The Rose Legacy

by Jessica Day George

  “That seems like enough for now,” Caillin MacRennie said. “Back to the stables with you all.”

  Finn pushed open the gate for Anthea and Bluebell, and they collected Florian and headed back to meet up with Jilly and Keth, who were having a wet-sponge fight that felt entirely too frivolous. Anthea could not understand how they could know what they did about Constantine, and stallions fighting to the death, and then fling water at each other like children at the seaside.

  Finn saw her scowl and caught a sponge in midair before it could hit her. She didn’t even thank him; she just led Florian to his stall in silence.

  But when she came back out, he was waiting. He tossed the large, sopping sponge he had just taken from Keth right over her shoulder. It smacked into the wall between Florian’s and Marius’s stalls and slid squishily to the floor.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he told her. “Relax.”

  Anthea picked up the sponge and glared at him. Finn ducked into one of the stalls. After a minute, he leaned back out with a smirk on his tanned face.

  “They don’t teach Rose Maidens to throw, I’ll bet,” he teased.

  “Physical education is very important for young ladies,” Anthea said, her voice prim. Then she pulled back to her ear the way she had been taught, threw, and hit Finn directly in the face.

  There was an intake of breath from Jilly, and even Finn was shocked into silence. Keth, who had been hiding in another stall, came out into the open, his jaw slack.

  Jilly slowly collapsed onto a stool with a noise like a bagpiper warming up. Anthea clutched her throat, terrified at the thought that she had even shocked her cousin. Finn was a king! What had she been thinking?

  Finn took a step toward her, and Anthea quailed. He stooped and picked up the still sopping sponge, not even bothering to wipe the water and suds off his face. He raised his arm, threw, and the sponge smacked into the back of Jilly’s head.

  “Hey!” She leaped to her feet. “What was that for?”

  “For laughing at me!”

  “I knew it!” Jilly shrieked. “You won’t hit Anthea because you think she’s beautiful!”

  Anthea remembered the argument Finn and Jilly had been having the day that she had found Florian, and her face turned red. To cover her embarrassment, she took up another sponge, but she found that she couldn’t hit Finn again, and she didn’t want to anger Jilly (not that she thought her cousin was really angry), so instead she threw it at Keth. But rather weakly, and it smacked again the shin of his riding boot.

  “Hey! What did I do?” he demanded, but he took aim at Anthea, and she fled.

  She ducked into Florian’s stall and rubbed his neck with one hand. With her other she fished in her pocket for a hoof pick and the others continued the barrage of soapy sponges.

  “Ah, not you lot again!” One of the men had come into the stable, and he shouted down the row of stalls in agitation. “Stop makin’ such a mess!”

  “Sorry, sir,” Keth squeaked.

  “It’s just soap,” Jilly said, sounding completely innocent. “We’re cleaning the whole stable, all at once.”

  “So thoughtful,” the man said, sounding exasperated. “But you had better get this cleaned up before that little Rose Maiden happens by.”

  “Why?” Jilly said.

  Anthea straightened. Her sudden unease made Florian whicker and stamp. She didn’t dare shush him aloud, so she sent him soothing thoughts instead. To reinforce it, she braced her boots against the stable wall and put her upper body over his back, so that her weight was hanging off him. It was the best way she could think to give a horse his size a physical as well as mental hug.

  She wanted to hear what the rider had to say. From the silence of the others she guessed they wanted to hear it, too, because no one told him she was there.

  “The last thing we need is her reporting back that we’re not only breeding horses, but we’re letting a bunch of young hooligans ride them!”

  “Reporting?” Finn asked. “To whom would she report?”

  “Does it matter? She’s already written at least one letter back to her aunt and uncle. Her aunt was a Rose Maiden; her uncle works in the Home Office. Either way it’s bad news for the Last Farm.”

  “She wouldn’t, would she? She wouldn’t tell them about the horses!” Keth didn’t sound very certain, though.

  “Of course she wouldn’t,” Jilly said staunchly. “She probably just wanted her aunt and uncle to know she got here safely.”

