Black Horses for the King

by Anne McCaffrey

  I close this now. Vale, your grieving mother.

  The letter was both infuriating and depressing. It was true that Lavinia and I had always been the best of friends, but I would certainly have been happy to have attended Flora’s wedding, to see her happy. Even if it had meant being in Uncle Gralior’s company. Obviously he had filled my mother’s head with nonsense. “Hopes for my future” indeed! I was a lot better off with strangers than I had been on my uncle’s ship.

  I moped over her unkind words and accusations. Begging a piece of vellum from Teldys, I started to compose an appropriate response, not quite denouncing Gralior for the mean and brutal man he was but making it plain to her that I was in a much better situation in Lord Artos’s service.

  Teldys watched me struggling with the letter each evening and finally leaned toward me across the table.

  “To your mother, is it?” And when I nodded, he added, “Sometimes these explanations are best made in person. There are those four horses Rhodri’s been training for Prince Cador. You go with them and make it all right with your mother. She’s at Ide, is she not? That’s not far out of the way.”

  I was very grateful, for I would never have asked for such a favor. And so I went off with Firkin and Yayin to lead the horses. Yayin also had a personal problem this visit would solve: a chance to see his father, who had suffered a bad sword wound.

  We delivered the horses and agreed to meet up on the road back to Deva the next day: Firkin went with Yayin.

  MOTHER HAD TAKEN a second husband, a nice-enough man, a combmaker who was so skilled that people sent for combs of his making from as far away as Londinium.

  His two-roomed cottage, close up against the walls of the old fort, was snug if certainly not what my mother had had when my father was alive. Odran had made every effort to improve the place and had even managed to have water from the old Legion aqueduct piped to a cistern just outside the door, so Mother did not have far to go to fetch the household water.

  I was both disappointed and gratified that my mother didn’t immediately recognize me. It was my younger sister, Lavinia, who shrieked in welcome and rushed into my arms to weep all over my chest.

  “Galwyn, Galwyn, it is you!” Vinny exclaimed over and over. “Mother, it is truly Galwyn! Don’t you know your own son?”

  Mother blinked rapidly at me and it was not the first time that I thought my mother did not see well beyond the tip of her nose.

  “Well, you certainly took your time making your way here,” she said, folding her hands across her waist as if she did not wish me to see that she was plumper now. “Your uncle was terribly upset. At first he thought you had drowned at Burtigala and no one had bothered to tell him.”

  “But didn’t my message reach you?” I asked, though I did not think she had grieved for me.

  It was Lavinia who sniffed again. “Gill the carter brought it but it didn’t arrive until weeks after you gave it to him. But we were so relieved, weren’t we, Mother? Did you get ours about Flora’s marriage?”

  “I got that one only eight days ago.”

  Mother sniffed. “I paid good coin to be sure it reached you in time.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother, but it didn’t. I came as soon as I could. We had to deliver some horses to Prince Cador.”

  “Prince Cador, is it?” She sniffed again. “And Lord Artos. No wonder my sister’s husband wasn’t good enough for the likes of you.”

  “Oh, Mother, you just won’t admit that Uncle Gralior is a mean, nasty man,” Vinny said, shooting me a glance of encouragement. “Even when your own sister tells you the truth.”

  Mother made a sound that was so close to Spadix’s snort of disgust that I had to cough suddenly.

  “Oh, you must be thirsty,” Vinny said anxiously.

  “Come, we’ve small beer and a fine soup that Lavinia has made us,” Odran said, gesturing for me to settle myself on the bench. “You can stop long enough for that, can’t you?”

  “I’ve only a few hours to spare,” I said, which was not the truth; but Mother was scarcely welcoming.

  “A few hours!” my mother said scoffingly. “And it’s years since we’ve seen you.”

  “That’s because Uncle Gralior would never give him enough time to visit us, Mother,” Lavinia said with pointed sweetness. “I’ll just slip around and tell Flora that you’re here. She worried about you, too, Galwyn.”

