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“Chantel, can I come in?”
Holly poked her head around the door.
Chantel turned a tear-streaked face towards her. She gave a little nod.
“We didn’t mean to upset you.” Holly perched on the foot of the bed. “But it’s pretty weird.”
Chantel blew her nose noisily. “You think it’s weird?
You’re not the one hearing the horse.” She gave a hiccup. “It’s more than just hitting my head.”
Holly leaned forward and dropped her voice. “I think it’s because you did a spell.”
“I did? What spell?” asked Chantel.
Holly chose her words with care. “ Do you remember walking around the eye of the White Horse?”
Chantel nodded, her eyes wary.
“Why did you do it?”
Chantel said nothing, but her fingers played with the bedsheet.
Holly patted her leg. “Come on tell me, Chantel. I promise not to think you’re nuts.”
“Promise,” Chantel whispered.
“I promise.”
“I heard the White Horse in my head. He told me what to do.”
“And what did you do?” Holly prompted.
“I … I walked around the eye … seven times … and made a wish.”
Holly caught her breath. “So I was right. Did you wish for the White Horse?”
Chantel’s voice shook. “H … how did you know?”
“I figured it out. I know a bit about horse magic.” Holly grinned. “It’s so weird it must be true. Can the others come in? Will you tell us everything?”
“Okay.” Chantel sat up and looked more cheerful.
Holly went to the doorway and waved in Adam and Owen.
“Sorry, Chantel.” Owen tried to look contrite, but his eyes danced.
Chantel grinned shakily back.
Adam hesitated at the door, then perched uneasily on the end of the bed beside Holly.
Owen grabbed the chair, turned it back to front and straddled it. “So, tell us the lot. Right from the beginning.”
“From the very beginning?” asked Chantel.
“Yes,” chorused everyone.
“Then I guess it all started the night we arrived from Canada.”
“It did?“ said Holly.
“Yes, you were all asleep,” said Chantel. “And I saw a shooting star …”
She told the whole story.
“Amazing,” said Owen.
“So I’ve promised to help him,” Chantel finished. “I’ve said I’ll help the White Horse find the red horse that Alin made.” She lay back on her pillow, her eyelids drooping.
“I can’t imagine anyone riding down the Manger like Alin did,” said Owen. “And I can’t imagine how you could have made it up,” he finished. “Not unless you’ve read a book or seen a TV show about the early Celts.”
Chantel shook her head. “Nope. I only know what the White Horse showed me.” She closed her eyes.
Holly stood up. “Come on. Chantel’s exhausted and we weren’t supposed to tire her.” She leaned over and kissed Chantel’s cheek. “You rest. We’ll check out some stuff for you.”
Chantel’s eyes flew open again. “You will?”
Holly nodded. “We’ll ask around. See what we can find out about the history of the White Horse and if anyone has ever heard of a red horse as part of the story.”
Adam, his hands stuck deep in his pockets, slumped against the bottom of the bed. He gazed with bemusement and frustration at his little sister. She’d done it again! She’d made up a wonderful story that had held everyone entranced. She was always doing it. A wave of anger swept through him. His parents loved Chantel’s stories, but if he made anything up they called him a liar! His fingers suddenly touched the hard edge of the talisman. His hand closed over the one tiny piece of reality in the whole incredible story.
Huh, thought Adam. She’s not going to be able to lie about this for long. He drew his hand out of his pocket and held the talisman in the air. “So? What about this?” he said.
“We’ll take it to Wayland’s Smithy tomorrow morning,” said Holly. “See if anything happens.”
CHAPTER FOUR
THREE FOR A GIRL
Moonlight drifted through the cracks in the hospital blinds and banded Chantel’s bed. Chantel had slept soundly all late afternoon and evening, relieved that Adam, Holly, and Owen had finally believed her. Now she was wide awake and worrying.
She lifted her head and squinted at the clock on the wall. It was just after midnight. She slumped back on the pillow. Her head throbbed, her leg itched inside the cast, and she was scared.
