The Night Ride

by J. Anderson Coats

  I want no part of constables. They work for the city and not the king, so I detour Ricochet till he’s mostly hidden behind a manure cart.

  “I’ve never been anywhere near the racetrack!” the string-bean man goes on, loud and insulted. “And do I look like a half-grown girl? When you find that kid, I hope you hang her for the trouble she’s causing everyone here! Bad enough no one’s allowed to buy or sell any horses till you find that one of the king’s, but why does the whole market have to be hassled? You gonna impound every chestnut horse with any white on him?”

  My whole stomach turns to ice. Very quietly I tug Ricochet into motion and lead him back the way we came. There’s a wall of constables between here and the city gate, and there’ll be another set of them on guard there. Maybe more.

  There’s no way any of them will get Master Harold. If I turn up with Ricochet, I’m going straight to the gatehouse, and from there to the gallows. It won’t matter who speaks for me.

  As far as the king is concerned, I’m a horse thief.

  16

  HORSE THIEVES ARE hanged. I’m done for.

  We hurry through the greenwood. I’m stumbling every other step. The reins are sweaty in my hands. Ricochet behind me clops along like all this is ordinary.

  Deirdre will have rushed straight to the track stablemaster with a breathless, panicky story. She’s always had her eye on that horse. Never let anyone else ride him. She was just waiting for the moment our backs were turned.

  By tomorrow, both Mother and Father will find their hiring fair contracts canceled. Bad conduct, they’ll be told. A violation of the morality clause that allows for instant termination if something they do reflects badly on the dignity of their employer.

  Torsten, too. He’s likely gone already.

  My toe catches a rock and I pitch forward, nearly dropping my empty message bag. It won’t matter that I didn’t steal Ricochet. One of the king’s jockeys said I did, and there’s no reason for anyone to doubt her word.

  Greta will be arrested on the common. The ponies will be sold. The little house on Edge Lane was never ours to start with, so the landlord will reclaim it and keep whatever my family is forced to leave behind.

  The bench. The stone fireplace that Father put in himself.

  My wooden toy horses.

  The constables will shove and hassle my family through the lanes, then the streets, all the way to the city gates. Then the brutes will brand each of them on the hand with whatever hot metal is lying around.

  Even if I leave Ricochet somewhere safe and turn myself in, no one will believe a word about the Night Ride. Not the guardsmen or constables. Not the magistrates. Definitely not the king. It’ll look like I’m blathering anything that has the smallest chance of saving my neck.

  Ricochet and I can’t stay out here forever. The king will send his rangers to arrest the thief, and I have no idea how to survive in the greenwood. Ricochet will be okay for a while eating only grass, but he has to eat constantly, and he can’t do that if we’re hiding.

  The sunlight goes blinding. We’ve stumbled into a meadow. There’s a creek, and Ricochet pulls me toward it. When he steps in to drink, the mud washes from his fetlocks and the white beneath emerges.

  The constables must not have stopped us because his legs were filthy. No white markings to draw their eye.

  I can’t help but laugh.

  The meadow reminds me of the one on the Night Ride trail. Packed with every kind of wildflower and loud with birdsong and circled by thick, imposing trees.

  Somewhere to rest. To take a breath.

  I unbuckle Ricochet’s saddle and take off his bridle. I don’t like doing it—if he spooks and runs, it’ll take forever to catch him—but he didn’t run away last night, and we both need a break.

  Then I pull off my boots and socks, and dip my feet in the stream. It feels so freeing and glorious that I wriggle my toes and splash-kick a few times just to watch the droplets glitter. Ricochet has moved on to nibbling at the long grasses on the stream bank, and all he does is flick his tail.

  I tip backward into the crunchy, flowery grass. The ground warm beneath me, my face to the sun. A girl out with her horse on a beautiful summer morning. The way I always pictured it.

  The way it almost was, but never will be.

  The meadow is full of horse sounds. Ricochet’s sounds. Shuffrustle. Long legs in tall grass. Thudkritch. Hooves on dirt. And over all of it, the long, musical rumble of the creek.

