Chapter Three
It was near the end of November when the first snow fell. Hal and Alan were helping with the evening cleanup and rubdown at the stables when the news came. Everybody turned out into the courtyard to watch the big, downy flakes dropping through the dusk. The bit of a child in each of them stirred with excitement, and a festive mood prevailed.
Then came a new cause for stir, as the gates opened for a stranger, a trader of horses with his string of nags in tow. One look, and Flann's happy face twisted into a scowl. The trader was an unwashed, rough-looking rascal, and his horses were listless and half starved. But as he drew his wares toward the stable to see if he could drum up some trade, there was one pair of bright eyes to be seen, one lifted head. Third from the end of the line was a pretty little filly—or at least she could be pretty, once the dirt was cleaned off her and some flesh put back on her bones. Something in the intelligent eyes, the flaring nostrils and the small, beautifully shaped head reminded Alan of Arundel. He heard Hal catch his breath sharply between his teeth, and glanced at him. Hal's face was fearsome.
“An elwedeyn horse,” Hal breathed, “here, and in such a state! I must help her. If I cannot buy her, I will steal her."
With a hard hand, the horse trader showed off his nags one by one, but got no offers. As he came to the little filly, he seized her roughly by the forelock. Her eyes blazed as she bared her teeth and snapped at him, and he struck her with his fist on her tender nose. “Stop that!” Hal cried, starting forward.
The filly plunged and reared, breaking her leather harness. It seemed impossible that such power could be in her emaciated body, but somehow she fought her way clear. As the horse trader backed away in fright, she darted and circled about, searching for a way out of the crowded courtyard. Folk fled from before her, but Hal stepped into the clear. He spoke to her softly in his strange tongue, and she froze in her tracks, trembling, staring at him with astonished hope beginning to replace her fright and despair.
Hal spoke to her again: “Mir holme, Asfala, nilon tha riste.” ["Come to me, Asfala, no one will hurt you."] She ran to him like a beaten child, hiding her head under his arm as he whispered to her and gently stroked her heaving flanks.
The stable hands slowly ventured from their retreat against the courtyard walls, staring in wonder. The horse trader once again began to bluster. Alan bit his lip and began to unbuckle his sword; it was the only thing he had to bargain with. But Flann saw the gesture and stopped him with a touch and a jaunty wink. Then he strode toward the horse dealer with a swagger quite unlike his usual gait.
“Saucy little piece of horseflesh ye have there,” he remarked.
The fellow boasted of the trouble he had had with her. He had traded for her because of her looks, sure he could tame her. He had tried force and starvation, but to no avail.
“I might take her off yer hands,” said Flann casually. “I wouldn't mind having a crack at her.” His hand twitched in midair, seeming to flick an invisible whip.
The horse dealer's eyes gleamed. He and Flann dickered eagerly, but Flann shook his head and turned away at the trader's asking price. He flung a taunt at Hal, who fell in with the farce and glared at him in reply. The horse trader liked Flann, who appeared to be just such a bully as himself, and he was anxious to be rid of the troublesome filly. He soon offered to sell her for a reasonable price, and Flann counted the coins into his hand. Then he hit the man, hard, in the face, knocking him to the ground.
“Now get you hence,” Flann grated, showing all his disgust, “you and your nags. And if you ever visit these parts again, I'll have you locked up until you rot. Now go!"
The fellow did not stay to argue the point. He scurried to his nags and rode out, glad of the coins in his pocket. Flann let out a grunt of fury, shook himself, and turned toward Hal. The filly had stopped trembling, and was watching with interest the departure of her former companions. The stable hands returned inside. Hal, Alan, Flann and the filly were left alone in the gently falling snow.
“She is yours, Hal,” the groom said, “by her own choice."
“Flann,” Hal answered huskily, “I can never thank you enough. I would have given anything for her.” And before Flann could protest Hal added, “I will repay you when I can."
Flann gestured impatiently. “The value of the work you have done here is already more than the amount I paid for the horse. Let us have no more nonsense."
