid, but even if it didn’t help, the gesture might.
His eyes were as sad as ever, but he smiled. “Merci, it’s better. I was worried as well.”
Carly prayed that Gilles would stick to their plan through the final questions remaining, including The Village.
Drac would have made it. As Gilles approached the houses, they were on the right line to take the long option, but he seemed to change his mind and turned right-handed for the quick route. The horse toppled over the first element, cleared it, but there was no way they were going to make the house looming in front.
The stallion jumped it at one edge, but clipped it with his front legs, then twisted in the air, removing the flag. Gilles seemed to jerk off the saddle, and his protective air jacket inflated as they fell, but the cameras had switched to a leading contender about to start at that moment.
Carly clung to Armand, who had his arms around her. “Gilles, Christ. No, roll clear.”
Her next concern, voiced by Lina, was the horse, but the screen was still held on the start.
“Crétin. I told him how to ride that turn, but he never listens to me. He will have explaining to do. Idiot boy.”
“Worry about your son. It’s nobody’s fault. Some of the best had problems there.” The hold at the start and the air ambulance circling in the air stirred Carly’s worst fears.
She dashed out to drown herself in gulps of fresh air. She was fighting the tears, and the pounding was making her dizzy. She had to hang in there—this was not the time for a hypo. She struggled for the glucose tablets. Nobody noticed as she knelt on the grass recovering, oblivious to anything except her breathing and all the worst fears about Gilles and Drac. Her fears about riding this same course were let loose too.
When she looked up, a blue and white cap bobbed through the crowd and then it was heading for the Mitsubishi Garden, the final fence. Horse and rider were splattered with mud, but they were still alive.
Carly turned towards the tent where a clump of figures stared at the monitor. Roman strode around berating his son. Armand had his arms around Lina.
“Hey, they’re okay—they’re out here,” she said, gesturing towards the finish and then ran towards the pair, as the vet finished checking Drac over.
Gilles was loosening the girth as she threw her arms round the horse’s neck and kissed it. At least Drac appreciated it, leaning his head against her for more.
“I see, the horse comes first. Women.”
“He brought you back safe and anyway...” she let the sentence drift as she folded herself tightly around him and smothered him with kisses. “...now you’re in my arms, I won’t let you go. Well, not for an hour or two.”
Drac dragged them away from the start, craving the soothing attention he now deserved.
“For a horrible moment, I thought that was the end—Drac stumbling, his legs twisting.” Gilles clutched his head. “But he never fell, just gave me the time to stay on.”
“So, no fall?”
“Course not, although the jump judges gave me a refusal. Drac was okay, but that’s the last time I ride a four star. The road ends here for those personal kicks.”
They reached the others, but before Lina could offer Drac some water or Armand could remove the saddle, Roman flew at his son. “You call that professional? Ignoring my orders, taking too many alternatives, tiring the horse and then you mess up. Idiot!”
“I was trying to make up the time. I had to go that way. It was faster—you told me yourself.”
“You were about to go your way, and you confused the horse. You’re useless.”
Gilles knelt and buried his head between his legs. Armand carried the tack away while Lina checked Drac over for any visible injuries to treat, before giving him some water with electrolytes and removing the studs from his hooves.
Carly would have helped but wasn’t going to let Gilles suffer anymore, unlike Roman.
“Don’t ever let me see riding like that again. First Kentucky, and now here. You’re not fit to have a horse. Didn’t you learn a thing from me?”
“He knows a damn sight better how to ride across country than you ever will! It’s your meddling that nearly killed him—what sort of father are you?”
“How dare you talk to me like that? What do you know or care? You only want our money—like all of them.”
“I care a lot more than you, it seems. At least I love him, and I know he doesn’t need your misguided advice.”
“Where did you find this vulgar thing? And after all I’ve given you, it hurts. I taught you everything.”
Gilles just looked at Roman’s feet.
“That’s why your son had to come here, to England, and freedom. You’re dictating his life for your glory.”
“Boy, I can’t abide this slut anymore. She’s not a rider and will never be a groom. I’ve had enough. Again, deal with her.”
Gilles was in a heap on the ground unable to challenge his father.
“Stand up for yourself. Please Gilles, or you’ll lose everything.” Her tears rolled.
He threw up, all over Roman’s designer suit and Prada boots. Standing, he took Carly's hand and faced his father. “Papa, I’m afraid I will stick by her whatever you say. She’s right—I should never have listened to you. Clean your own boots.”
TWENTY-FOUR
An hour later, and Roman persisted with his silent censure, forcing Gilles to say, “I thought you were leaving, Papa. You said she would never be a rider.”
“Yes, and I will see her fail as you failed. It’s inevitable—tabernac, she’s not even a groom.”
Roman had insisted on watching Carly go cross-country, on the TV in the competitor’s area.
“Typical, approaching too fast and the wrong way—just like you, boy.”
Carly and Torc were negotiating the fences through Huntsmans Close, and to Armand, she looked in control.
“Criss, quiet Papa—you aren’t helping us at all.”