  I loosened the girth of the pony I was riding, wishing that it could have been one of the Libyans, to prove to my mother that I was in far better service now than with that wretched uncle of mine.

  Flora, well married and with a child under her apron, wept with joy at seeing me and dragged forward her husband, the local butcher, who had supplied the meat for the stew we then ate. When I realized how eager my sisters were to know all about my recent adventures, I was quite willing to talk. And when I noticed that both Odran and Melwas, Flora’s husband, were listening as avidly, I relaxed and began to enjoy myself.

  For all her disclaimers, my mother indulged in few of her disparaging sniffs until I mentioned my work with Canyd and Alun.

  “It is as well that your father is not here to listen to you prating about smithing.” And she made her disdain obvious by looking down her nose at me.

  “It is an honest trade,” Odran said quickly. “You know how well Ide’s smith lives.”

  That silenced her, but I had had enough. The meal was ended and I could take my leave without giving offense to anyone. I said all that was polite to Melwas and Flora, slipping to her the last of my gold rings as a wedding gift. Then I had to promise Lavinia faithfully that I would return whenever I could.

  “I don’t care what Mother says,” Vinny murmured as I tightened my pony’s girth. “I think your work sounds fascinating, and you were always fond of horses. And that’s proper enough for a Varianus. Do come back anytime you can, Galwyn,” she added so plaintively that I hugged her tightly and repeated my promise.

  “I can’t say when, of course, Vinny-” “I know …” she said, her voice trailing off unhappily, but she was all smiles again when I turned back to give her a final wave.

  Yayin was all smiles, too, when he and Firkin arrived at our meeting place. His father was recovering, if slowly. I think he had had the better visit. But we all traveled back with lighter hearts.

  NOT A WEEK LATER, I found that I was to start my new profession far sooner than was planned; for just as spring was brightening the grassy meadows and I was coming to grips with the intricacies of my special training with both Canyd and Alun, a message came from Comes Artos. He wanted all four stallions to be brought to him as quickly as possible at Camelot, which was what he had named his new headquarters. He wanted to show the quality of the stallions to those who doubted then1 use in his strategy.

  “It says here he’s sending a troop to escort the stallions and whatever of the larger mounts Rhodri may have trained and ready. And see here, you’re to come.” Teldys’s thick forefinger tapped at the paragraph. ‘“The pony and his rider must come, too, if Cornix will not travel without their company.’”

  Being sent from Deva also took care of my recurring nightmare: that Iswy would return to harass the Libyans once again, now that the weather was more clement. Then, of course, since I was such a worrier, I wondered if he would learn that the stallions had gone to Camelot and seek them out there.

  “Bericus will be leading the troop?” I asked.

  “Not likely,” Teldys replied. “Don’t you remember his last message? That he’ll be away this month on service with Prince Cador? The Irish are raiding again.”

  I had forgotten and, for one moment, was downcast. I had hoped to have the support of Bericus both on the way and hi Camelot.

  “But… but…”

  “But, but, but,” Alun mocked me, smiling to show how pleased he was for my sake, “you’ll do well enough.”

  “But if a horse should lose a sandal…” I protested.

  “Who better than you to na
il it back on?” Alun clapped me so stoutly that I staggered off balance, while Canyd smoothly caught my arm to restore my footing. “In truth, who else can we send? And you’ll know what to do.”

  “But… but…” I was aghast at such responsibility. It would be my task to see that the priceless stallions arrived sound as well as safe. What if something happened to one of them, despite every precaution I could take?

  Teldys held up his hand. “If Alun and Canyd say you’re the one to go, you are.”

  I stopped protesting then. Because even I had to admit that I’d had more training than any of the others, no matter how inadequate I felt myself to be. Still, I was in a state of considerable apprehension, my mind continuing to dredge up, in increasingly horrific variety, all the disasters and accidents to which horses are prone.

  Mind you, while they were readying the stallions and the pack animals for the journey, Canyd and Alun added to my apprehensions, battering me with tfs and whens and circumstances and how to repair hooves and which remedies to use for what travel problem.