What if Adam was right and the lightning had fried her brain? What if she was going mad?
Her eyes wandered around the hospital room. She’d sent her brother and cousins to Wayland’s Smithy. What if nothing happened? They’d tell the doctors and nurses she was crazy and she’d be stuck in hospital forever.
She sighed.
A feeling of warmth and friendship washed over her with the moonlight.
“Is that you, Horse? Are you there?” Chantel whispered into the darkness.
I’m always here.
I can’t sleep. I’m scared. I wish we could go riding, Ch–antel said, silently this time.
The White Horse whickered softly. We can. It’s time for me to show you Alin’s red mare.
Chantel felt herself rise upward.
Couldn’t be! She was sitting astride the White Horse, floating high in the starlit sky. Terrified, she closed her eyes, wound her fingers into the silky mane and clung like a mon–key to the broad back.
Relax. You are the Magic Child. You won’t fall.
Chantel opened one eye and squinted down again.
The sleeping earth lay far below, its horizon curving gently. The city gleamed with strings of streetlights, glittering windows, and dancing trails of light from moving cars. She could even pick out the hospital. Beyond the city the countryside was cloaked in velvet darkness with only a sparkle here and there.
It’s beautiful. Chantel opened both eyes, sat up and gazed with wonder. Around her the stars danced.
The White Horse softly blew through his nostrils. It’s always beautiful. Each time I ride the wind I see changes.
But it’s always beautiful.
They were off. In one bound the city was gone, and they leapt to the crest of the downs. Chantel recognized the village of Uffington and her cousins’ farmhouse. Then they were above the White Horse carving, with the Manger and Dragon Hill lying far below.
What happened to the red mare? asked Chantel eagerly inside her mind. Did Alin carve her likeness on the hill?
Yes. Alin created more horse magic and for over two thousand years the red mare and her foal ran with me. I’ll show you how fine she looked at the time of a powerful king’s reign. King Alfred the Great recognized the importance of old magic, but his bishop did not.
Watch carefully. We will neither be seen nor heard.
The White Horse leapt across the valley and into the past. Chantel gasped. The night sky changed to a glorious sunset as they landed on a hilltop. A straggle of men clad in Saxon tunics walked past them.
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King Alfred followed the lithe shepherd boy over the brow of the hill. His men stumbled wearily after them. Egbert, his chief advisor, lurched suddenly and cursed under his breath.
Alfred shot out an arm to steady him.
“Grateful thanks, my liege. I missed noting a rabbit hole. The fading light is deceptive.”
Alfred grinned. “I should arrange future marches only in broad daylight, eh?”
Egbert chuckled. “Aye, and across flat meadows, with an inn and good ale at the end of each day.” The men guffawed.
The evening was warm. They reached the top. Alfred motioned his company to rest. He wiped the sweat from his face.
His men loosened their woolen tunics to catch the fitful breeze. They gazed with surprise across the valley. On the
opposite hillside was a carving. Between patches of wood–land, a large grassy slope showed off deep lines carved into red clay. A red horse with a white eye was slashed into the turf. A smaller horse was carved running beside it. The pair glowed in the golden rays of the setting sun and looked ready to gallop off across the hillside.
Alfred’s heart sang. This was the art of his people. He was almost home. “I’ve not seen the red mare for many a year. ’Tis an impressive sight, is it not?” he said.
“Impressive indeed, sire. But I was told the great horse carving was in white chalk.” Egbert looked to the king.
“’Tis so, Egbert. Yonder is a different carving done by the same ancient people.”
“Aye. There be the Vale of the Red Horse.” The shepherd boy pointed to a collection of wattle and daub huts at the base of the hill. “Your pallet be here for the night. I reckon you be reaching White Horse Vale day after the morrow. ’Tis a two-day march from here.”
Alfred looked at the tumbledown hovels and sighed. He feasted his eyes on the glowing carving as he walked downhill.
“’Tis skillfully made, is it not? The white eye makes it live.”
“Is the eye made of marble?” Egbert asked as he followed.
