Both deputies looked at the floor of the lock-up rather than meeting the prince’s glance.
“It’s that bad?” Liam asked. “Why so?”
“Your Highness, the people of the Northern Shires have the utmost respect for our good King Cabhan, they do. However, I’m afraid the same can’t be said for their feelings toward the High King. But I’m not going to poison the well, so to speak. You want to know what people really think? You sit in the tavern in the evenings as Killian the farrier’s apprentice and you’ll get both ears full first hand. As for me and my men, we’ll keep your identity a secret.” The little stoat-faced man transferred his beady eyes to his deputies and both of them nodded their concurrence.
“I appreciate that, Reeve,” Liam said. His countenance, though, seemed apprehensive.
Directing his attention to Pádraig, Parnell continued, pointing out the door across the ward. “You and…uh…Killian, here, will find the forge directly over there. The head groom is Jarlath. He’s a good man.”
Thanking the reeve, the boys climbed back in the wagon and guided it to where Parnell had directed them.
“If you’ll start unloading the gear,” Pádraig said. “I’ll hunt up Jarlath and let him know we’re here.”
Liam said nothing in return.
As Pádraig crossed toward the stables, he thought, Well, he did say he wanted to know what people honestly think. Sounds like he’s going to learn more than he bargained for. But like he said, if he doesn’t know what bothers people, there’s no way he can do anything about it.
* * *
Pádraig was pleased with his inspection of the stables. His nose told him that the head groom ran a tight ship. There were no objectionable odors. All the stalls were clean and dry, with fresh bedding. And the water buckets were reasonably full with no contaminants floating in them. Even with the cold weather, enough of the window shutters were open so as to provide adequate ventilation. He detected no overt signs of rats and only a moderate number of insects. There were no loose boards, protruding nails, or sharp edges. Jarlath clearly took his job very seriously.
Returning to the forge, the young farrier found that Liam had finished unloading the gear from the wagon and had stowed it inside.
“What now, Master Pádraig?” Liam asked with a smile.
“Now we see to our horses and tack, Apprentice Killian.”
“Don’t the grooms do that?”
“For a prince, they do. Farriers, however, take care of their own animals and equipment.
Liam hesitated. “And…uh…exactly what…uh…are the duties of an apprentice farrier with regard to that?”
“He parks the wagon next to the forge, unharnesses the horses, takes them to their stalls in the stable, rubs them down, and sees that they’re fed and watered. After that, he thoroughly cleans the tack and stores it in the wagon until it’s time to leave.”
“Unharness horses; check,” Liam said. “Take horses to stall; check. See that horses are fed and watered; check. Rub down horses with what, may I ask? And, sorry, Master, I don’t have the slightest idea how to clean tack.”
“Ahh,” Pádraig said, patting Liam on the shoulder. “Here begins today’s lesson.” He took his hawk hoof-pick from his belt and handed it to the other boy, then took him inside the forge to a handled grooming-box that Liam had already unloaded.
Lifting the items one by one from the box—curry comb, dandy brush, mane comb, body brush, hoof brush, and towel—Pádraig identified each one, as well as the hoof-pick, and explained its use. He then did the same with the cleaning cloths, saddle soap, and leather oil that were also in the box.
When he had finished, Pádraig asked, “Do I need to demonstrate how everything’s done?”
“Oh, Master, would you, please?” Liam asked, imitating a village halfwit. “Brushing and rubbing a horse is ever so complicated, that Killian, the oaf that I am, might not be able to grasp the concept. And taking soap and rag to a harness is probably way beyond my limited capabilities.” Picking up the grooming box of supplies and heading toward the door of the forge, he continued. “Please don’t beat me, Master Pádraig. Poor, dumb Killian is doing the best that his limited intelligence will permit.”
Pádraig laughed and went about setting the tools in the order that he liked to work, and familiarizing himself with the equipment in the forge. He then fired up the furnace with split logs from the fuel bin.