  Then, to my total consternation, Rhodri told me this time I would ride Cornix and lead the pony.

  “You’re far too heavy now to ride that pony such a distance. And with his short legs, he’d be holding the cavalry to his pace. Not wise,” Rhodri said. “Since he’s still the stallion’s stablemate, he must go, or unsettle Lord Artos’s pride and joy. No, you lead him this time.”

  I was aghast. My ability to stay on a horse had unproved, my reflexes sharpened by the desire to avoid more broken bones. And it was true that I had ridden Cornix from time to time and he seemed to be less fractious with me astride him than others.

  “But… but…” Why was I putting up so many objections to having my most private dreams come true: to ride Cornix to Camelot; to see Lord Artos again; to be able to prove how useful I could be to him?

  My thoughts were interrupted by a dig in the ribs from the mischievous Yayin, one of the unlucky riders who’d been thrown when trying to school the stallion. “And haven’t you always been whispering in that pony’s ear to tell Cornix to treat you nice?”

  “I never-!” I turned on Yayin in self-defense. He jumped backward, grinning, and I realized he was only joking so I managed to laugh.

  “Naw,” said Firkin, “he just smears his saddlecloth with that smelly glue.”

  “That stalh’on knows just how much he can get away with, with Galwyn up,” another suggested slyly.

  “Not when I’m teaching him, he doesn’t,” Rhodri said sternly, and the lads pretended to cower before the trainer’s displeasure. Then Rhodri put a companionable arm about my shoulders. “The horse trusts you, as you’ve had the care of him. I’d rather have someone he knows on his back for the journey than any stranger.”

  Once back at the soothing task of grooming Cornix while he stood, hipshot, eyes closed, enjoying the attention, I quite liked the notion of riding the great stallion all the way to Camelot. I’d grown not only taller but longer and stronger in leg and arm, so I really could control Cornix’s explosive habits-most times. I knew he liked me, for he would come to his stall door on hearing my voice, and whicker at my approach. It was comical to see Spadix, who still shared the black’s stall, push his nose up beside Cornix, trying to look out over the high stall door. I always greeted my faithful pony first, for he had, in his own small way, been one of the reasons I was here with the horses of the land, and not struggling with the horses of the sea.

  However, I was the only one from the farm selected for the journey to Camelot. I was very proud of that, and then was beset with all kinds of conflicting emotions: I wasn’t worthy of such trust; would I be able to cope with the responsibility? Would I know how to act at Camelot amidst warriors chosen for their skills, when I had only a small boy’s knowledge of arms, and little training as a swordsman?

  No one seemed at all surprised that I had been chosen. Indeed Yayin appeared more respectful and even Firkin deferred to me. That was embarrassing. We were all the same here at the farm, weren’t we? We all mucked out every day, and exercised horses, and ate and slept together. I wasn’t sure which disconcerted me most: being chosen, going, or the responsibility of riding Cornix there.

  Before the escorting troop arrived, Daphne took a hand in outfitting me for journey. Inspecting my clothing, she found what I had in deplorable condition, despite my best efforts to keep my garments clean and mended. Riding horses in all sorts of weather does tend to wreak damage on clothing.

  So I was clothed in new leggings and smocks for the trip, and given a fine tunic and colored leggings to wear for attendance upon Lord Artos.

  “If I learn”-and Daphne shook her finger at me as she, almost reluctantly, handed over the finery, as well as the set of sturdier garments for travel-“that you have ridden in that good tunic, or worn it mucking out after that great black hulk, I’ll flay you alive.”

  What delighted me most were the pair of fleece-lined boots that tied on all the way to my knees. These would help my shins and toes recover from the chilblains that often kept me awake at night. We were having a very cold spring and the itching kept me up, even with the salve Canyd had given me. Everyone was looking forward to warmer weather, when such winter ailments would cease.

