The Princess and the Foal

by Stacy Gregg

  The exercise yard is a bare earth pen on the far side of the building and at first, as Haya comes round the corner, it appears that it is empty. And then, at the far end of the yard, beneath the shade of a solitary tree, she sees the bay filly.

  “Bree?”

  At the sound of Haya’s voice the horse turns her head, ears pricked.

  “Bree!”

  The whinny cuts through the morning air as she calls back to Haya. Then Bree breaks into a trot as Haya begins to run too, racing across the courtyard and climbing through the rails of the fence to meet her horse.

  Bree is in full flight, cantering so fast it looks as if she will mow Haya down! They are about to collide when the horse pulls up hard on her hocks and skids to a stop, dust flying from beneath her feet. She holds her head high and the air is punctuated with her frantic whinnies.

  Without a thought for what she is doing, Haya flings herself at her horse, her arms encircling Bree’s neck, hugging her as hard as she can. All the while Bree is stamping and nickering. She begins thrusting her muzzle playfully against Haya’s chest, as if she is berating her for her absence these long months. “Where have you been?” her nickers seem to say. “I was so worried!”

  Haya buries her face in Bree’s mane to hide her tears. She does not want Santi to see that she is crying, but she cannot help herself. They are not tears of sorrow, but joy and relief at their reunion. She is home at last.

  For a long time she stands there, hugging tight to Bree, inhaling the sweet, horsey smell of her. When Haya steps back at last, she takes a critical look at the bay horse. “You’ve got skinny,” she says. “You should see the fat ponies where I’ve just been. It would take two of you to make one of them.”

  All the same, Bree still looks to be in fair health with a shiny, rich red bay coat and lush black mane and tail. The proportions of her body have caught up to those long lanky legs and, despite the lack of weight, it is clear that in the months that Haya has been gone, Bree has ceased to be a filly and is now a fully grown mare.

  Haya tries to move around Bree, to get a good look at her, but it is not easy. Bree will not stand still. She keeps following Haya, nudging and poking her with her muzzle, as if she is unwilling to let her out of her sight, even for a second.

  “You’re back!” It is Zayn. He drops the bucket of feed and runs to greet her.

  “Welcome home, Your Royal Highness,” he says. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Haya smiles. “It is good to see you again, Zayn. Thank you for taking such good care of Bree.”

  “She is a little light, I know,” Zayn says. “But now you are here she will soon gain weight.”

  Bree shoves her nose firmly into Haya as if to confirm this and Haya giggles. “Do you want your feed now then?” she asks the mare.

  “Oh,” Zayn says. “You don’t want to ride her? I have her tack all ready for you.”

  “I am not sure if the Princess is ready to ride yet,” Santi says, looking worried.

  “We can go to the forest,” Zayn says. “I’ll come with you if you want?”

  Haya nods weakly. “OK.”

  Zayn grins. “We can take the new trail; there’s a really nice gallop track on it.”

  A gallop seems like a lofty ambition for a girl who can hardly walk. Haya is so light-headed and weak; her hands shake uncontrollably as she lifts the saddle off the railing.

  “Here, let me help you with that.” She feels the strong hands of Yusef take the saddle from her and throw it over Bree’s back.

  “Thank you, Yusef,” Haya says.

  “You are home now then? School is finished?” Yusef asks her.

  “I’m home,” Haya confirms. She doesn’t mention that school actually has another three weeks before the end of term. It is at least two months before Haya will return to Badminton, if she returns at all.

  “I saw that sly one Bashir talking to Santi earlier.” Yusef tightens the girth. “What did he want?”

  “He came to discuss the King’s Cup,” Haya says. Then she adds, “I don’t think Santi likes him very much.”

  “Hah!” Yusef grunts in agreement. “That colonel, he is very full of his own importance. He drives Santi mad.”

  “He seemed very confident that he would win the King’s Cup again.”

  Yusef nods. “When the competition first began, it was equal between the two teams, but now the Royal Stables are not so big, while the Mounted Police have grown in size. They outnumber us ten to one, but that does not stop Bashir from boasting about his victories.”