  Anthea pushed off from the wall a little more so that she was lying across Florian’s back more comfortably. She tangled her fingers in his mane.

  “I did write a letter,” she whispered to Florian. “But I wish I hadn’t.”

  He flicked an ear at her, but his loving thoughts didn’t waver. He wasn’t anxious about the letter, so she tried to copy him.

  “I still wouldn’t put a toe out of line around that one,” the man said. “The daughter of Genevia Cross is no innocent miss.”

  “Anthea’s mother is Genevia Cross?” Keth’s voice cracked.

  “Thornley,” Anthea added in a whisper. Florian flicked an ear back.

  “Anthea thought she was dead,” Jilly said. “And how do you know her mother’s name?” she asked Keth, who mumbled an answer that Anthea couldn’t hear.

  “Ha! Like anyone could kill Genevia Cross!” The man snorted.

  “Thornley,” Anthea said again, a little louder this time.

  She threw a leg over Florian and sat up on his back. She just needed to sit on him for a minute.

  “She was born here. Her father used to run Last Farm,” Jilly said. “And she’s here because my father sent for her.”

  Silence.

  “Now, why don’t you let us clean up the mess we’ve made?” Jilly’s voice sounded sweet, but Anthea could hear the steel within it.

  The rider must have left, because everyone fell silent. Anthea sat on Florian, thinking. At last Jilly appeared, looking over the half door of the stall at Anthea. She turned away and came back with a bridle.

  “Keep him to a walk,” she said, holding it out.

  “Jilly!” Keth yelled. “Are you letting her ride Florian?”

  “I won’t tell if you won’t,” Jilly said coolly.

  Florian stepped closer, and Jilly slipped the bridle over his head.

  “Jilly!”

  “Be quiet, Keth,” Finn said. “Keep to the east paddock,” he added, passing by Florian’s stall and stopping to pick up a thrown sponge.

  “Why is Keth afraid of my mother?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  Jilly looked just as baffled. But as Finn walked past again with his collection of sponges, he looked at her carefully for a minute and then said, “The rumor is that she is no longer considered a Rose Matron. Not because she did anything … scandalous, but because she defied the queen in order to work for the king.”

  “I don’t understand,” Anthea said, feeling a dull headache start behind her furrowed eyebrows. “Work for the king as what?”

  “As a spy,” Finn said simply. “She’s his personal spy.”

  16

  THE OWL IN THE PADDOCK

  Someone knocked at Anthea’s bedroom door that evening. They told her they were leaving a tray in the hall, if she felt like eating, poor mite.

  Anthea got up and opened her window. It was dark outside, but the gray stones of the house jutted out from the mortar and were covered in a climbing vine as well, an old one that was nearly as thick as Anthea’s arm in places. Climbing nets were also commonly used in physical education classes at Miss Miniver’s. Anthea swung her leg out and clambered down.

  The horses were stabled for the night; she could feel their thoughts of hay and oats and sleep. Several of them, woken by Anthea and her distress, stuck their heads over their stall doors as she passed. She only paused to pat Bluebell as she went down the aisle, straight to Florian’s stall.

  As soon as he had nuzzled her head in welcome, a
nd made sure that she wasn’t hurt, he lay down in the thick straw of his stall. She sighed. It was just what she had needed. Uncle Andrew had come into the stables and stopped her from riding Florian earlier, and instead she had just walked him around the paddock like a dog. It wasn’t the same as riding him, even though they had been able to share thoughts of love and he had soothed some of her turmoil.

  She sat in the straw and leaned her back against his warm, broad side. He sent her soothing thoughts, and images of walking together under sunny skies, and she tried to return the favor despite her swirling thoughts.

  The sound of riders moving about the stable woke her the next morning. Anthea was embarrassed to find herself still in the frock she had put on for dinner the night before, only to decide she couldn’t face the others in the dining room. It was hopelessly crumpled and she had straw in her hair and drool on her cheek. She hurried to wipe her face on her sleeve and get Florian to his feet.