The shepherd boy laughed. “Nay, nobbut red soil and yellow rock round here. Yonder eye be a bucketful of chalk carried from White Horse Vale every seven years.”
The voices faded as the small company moved away.
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Did the chalk come from you? wondered Chantel.
The White Horse nodded. Alin linked us forever. Chalk from my eye is placed in the red mare’s eye. Come, we must follow King Alfred.
The horse soared off the hilltop and landed in the valley by the open door of a tumbledown hut. Chantel leaned to one side to peek in.
Alfred and Egbert sat before a small fire in the middle of the floor. Without his sword and helmet, Alfred was shown to be a young man of some twenty-three summers. His advisor was not much older. Alfred removed a wooden skewer of roasting rabbit from the coals and tore the meat in half. He tossed a portion to Egbert and sucked his singed fingers.
Egbert grinned and speared the half-raw meat with his dagger. He held it over the coals again. “You have many tal–ents, sire, but cooking is not one of them,” he remarked.
Alfred ignored him. He gnawed at the meat while gazing into the flames. “Egbert, I am baffled. These hills are my homelands. My mother bore me in White Horse Vale. Yet the people here and in all the hidden valleys between this place and the Vale of the White Horse know me as their king, yet know me not!”
Egbert nodded. “They have heard you are their king. But this means nothing to them. These places are distant from your palace at Winchester. Until now, only the traveling bards bring news of you.” He shrugged. “And if the Dane force strikes, what good is a king from the vales who is out of reach?”
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“You speak wisdom. We must make my presence real. I must find a way to command allegiance.” Alfred fell silent.
Egbert stirred. “These horses carved upon the hills. Are they worshiped, sire? Do vale people not follow the teach–ings of St. Augustine?”
Alfred shrugged. “’Tis hard to tell. The monks built a small monastery nearby, and a bigger one in Wantage, the town where I was born. The people worship on Sundays and Saint days, but still revere the Great White Horse.”
He gazed into the flames, then looked up, his eyes bright. “I have it, Egbert. I will bring the horse symbol of the vale people together with the trappings of my kingship. We will ask the blessings of the True Faith and choose a girl child and boy child from the area to be part of the ceremony. In a sennight’s time I will be crowned on White Horse Hill.”
Egbert clapped his hands together.
Alfred held up his palm to show he had not finished. “And I will decree a palace be built in Wantage, the most important town in White Horse Vale.”
“Masterly, sire,” Egbert approved. “Masterly.”
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“Ooooh, can we watch the coronation?” whispered Chantel aloud into the ear of the White Horse. “I’ve always wanted to see a king or queen crowned.”
We can. It’s an important part of the story. Watch for the Magic Child. Equus leapt over the hills, through space and time, to land on the earthworks of Uffington Castle on White Horse Hill.
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The hill was crowded with people.
Bustling camps housed people from afar. The local folk walked up from Uffington. The old were carried in litters and babies carried in arms. The air was alive with songs and stories.
Alfred’s men helped each group to cross the ditch, enter the earthworks and choose a place to watch from the top of the great embankments circling the flat plateau.
Finally the thousands were so closely seated that not a blade of grass could be seen.
A distant fanfare of trumpets sounded.
Heads turned towards the entrance. Mounted soldiers, purple-edged cloaks flying, burst through the gap and circled the plateau several times at great speed. Then, in a flurry of dust, they reined in their horses and stood around the edge.
The trumpets rang out again, much closer this time.
A small boy carrying a staff topped with a gleaming gold cross solemnly stepped through the entrance. Behind him walked the Bishop of Wantage and his monks. The bishop led them to the center of the grass, and the monks formed a horseshoe around him.
Two heralds appeared and raised trumpets to their lips. A volley of notes rent the air. A horse whinnied.
With a collective gasp, the entire crowd rose to its feet, roaring its approval.
Alfred had appeared, mounted on a white horse whose ancient bridle and stirrups were finely enameled gold. He was clothed in an unadorned tunic of the royal purple. His fair head was bare. His youthful countenance glowed.