  “What does Santi think?”

  “Santi pretends not to care,” Yusef says, “but he would love to beat Bashir so that the King could say with pride once more that his Royal Stables have the best horses and bravest riders in the Kingdom.”

  Yusef holds Bree while Haya mounts up and when he lets the reins go the bay can hardly contain her excitement. She skips and dances through the courtyard to the driveway where Zayn waits for them, mounted up on a big grey stallion called Claudius. The sound of the two horses trotting in unison up the driveway, metal horseshoes chiming on the tarmac, fills Haya with joy. She is back at her beloved Al Hummar, and even though she feels utterly exhausted, she is also elated to be riding her horse once again.

  “How far is this new track you are taking me on?” she asks Zayn, trying to keep the anxiety out of her voice.

  “About two hours,” Zayn replies. “Maybe an hour and a half if we canter most of the way.”

  Haya is not sure her strength will hold for such a distance. But then she feels Bree beneath her, so light and responsive to every touch, and she is struck by absolute faith in her horse. If Haya is tired then Bree will care for her and carry her home. As long as she is on the bay mare’s back, she has nothing to fear.

  They ride out towards the forest along rutted tracks between olive trees and Zayn asks Haya about boarding school. She tells him about the fat ponies at Badminton, and her good luck in meeting the Ramsays and learning how to showjump. She’d been jumping Grand Prix courses on Victorious when she left – but she does not tell Zayn about all the ribbons and cups that had been stacking up in her dorm room. “We should build a showjumping course now that I’m back,” she says. “I want to school Bree properly, like the Ramsays taught me.”

  “Perhaps you can give me jumping lessons?” Zayn says hopefully. “There are no good jumpers in our team for the King’s Cup – and it could be the advantage we need.”

  “Do we stand a chance?” Haya asks.

  “It is not hopeless,” Zayn says. “There are five contests in the event – the military parade, the tent-pegging, falconry, showjumping and vaulting. Bashir’s team is certain to win the parade – they drill their horses every day to march in perfect unison. But in the tent-pegging, our riders are just as quick as theirs.”

  “What about the other events?” Haya asks.

  “I am quite good at vaulting,” Zayn says. “With practice, we might win that one, but I think Bashir will win the showjumping and the falconry. So it does not look good.”

  The forest track broadens out on the way home and there is a long stretch of gently undulating path beneath the trees where pine needles smother the ground. Here they canter the horses and Haya feels Bree’s powerful strides beneath her. Bree is so easy to ride, it is like floating on air. All the same, Haya is terribly tired. Her legs feel like jelly and when Bree pulls with excitement she can barely keep a grip on the reins.

  “Can we walk for a while?” she asks Zayn.

  “Sure,” he says. “Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine,” Haya insists.

  As the horses settle down, she is thinking about Bashir and the cup and the team from Al Hummar.

  “What if I were to ride?” Haya suddenly says. “The team is weak at showjumping and that is my strength.”

  “You want to ride?” Zayn is shocked at first, but then he sees the serious look on Haya’s face.

  “If you ride in the cup, yo
u cannot just compete in one contest,” he points out. “You will need to ride all of it.”

  “I’m a good gymnast, one of the best at my school,” Haya says. “So I can learn to vault. And I’ve watched the tent-pegging. I’m sure I can learn that too.”

  Zayn smiles in amazement at her determination. “Then you should talk to Santi. Tell him you want to ride.”

  He picks up his reins. “The path gets wider round this next corner. Ready to canter?”

  By the time they reach the stables Haya is feeling giddy and can barely stay upright in the saddle. As she dismounts, her knees give way and Zayn rushes to her side. He takes one look at the pallor of her skin, the faint perspiration on her brow and calls for Yusef.

  “Please sit here,” Yusef says, helping her over to rest on a hay bale against the wall of the yard. “Do not move, Your Royal Highness. Radi will untack Bree for you and settle her back into her stall.”

  “I can do it myself,” Haya tries to insist. But she doesn’t have the strength to stand, and when Santi organises a car to come and take her home, she doesn’t argue.

