Agba felt a chill. The night mist was rising. It reminded him of the dank air of Newgate Jail.
“Shiverin’ in yer timbers, be ye, Agba?” taunted the groom. “Ye an’ yer high-soundin’ book name! Now we’ll see if it’ll help ye to follow directions. When ye comes to Up-ware Inn, ye’ll see letters written on the gable of it. They spell out: ‘Five Miles From Anywhere. No Hurry. ’ ”
Titus Twickerham scratched his head. “Huh!” he exclaimed. “Maybe ye can’t read any more’n you can talk. But no matter. Ye can’t miss the inn if ye follow the North Star. Then ye turn right fer five miles an’ ye’ll come upon . . .” here the groom poked his head close to Agba’s and let the words whistle through his teeth, “an’ ye’ll come upon Wicken Fen! And there, in the miry bog, ye’ll find a ghost-like hovel waitin’ just for ye.”
Agba’s hands had suddenly grown icy. It was all he could do to buckle Sham’s girth strap. But at last he stood ready, taking nothing in his saddlebag but Sham’s rub-rag and a spool toy which the Duchess had given Grimalkin.
“His lordship is far too kind to ye,” muttered the groom as he opened the door of the stall. “He says fer me to fasten a lanthorn to each o’ yer stirrups. Then ye won’t fall into the dykes and get drownt. Though, to my mind, ’twould be good riddance of all of ye. Then I wouldn’t have to be sending ye barley and oats every fortnight like I’m ordered to.”
He came so close now that his coarse hair scratched Agba’s face. “Fer me,” his voice rasped, “I’d sooner be buried alive as spend one night in the fen country.”
Grimalkin began yowling nervously. He leaped onto Mister Twickerham’s head and from there to Sham’s saddle. From the height of Sham’s back he looked down on the groom as much as to say, “A mounting block! That’s all you are!”
The groom made a wry face at the cat. “Humpf,” he scoffed. “Ye an’ yer mute friends be nothin’ but fen slodgers!”
Now Agba swung up on Sham, and together the three creatures went out into the night.
Life was hard in the fenland, even though Titus Twickerham carried out the Earl’s orders. When the roads were passable, he sent barley and oats by a peasant farmer who delivered his load and drove off as fast as his horse would take him.
After he had gone Agba would light a peat fire and make barley gruel for all to share.
Sometimes Agba speared for eels and pike in a crooked stream. But he was clumsy, as he had nothing but a sharp stick for a spear. Besides, the coarse sedge grass along the streams was razor sharp, and it cut Agba’s arms and legs until he had to bind them with strips from his turban. So it was not often that he and Grimalkin enjoyed the delicacy of fresh fish.
Titus Twickerham had told the truth about Wicken Fen, Agba thought in the long nights when the wind moaned and the owls hooted. It was dismal ground.
In winter a white wilderness of snow walled the three creatures inside their hovel. Then Agba’s mind flew back to all the promises he had made Sham, and his eyes would search Sham’s to catch the faintest mistrust in their purple depths.
The only answer he got was Sham’s lips nibbling along his neck. “We’re in this together,” he said in his own way. “Fen slodgers, all three of us!” Then with a nervous foreleg he would paw the floor of the hut, as if he wanted to be out in the howling gales. Agba would lift the hoof and feel the soundness of it—the hard wall, the cushiony frog. “See!” he would tell himself. “Sham is well and strong. The power of the wheat ear cannot last.” And he laughed to feel the good warm shagginess of Sham’s coat and the length of his own hair.
Winter spent itself, and spring came, scattering windflowers among the spare blades of grass. Sham rolled and rolled, trying to rub off his heavy winter coat. And when he stood up, he left great bunches of his hair lying on the grass. As soon as his back was turned, thrushes and finches and starlings picked up the hair and lined their nests with it.
Another year passed. And in all that time Agba saw but one human creature beside the peasant farmer. This one called himself a wild-fowler because he trapped ducks and geese. He looked curiously out of his birdlike eyes at the three castaways. Then he shook his head and went his way, as if he liked his own company better.
The wild creatures of Wicken Fen, however, accepted Sham and Agba and Grimalkin. Butterflies grazed Sham’s nose, leaving the powder from their wings as a token of trust. And Agba made a friend of a hooded crow. One minute the crow was an earthy creature perched on his shoulder. The next he was an arrow piercing the sky.