The king held a leading rein. On the end stepped a red mare, a foal hugging her side. Astride the red mare’s back sat a girl of seven summers. She wore a white shift with a gold talisman hanging from a thin braid around her neck. Proudly she held aloft a branch from the sacred thorn tree.
On it hung a shining gold band.
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Horse, is she the Magic Child?
Yes. That’s Ethrelda.
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Alfred dismounted, bowed first to the bishop, then to the people. The crowd roared once more and seated themselves. Alfred walked across the grass to the bishop and knelt hum–bly before him.
The bishop turned and motioned briskly to the child with the sacred thorn branch. Ethrelda slid off the red mare, stepped forward and offered him the branch. The bishop removed the plain gold circlet.
He lifted it in the air for all to see, made the sign of the cross over it and placed it on Alfred’s brow. The monks bowed their heads and intoned a prayer in Latin. The words were unknown to the people, but after a moment a scatter of “amens” rolled around the crowd.
The bishop held out his hand, helped Alfred to his feet, turned him and presented him to the multitude as the monks softly chanted.
“Your king, Alfred the Great,” the bishop shouted.
The people watched and waited respectfully.
Suddenly a clear high voice was heard. “Glorify the king,” shouted little Ethrelda.
“Glorify the king,” a woman’s voice joined in from the crowd.
“Yes, glorify the king,” called an old man.
The shout was taken up throughout the crowd.
Alfred and his entourage beamed. The bishop and his monks looked startled.
Ethrelda began to sing the ancient song.
We’ll glorify the king
We’ll glorify the king.
The crowd joined in.
We’ll leap the downs, and ride the wind,
And glorify the king.
As the people sang, Ethrelda slipped past the dignitaries, removing her necklace on the way. She thrust the gold talis–man on its horse-hair braid into A
lfred’s hand and indicated that he should hang it around his neck.
Smiling, Alfred did so.
Ethrelda darted towards the large rock standing at one side of the circle. The bishop whispered to a monk to stop her, but she slipped past the outstretched hands.
Taking a deep breath, Ethrelda bent over a hole in the rock and blew as hard as she could. A great booming sound rolled around the enclosure. Three magpies rose chattering from the ditch and circled overhead. Ethrelda looked up at the circling birds, noted their number and blew again. The sound rolled over White Horse Hill. Once more she blew, and the gigantic voice of the ceremonial Blowing Stone spilled over the downs and into the vale.
A mighty cheer went up.
Alfred and Egbert exchanged glances of delight.
“You did it, sire,” whispered Egbert. “The people are with you.” He nudged Alfred. “But look at the bishop’s face. He is angry.”
“That I can repair,” Alfred whispered back.
The tumult died down. Alfred stepped forward to speak. He motioned for the bishop to join him.
“I humbly thank you all.” His gesture included everyone.
“To mark this coronation I ask the bishop to accept a gift from me.” He placed a soft leather purse filled with gold in the bishop’s hand. “This gold is for you, good bishop, to further your work bringing the glory of God to these vales.”
Delight fought the disapproval on the bishop’s face. He swiftly stowed the purse in the pocket of his voluminous robes, bowed low over Alfred’s hand and kissed his ring in a gesture of allegiance. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” His voice dropped to a hissing whisper. “But, I pray you, remove that heathen object from around your neck.”
“Later, bishop, later,” replied Alfred softly. He touched the talisman. “A token from the people does no harm.”
The bishop retreated, an angry flush staining his neck.
Alfred turned once again to the people.
“Men of the vales,” he called. “Will you help me raise a palace in Wantage? A place to which my men and I can come to prevent the forays from the Danelaw threatening these peaceful valleys?”
“Aye!” roared a thousand voices. “We will help.”
“Then ’tis as good as done,” said Alfred. He surveyed the crowd. “Tell me, good folks, if what I once knew remains true. Every seventh summer, do the people of these vales still scour clean the white and red horses on the hills?”
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