The Captain and the Cavalry Trooper

by Catherine Curzon

  Even though the captain had been for a dunking, his scent was little changed. Jack’s nostrils flared involuntarily and it took all his effort to stop his body from showing how much the closeness to this man excited him. The captain’s arm was so strong that Jack wondered at the accident that had left Thorne reliant on a puny fellow like him. And pressing, just a little, against Jack’s side, the captain’s firm torso.

  He mustn’t think of officers in this way. He mustn’t think of any man this way.

  But he couldn’t help it. He always had. It was how the Good Lord had made him. Wasn’t it blasphemous to protest?

  “I-I could write a poem about the wasp, sir!”

  “If you can think of a rhyme for wasp, I would love to see it.” Thorne laughed, though the rather faraway look that overcame his face suggested that he was attempting to do just that. “Is it orange that doesn’t rhyme with anything? Add wasp to that illustrious list, Trooper!”

  “You don’t have to rhyme things exactly, though, sir. Not in English. We’ve got too much Viking in our language, you see.” Jack adopted a grand, deep tone, comically at odds with the content of his verse. “Warrior wasp, cannot slay canny captain! There, see?”

  “Is this Dadaism, Trooper? Must I put you to the whip?” Thorne’s voice was a stern tease but his eyes sparkled with humor and when he met Jack’s gaze he gave the hint of a smile. “I rather suspect you will have to be the poet for both of us. I struggle enough with the sketching, let alone attempting rhymes that don’t rhyme.”

  “I can barely hold a pencil, so we make a good pair!” There was a change in the tension of the strong arm across his neck. He felt his face burn beetroot and added, “Just…just joshing, Captain.”

  Was that even worse? Presumptuous, in a trooper, to dare joke with an officer. And yet, at the mention of the whip, Jack’s mind had whirred.

  “Sorry…sorry, Captain Thorne.”

  “At least you can’t forget to salute since your hands are already full, Trooper Woodvine. Let’s be grateful for small mercies.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They continued on their shambling way, through the gate that Jack had earlier climbed over, and skirted past the stables.

  The tower loomed up before them, almost bronze now in the gloaming of the evening. Jack paused and gazed up at it.

  “It must be fantastic, to live in an actual castle, sir!”

  “Here be dragons, Woodvine…”

  Captain Marsh had been standing in the shadows cast by the building, the tip of his cigarette a glowing red eye.

  He came at a clip across the gravel, his boots crunching toward them.

  “A fine evening for a stroll with the beloved!” Phlegm rattled in his lungs as he laughed. “And still none too quick with your salutes, eh, Trooper?”

  “He has one hand full of books and the other full of his captain. The War Office has yet to send us any three-armed troopers!” Thorne said with authority. “Wasp in the bloody boot, Marsh!”

  “Wasp, eh? Reminds me of my time in the Raj. Bloody snake in my boot, Thorne! Bit me on the heel.” His barrel chest expanded as he inhaled. A sneer crept onto his face. “Still walked unaided, though.”

  “Whereas the poor old serpent was stretchered off with septicemia?”

  Marsh crushed out the golden tip of his cigarette under his boot.

  “Ha!” There was no mirth in his laugh. He leaned into Jack, his lips moving as though tasting a flavor. “And you, Trooper, eh? Been enjoying yourself, have we? Think you’ll like your time at our humble bolthole? Of course, the grooms’ quarters aren’t much to write home about to Mummy, but a nice fellow like you will soon find his way to the perks, I don’t doubt!”

  “It seems an all right sort of place, sir.”

  Jack distrusted the insinuating glint in Captain Marsh’s expression.

  “Trooper Woodvine has a knack with Apollo, Marsh. He’s a sensible sort.” Thorne’s arm grew momentarily tighter on Jack’s shoulders. “We need more like him.”

  Marsh brushed his hands together, his stare not leaving Jack.

  “Oh, that we most certainly do, Thorne.”

  He reached toward Jack, his wedding ring glinting in the moonlight, and gave his cheek a pinch.

  Jack was so affronted that he didn’t know how to react, how he was allowed to react. Perhaps Marsh had an unfortunate manner. Perhaps there was no reason to feel uneasy. Perhaps it was just a habit in this battalion, an initiatory jape for the new grooms.