  She put on his halter and led him out of the stall, trying to look as though she had just arrived early to put him in the paddock, lace-trimmed frock and all. She nodded cordially to the riders she passed, keeping her eyes on the ground, and pretended that she wasn’t the cause of their startled faces. Normally she walked with her shoulders back, eyes forward, like a lady, but today she just didn’t have the strength, so she studied the patterns of the hoof and boot prints in the mud of the stable yard.

  There was another set of prints that she couldn’t identify. Small, almost like a chicken’s, but not. Anthea’s arm was jerked roughly as Florian stopped dead before she could bump into the fence around Constantine’s paddock.

  She looked up and blinked. She had been so intent on trying to figure out what sort of creature had made the marks that she had a crick in her neck. Constantine was on the far side of his enclosure watching the mares moving out of the stable in a neat row, led by Jilly, who gave Anthea a wave.

  Anthea waved back and then returned her gaze to the ground. Florian pulled at her arm, worried about her odd behavior, but she refused to move. She had just seen what had made the tracks, and she felt a little bubble of laughter rising in her chest.

  It was a tiny burrowing owl. Anthea had seen their holes on some of her rides, but she had never seen one of the owls outside of a book. She had just taken Jilly’s word for it that they existed. While southern owls were large majestic tree dwellers, these northern birds were little round things with eyes nearly too big for their bodies. They could fly but preferred to live underground.

  Now to her delight there was one marching across the ground right in front of her. And there was no other word for it: the little brown-and-gray bird was marching, wings tucked back, as though it had important business waiting for it. Anthea laughed out loud, and the owl shook its head in annoyance.

  Constantine had been facing the opposite direction, but at the sound of Anthea’s laugh he wheeled around. His black obsidian eyes fixed on the owl. Anthea saw his entire body tense with rage at the intrusion in his paddock.

  “No!” Anthea shouted. “Don’t you dare!”

  Constantine tossed his head, not even deigning to look at Anthea. Anthea dropped Florian’s lead, and Florian made a noise that was the horse equivalent of her own shout of denial. He snapped his teeth, trying to grab her by the sleeve, but it was too late. Anthea slipped through the bars of the fence and ducked into Constantine’s paddock, leaving Florian’s teeth to click together on the air where she had just been.

  She straightened and faced Constantine. He glanced at her, but both of their gazes went immediately to the owl. For its part, the little bird was still stumping along, either unaware of or simply ignoring them.

  “Leave it,” Anthea said, the way she would to a dog that was after a cat.

  A surge of anger came from Constantine, and Anthea knew that she had done exactly the wrong thing. Florian’s fear struck her a second later, and she took an involuntary step back.

  Constantine struck like a snake. Lashing out with a single hoof, he sent the owl flying. The little bird made a sharp cry, and so did Anthea. Constantine reared onto his hind legs and took a hop forward, putting himself in position to bring both front hooves down on the ragged ball of feathers.

  “No!”

  Anthea screamed and leaped forward. She scooped up the owl and tucked it into the crook of one arm. She raised the other arm, hand flat to Constantine and gave another shout.

  “Stop! Halt! Whoa!”

  She reached out with her mind, as she would have to Florian. Constantine had no thoughts of love, no thoughts of kindness or the joy of running or the pleasure of a warm stall. His thoughts were like a black hedge of thorns. But still, Anthea pushed against them, willing him to leave her, and the owl, in peace.

  “Leave us alone, you … you … great bully!”

  Constantine froze mid-rear. The whole stable yard froze, the sounds of men and horses stopping abruptly. Anthea heard someone curse, a dreadful word, and was certain it was Jilly’s voice, but Anthea didn’t flinch or take her eyes off the hooves over her head. She didn’t take her mind off pushing the stallion away.

  And then Florian was there. He leaped the fence and charged, calling a challenge at Constantine. Anthea screamed herself, terror for Florian chilling her heart and breaking her concentration.