“Si, just watch. Your son was perfect here too.”
Gilles chewed his lip and his knuckles. His right hand gripped Lina’s, and by his jerking, he was jumping every fence.
“Hope the argument with Papa hasn’t thrown Carly’s focus.”
“It won’t—she’s a pro,” said Armand.
Carly and Torc were setting a good pace, covering the ground well and up on the clock approaching the Lake fences.
“Walking this, she said she wasn’t worried, but I sensed her concern at the crowds, and after Burnham, I didn’t know what to say. It’s a tough course—one of the sport’s ultimate tests.”
As she cleared the Pickups, Armand said, “She’s doing great. Roman’s poison has added to her determination. She’ll prove him wrong, you’ll see.”
“Now, what is the salope doing? Only the reckless and stupid take the direct route on their debut.”
Except, Torc was fast, making every stride count over the narrow fence into the Lake. The mare seemed to skim across the water and over the island hedge before leaping out and away.
Armand punched his fist. Both Gilles and Lina turned and grinned at him.
Unfortunately, the TV switched to a name rider again, and all they could rely on was the loudspeaker commentary. The minimal information, fence after fence, was frustrating everyone.
“Huh, now for the complex you blew, boy. Don’t e
xpect her to learn from your stupidity.”
“Wrong, she’ll show everyone how it’s ridden. She listens to Torc, not me, and not the fears you try to feed.”
The TV panned back onto the duo as they arrowed through the tricky direct route of The Village.
“Fantástico. Vaya chica.”
“That’s my girl. Go for it, babe.”
Four more jumping efforts and they would be home safely. Hopefully, they would remain clear and close to the time. It was tight.
Armand prayed and made resolutions. Gilles and Lina had their arms round each other; Armand hoped it was for mutual support.
“She’s blown it—putain stupide. She’s taken too many alternatives. I told you, but you never listen to experience.”
Armand turned his back, joining in the Hazelmead team bonding.
As Carly cleared the penultimate fence, her friends rushed out of the competitor’s tent to watch her and Torc fly the last. Armand took a perfect photo on his camera as she came through the finish grinning and patting the mare. They were a few seconds over the cross-country time—just 4.5 penalties to add. Going into the last day’s show-jumping, they should take a top twenty position.
TWENTY-FIVE
Armand had expected Mick Roper to be at this key event in the equestrian calendar. It was an ideal place for the Vidarranj rep to find new contacts and secure existing ones. However, seeing Mick talking with Roman was intriguing, so Armand zoomed in with his camera and took some pictures. They moved away from the feed stand they were on, and Armand slipped after them. He noted the silver briefcase that they both carried; similar to the ones the vets at Burnham were using. Pure coincidence, as it was very common, or was this suspicious?
He followed them through the trade stands towards the scoreboards. They stopped to point at the scores, which already showed that Gilles and Drac had provisionally finished in thirty-fifth. Not what Roman had demanded; his clenched fist striking his hand confirmed the anger.
Once they had exhausted their argument, the duo continued to the Members Pavilion, which overlooked the main arena. The uniformed doorman nodded as they passed through, and, after hovering, Armand walked in behind a family, showing his rider’s guest pass.
The plush marquee was inviting with low chairs and tables arranged along its length, many occupied. Armand glanced to where the bar spread along the back wall beside buffet counters laden with food. No sign of his quarry. Had they noticed him and left by another entrance? He walked through, checking faces and halted. Outside, at a table by the railings overlooking the ring, Mick and Roman were talking.
He slipped outside through the farthest door into the enclosed outdoor area and found a safe observation post. People that had been watching horses in the lower order show-jumping were now milling around. The activity gave him cover as he watched.
The camera recorded the moment when they exchanged the cases. Only Mick checked the contents of the one he received.
An exchange of money for goods? Is Mick supplying Roman with illegal drugs for the horses? Not for the event horses, unless someone at Hazelmead is involved. Racehorses at Fenburgh more likely. Or is this related to the GM feed?
The two men stood up and walked out of the members’ pavilion. They were too busy talking to notice Armand tailing them, although he had experience in staying invisible.
Outside, they walked a little way and then stopped to shake hands, before heading down different avenues. Armand followed Mick through the crowd, concealing himself among the shoppers taking advantage of Badminton’s wealth of shopping. Mick knew a lot of people either as Vidarranj’s rep or in his own right. He accosted a familiar figure at a feed stall and kissed her on both cheeks—Lina.
Who is she working for—Roman, Gilles, or Vecheech? Or is she one of Vidarranj’s contacts or scientists?
The encounter became heated with Lina stabbing at the metal case. Mick responded with some hand slashes of his own. The briefcase stayed in Mick’s hand, although he gave her some sample packets, then slipped away into the crowd. Armand had run out of free time.
At least that run-in with Mick shows she’s not allied to Vidarranj. Well, not willingly.
He looked to see where Lina was heading to, as they needed to help Carly, although Gilles had insisted on being in control.
“What are you doing skulking around here, Loup?”