The next few days were busy ones for Hal. Early the next morning the filly got a bath and a grooming. As caked dirt and dead hair were brushed away, her coat began to shine a beautiful sorrel color with dapplings of a darker russet. She was painfully thin, but her bone was sound and her mouth good. Hal talked to her constantly, even when he was with Arun in the next stall, and she became much calmer and more cheerful. Alan came over when he was done with Alfie, and at Hal's bidding she let him pat her.
“We shall just let her rest for the next few days,” Hal said. “Then we shall start taking her out."
“What do you intend to do with her?” Alan asked.
Hal was silent for a moment. “She has fine spirit,” he said, “but she is sensitive, and gentle as a kitten. She cannot be broken by force; she would die first. But once she has given her heart, she will do anything.” Hal paused and looked at Alan, seeking and finding reassurance that he would understand. “When she is feeling better, I shall tell her about my lady. Perhaps she would like to be her horse."
So he truly does speak to the animals in a language they understand, Alan thought. He was not entirely surprised. In the half a year he had known Hal he had come to believe, and hope, things he would never before have considered possible.
“You call her Asfala,” he said. “What does it mean?"
“It means ‘daughter of the Wind.'”
For several days it continued to snow hard, and the exercise yard was covered to a depth of nearly three feet. The wind blew snow about, and it was bitterly cold. Alan and Hal burrowed deep into the hay in their loft at night, warmed also by the body beat of the horses below. They spent long hours working in the stable, feeling indebted to Flann for the price of the filly and the cost of her feed. But he continued to make light of their obligation.
Flann marveled constantly at the progress Asfala was making. She was gaining flesh rapidly, and was much more content than before. Flann and Alan were now her trusted friends, and she had learned to tolerate the stable hands, for none of them were allowed to be careless or rough. Now that her fear was gone, she was beginning to exhibit coy, playful tricks, and was likely to become the pet of the stable.
“How ever did you do it, Hal?” Flann asked one day as Asfala nibbled his sleeve. “She came here a shivering, frightened wretch, and within a week she has become a happy-go-lucky little lassie."
“How not?” replied Hal evasively. “There is nothing to frighten her here.” But Flann looked at him askance and grunted his disbelief.
When Hal and Alan took their own horses to exercise, Asfala went along, looking like a pony beside the larger horses. She followed close by Arun's side and listened carefully to everything Hal said. Alan had the uncanny feeling that the filly was learning how to behave under a rider without ever having been mounted.
“Do you plan to ride her, Hal?” he asked.
“Nay, I'll let my lady have the training of her. It will make a bond between them."
Though they made no effort to keep the filly a secret, there was little risk of Rosemary's seeing her before it was time, for she never came near the stable if she could help it. And the occasion was not too far off. The Festival of the Winter Solstice was only seven generations old in Isle, having come with the Easterners and their stargazing sorcerers. But it was embraced by the countryfolk, for it was a gift-giving time and followed conveniently on the slaughtering of the pigs. In Nemeton, the court people called it the Natal Day of the Sacred Son, and they gifted and feasted and sacrificed victims in his honor. But through most of Isle folk called
it only Winterfest, a welcome break at that bleak time of year.
The festival day came at last, and Hal was up before dawn, brushing and shining Asfala until any ordinary horse would have kicked in protest. She, however, seemed to enjoy the proceedings. After her dappled coat was shining, her mane and tail were brushed until they were smooth as silk and her hooves were rubbed with oil. Alan and Flann watched in amusement as she arched her neck and minced about, tapping her shiny hooves. For a finishing touch, Hal brought out yards of green ribbon and plaited it into her mane and tail, ending with a love knot just over her left ear. Asfala looked as if she would burst with vanity, and cocked her head under her pretty bow, drawing applause from a circle of grinning stable hands. Then at last they were ready to go to the keep.
Pelys and Rosemary were sitting in the study when Alan came to them with an air of suppressed excitement, requesting that they follow him to the audience hall on the ground floor. Pelys clapped for his retainer, and they went downstairs. When they were seated, Alan rapped on a window. In a moment there were odd shuffling noises outside the door.