  THE TROOP ARRIVED-somewhat supercilious, as warriors can be, toward the farmers whom they protected. But the soldiers’ attitude changed for the better when they saw the big, bold black Libyan stallions they must escort. The soldiers were properly impressed when they were taken to the fields to see the broodmares and their foals. The foals that they had had at foot last year were yearlings now, and if their glossy black-and-brown coats did not make them stand out from the native ponies, their size did. They were the same height as most of the grown animals at grass.

  The captain of the troop, Manob, looked askance at me when I was introduced as Cornix’s hostler and veterinary; he nodded more approvingly when Teldys listed my abilities.

  Manob’s men were a very rough lot and regarded mere farmers with small tolerance and much skepticism. I knew that I would have to prove myself to them on the trip and I was very nervous about that.

  In my eyes, however, Manob rose in estimation when he most courteously asked Canyd to check over the feet of the troop’s horses.

  “Some need their hooves trimmed, and we’ve one that’s walking short.” Manob frowned. “But there’s no heat in the leg.”

  “Bring him first,” Canyd said, and gestured to me to accompany him.

  Immediately Manob bellowed for the trooper to present his mount. Hoping I’d be able to guess right on the cause of lameness, I followed Canyd to the smithy. There we donned the heavy leather aprons that protected us against a horse pulling his foot roughly from our grasp.

  I nodded at Alun and his sons, who were finishing the last of the sandals I would be taking with me. The day before, I had sharpened my hoof knives, so my tools were all in the smithy; but I didn’t move for them until Canyd gave me another peremptory gesture. When he saw my startled expression, he nodded solemnly.

  “Begin this journey as you mean to go on, Galwyn,” he said. The use of my name warned me that I would be doing the work while he oversaw it. Well, at least he’d be there now to support-or deny-my ministrations.

  “Trot him up,” Canyd called, waving his arm at the soldier leading a bright bay pony.

  It, too, was larger than the usual moor ponies, and it occurred to me that Lord Artos had been trying before, with some degree of success, to breed size from local animals. But they were still ponies in build: stocky, short-coupled-tough, yes, but not long enough in the leg or big enough in the barrel and chest to support men who were seventeen or sometimes eighteen hands in height.

  As I had been taught, I watched for any unevenness of stride.

  “He’s favoring the near fore,” I said, noting when the pony’s head bobbed.

  Canyd made one of his agreeing sounds.

  Even as we watched, the horse’s stride leveled.
When his rider brought him to a halt in front of us, I had a notion as to the problem.

  Running my hand from the pony’s shoulder down his leg, I could feel no heat. So I hauled his foot up by the hairy tuft of fetlock. He was, at least, well accustomed to having his feet attended, for he did not resist.

  There was just a touch of heat in the sole, at one side. I took my tongs and clamped about that section of the horny hoof. The pony struggled to free his foot but I had it firmly caught between my knees and had set myself, prepared to forestall any resistance. I took a paring knife and carefully, right at the point of tenderness, cut. Almost instantly a gout of dirty gray-yellow fluid gushed out, released by the knife cut.

  “What was that?” Manob asked, bending down to observe my handiwork.

  “An old puncture wound grown over,” I said in exactly the same level tone Canyd used when his guesses were correct. I turned to the rider. “Happens frequently, traveling rough country, no matter how careful you are of their feet. No hoof, no horse.”

  Canyd cleared his throat but I didn’t look at him.

  “Soak the foot for half an hour in warm water with a handful of salts in it. Then come back and we’ll see if it’s all clear.”

  ‘Tes, but can he be ridden?” The man evidently did not wish to be parted from his troop.

  “He’ll be fine. I’ve something to plug the hole with, a tar-soaked flax that’ll keep it clean as well as aid in healing.”

  After that, Manob regarded me more favorably. I inspected forty-four hooves that afternoon, and trimmed dead horn from most of them, certain that they would leave the farm sound. Fortunately there was only the one lame pony in the troop.

  IT WAS WHEN CORNIX was taken to water that evening that the soldiers discovered the sandals. The sound they made on the flags of the courtyard turned every head. Cornix was accustomed to his sandals by now and no longer lifted his feet or tried to kick the iron off his feet.