He stayed calm and casual as he turned. Lina had somehow dodged behind him and was grinning. She threw a hand on his shoulder, then kissed him on both cheeks.
“Tasting the atmosphere, and forgetting about Roman.”
“…and your duties I think,” she said. “Carly needs us, remember? The afternoon show-jumping is soon.”
“I haven’t forgotten. Not when her dad has driven up to help, unlike Roman.”
“…who demands miracles.”
“There weren’t many clear rounds this morning, but Gilles proved that the course was jumpable without faults,” said Armand. “All down to Carly’s coaching.”
“Don’t tell Gilles that. Their rivalry is getting out of hand.”
*
Carly stared at the saddle, convinced that this had to be a mistake. She was British, but there were others placed higher than her and Torc in thirteenth place, although the commentator was saying something about being Under 25. The Master of the Worshipful Company of Saddlers was smiling as he handed the saddle to her, and the onlookers were cheering. If it were true, this saddle would be as precious as the Devoucoux that Gilles had surprised her with for her birthday.
“And the winner of the Laurence Rook Trophy presented to the highest placed British athlete who has not previously completed this Event, is Carly Tanner on her own Sylvan Torc…”
Sounds and colours blurred, but she was going to hang on and enjoy this moment. Her father beamed with pride, and inside, her mother was with her.
TWENTY-SIX
The rain clouds had passed them by, diverted by a light breeze. The afternoon sun bathed the yard with a yellow sheen as she rode through the gate and down to the stables. Opposite the bungalow, Torc was enjoying her well-deserved rest in the Orchard Paddock. The air was full of birdsong, insects and flower scents. The tapping of Armand’s hammer was a distant reminder that Gilles said Hazelmead’s owner had accepted her father’s designs, although only in part.
However, dark clouds hung around Carly. Gilles hadn't rung for over twenty-four hours, despite all his promises when they said goodbye at Heathrow. He had to meet Odette Fédon's family before the funeral; it was his duty as her employer and the sole Boissard Équestre representative at the funeral.
Damn Roman, surely he could have gone? He was back in Québec, it was easy for him, but he had insisted it had to be Gilles, alone. The blasted head of Vecheech, Patrick Harfang, having agreed to Peter’s modified designs, had also decided there was too much to do at Hazelmead, so Gilles had to go without Armand and Lina.
Carly was annoyed with Patrick Harfang. Mr Mysterious, Mr Super Rich, Mr Important. He was as annoying as Roman. Although the name was familiar, she was sure that she had never met him, nor did she ever intend to face such a man.
She dismounted and then untacked Wanda. The mare was reaching her peak fitness. Her regime was crucial and every bit of hill work invaluable. The phone remained dead, and she concentrated on the horse. Wanda was the priority—not a boyfriend who had forgotten to ring. Anyway, the funeral was in a couple of hours. When she was back inside, she must ring her father and discuss her dilemma, since Gilles had insisted on moving into the farmhouse, even though the restoration work was unfinished. Now she had to go back to an empty building while Armand had the warmth and comfort of the bungalow.
Her mobile rang, and she checked the number. Not Gilles, but familiar.
The caller was an official ringing from British Eventing. “Congratulations on your thirteenth with Sylvan Torc at Badminton, an impressive debut. We were very pleased.”
Embarrassed, Carly choked her than
ks, saying it was all down to Torc. She found a bench.
“It was a marked improvement from Blenheim, so you must have made the most of the winter training we provided.”
“Yes, I’m very grateful for that. The trainers and the advice were very helpful,” she said, aware of the benefits of their World Class Programme, for which she had been chosen, on the basis of her supposed potential as a rider. They thought she was a rider capable of winning medals, but that still seemed ridiculous to Carly. However, she was unwilling to admit that Gilles was the primary catalyst for her improvement.
“We’re glad to see you’re now in a working pupil position. Please note that our comprehensive support network is designed to benefit you as well. We will follow your progress with interest. I see you have another advanced ride.”
Carly had visions of a file labelled “Tanner, Carly” and was amused. She managed to say, “Yes, Sorcière des Saules is one of my employer’s horses.”
“Another mare—an Anglo-Arab. How do you rate her?”
“Well, she’s the best horse I’ve ever ridden, but don’t tell Torc.” The official laughed, and Carly continued, “If I can get Wanda… Sorcière round Saumur clear, then I’ll be thrilled.”
“Good luck. We hope you both do well. Anything you need, remember British Eventing is here to help.”
“Thank you. I won’t forget. Bye.”
“Goodbye.”
She stared at the phone, stunned to get such encouragement, yet realising it was probably just to ensure she stuck with their training programme and didn’t give up, as she had done after Young Riders. She had to achieve more if she expected recognition in more concrete terms, but the key thing was having achieved her dream of riding at Badminton. That was only the beginning, and the price of aiming higher was worth paying, whatever the conditions.
However, she saw a problem looming: the French Equestrian Federation. What happened if they approved her application to ride as French? Adopting her mother's nationality might take time, which meant she couldn’t go on accepting British Eventing's training.
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