  A wave of shock passed over her and Constantine stumbled back and away from Florian. His front hooves came down an arm’s length from Anthea and she nearly fainted from the emotions battering at her from both horses.

  From Constantine: anger.

  From Florian: terror.

  Constantine screamed and lashed at Florian with his forelegs. Anthea curled into a ball around the owl and waited to feel one of those steel-shod hooves come down on her head. She knew she was going to die; she prayed that Florian, at least, would live.

  And the owl. It would be much better if she died saving the owl, instead of just dying with it.

  “You idiot!”

  Hands grabbed her shoulders. Someone was dragging her along the ground. She kept her arms around the owl and scuffed out with her boots, helping whoever it was to move her to the paddock fence. She dared to raise her head and look at the horses, and she saw Constantine bite Florian’s neck with his yellow teeth.

  She tried to shake off the hands. Whoever it was clamped down tighter and half dragged, half threw her against the fence. He let go and came around between her and the stallions, and Anthea saw that it was Finn. His face was chalky white as he pushed her head between her shoulders, and then shoved her ignominiously under the lowest rail.

  Constantine came thundering toward them, seeing that Anthea was about to escape, and Finn rolled under the fence just in time. Constantine lashed at the boards, trying to break through to get at them. Finn stumbled to his feet, hauled Anthea up, and pushed her toward an anxious knot of people standing to one side.

  “But what about Florian?” Anthea panted. She tried to stop, to turn.

  “Florian knows what he has to do,” Finn said grimly. “And so do I,” he added, under his breath.

  Anthea hurried to the opposite fence and climbed through, ripping her skirt in the process. Jilly helped her, but when Anthea turned back to lend her free hand to Finn, she saw that he had gone back into Constantine’s paddock.

  “What is he doing?” She lurched back to the fence, but now it was Jilly holding her back. Anthea accidentally clutched the owl too tight in her left hand, and it screeched and bit her thumb. She ignored the pain as she turned to watch Finn and Florian. Her stomach dropped into her shoes and she thought her heart was going to burst.

  “Florian!” she shouted. “No!”

  Jilly wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “It’ll be all right,” she said in an unconvincing voice.

  “He has to do this,” Uncle Andrew said, sounding like he was telling himself more than Anthea.

  They all watched as Finn slowly walked toward the fighting stallions. Anthea could no longer differentiate between
the stallions’ emotions; their turmoil was a thick cloud, almost visible. Finn was tall, and strong from working with horses all his life, but he looked tiny as he walked toward Constantine.

  Florian turned and looked at Anthea. Then he dropped his head and stood in front of Constantine, waiting.

  “No,” Anthea whispered.

  Constantine reared onto his hind legs again. He screamed his war cry.

  Florian did not move.

  “No,” Finn said, his voice clear and firm. “Come down.”

  Constantine came down, not on top of Florian, but certainly very close. He paced around the other stallion, strutting, his tail flagged out and his ears pricked.

  Florian did not move. Neither did Finn.

  Constantine struck with a front hoof, gouging at the back of one of Florian’s hind legs. He bared his teeth and bit Florian on the shoulder.

  “No,” Finn said again. “You’re done.”

  Constantine backed up a single step.

  Tears poured down Anthea’s face. Uncle Andrew hurried to the paddock gate and swung it open. Florian heaved a shuddering sigh and limped out while Constantine looked on. Finn lifted one hand, but stopped short of touching the herd stallion. Then he turned and followed Florian out of the paddock.

  “I hate Constantine,” Anthea blurted out.

  “He has to keep control of the herd,” Finn said, closing the gate.

  He looked exhausted, and Anthea wondered what he had been doing with the Way to keep Constantine from killing him and Florian both.

  “Florian defied him,” Finn said. “But Florian isn’t strong enough to win a fight with Con, so he had to be the one to back down. He had to take his punishment.”

  “Why?” Anthea sobbed.

  “The herd stallion is their king,” Jilly said. “The other horses listen to people because he tells them they have to. It would be chaos without him.”

  Anthea ran to her poor horse. Blood was streaming from half a dozen wounds.