Wicken Fen was not always drear. There were fair days when, just at sunset, Agba and Grimalkin would ride Sham along a grassy causeway to a watering place. It was more like flying than riding, for Sham no longer wore shoes and the sound of his hooves was muted by the grass. They seemed one creature, these three, flying into the sunset. Then they drank with the wild things, the deer and the mallards and the gulls.
One day when Agba was repairing the thatched roof of his hovel, he looked off into the distance and noticed a cloud of dust rising. It was not just a puff. It was a long, extended cloud, as if made by many horses.
He slid down the roof, glancing around quickly for Sham. There, only a few rods away, he was cavorting and kicking his heels like a colt. The boy ran to him and led him inside the hovel, closing the door securely. As he stepped out again he almost stumbled over Grimalkin. Quickly Agba sent the cat inside, too. Then he stood before the door, barricading it with his arms. He felt no fear for himself, but a nameless fear for Sham clutched at his heart.
He squinted his eyes against the sun. Now he could make out a van drawn by a pair of horses and attended by a whole cavalcade of outriders. They were coming toward him.
He could see the van clearly now. It was shiny red. The very same van in which Roxana had arrived at Gog Magog! And perched on the driver’s box was Titus Twickerham!
Mister Twickerham waved his hat in the air. Then he drew up with a flourish. The horsemen leaped to their feet.
“Ho th-th-there, l-l-lad,” the groom stammered excitedly, as he strode toward Agba. “We have c-c-come for you and the horse.” Suddenly he realized that Agba was alone. His face went white. “The horse,” he asked, “he has not d-d-d—”
Sham let out a shrill whinny just then. The color came back to Mister Twickerham’s face. “L-l-lad,” he spoke in sugared tones, “you remember the m-m-mare they call R-R-Roxana?”
Agba nodded, his heart beating fast.
“W-w-well, my boy, one morning ’long about a year ago, I c-come to look at her, and b-b-bless my soul if she ain’t hiding a little horse-colt by her side.” Mister Twickerham came a step closer. “And,” he smiled, showing the gaping space in his teeth, “that little c-c-colt was the spit image o’ your horse!”
Agba looked to the other horsemen as if he could not believe the groom’s words.
“’E speaks the truth,” laughed one. “Don’t ’e, lads?”
“Aye! That he does!”
Agba’s heart warmed. If only he could see Sham’s colt!
“’Course, the Earl—he hated the sight of the colt,” the groom went on, “so he named him Lath because he was that skinny. And he says to me, ‘Twickerham, just let that one grow. Don’t ye bother to train him.’ ”
The coach horses began pawing the grass. Mister Twickerham ordered his assistants to take off their headstalls so they could graze.
“And now, Agba,” smiled the groom, “hark to this: Lath is r-r-rising two, and yesterday when the other two-year-olds was bein’ timed around the ring, Lath was watching from the p-paddock. Then what do you calculate happened?”
Agba’s eyes asked the question.
“Well, that Lath, he j-j-jumps the fence and starts racing around the ring on his own, and he catches up with the horses ahead o’ him and he overtakes ’em and he travels like a b-b-bullet until he’s ahead of ’em all! And some of the two-year-olds was m-m-months older than Lath, and couldn’t none o’ ’em catch him.”
Agba c
ould scarcely contain his excitement. He had but one question in his mind, and the groom answered it as if it had been spoken.
“Aye, boy. By some chance his lordship sees the whole p-p-performance and his eyes p-p-pop so far out o’ his head I coulda hooked ’em with my bootjack. ‘T-T-T-Twickerham,’ he says slow-like, trying to hide his feelings, ‘Twickerham,’ he says, ‘I was wrong. M-m-maybe Agba’s little Arabian horse is the one to sire a new and noble b-b-breed of horses. Fetch him home, Twickerham! Home! ’ ”
Titus Twickerham’s face stretched in a grin. “So here we are, l-l-lad, waiting to take yer stallion home in t-t-triumph. And for ye, there’s a snowy white mantle and turban what the Duchess sent along. It c-c-come all the way from Morocco.”