  Yet it was all too obvious that Thorne really did not like Marsh.

  “Get along, Woodvine, back to your quarters.” Thorne withdrew his arm from Jack’s shoulders and, in turning to take back his boot, insinuated himself between Marsh and Jack. With his back to the other officer, Thorne offered the barest hint of a smile and said, “Thank you, Trooper. Dismissed.”

  Jack took one step backward before remembering he should acknowledge the captain somehow. He nodded then turned, running across the square to the stables, not looking back because he didn’t want to know if Marsh had decided to follow. He wouldn’t. He was a married man, after all. How silly to even entertain such a thought.

  When Jack arrived back in his quarters there was the usual racket, which he was by now quite used to, of approaching bedtime. Lads wandering about nearly naked, demanding admiring glances from their fellows, throwing things across the room to one another, cheering whether it was caught or dropped, bawdy banter and swapped cigarettes.

  How, he didn’t know, but Jack managed to get to his bed without attracting comment and turned his back to the room as he changed into his pajamas. He was under the thin covers before a shout of ‘Lights out!’ from the NCO who had arrived in the entrance to their dormitory.

  “Night, night, mes amis!” Queenie’s voice trilled out from behind the tapestries and lacquered screen where a dim light still burned, glowing pale against the ceiling. “And don’t wake me until the tea has brewed!”

  At the sound of Queenie’s voice, Jack smiled. Had he found himself in a fairytale after all, in this strange castle populated by extraordinary people?

  His ears still ringing with the splashing of the stream, Jack twined Captain Thorne’s handkerchief between his fingers and began to fall asleep.

  Chapter Three

  How could he have slept so well in such an uncomfortable bed? Jack blinked himself awake and stretched. The other beds were full of sleeping grooms.

  Quietly he picked up his clothes and headed down to the tack room to change, to avoid waking anyone. He dressed, stashed his pajamas in a corner and collected the halter and lead rein.

  Trooper Jack Woodvine walked out smiling into the cool, bright morning to meet his new horse.

  It was a glorious time to be about. No one else was up. He could hear whinnies and splutters from the stalls of the other horses as he walked by, and once he reached the path, Jack broke into a gleeful run. All the morning was his—all the chateau, all the sun, all the bright blue air.

  Just as he was about to unbolt the paddock gate, Jack realized that something was amiss. He had left Apollo only hours earlier cropping at the sweet grass, but now the stallion appeared to be in distress. Jack paused. Should he run for help? But he was Apollo’s groom, he couldn’t leave him.

  Jack flung the halter and rein over the fence. Dispensing with the gate, he vaulted after them.

  Apollo stood at the far end of the paddock, alone as ever. This was not the calm horse of last night, though, but a different animal entirely. His head was held high, eyes watching Jack suspiciously, ears flat down against his skull, one hoof pawing at the grass.

  What the hell had happened? Was the front so close here that the horses could hear artillery bombardments that were imperceptible to humans? Or had there been a storm overnight and Jack had slept too soundly to hear it?

  And yet the other horses seemed unaffected.

  Jack approached slowly, holding the tack, his side facing the horse. Not face-on, which mig
ht seem aggressive, and definitely not with his back to him. He had to be able to see Apollo as he drew near.

  He made the same chuckling, clicking sound in his throat as he had yesterday, interspersed with an approximation of Captain Thorne’s soft coo. He tapped one finger lightly against his thigh to the rhythm of his steps, lowering his eyelids a little to avoid frightening Apollo with what he might read as an intimidating stare.

  Jack stopped, coming as close as he dared for now.

  Still Apollo glared at him, the hoof moving with even more pronounced agitation, scraping up divots of turf where it dragged. Yet he lowered his head just a little, a fraction of give in the muscles as those flat ears twitched.

  Slowly Jack sank into a crouch, keeping himself small and unthreatening. He was careful to keep his legs tensed in case Apollo should rush at him.

  “Hey, handsome fellow.”

  With any luck Apollo would remember his voice from yesterday, would associate him with the captain. But the horse might yet be too scared to recall anything other than whatever it was that had terrified him in the night. Jack went on, clucking and cooing as gently as he could, creeping closer, trying to befriend a horse that was determined to remain solitary.

