“By Mithras, what’s wrong with that horse?” Manob cried.
“He has horse sandals on,” Canyd said. “Made of iron. Needs to be so shod on the wet ground, and the sandals will prove useful in battle as well.”
“Sandals for a horse?” Manob stared, round eyed with amusement. Then he guffawed. His men relaxed and grinned, taking their lead from their captain.
“Aye,” Canyd said, nodding imperturbably. “Can’t get no thorns or punctures through iron.”
The captain’s expression altered to a thoughtful one. Then he dismissed the matter with a shrug. “Doesn’t happen that often.”
“Often enough to leave you short of a man or two, I don’t doubt,” Alun said. “No hoof, no horse.”
“They all done like that?” Manob asked.
Canyd nodded.
“They nailed on?” Manob was quick wilted.
“And placed on the hoof hot, for the best fit,” Canyd admitted blandly.
“Horse lets you?”
“Hmmm. They know what’s good for ‘em,” Canyd said, giving the animals more credit for sense than humans.
“What happens if one does come off on the journey?”
“That’s why Galwyn goes with you,” Canyd said, delighting in the expression on the captain’s face.
“He made the horse sandals?” Manob regarded me skeptically.
I knew I looked young, for I hadn’t much in the way of face hair yet, but he didn’t have to regard me as one would a child not yet out of leading strings.
“Indeed, he’s right handy with hammer and tongs,” Canyd said, in a sort of oblique warning.
“Seems to be,” Manob remarked.
Part Four
Camelot
THE NEXT MORNING, WHCN DAWN WAS BREAKing, we left the farm at Deva, a cavalcade: myself astride Cornix, with Spadix on a lead rope beside us, and Manob on his gray stallion heading the troop. Under bridle, the two stud horses were very well mannered. The other three Libyans were led in the center of the troop.
We made good time that first day, though Spadix had to pump his legs hard to keep up with his friend; still he was tireless even at the canter. So he wouldn’t feel worthless, I had him carry my pack of sandals and tools.
We had some days to travel, but we made far better progress than on my journey from Isca. We camped out, for the spring was warming, and Manob preferred camping to the rough inns available on this route.
“I can guard us better on our own. We know who is near and who should not be.”
He was a good commander and we ate well, from what was hunted. He did buy bread when we passed villages that had bakers. It was rough bread, but great for soaking up the juices of the stews.
Although every day I mentally reviewed all the things that could go wrong with hooves, none of them occurred on our journey. For the most part, we were traveling on good Roman-built roads. I checked the sandals morning and night, and the nails stayed firm. There was no sign of hoof rot. Manob usually managed to observe this procedure but said little. He did admire the little iron pick I had made to ferret stones and gravel out of the deep frogs. I had a few extras-for they are troublesome objects at times, forever getting lost in the straw-and gave him one.
Spring is always a good time to travel: the weather not too cold for comfortable riding nor the nights too chill to find sleep. Fields were greening with winter-sown crops and there was fresh grass for the horses to graze at night when they were picketed. The blossoming trees, pear and apple, were lovely, and the woods through which we traveled were bursting with buds, bluebells and daisies dotting the ground beneath us. Had I not been so anxious that nothing should go wrong on this journey, I would have enjoyed it even more.
I shall never forget my first sight of the hill on which Lord Artos had built his headquarters, Camelot. It rose out of the ground suddenly, as if a giant’s fist had punched up just that much of the earth’s surface to form it. The sides were, naturally, cleared of any vegetation, and we could see the course of the zigzag road that led up to the southwest gate, a massive affair of oak planks the width of a man’s thigh. Sentries patrolled the top and the wooden palisade that surrounded it, for not all the walls were finished. Of course our approach was noticed and news of our arrival spread.
I was amazed to see horses tearing at breakneck speed down the approach road toward us, weaving through the obstacles of people, laden ponies, and ox-drawn carts. I wondered if they thought our troop was hostile, though everyone knew that the Saxons did not ride, nor had they horses of this quality.