A few minutes later Sham, wearing a blanket for the first time in two years, was loaded into the shiny red van while Grimalkin sat perched on his back, a satisfied grin on his face. Agba stood at the back of the van, looking out between the well-padded stakes. He heard the crack of the whip. He felt the floor quiver beneath his feet. He saw the splendid outriders in their red jackets move into position. He stooped down and pressed his hand against Sham’s white spot.
At last Sham was being honored according to his merits! At last things were as they ought to be!
On to Gog Magog!
21. God’s Downs
THE EARL of Godolphin himself was waiting to welcome Sham back to Gog Magog. And he led the way not to Sham’s old stall but to Hobgoblin’s! Hobgoblin’s name was no longer above the door. There were many letters there now. Agba studied them out.
T-H-E G-O-D-O-L-P-H-I-N A-R-A-B-I-A-N they spelled. Why, the Earl had given Sham his own name! A royal name! Agba wanted to wring the Earl’s hand, but a horseboy could not take such liberties. And just as his mind was casting wildly about for a way to thank him, the Earl himself put out his hand.
Agba placed his palm with all its horny little callouses within the cushioned white one of the Earl. But it was the Earl’s fingers that tightened in a clasp so firm it made the boy blink. They stood so for a long moment. Then the Earl cleared his throat. “Godolphin means God’s Downs,” he said, swallowing strangely. “And here, on God’s Downs, your Arabian will live out his days. Come, Agba, persuade him to enter his new quarters.”
Sham looked little and comical in Hobgoblin’s big stall, but he accepted it as if it were his right. He rubbed his tail against the thickly padded walls and sidled along them as if he found the softness exactly to his taste.
And wonder of wonders, he saw the Lady Roxana again. They came at each other with such joyous greetings that the sound of their reunion must have carried to Wicken Fen. Roxana did not seem to notice that Sham’s coat was shaggy and coarsened. And Sham seemed unaware that Roxana was no longer the delicate little filly he had known. She was a brood mare now, and her bones were well furnished.
“Not since the day they met have I heard a whinny so jubilant,” the Earl remarked to Agba.
Life now settled down to a pleasant pace. Sham had his own private paddock, and from it he could view everything that went on about him. Twice in the year that followed he saw his son, Lath, leave Gog Magog for the great races at Newmarket. He had no idea that Lath was the pride and toast of Newmarket, but each time he welcomed the young horse home with a deep-throated neigh.
When Roxana presented Sham with Cade, a second son, Sham sniffed noses with him and nibbled along the little fellow’s high crest. It seemed almost as if he were pleased and proud at having sired him! Grimalkin sniffed him, too; then wrinkled his nose as if he much preferred his own stablemate. Besides, his bones were growing old and he liked the comfort of the Godolphin Arabian’s bed.
Sham’s third son was born a year after Cade. They named him Regulus, and he, like Lath and Cade, had the same high crest and the finely drawn legs of his sire.
One day when Regulus was two years old, the Earl of Godolphin summoned Agba to his house. It was the first time in all these years that Agba had ever been inside the stately brick mansion. He crossed the threshold in awe. A servant showed him to the library where, in spite of the pleasant day, the Earl was seated before a crackling fire.
“Sit down, gentle friend,” the Earl said, indicating a leather hassock opposite him.
Agba was not accustomed to sitting anywhere but on the ground. Timidly he circled the hassock like a dog settling down for a nap. Then he bent forward and seated himself gingerly. When he realized that he was not going to topple off, he crossed his legs beneath him and waited for the Earl to speak.
The Earl’s face looked pinched and tired. He seemed preoccupied, as if he had forgotten Agba’s presence. Absently he reached for a pair of tongs, plucked a glowing coal from the fire and lighted his pipe with a hand that was not steady.
Agba turned his eyes away. He tried to observe the room so that he might take away a picture memory of it. But suddenly, wherever he looked, the symbols of the wheat ear and the white spot flashed before his eyes. He thought he saw them on the backs of the books that lined the walls, in the wisps of smoke the Earl blew, in the dancing flames. The signs of success and of failure! He had almost forgotten them. Now they seemed everywhere at once. Agba longed to run out of the house to see if Sham was in trouble, but the quiet and the smoke were entwining themselves about his throat, choking him. And just when he seemed unable to take another breath, the Earl spoke.
“King Charles,” he began, “used to say of my father that he was never in the way, never out of the way. That,” he said with a direct gaze, “is my feeling for you.”