  Back at Al Nadwa palace Frances takes one look at Haya’s pale skin and the dark circles underneath her eyes and orders her straight back to bed.

  “I will have your dinner sent upstairs, Princess Haya,” Frances says. She cannot resist adding, “I knew it was too soon for you to be racing about on horses.”

  “I’m not ill,” Haya complains.

  “Then why did your father fly all the way to England to bring you home?”

  *

  That evening Ismail the head chef sends her dinner up in the dumb waiter. Haya takes the silver lid off the dinner tray and sees her favourite foods all laid out for her – tabbouleh, hummus, upside down, and mansef and apple pie with cinnamon for dessert. She is just finishing the last of the pie when her father enters her bedroom.

  “It is good to see you have your appetite back,” the King says as he sits down on the side of the bed. “Frances said that you overdid it today. You should not have gone to the stables, you should be home resting.”

  “I had to see Bree,” Haya says.

  “All the same,” her father says, “you need to get your strength back, Haya.”

  “Bree is my strength,” Haya replies. “When I was homesick, I would shut my eyes and pretend that I wasn’t in England, I was back in Arabia, and it was just her and me, galloping forever across the desert.”

  Her father has said nothing more about what happened at boarding school. And he hasn’t spoken about sending her back there again when the new school year begins. Haya knows that one day she will have to leave once more, but right now she is back home, with Baba and Ali and Bree.

  “Bree!” Haya suddenly sits up in bed, looking worried. “I need to call the stables. I didn’t even feed her …”

  “Calm down,” her father says. “Santi called and said to let you know that Bree ate all her supper tonight.”

  “They mustn’t give her too much,” Haya says anxiously. “If she overeats, she might get colic …”

  “I think Santi knows how to feed a horse by now, don’t you?” Her father smiles. Haya looks down at her blankets, too shy to meet his eyes.

  “What is it?” the King asks his daughter.

  “I was thinking about my sixth birthday, when you gave Bree to me. Do you remember?”

  “I do.”

  “She was so tiny,” Haya says. “An orphan with no one to care for her, so alone. When you said that she was mine, I felt so scared.”

  “You met the challenge,” her father says. “The filly survived – thanks to you.”

  “I thought so at the time,” Haya says. “But that’s not the truth, is it?”

  Her eyes gaze up, filled with tears. “You gave me this foal who completely relied on me and, for the first time, I did not think about Mama, or how much I hurt inside – I thought only of Bree.”

  “Sometimes caring for another living being can be the best way to get over our own pain.” Her father takes her hand. “You were so lost, Haya. There was so much grief in you that no one could get through. But from the moment you saw that filly, your heart began to open up again, and you came back to me.”

  Haya’s voice shakes as she speaks. “I always thought that I had been the strong one, caring for her. But I realise now that it was the other way round.” The tears spill down her cheeks and Haya wipes them away with the back of her hand.

  “I didn’t save Bree,” she says. “She saved me.”

  ver since returning to Jordan everyone at the palace has treated Haya as if she were some delicate flower. They want to wrap her in cotton wool and keep her in her bedroom. The only place where she feels normal is the stables. Here, they do not fuss over her. Santi understands and he knows that she is a real rider, not some fragile little girl.

  Or at least she thought so, until now.

  “Listen to me, Titch,” Santi says. “The King’s Cup is not a competition for twelve-year-olds! It is for grown men.”

  “I can ride as well as any man.” Haya stands her ground.

  “Maybe,” Santi says. “But you are a girl. In the history of the King’s Cup no girl has ever competed.”

  “Just because no girl has ever done it before doesn’t mean that I can’t,” Haya replies.

  “Titch, if it were up to me, I would let you ride, but there are rules …”

  “Not for this,” Haya says. “There are traditions, but that is different. Sometimes traditions are good and they must be kept, but sometimes things grow and change. Why should a girl not ride alongside men if she is good enough?”