* * *
The first horse that Jarlath, the head groom, brought over to the forge, a blue roan stallion, was accompanied by its owner. Pádraig made two observations right off—the horse showed signs of lameness, and the eyes of its owner, a squad leader in the Cruachanian Defense Forces, were moist.
“Paddy, this is Eamon, and, I’m afraid, there’s a serious problem with his mount,” Jarlath told him.
“So I see,” the young farrier replied, petting the horse’s muzzle, forehead, and neck. Pulling back the animal’s lips and checking his teeth, Pádraig said, “Fourteen, fifteen years old?”
“Fifteen,” Eamon replied.
“Well, I’ll leave you two to discuss things,” Jarlath said, giving the squad leader a pat on the back and a sympathetic look.
“What’s his name?” Pádraig asked as he circled around the horse, petting him as he did so.
“Phelim,” came the simple reply.
“Beautiful animal. I take it you two have been together for a while?”
“T…twelve years,” Eamon said, with a catch in his voice as he caressed the muzzle of the blue roan. “He’s the…the only mount I’ve had since I joined the defense forces.” He quickly wiped a tear from his eye with the sleeve of his tunic.
The young farrier felt all four legs from the shoulder to the hoof, but did not raise the hooves from the ground. The front two pastern joints were hot with inflammation and Pádraig’s fingers detected a crystallization in the pastern joints of all four legs. He turned, looked at Eamon, and said, “You know what it is, don’t you?”
The squad leader replied, “I suspect it’s ringbone.”
“Yes,” Pádraig said. “In the upper pastern joints. And, if you know what it is, you also know that it’s degenerative. There is no cure.”
Eamon sighed. “They say that you need to put your own animal down, when the time comes, but I just can’t do it. I thought, perhaps, that you—”
“Whoa, Eamon. Let’s not go there just yet,” Pádraig cautioned.
“But, as you said, it’s not going to get better. There’s no cure.”
“Phelim’s war-horse days are over for certain. But if I can alleviate the pain, he still has many good years left.”
“You can do that?” The squad leader’s eyes got wide and hopeful.
“When are you going out on patrol again?” Pádraig asked.
“My squad leaves tomorrow morning for Ráth Árainn. That’s where we’re based. The next day we’ll head up the Coastal Road to the garrison at North Head, the following day back to Ráth Árainn, then return here on Hollyday evening.”
“I’ll be here the rest of this week,” Pádraig told him. “While you’re away, leave Phelim with me, and let me see what I can do to relieve his pain, to the extent that he can be comfortable on his hooves. When you return on Hollyday evening, we’ll talk. Okay?”
“And if you can’t do anything for him?”
“Then I’ll do the right thing for him, Eamon. My word on it.”
* * *
When Liam returned from the stables, having taken care of the draught horses and the tack, he found Pádraig in the forge, shredding the leaves of a plant into a bowl.
“Salad?” the prince asked.
“Hardly,” Pádraig answered. “It’s comfrey, an herb most commonly called ‘knitbone.’”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Make poultices for Phelim, the squad leader’s horse.”
“Will it cure him?”
Pádraig shook his head. “There is no cure. I’
m hoping to relieve some of his pain.”
“Can’t you use your gift? The way you did on my elbow?”
“My gift can do only so much. I intend to use it in conjunction with the poultices to reduce his pain; but, I’m afraid, I can’t cure him.”
“Why not?”
“All things have limitations. Even my gift.” Pádraig took a set of tongs, picked up an iron cup from the edge of the furnace, and poured a small amount of boiling water over the comfrey shreds. “We’ll let this steep for a while, then place the softened herbs in bandages and wrap Phelim’s pastern joints with the poultices.”
“His what joints?” a puzzled Liam asked.
“Pastern joints. The joints located between the top of the hoof and the fetlock. After that, I’ll lay hands on him like I did with your elbow.”
“And that will lessen his pain?”
“I believe so. Come. I’ll show you how to apply the poultices this time; but, from here on, Phelim will be your responsibility while I see to the other horses. You’ll repeat this once a day for the next five days in the late afternoon. Each time you’ve finished, come and get me and I’ll lay hands on him again. Also, it’s important that he receives moderate exercise.”