Agba’s eyes were fixed on the Earl’s face.
“It is right that you should know what I am about to say, Agba, for to your stallion may go the honor of improving the English race horse. Already the swiftness and the vitality of your golden Arabian are showing up in his colts. Had it not been for you, Agba, I might have discarded the purest blood of the Orient.”
Agba knew that in spite of these momentous words something was wrong. He waited tensely.
“The news that I am a poor man,” the Earl said at last, “may come as a shock to you. I have naught in this world but a title.”
Agba’s mouth fell open. His glance darted to the polished parquetry floor, to the shining silver sconces with branching lights, to the gardener trimming the hedge outside the window.
“Aye,” the Earl nodded. “Vast estates require vast reservoirs of money. I am in low circumstances and my debts grow clamorous. Pastures must needs be limed and rolled and harrowed, horses shod, farriers paid. Agba,” he paused, then went on falteringly, “on the very eve when we are improving the strain of the English horse, I may have to let our stables and pastures for farming purposes.”
The words fell with a thud. The gold clock on the mantel tolled the hour. A log split open, sent up a shower of sparks, then fell among the ashes.
For seconds the Earl stared into the fire. Then a flicker of hope lighted his eyes. “There is a three-day race meeting at Newmarket this spring,” he said, “with the Queen’s Plate as the prize. Should Lath or Cade or Regulus win, there would be no need to let the property. The Queen’s Plate is a purse of one thousand guineas!”
The blood quickened in Agba’s veins. He almost fell off the hassock in his excitement. He waited for the Earl’s next words. They came in a rush.
“It is not often,” he said, “that a stallion has three great sons in one race meet. Since the Godolphin Arabian is too old to compete, I am of the opinion that he should be present at Newmarket to watch the performance of Lath and Cade and Regulus. What think you of this?”
The Earl searched Agba’s face, and when he read the hope and pride there, he threw back his head and laughed deeply.
22. The Queen’s Plate
NEWMARKET! The word set Agba on fire. Since first he had come to England he had heard horseshoers, jockeys, water boys, exercise men, saddlers, capmakers, whip-makers, the Earl, and even the Duchess, say the word as if it held ice and flame in its syllabl
es.
Now that he knew all three of Sham’s sons were to run on this famous course, Agba felt such excitement that he worked with the speed of a whirlwind. The days sped by in eager preparation for the great event. Finally came the day to start.
To Agba, on that early morning of April, the road to Newmarket seemed never-ending. He was in a fever of expectancy. He wanted to break ranks, as Sham was urging him to do. He wanted to plunge ahead of Titus Twickerham on Galompus, the lead horse. But he must keep the pace set.
Behind him he could hear the light hoofbeats of Sham’s three sons, and the heavy cloppety-clop of the pack horses.
Perhaps, if he took his eyes from the striped body-jacket of Titus Twickerham and the stout rump of Galompus, the pace would not seem so slow! He tried to study the farms they passed, the tidy cottages with old men on the doorsteps and young men in the fields. He tried to count the long-necked geese in the four-storied carts they passed. He peered down the byways. He saw a shepherd and his dog driving a flock of sheep toward market. He even tried to imagine what the sheep were thinking of the passing horses.
But it was no use. New-mar-ket! New-mar-ket! The word kept dangling before him like a blade in the sun. New-mar-ket! New-mar-ket! He heard it in the rhythm of the hoofbeats, in the creak of cartwheels, in the song of the cuckoo. New-mar-ket!
They climbed a gentle rise. They passed through a toll gate. And then, suddenly, Newmarket Heath lay spread out before them. Agba gasped in dismay. It was not that Newmarket was less beautiful than he had expected. It was not that at all. He looked at the vast greenness of it. He smelled the fragrance of the turf. And instead of one racecourse, there were many. But what made a lump rise in Agba’s throat was that everywhere, in all directions, exercise boys were galloping their horses. He shut his eyes, but he only saw them more clearly. The satin bodies of horses. Horses flying. Horses stretched out in the wind.
His mind raced back to what the Earl had told him only last evening. “You may walk your horse over the dips and rises,” he had said kindly. “But do not gallop him. He is far more valuable than a running horse, Agba. He is the hope of Gog Magog.”
King of the Wind Page 9