  Apollo rolled his eyes and scraped at the ground harder, shifting his weight from one hoof to the other. He snorted and peered around Jack, looking for the likeliest route of escape.

  A soft breath escaped Apollo’s nostrils and still he watched, as though waiting for some imagined horror.

  Jack estimated the number of paces to get to Apollo from where he was crouched. If he could get the tack on him, then he might be able to control him—but he would also be far too near his hooves, even if he could get the halter on him without being stamped on or bitten.

  Instead, Jack slowly turned his back on Apollo, rose enough to be able to walk and crossed toward the stream. He headed to the point along the bank where Apollo had stood yesterday, where he had leaned toward the water and drunk. Hanging on to a branch, Jack went as close to the edge as he could. The marks of Apollo’s shoes were in the dust. He knelt on the bank and scooped a handful of the cold, clear water into his mouth.

  He sensed movement in the paddock behind him, the gentle sound of hooves beating on grass, coming closer and growing slower and more tentative as they did.

  A long shadow fell across the grass beside him yet Apollo didn’t make the final approach. He stood back, twenty feet or so from where Jack was kneeling. There came another snort then an intrigued whinny.

  Jack quietly clicked and cooed and brought more water to his own mouth. The sound of the water splashing from his hands made the stream sound like the most appealing, refreshing stretch of water on the planet. He waited. And as he waited, he looked into the water and remembered the sight of Captain Thorne, naked, uninhibited, muscular. A slight shudder went through him at the thought. For a hopeless moment he wondered if he would ever see that sight again. Of course not. What a fool he was, an accidental peeping Tom on an officer.

  An officer who would go spare if his horse wasn’t ready in time for him riding out this morning.

  Jack brought a handful of water up again but this time didn’t bring it to his own mouth. He turned very slightly and, without looking Apollo in the eye, showed him that his hands were full of the fresh, delicious water.

  And Apollo came closer, his ears swiveling up now, intrigued by this strange new display.

  Rising carefully to his feet to avoid spilling the water or spooking the horse, Jack edged toward Apollo. He clicked and he cooed, and as he looked at the horse, he saw that he no longer feared him. He probably thought that Jack was an idiot, but that was better than being thought a threat.

  He held out his hands to Apollo, the morning sunlight glinting off what was left of the water that he had carried from the stream. He smiled as the horse took a step toward him.

  As gentle as a babe, as gentle as Thorne’s hand had been in Jack’s, Apollo lowered his muzzle to the proffered water. He lapped softly, his dark eyes blinking, gaze settling on his groom.

  There was a sensation of warmth in Jack’s breast, the same that always came to him once he had earned an animal’s trust. Even if, in the case of Apollo, it might only be temporary.

  Once the water was finished, Jack moved his hands up from Apollo’s muzzle, brushing across the stiff velvet of his hair with his fingertips until he was able to stroke his face. A contented chunter came from deep in Apollo’s chest and Jack spent several minutes fussing him, enjoying the animal’s warmth, his smell.

  “Let’s take you back to the stable, Apollo,” Jack said.

  He stepped back from the horse, fully expecting the animal to dash away from him. But instead Apollo came with him, following to where he had left the tack.

  “You’re on your best behavior now, aren’t you? Let’s get you ready for your dad.”

  Apollo seemed to fret slightly as Jack put the halter on him, but he maintained a steady hand and Apollo calmed again. Still clicking and cooing, Jack took the rein and led his charge across the paddock.

  “Hello, sailor.” Apollo froze on the spot at the sound of the still-unseen Queenie’s singsong voice. Then he took a step back, stilled only by Jack’s hand on the halter. “You’re up bright and early. I haven’t even been to bed!”

  Now Apollo pulled against Jack, snorting, eyes rolling to seek out the hidden man. Again he snorted, hooves dragging at the turf.

  “Shhhh, Apollo… Shhhh…”

  Trying not to alarm the horse, Jack raised his voice. There was an edge to his words.

  “What do you want, Queenie? Apollo’s spooked and you’re scaring him.”

  “He’s such a bloody fairy!” Queenie emerged from the trees where he had been concealed. He wore only a long silk robe of bright blue, belted at the waist with the scarf he had sported for his song and dance routine. On his face, that pretty face, was a smirk, his flashing eyes directed only at the horse. “Scared of me?”