  When I sit up, Ricochet is peaceably browsing, but his saddle is gone. I scrabble to my feet, scanning wildly. A small smudge of motion at the other end of the meadow is shuffrustling and thudkritching the saddle toward the greenwood.

  It’s a little kid!

  “Hey!” I shout. “That’s not yours!”

  I dart a glance at Ricochet, but he’s still grazing, so I take off after the kid. I expect him to drop the saddle and run, but he puts his head down and shuffrustles faster. He’s maybe five, so I catch him easily, but when I try to take the saddle, he winds his body around it and goes limp, sinking to the ground.

  “What are you doing?” I almost laugh until it occurs to me that he’s a distraction. His father or brother is likely leading away Ricochet right now.

  Only Ricochet is rolling, his legs kicking gleefully as he twists and swivels.

  “Stealing this.” The boy says it like I have mud for brains. He looks up at me through a wild tangle of curly yellow hair.

  “Well. You can’t.” I kneel so we’re at eye level. “I still need it.”

  “I need it more. Already stole a horse. Now I need a saddle so I can ride with the cadre.”

  “Cadre?” I echo. “Are you a bandit?”

  “Trying to be.” He’s sullen, like he can’t believe his clever plan fell through and he got caught.

  It’s a long shot, but I hope hard and ask, “Do you know a boy named Paolo?”

  “Maybe,” the kid replies warily.

  “Can you take me to him?”

  When the kid’s eyes narrow, I wince and hurry on, “I mean, if you knew a boy named Paolo, would you ask him to meet me here? We’re friends. You can tell him it’s Sonnia. From the racetrack.”

  The boy looks down at the saddle. “If I do that, will you let me steal this?”

  “Then it wouldn’t really be stealing, would it? It would be like I was giving it to you, and you have to steal it for it to count. Right?”

  I’m only guessing here, but the kid’s face falls like melting ice cream. “Yeah.”

  He lets go of the saddle and it topples at my feet. He scowls, glum and uncooperative, and if there’s one thing a younger sister teaches you, it’s how to get little kids on your side. And why it’s usually a good idea.

  As I lean to pick the saddle up, I shift so my empty message bag slides off my arm and into the grass. I heft the saddle as if the bag doesn’t exist, and the boy is trying very hard not to look at it, quivering like a puppy when you’re getting its supper ready.

  “I’m going to see what my horse is doing,” I tell him. “Don’t worry. You look like you’re good at stealing. There’s bound to be something nearby.”

  His little hands are darting even before my back is turned.

  All afternoon I sit against a tree, watching Ricochet graze and reminding myself that when Deirdre had nowhere else to go, Paolo’s family took her in. Surely they’ll do the same for me and Ricochet. Even for a few days.

  If the kid really does know Paolo. If the joy of stealing something doesn’t make him forget to relay my message.

  If the king’s rangers don’t find me first.

  Daylight is fading when Paolo appears at the far edge of the meadow. He waves as he comes near, making sure both Ricochet and I see him.

  I will never have a better friend.

  His arms are full of things. There’s a tether pin and a big coil of rope for Ricochet, to keep him from wandering off. There’s a thick wool blanket for me and a waterskin full of
cider, and best of all, a huge basket of meat and bread and cheese.

  My smile fades. I wouldn’t need any of this gear if Paolo had come to bring us to the bandit camp. Without a word, I shove the tether pin into the ground, call Ricochet with our whistle, and tie the rope to his halter.

  “Look.” Paolo sighs. “It’s just that Deirdre is in the middle of this, and she’ll be mad and scared and she knows how to find us. There’ll be rangers. Constables, too. My mother says we can’t take the risk. It’s not fair, and I said so, but… I’m sorry.”

  I pull in a deep breath, let it out slow. “No need to be sorry. It’s not your fault.”

  He shrugs like he doesn’t agree, and after a moment he reaches into the basket, splits a roll, puts some meat and cheese on it, and offers it to me.

  It should bother me that this food was stolen, but I sink onto the ground next to him and take the sandwich.