And then-when they got closer-I saw it was Lord Artos himself who led the horsemen, his face broad with smiles, his bright hair golden in the sunlight.
“Galwyn! I wouldn’t know you, lad, you’ve grown so. And able to ride my fine fellow, too.”
If his words to me were welcoming, his eyes gleamed as they fell on the big stallion that Manob had assigned to the front of the troop.
He threw his gray’s reins to one of his escort, swung lithely to the ground, and beamed up at me where I had halted his stallion. He put one hand proprietarily on Cor-nix’s bridle.
“Rhodri’s doing, my lord,” I said, grinning from ear to ear. I immediately slipped my feet out of the foot plates and my right leg over the back of Cornix, dropping to the ground.
Well, I would never match Lord Artos in height or girth, but I didn’t have to look up as far to meet his blue eyes now. And I had brought his fine stallions safely to him. With a bow of satisfaction at that accomplishment, I passed Cornix’s reins to his rightful rider.
Lord Artos took them with a grateful smile, and before I could clasp my hands together to offer him a leg up, he had vaulted to Cornix’s back.
“Take my horse, Galwyn! Manob, my greetings, and thanks for the safe conduct. Can you help exchange saddles here? Cei, Geraint, Gwalchmei,” he said to those who had ridden down with him, “you shall have the pleasure of riding my black horses back to Camelot. I’m eager for your opinion.”
The change of saddles was accomplished with alacrity and gave the Comes a chance to try out the war training Rhodri had given Cornix, making the stallion walk from side to side and turn on the forehand, then turn on the hindquarters, all of which Cornix did smoothly. I would remember to tell Rhodri how wide Lord Artos smiled in the testing. Then Lord Artos gave the signal, and as the gray spurted forward instantly with the others, I found myself still in the van as we rode-not quite so furiously-up the road to Camelot.
How they had made it safely down the road at the pace they had come was beyond my understanding. Despite occasional loads of sand and pebbles to improve the footing and provide traction for the heavy carts, the roadway was slippery with mud. We had to thread our way past men and supplies of all sorts. Two of the Libyans, and even some of the troopers’ mounts, shied when going by noisy, squeaking, heavy-wheeled drays that were bringing stone, timber, slates, and bricks up the steep and zigzagging slope.
We rode through the great wooden gates. Here the outside wall was finished and thick as a lance was long, well able to withstand any assault the Saxons might try to make. It could probably withstand even the stones of a catapult.
After the main gates, we passed through the outer court and took the next hill at the gallop. At the top, Lord Artos reined to his right, passed an unfinished inner wall, and rode into a large court that was separated from the active construction by a high wall. This somewhat muffled the bustle and the other sounds of building. We of the van followed him, but glancing back over my shoulder, I saw the rest of the troop taking a different direction. Then I looked forward again and had to catch my breath at the magnificence of the several-storied building in front of us.
The Comes kneed Cornix up the wide shallow flight of stairs, the stallion’s metal sandals clattering on the stone. Bending over ha his saddle, Lord Artos called out to those within.
“Come, you all, and see how well we shall be mounted to drive Aelle and his sons from Britain!”
>
Men and women swarmed out of the edifice, startling Cornix so that he reared, pivoted on his hind legs, and came down so hard on his forehand that I was certain even as fine a rider as the Comes would be dislodged. But Lord Artos only laughed, placing such a firm hand on Cornix’s neck that the animal came to a full and complete halt, snorting but obedient.
The gray I was on suddenly quieted, and at the same time I felt a pull on the reins. Looking down, I saw a lad in livery with his hand on the bridle. I was about to protest when those Lord Artos had summoned came down the stairs to examine the Libyans more closely.
Rhodri had trained the horses well, for although they rolled their eyes, they remained four square at the halt-almost, I thought, as if they knew they were on display.
“These have been covering all those mares you assembled, Artos?” asked a man-one of the Companions, to judge by his bearing. He ran a knowing hand down Victor’s near foreleg. “And is this what made all that clanging?” he cried, fingering the rim of the iron sandal.