  “Queenie, get back. I told you, he’s spooked! Do you want him to trample you? Because you’re going the right way about it.”

  Jack tried to stand between the horse and Queenie, while keeping Apollo moving. If he could get him into his stable, shut the door and get some quiet, then he could calm the horse before Captain Thorne demanded him.

  “Fairy horse!” Queenie pouted. He looked tired, though, dark circles beneath his eyes and his hair disordered as if he had spent a night rabble-rousing with the best of them. “Who could be scared of little old me?”

  He did retreat a little, though, then asked Jack, “Do you dance, little Jack?”

  “Dance? Who, me? What are you— Queenie, please, I don’t have time for this. I’ve got to get Apollo ready for Captain Thorne.”

  “Don’t you mean Cinderella?” He grinned. “With his missing boot?”

  “Has he lost his boot? I wouldn’t know… Please, Queenie, I—”

  “Nothing goes on here that I don’t know about.” Queenie swished the scarf and gave a wink. “You’d do well to remember that.”

  What had Queenie seen? Jack spying on the naked captain? He couldn’t have done. Jack swallowed.

  “Captain Thorne got a really bad wasp sting in his foot and I helped him to the chateau, and Captain Marsh pinched my cheek like…like a weird uncle. If you can make a scandal out of that, then you have a far more vivid imagination than I do.”

  “He pinched your cheek, did he?” Queenie pouted and let out a huff of breath. “How very unromantic. But I think you’re a good little Jack to tell me all the news.” He slipped a hand into the pocket of the robe and withdrew a cigarette before looking at Jack as though he had quite forgotten he was there. “Off you go now, Jack and his fairy steed! I shall enjoy my smoke and then get off to bed… It’s a tiring old life.”

  Jack sighed and led Apollo to the stables. Why had he thought that Queenie was so fascinating? He was a thoroughly unusual creature, but at the same time there was something dange
rous about him, threatening Jack with gossip. About what? About him helping a captain with a wasp sting? There’d have been far more gossip if he’d left the man sat helpless on his arse. Best not to think of Thorne’s arse, though.

  Apollo was jittery until the paddocks were behind them, and Jack washed away the unease he had felt with Queenie, concerned that it might transmit to the horse. Finally the stables appeared before them and Apollo almost led Jack. The yard was still empty save for the sounds of horses waking from their slumbers and Jack was mindful of Thorne’s expectations, of the need to make his new captain proud. He was mindful of everything about Captain Thorne, he realized, and he would need to become less so.

  The door to Apollo’s stable stood wide open once more. When Jack entered he knew straightaway where Queenie had been carousing. There were empty wine bottles strewn across the floor, the straw was banked up into what had clearly been a makeshift pillow and there, peeping out from beneath it, was a single brown leather glove.

  With a calming murmur for the horse, Jack stooped to retrieve the glove. He could see that it didn’t belong to Thorne. It was ill-cared-for and aged, stained with God knows what, and when he put it to his nose Jack recoiled, his stomach leaping into his throat. This wasn’t the captain’s smell of pomade and leather, but a dirty stench of sweat and tobacco, the smell of a man Jack couldn’t imagine wanting to romp in the hay with.

  Not that he wanted to romp with Captain Thorne, of course. Not at all.

  This meant more work, for the stable would have to be tidied, the bottles thrown away and the straw searched for any that might have become hidden. He could hardly risk Apollo stepping on broken glass, Jack knew, as he tethered the horse to a post and began gathering up Queenie’s empties.

  Apollo watched the coming and going with his large, dark eyes, entirely at ease now. He gave an occasional snort just to remind Jack of his presence, but otherwise all was peaceful once more.

  Chapter Four

  By the time his fellow grooms were busying themselves with brushes and brooms, feed and tack—Queenie excepted—Jack was warm in the knowledge that he had already done his most important duties for the morning. Apollo’s coat, mane and tail were immaculate, the horse well-fed, clad in his gleaming tack and ready for his rider. Just as Thorne had requested, Jack had made a fingertip search of the by-now perfectly laid stable but found nothing that might be to blame for any mysterious scratches that Thorne had told him about. There was no nail or splinter anywhere, nothing that might cause the horse any discomfort.