  “I wish I knew what to do next,” I whisper. “I thought I did, but now I’m afraid to do anything. All this happened because I was only thinking about myself. What was good for me and what I wanted.”

  Paolo frowns. “If that was true, you’d still be doing the Night Ride and packing dinars into your purse. If you mean to put a stop to it, you’re not thinking about yourself. You’re thinking about the outrider horses.”

  “But I did the Night Ride for all those weeks, even knowing it was dangerous, because it was the only way to get what I wanted.”

  “Well. Maybe.” Paolo picks a grass stem and splits it with a thumbnail. “But then you changed your mind.”

  “After Hollyhock got hurt! He would have been someone’s supper if you hadn’t been there to save him!”

  “It can take a lot for someone to change their mind,” Paolo replies. “We’re used to seeing the world one way. It makes sense. It makes our lives easier. The hard part is when you learn something that disrupts your idea of how the world is. Then you have a choice—keep thinking what you’ve always thought, even though it doesn’t feel as right or certain anymore. Or change your mind.”

  Evening is drifting in. The greenwood that hugs the meadow is turning rich shades of dark, and a bright sweep of stars is prickling into being. Ricochet has arranged himself into a hollow near the tree line. He looks so cozy that I almost want to tuck him in with the blanket Paolo brought.

  “A lot of people never change their minds,” Paolo adds quietly. “It’s comforting, thinking you have all the answers. If you think it, it must be right, and anyone who doesn’t agree is not only wrong but an utter fool. If you’re the one to change your mind, you must have been wrong. And that makes you the fool.”

  It feels like all I’ve done lately is change my mind, but I don’t feel like a fool for doing it. Mostly I feel a little sick that I spent so much time convincing myself that having happy memories of someone makes them a good person.

  Later, once Paolo has left for the bandit camp and the black sky glitters with stars, I lie down near Ricochet so our heads are inches apart. His breathing is smooth and even, his rest peaceful, and in this moment he is my horse.

  The rangers are coming. The bandits can’t help me. It’s only a matter of time now.

  I’m going to be caught. They’re going to take Ricochet. The best I can hope for is that the king won’t be able to stomach hanging a girl the same age as his daughters, and I’ll be branded and banished along with my family. What I should do now is plan what to say to the king to save my neck.

  What do you plan to do?

  The way she said it. As if big and unimaginable things were within my power.

  Because they are. I can put a stop to the Night Ride. I can save all the outrider horses.

  The whole city is convinced I’m a horse thief. Deirdre and the track stablemaster have made sure of that, and the king won’t believe a word that comes out of my mouth. Not unless there’s proof.

  I lie on my back in the meadow as the stars grow thicker. Next time the moon is up, I will give him proof.

  * * *

  I spend the days saying goodbye to Ricochet. Petting him. Whispering into his mane. Telling him how much I love him. How much I’m going to miss him.

  But the night finally comes, and by the time darkness has settled and the moon has risen, fat and glowing, I’ve saddled him and given him a handkerchief full of blackberries from Paolo’s basket. I’ve cried all I’m going to cry, and I’m ready for this to be over.

  Now we’re waiting in the carriageway that leads to the city gate. The moon is finally in the right place over the horizon, and I’ve made enough racket that we’ll be easy to find in this big wash of silver light.

  Ricochet is whuffling, dancing in place. Every muscle is quivering. He knows what we do when we saddle up at night.

  We ride to win.

  “You there. You with the horse.” A man’s voice. Deep, like it comes from the bottom of a barrel. “Stay where you are and be ready to give an account of yourself to the king’s rangers.”

  They emerge as shadows from the greenwood, and a twinge of alarm runs through me. Rangers have the same training as fleet riders. Their horses, too. They know how to pursue a suspect through the worst terrain.

  They might catch me before we get anywhere near the pasture behind the racetrack.

  “I believe you’re looking for a horse thief.” My voice is stronger than I feel, and sassier. “Girl, half grown? Chestnut gelding with four white stockings and a blaze down his nose?”