“Ah, so Canyd has finally succeeded with the hoof sandal?” And now the Comes glanced at me to verify that.
I nodded. “They are all shod, Lord Artos, to protect their hooves …”
“‘No hoof, no horse.’” Lord Artos roared with laughter, slapping his leg in high good humor. “Eh, there, Galwyn?”
I laughed, too, sitting that much straighter because he had singled me out as conversant with his jest.
“Horse sandals?” The phrase was bandied back and forth among the men who each came to inspect the device.
“Now, Artos”-and the first Companion came up to him, frowning-“is all this wise? Is it not one extra problem when facing battle?”
“Ah, Cei, Galwyn here can answer you on that score-can you not?”
I gulped. Cei’s blue eyes were very keen and I knew I had to answer him cleverly. “The sandals protect the feet of these big horses, who must bear more weight than even the largest of the ponies, my lord Cei.”
“How are they fitted on? Nails? They’ll work out, and then the sandal could shift and the horse be lamed …”
“The nails are clinched downward so they cannot work out. The sandal is fitted hot so as to conform to the hoof, for every hoof is different and every sandal is made to fit the hoof…”
“But who is to keep the sandal repaired? Even iron will abrade on stony roadways.”
“Men are being trained to this work, my lord.”
“And you are one of them, are you not, Galwyn?” Lord Artos said.
“I brought along extra sandals for each of the stallions, and nails. It is a simple matter …”
“Not if the nail goes into the quick of the hoof,” objected Lord Cei, but I could see his interest was more curious than critical. He wanted to understand the whole procedure.
“There is a sufficient wall of horn in the hoof, my lord, into which the nail can be sunk. Most smiths are accustomed to trimming hooves. They will know how carefully to go.”
“I’d rather have you here to attend to the matter,” Lord Artos said.
“Lord”-and now I began to stutter-“I am still in need of much training in the care of the hoof and its ailments. Canyd said-“
“Well, if he has had the training of you, I don’t worry at all.” Lord Artos dismissed my doubts with a wave of his hand.
“But, Lord Artos, I am not yet completely trained. I could not take on such a responsibility.”
“Arlo”-and the Comes raised his voice, gesturing to a young man in livery to come to him-“go to Ilfor the smith and ask him to attend me. Tell him Canyd’s finally made those horse sandals he’s been threatening to provide. And where are the other sandals, Galwyn? In your packs? Fetch Galwyn’s packs, too!”
By then, other Companions had gathered about us, inspecting Victor’s sandals, exclaiming over their appearance and purpose. I was required to answer endless questions; and when the smith and my supplies arrived at the same moment, I had to pass around the spare sandals and the nails, plus all the equipment that I used to shape the hoof and nail the sandal on.
Ilfor the smith asked more searching questions than anyone and seemed skeptical of the whole idea, turning a sandal over and over in his big work-scarred hands.
At some point, the Libyans were taken off to be stabled and fed. One of the grooms looked vaguely familiar-the set of his head and the way he hunched slightly. Could it be-Iswy? I wondered. Then I scoffed at myself. This person was taller and bearded. I mustn’t be looking for Iswy all over the kingdom. How could someone like Iswy be in Camelot?
Then I was escorted into the building, with little time to assess its wonders while I explained, yet again, about these remarkable horse sandals. I barely had time to eat the evening meal that seemed a feast to me.
When torches were lit and everyone replete with food and wine-though I drank naught but small beer-I was finally allowed a respite from the Companions’ searching questions. Only then did I finally sit back and get my bearings.
We were seated in a chamber with a high-vaulted ceiling, at a large round table. This was a departure from the Roman style of dining, though still affording the guests the opportunity to face each other. This table dominated the upper third of the hall. The Conies Britannorum sat at the top of this round table, his chair larger and more ornately carved than the backless ones in which we of lesser rank were seated.