“So I’m to ride him?”
“No riding. A half hour morning and afternoon on a long lead in the paddock. Nothing over a trot. Each day before his morning exercise, you’ll remove the poultices and wash down his legs with warm water.”
“And after the five days?” the prince asked, eyebrow raised.
“An Fearglas willing, Phelim will have many years of retirement to look forward to.”
Both boys performed the ritual act of submission to the Deity by touching the first two fingers of their right hands to their foreheads, chests, and mouths while mentally saying: May His tenets be always in my mind, in my heart, and on my lips.
* * *
After supper in the garrison’s mess hall, the two boys headed over to the tavern.
Pádraig wondered if Liam’s royal ears would burn as Parnell the shire reeve had predicted. After an hour or so of nursing a pitcher of ale, some of the other patrons who had been there far longer than the young farrier and prince started with the toasts.
“To Cabhan, King of the Northern Shires!” one fellow shouted out, raising his tankard.
“To good King Cabhan!” the others echoed, lifting their tankards as well, then downing the contents.
Although both Pádraig and Liam joined in, both boys could see that there would probably be additional toasts to come, and wisely only took sips of their ale.
“To Tierney, Chieftain of Callainn Shire!” another man shouted out, once the tankards had been refilled.
Again his toast was repeated by the assembly. “To good Chieftain Tierney!”
After the tankards had been refilled once more, a third man stood and shouted, “To Eógan, Earl of the Western Shires!”
Pádraig and Liam were jolted upright on their stools at that one, and looked at each other in puzzlement.
“To good Earl Eógan!” a fourth man shouted. “The once and future Chieftain of Árainn Shire!”
Before the company could respond, a fifth man bellowed, “To good Chieftain Eógan! Robbed of his rightful title as King of the Western Shires by Déaglán, the usurper!”
Choruses of “Yeah!” and “For sure!” rang out through the entire tavern.
As Liam started to stand, Pádraig reached over, took him by the shoulder and slammed him back to a seated position. Before the prince could protest, the young farrier held up the index finger of his other hand, frowned, shook his head, and mouthed the word ‘no.’
Even though the prince shook off Pádraig’s hand, he did, nevertheless, continue to sit there, eyes narrowed, doing a slow burn.
Looking over the assembly, Pádraig made eye-contact with Parnell. The shire reeve gave him a nod of approval and heaved a sigh of relief.
* * *
Back in the forge, both boys sat on their cots. Neither had said a word after the incident at the tavern.
The prince had gone straight back to the forge. Pádraig had detoured to the stables to look in on Phelim, the blue roan.
“How is he?” Liam asked at last, breaking the uneasy silence.
“Looks comfortable,” Pádraig replied.…“How are you?”
“Maybe you can put poultices on my ears.” Turning toward his friend, he asked, incredulously, “Good Earl Eógan?! Are you kidding me?! Robbed of his rightful title as King of the Western Shires by Déaglán, the usurper?!…What’s wrong with these people, Paddy? Eógan is a buffoon. Diarmuid knew it. That’s why he picked my da to succeed him rather than Eógan, despite Eógan being the elder. The only reason Da elevated him from chieftain of an insignificant shire to earl was because of the split vote in the Dáil. It was an act of charity.…And a peace offering to the people of the Northern Shires. Can’t they see that?”
“Nationalism sometimes clouds the vision,” Pádraig answered. “Remember what you said a few days ago back by the cliffs? That the Northern Shires were the first conquered and the last liberated? Maybe the people up here don’t think that the other kingdoms really appreciate the hardship that they endured under the Northmen. Even you laughed about it, making that joke with your hands in the air about the Security Forces of the Northern Shires.”
“I did, didn’t I,” Liam said, solemnly.…” Meig was right in scolding me. I do need to be more aware of the politics in certain situations.”
“And here ends the day’s lesson,” Pádraig told him, blowing out the lamp.