  I turn Ricochet so the rangers can get a good look.

  “Honey, this is no joke,” one says sternly. “If you get down now, maybe—”

  I clickclick to Ricochet and press him with my calves and away he goes, flying through the moonlit greenwood like he was born doing it. The rangers shout in a wordless clamor and hooves pound behind us, but I don’t look back.

  There’s no trail. Just thick, ancient trees. I whisper a prayer and hold on.

  We’re going too fast. We’ll get to the pasture before anyone else on the Night Ride, and the jockeys and spectators can just scatter into the darkness like they were never there, and all of this will be for nothing.

  I can’t slow down, though.

  The sound of Ricochet’s hooves changes from the dull, damp thudding of the greenwood to something sharper, more hollow and echoing. We’re on a trail. We’re getting close to the track, but the rangers are gaining on us.

  Ricochet banks a hard left and the back pasture fence comes into view, jarring frantically with his pace. Beyond I can see shadows in the ring, some horse-shaped and others human, and farther distant are the pay table and its crowd of excited trainers and grooms and horseboys. The gate is standing open, and someone is galloping through.

  Astrid, I think. She was so sure I wouldn’t ruin the Ride. Some part of her thought one day I’d come around. That I could be one of them.

  Ricochet sails over the fence, clean and graceful the way he always does, and when I sneak a look behind me, the rangers are piling through the gate. There are six of them. They wear the king’s livery, and they are armed.

  I steer Ricochet toward the chalk line and Benno, but as we near, I realize he’s not alone. Deirdre is there, along with a handful of jockeys and trainers, and they’re telling her she needs to calm down. The Ride is going fine. She’s overreacting. No need to disrupt the pay table because of some girl and a worthless outrider horse.

  I rein in the worthless outrider horse so the rangers are all in a cluster behind me, but instead of riding him in a cooldown lap around the fence, I pull a tight circle and slide off in front of Deirdre. The rangers are close behind me, and I flinch away from the creak of leather and the swish of boots in grass.

  The jingle of handcuffs.

  “Flags?” Deirdre must not recognize me, because she holds out her hand like I’m any other rider.

  That’s when the shouting starts. That’s when shadows try and fail to scatter every which way.

  I throw my arms around Ricochet’s neck f
or one last hug. He’s still breathing hard, and I tell him I’m sorry.

  Then I hold out my wrists, and a ranger slams down the silver cuffs.

  17

  ON MY FIRST day in the gatehouse, I’m put in a cell in the topmost tower with a privy bucket, a loaf of bread, and a jug of water. I spend the day on tiptoe at the tiny window, trying to work out whether carpenters have started on the gallows.

  On the second day, magistrates arrive to question me. Three of them, one by one, then two sergeants-at-law, and a trailing line of royal officials with more titles than I thought could exist. They all ask the same thing, and it isn’t why did you steal Ricochet?

  It’s what do you know about this illegal horse race?

  I will always love the Deirdre who brought a whirl of fun and happiness into my childhood, but I tell the magistrates everything about the junior racing cadre and their hopes for the future, where those kids came from and why, how the Night Ride was both a carrot and a stick, what happened to Hollyhock.

  Pay table, they scribble. Illegal gambling. No share granted to the king.

  “I know you probably arrested the kids in the junior racing cadre,” I say, “but it’s not their fault.”

  “We arrested everyone,” a constable says sternly from his sentry post at the door, but the magistrate looks up from the heavy sheet of paper in front of him. He’s well-fed like everyone from townhouses, but he has a kind face and wears woolen clothing instead of heavy brocade robes and piles of gold jewelry.

  “They were coerced, then? With threats? Violence?” The magistrate sounds genuinely concerned. “Forced to engage in this race? You were coerced?”

  I look down. It doesn’t take either one of those when you’re a lane kid. We all chose to ride. Even me.

  If you can call it a choice.

  Before he leaves, the magistrate says I can send a message to my parents if I want to. I’m so relieved that they haven’t yet been exiled that I babble some nonsense about how much I love them and miss them and to hug the ponies and Greta for me.