“What in the world!” Rosemary began, but her breath was taken away as Hal led Asfala in. The gentle beast wore neither bridle nor halter, but followed Hal freely. He led her to the foot of the dais where Rosemary sat, dumbfounded.
“Here is my gift to you, my lady,” he said. “Her name is Asfala, which means ‘daughter of the Wind.’ There is not a better-mannered horse in all of Isle. I know there are other things you would rather have, but pray accept her with my heart's regard, for she is all I have to give you."
“She is lovely,” said Rosemary in a tight voice. She would sooner have jumped in the river than touch that beast. Yet she knew that if she did not pet her, Hal's feelings would be gravely hurt. So she clenched her teeth and walked toward Asfala, a nervous smile on her face. But as she approached, a marvelous thing happened. Asfala backed away from her and whisked behind Hal, looking out over his shoulder with big brown eyes, like a child peeping from the shelter of its mother's skirts.
“Why, she's afraid of me!” exclaimed Rosemary, astonished.
Behind her back, Alan and Pelys were grinning broadly, but Hal's face was perfectly sober.
“She's a bit shy at first,” Hal admitted, “and she is very sensitive. You must be very gentle with her.” Then he coaxed the filly, “Come out, Asfala. The lady will not hurt you."
As the filly daintly, hesitantly emerged from behind Hal's back, Rosemary saw her as if seeing a horse for the first time. She noticed the shining hooves dancing on the floor, and the beautifully colored, soft and glossy coat. She noticed the mane and tail, smooth and clean as her own hair, plaited with green ribbons. She saw the delicate, finely shaped face, the pretty, pricked ears, the soft nose, the intelligent eyes. The filly's head stood little higher than her own. Amazed at herself, Rosemary realized that she longed to comfort this beautiful creature, so gentle and timid. She held out her hand to Asfala, wheedling. “Come here, Asfala. Poor little thing, I wouldn't hurt you."
“Here,” said Hal, handing her a lump of bread. “Give her this."
The horse's touch on her hand thrilled her. Asfala took the bread courteously. Delighted, Rosemary patted the smooth cheekbones and the arched neck. Pelys looked on in astonished joy. Hal allowed himself to smile now, and he took the lady's hands and placed them on either side of the filly's head.
“Now, Asfala,” he said seriously, “this is your mistress, and you are to follow her and obey her. Be a good horse.” Then he stepped back. “Walk away from me, my lady, and see if she does not follow you."
Rosemary walked toward her father, and Asfala trotted after her like a big dog. “Father!” she cried happily. “Look! She likes me!"
Pelys nodded, his sharp eyes glowing like hers. “Well, well, lass, let us take her to the saddlery."
This was across the courtyard, near the stables. Pelys rode in his chair, and opened the door with a large key. In the dim light, generations of saddles and trappings shone with mellow splendor. There were war saddles and hunting saddles, ornate pleasure saddles, large and small, each richly tooled and ornamented with metal and jewels. With his quick eye, Pelys picked out a few that might do.
“She will need one neither too large nor too heavy,” he mused. “That was your mother's, with the rowan design, but she rode a larger horse. I believe that one yonder might be the very thing.” He pointed to a smaller saddle made of soft, plain russet leather. Hal fetched it down. The matching bridle had a light snaffle bit and reins trapped in green cloth, in the old fashion.
“If I mistake not, it belonged to the second daughter of the fifth lord,” said Pelys pensively. “It was meant for a pony, but it seems broad enough, for ponies are often as broad as horses. But we shall see."
Alan had found a green saddle blanket. Hal put the things on, and Asfala looked lovely in her green and russet finery. She flirted her head as if to exclaim, “See me!” and Rosemary laughed out loud.
“Fally the filly!” she quipped. “I should call you Folly rather, for you are as foolish as any woman in a new dress!"
“Would you like to get on her?” Hal asked. “She has never been ridden, so she will not know exactly what to do, but then, neither will you."
“Never been ridden!” cried Rosemary. “Won't she fight?"