Hollyday - Wolf 39th
Callainn Shire
Ráth Callainn
“Well?” Eamon said, his countenance simultaneously both apprehensive and hopeful. “I’ve just come from the stables and Phelim seems better than I’ve seen him in a long while. It’s Hollyday evening, and y…you said we’d talk about…about his future.”
Pádraig smiled at the squad leader from the Cruachanian Defense Forces. “That we will.”
“Well?” the other man asked again, tentatively. “Is…is he going to be all right?”
“Let’s take a walk,” Pádraig said, leading Eamon to the stables. “Like I told you before, Phelim’s war-horse days are over. But I’ve been able to reduce the inflammation and his pain level significantly. He won’t be riding patrol with you ever again, but he’ll be able to enjoy his remaining days out in the pasture.”
Opening the stall door, the young farrier petted the blue roan’s nose and neck, then ran his hands down the animal’s left foreleg. Setting his shoulder up against the horse to assure that his weight was properly distributed on the other three legs, Pádraig raised his hoof by the fetlock.
“Come and look,” he told Eamon. “I’ve trimmed and balanced his hooves so that they’re level from side to side, and I’ve trimmed the toe slightly shorter to increase the breakover.”
“Breakover?” the squad leader repeated, shaking his head.
“That’s so his leg can roll over the front of the hoof quicker, decreasing the stress on the joints. I’ve also used rocker-toe shoes on him, which will also help with that. See?”
Pádraig pointed to the front of the shoe that he had hammered up at an angle toward the trimmed toe of the hoof.
“Normally we like to reshoe a horse every six to eight weeks,” he continued, setting the horse’s foot down and giving him a lump of sugar. “But, due to his condition, Phelim will have to be reshod every four weeks. Plus he’ll need a moderate amount of daily exercise. Nothing strenuous, but he needs to move around, not just stand in the pasture. Will there be a problem with that?”
“Not at all,” Eamon said, shaking his head and breathing a sigh of relief. “My sister and her husband have a bee yard up in Árainn Shire. They also have a few horses. My brother-in-law does his own shoeing. And their two daughters love the animals. They’ll see that Phelim gets everything he needs.”
“Good. He’s ready
to go whenever you want to take him. But, remember, although the girls may ride him, not anything too demanding nor for a long period of time. Nothing over a canter, and not for longer than a half hour twice a day.”
Eamon had to wipe away another tear, but this one of joy. “How can I thank you, Paddy. You’ve given him a new life.”
“That’s part of a farrier’s job, Eamon. Taking care of An Fearglas’ creatures.”
Both Pádraig and the squad leader performed the ritual act of submission to the Deity.
* * *
With the equipment stowed away in the wagon for their trip to Fort Cairbrigh at first light the following morning, Pádraig and Liam ate their supper in the garrison mess hall, then headed over to the tavern.
Each night in the tavern had turned out to be a repeat of the first one that the young farrier and his ‘apprentice’ had spent at the fort. After the locals had gotten their snoots full of ale, the toasts had begun; and, as always, they had praised their ‘good’ King, their ‘good’ Chieftain, and the ‘good’ Earl. Pádraig was pleased that after a rocky start that first night, Liam had listened to the tributes without incident thereafter. This night started out exactly the same as the others—except.
When the inevitable toast, “To good Chieftain Eógan! Robbed of his rightful title as King of the Western Shires by Déaglán, the usurper!” had been bellowed out, and the entire tavern had added their agreement, Liam stood, lifted his tankard of ale high and tried to shout, ‘To our good High King Déaglán!’
Pádraig had been so pleased with himself that he had let down his guard. But as soon as the prince had started the toast, the young farrier recovered quickly and made a small motion with his right hand. Consequently, Liam’s words actually came out of his mouth as, “To our goo Hi Ki Déaglá!”
Liam looked down at Pádraig, open-mouthed. It was the identical look that everyone else in the tavern was giving the prince.
A Spark is Struck in Cruachan (The Chronicles of Pádraig Book 1) Page 13