  Santi is flustered by her logic. “This is a very serious contest, Your Royal Highness. And a dangerous one …”

  “I have dreamed of riding in the King’s Cup all my life,” Haya says. “Fate has brought me home and I know in my heart the time has come.”

  “It was not fate that brought you home, it was exhaustion,” Santi says firmly. “Already I’ve had to endure a lecture from Frances after your dizzy spell. You are supposed to be recuperating, not riding. If you were to get injured – it would be unthinkable.”

  “But surely that is my decision?” Haya says.

  “No,” Santi replies gently. “It is my decision, Haya, and it is made. You will not ride in the King’s Cup.”

  *

  The best place to be when you are sad or angry is on the back of a horse. Haya knows she can count on Bree to make her feel better. She thought she could count on Zayn too, but now she is not so sure.

  “I am not surprised Santi said no,” he tells her as they hack out together through the hills.

  “You agree with him?” Haya says.

  “I didn’t say that,” Zayn counters. “But it is an extraordinary thing to ask. Santi has known you since you were just a baby. He cannot see that you are growing up, that you are ready for this.”

  “You think I am ready?” Haya asks.

  “Not yet, Your Highness,” Zayn says, “but you will be. Once we have done some training.”

  “What’s the point in that? Didn’t you hear me say that Santi will not let me ride?”

  “So you’re giving up?” Zayn says. “Wow, boarding school really changed you. The old Haya would never give up so easily.”

  Haya pulls a face. “Very funny.”

  But Zayn isn’t smiling. “You teach me to jump,” he says, “and I’ll teach you to vault. Do we have a deal?”

  Haya looks at him. Then she gathers up Bree’s reins. “Come on, there’s a fallen log up ahead. I’ll give you your first jumping lesson.”

  They spend the afternoon hunting out natural obstacles in the forest and Haya puts her experience at the Ramsays’ yard into practice as she explains to Zayn about getting the horse in close to the fence and judging strides and distance.

  Bree, meanwhile, is learning too. She has a natural jump, but no schooling. Small logs are perfect for her right now.

  “It’s not the size of the
fence that matters,” Haya tells Zayn. “The horse must learn first to be balanced and come in steadily.”

  Once they have mastered the simple obstacles in the forest, Haya takes the training into the arena and they begin to use the coloured poles, setting up a variety of fences: doubles then triples. They drill the horses through grids to make them think fast and move with athleticism. Zayn barely notices that the fences are going up until one day Haya points to a spread that he has just flown over on Claudius and says, “Do you see that fence you just jumped? That was a metre twenty.”

  On the days when they are not jumping, they practise vaulting. They begin with a basic manoeuvre.

  “Rhythm is what matters, Your Royal Highness,” Zayn tells Haya. “Always count the strides in your head.”

  One-two-three. As Zayn canters past her, Haya bounds forward like a gymnast about to tumble on the mat. She throws up her hands and he grasps them and lifts her high up beside him. In one deft move, Haya swings her legs so that she is astride Claudius and they are doubling. It was a perfect vault!

  “You learn fast.” Zayn is surprised. But Haya has trained on the mat, the wooden horse, the rings and the parallel bars for many years now so these moves are second nature to her. However, the first time she tries to do a backflip off Bree, the mare spooks out from underneath her as she vaults. Haya mistimes her dismount and lands hard on the ground.

  “What is wrong with your arm?” Frances asks Haya at breakfast the next morning. She has noticed the Princess wincing as she lifts a heavy glass jug to pour some juice.

  “Nothing, I am fine,” Haya insists. If Haya had rolled up her shirtsleeves then Frances would have seen the purplish-green bruise that extends all the way from her wrist to her elbow.

  To dampen Frances’s suspicions, Haya stays at home instead of going to the stables. Her arm hurts too much to train properly anyway and she has homework that the school has sent her. More excitingly she also got a card from her schoolfriends yesterday. It has a picture of a cat with a bandaged paw and inside it says Get Well Soon. Claire has drawn a love heart containing the words we miss you and all the girls have signed it. There is a letter from Jemima too, telling her the news from Shepperlands Copse, and asking whether she would be coming back before the end of term.