“Well, she had never been saddled, either,” smiled Hal. “If you like, I will try her first, but I may be a bit heavy for her."
“Nay,” protested Rosemary, “I will try."
Hal took her by the waist and set her in the saddle sideways, for her skirt was not divided. Then he laid his hand on Asfala's neck and slowly walked her off. Asfala paced sedately, and after a few strides Rosemary's frown of concentration changed to a pleased smile. She waved to her father, who was sitting at the saddlery door with Alan. The auburn sheen of her hair was almost identical to her filly's russet dapplings.
“Alan,” asked Lord Pelys, “why did Asfala shy away from Rosemary?"
“Because Hal told her to."
“By the mighty moon, he has the wisdom of the Gypsies,” murmured Pelys. “But what marvel is this, Alan? Never have I seen a horse so spirited, yet so gentle and trusting."
Alan did not know how to reply. What, indeed, was an elwedeyn horse? And what was Hal, that he could capture one's heart with a few words?
By afternoon Asfala was back in the stable, resting contentedly, and everyone else was on tenterhooks, waiting for the feast. In the kitchen and great hall grand preparations were in progress, but no one was allowed to look. Hal and Alan were shooed away like the village children. Pelys and Rosemary had given them gifts, shirts of fine white linen with gold embroidery at collar and cuffs, and they had nothing to do but put them on and wait. In the early winter dusk, they joined the rest of the folk gathered outside the keep.
At last the big wooden doors swung open, and they all poured in, each person individually stopping to gape at the sight. The big oil lamps which hung from the rafters were not lit, and no smoky torches burned. Instead, the hall was lighted by hundreds of fragrant wax candles ranged along the tables and in sconces on the walls; more of the rare, expensive tapers than anyone had ever seen. In each of the several huge fireplaces a roast pig lazily turned. Instead of the usual rushes, the floor was strewn with sweet-smelling evergreen boughs.
As they had at that other feast two months before, Hal and Alan sat with the volunteers. But this time Rafe was not there. Since the incident at the practice yard, he had become almost a recluse. If he was at the feast, he was sitting elsewhere.
The food was sumptuous, but not quite as overwhelming as before, since no one planned to appease either the gods or the dead; this gathering was purely for pleasure. After the soups and breads, the roast pork and roast apples, the fruits and tarts and nuts were all consumed, the tables were cleared and everyone sat back to wait for entertainment. There were some jugglers and gymnasts, and a mime. And of course there had to be speeches by the
steward, captain and other castle officials. Pelys spoke last, and drew roars of approval by stating his intention to say nothing, since it had all been amply said before. From behind a curtain he called a troupe of musicians, and with great enthusiasm the tables and benches were pushed to one side for dancing. Couples lined up for the “carrole."
Rosemary's eyes sparkled, and her foot tapped impatiently. She dearly loved to dance, but there were no guests of noble rank present, or at least no one who claimed noble rank.... It was not always easy, being the lord's daughter. So she caught her breath as Hal approached her, faced him with shining eyes as they took their places on the floor. What a marvelous day it had been; first Asfala, and then music and Hal.
Without need of much thought, Rosemary had long known that Hal was special. He was unfailingly gentle and considerate, yet beyond his courtesy she had sensed great courage. He was purposeful, yet at times she thought she discerned loneliness and doubt. He was mysterious, and masterful if need be. He was the only one who had dared to ask her to dance. And even in his dancing he could not be faulted. He was looking at her, and a strange, soft fire burned in his gray eyes. The smile faded from her face to be replaced by a gaze of rapt attention. For a moment, time stood still.
Three people noticed that long, intense meeting of eyes as the slow dance drew to an end. One was Alan. One was Pelys. And one was Rafe, who stood by himself near the door. Something snapped inside him as he watched this upstart who danced with the lord's daughter. Pushing his way through the happy crowd, he strode up behind Hal and seized him roughly by the shoulder.
“Take off your fancy shirt, whoreson churl, and fight!” he grated. “Steel against steel, and to the death, you —"
The Silver Sun Page 12