On the far side of the stone pillars that supported the roof were smaller offices, where the Companions assisted the Comes Britannorum in the management of his domain. Doors led off to other rooms, and a stairway circled up to the upper floors of the building and its annexes. The whole building was a fine place from which Lord Artos would rule his province and send forth his troops of black horses. I had never been in such a grand place, although my father’s villa had been accounted a fine home.
I was so tired that I could not pay close attention to the conversations that went back and forth and around the table. I vaguely remember that the talk that evening, as every evening afterward, was inevitably centered on the Comes’s plan to unite the neighboring tribes. His arguments had not changed a bit from the plans he had told us those evenings around our campfires on the road to and from Septimania. But his words were spoken with much more conviction: as if he had refined reason and argument after constant debate on the issues.
That evening they were discussing, as well, how to involve the Catuvellavnii, whose lands lay closer to the Saxon menace. Representatives from that province were due to visit Lord Artos soon: one of the reasons he had wanted the Libyan horses here to display. But the discussions-though they were interesting to me hi terms of how Lord Artos won his supporters-were well beyond my attention that night.
When I had finished my meal, I was shown to the guest cubicles, where I was accorded a bed to myself-a luxury I appreciated after six days on the road.
DESPITE MY FATIGUE and the weariness of the previous night’s questionings, habit was strong and I was awake at dawn’s light. Dressing quietly so as not to disturb the other sleepers, I found my way out of the castle and to the stables.
The early-morning routine was in full progress, most of the horses already watered and fed by then-grooms, even my Spadix. He and Cornix were, of course, stabled together. I wondered who had decided that that was necessary, but I felt that Cornix, and Spadix, had undoubtedly made their wishes known. Someone had even combed the pony’s thick mane, and Cornix’s sleek coat gleamed with deep blue lights. As usual, Cornix whickered at the sight of me and Spadix added his comments in a shriller tone.
“You didn’t need to come,” said a lad whom I remembered as the one who had led Comes Artos’s gray stallion. He erupted out of the next stall, a pitchfork in one hand. Dark-haired, gray-eyed, and wiry in build, the lad almost seemed to resent my appearance.
“Habit, I fear,” I said with what I hoped was a rueful smile. I was a guest hi this place and had no rank at all.
Perhaps I was offending the order
of these stables by appearing unasked.
“You’re the one who made the horse sandals,” he added, more suspicious than ever.
“I’m learning how,” I said with emphasis, and saw him relax his guard a trifle. Cornix pushed his nose at me for a caress and ducked his head so I could scratch his ears.
The boy’s eyes widened. “He knows you.”
“He should. He’s been in my charge since Lord Artos bought him at Septimania.”
“You went there with the Comes?” His surprise doubled and I could see a grudging respect in his manner, which I couldn’t fail to appreciate. I smiled back, warming to the lad, seeing in him traces of what I had been like a scant year before.
“I was, and I sailed back with him, Cornix, and my pony Spadix, here.” I could be proud of that adventure.
He gawped, his chin dropping as he was finally impressed by my bona fides. I slapped Cornix familiarly on his strong thick neck.
“I rode Cornix here-until Lord Artos claimed him on the road.”
“So that’s why you were up on Ravus,” he said.
“The gray?”
He nodded.
“Yes, we changed mounts. That’s a fine beast! Lovely gaits and a beautiful mouth. Do you have charge of him as well?”
He was ready to be civil now. “I’m Eoain Albigensis,” he said, giving his formal name, and we clasped each other’s forearms in the fashion of friends. “Are all the Libyans as grandly big as these?”
“Only the best would do Lord Artos,” I said, trying to sound more matter-of-fact than pompous. “And the mares are every bit as fine as the stallions. You should see this year’s foals. Fifteen were born in February, and every one sturdy. Cornix, here”-and the animal whuffled, pricking his ears forward at the sound of his name-“did his duty by every mare he covered. All of the fifty proven in foal.”
“Fifty?” Eoain’s eyes bulged at such a prodigious number.
“Well, we have to mount all the Companions on animals as good as these, don’t we?”
Black Horses for the King Page 11
