and realised his dreadful error. He bowed his head in shame, noting how the raindrops sprinkled the earth; it reminded him of his mother sprinkling flour on the old kitchen table where she made the bread.
Why hadn’t he just kept his mouth shut?
He heard Robert say to the widow, ‘We are taking both horses.’
Robert didn’t shout, he didn’t even sound angry, but there was something about his voice that made the woman drop her arms to her side. Daniel could not bring himself to look at her.
‘Unhook the horses, Private.’ With that, Robert turned and strode away, making it abundantly clear that there would be no further discussion.
Mrs Watson didn’t help, of course she didn’t. She just stood there and watched Daniel fumble with the reins. How many moments dragged by until he managed to free the horses from the plough? Raindrops sank into the horses’ coats and disappeared without a trace. Daniel wished he could do the same.
It required all of his strength not to apologise, either for his brother or himself. Yet, he had to say something and what better than those two words his mother had drilled into him as soon as he could talk: ‘Thank you.’
The farmer’s widow didn’t soften her gaze, though she must have guessed at the young soldier’s inner turmoil. He took a step and pulled at the animals, who surely wondered who he was and where he was taking them.
‘Just a moment, Private.’
His heart sank but he turned to face her.
‘They are used to being fed twice a day. Watch that Bess doesn’t gorge herself on sweet apples, and the shoe on Star’s right foreleg will need replacing soon.’
Daniel nodded. He had already thanked her and it seemed a little pathetic to say it again.
‘Where is King William now?’
The question surprised him.
‘He’s … he’s a few days ahead of us, going south. Two or three days, I think.’
‘Good!’ was all she said to that.
Now that he had removed the horses from her side she seemed taller than ever.
He asked, ‘Why do you want to know?’
She gave him a bitter smile. ‘Because he has left me no option. I’m going to ask him to return my horses to me.’
Now it was her turn to march away, calling over her shoulders to him as he stared after her, ‘You see, Daniel Sherrard, sometimes men need to be reminded that there are more important things than war.’
Chapter Eight
Drogheda, June 1690
G erald and Jacques had spent the entire afternoon on horseback, Jacques pushing Gerald hard on performing manoeuvres that might well save his life in battle. They both agreed that Troy knew exactly what was required of him; it was just his rider who needed to practise.
Years of training had gone into Troy, Paris and the rest of the horses in the French cavalry. Gerald could not help but be impressed. He only needed to lightly pull the reins this way and that to signal to Troy to walk forward or backwards or to the side.
Jacques repeated what he said in every training session: ‘You must trust yourself as much as your horse trusts you. That is what it is all about, trust.’
‘I know. I know. You’ve said that before!’ Gerald flexedhis fingers to prevent them from cramping after holding them in the same position for so long. It struck him that his life was one long list of instructions, from his parents to Father Nicholas, and now his friend who enjoyed torturing him with endless repetition of directions and exercises.
Ignoring his pupil’s cheekiness, Jacques continued on with the lesson: ‘A horse is a brave and noble creature. Just think how he allows a man to mount him. As far as the horse is concerned, every rider imitates an attack by a predator. The big lion jumps onto the horse’s back to bite down on his spine while hugging the horse’s neck in order to tear it open with its claws.’
Gerald rolled his eyes. He had long ceased reminding Jacques that there were no lions in Ireland.
‘Remember to keep your musket straight. Your arms must
Why hadn’t he just kept his mouth shut?
He heard Robert say to the widow, ‘We are taking both horses.’
Robert didn’t shout, he didn’t even sound angry, but there was something about his voice that made the woman drop her arms to her side. Daniel could not bring himself to look at her.
‘Unhook the horses, Private.’ With that, Robert turned and strode away, making it abundantly clear that there would be no further discussion.
Mrs Watson didn’t help, of course she didn’t. She just stood there and watched Daniel fumble with the reins. How many moments dragged by until he managed to free the horses from the plough? Raindrops sank into the horses’ coats and disappeared without a trace. Daniel wished he could do the same.
It required all of his strength not to apologise, either for his brother or himself. Yet, he had to say something and what better than those two words his mother had drilled into him as soon as he could talk: ‘Thank you.’
The farmer’s widow didn’t soften her gaze, though she must have guessed at the young soldier’s inner turmoil. He took a step and pulled at the animals, who surely wondered who he was and where he was taking them.
‘Just a moment, Private.’
His heart sank but he turned to face her.
‘They are used to being fed twice a day. Watch that Bess doesn’t gorge herself on sweet apples, and the shoe on Star’s right foreleg will need replacing soon.’
Daniel nodded. He had already thanked her and it seemed a little pathetic to say it again.
‘Where is King William now?’
The question surprised him.
‘He’s … he’s a few days ahead of us, going south. Two or three days, I think.’
‘Good!’ was all she said to that.
Now that he had removed the horses from her side she seemed taller than ever.
He asked, ‘Why do you want to know?’
She gave him a bitter smile. ‘Because he has left me no option. I’m going to ask him to return my horses to me.’
Now it was her turn to march away, calling over her shoulders to him as he stared after her, ‘You see, Daniel Sherrard, sometimes men need to be reminded that there are more important things than war.’
Chapter Eight
Drogheda, June 1690
G erald and Jacques had spent the entire afternoon on horseback, Jacques pushing Gerald hard on performing manoeuvres that might well save his life in battle. They both agreed that Troy knew exactly what was required of him; it was just his rider who needed to practise.
Years of training had gone into Troy, Paris and the rest of the horses in the French cavalry. Gerald could not help but be impressed. He only needed to lightly pull the reins this way and that to signal to Troy to walk forward or backwards or to the side.
Jacques repeated what he said in every training session: ‘You must trust yourself as much as your horse trusts you. That is what it is all about, trust.’
‘I know. I know. You’ve said that before!’ Gerald flexedhis fingers to prevent them from cramping after holding them in the same position for so long. It struck him that his life was one long list of instructions, from his parents to Father Nicholas, and now his friend who enjoyed torturing him with endless repetition of directions and exercises.
Ignoring his pupil’s cheekiness, Jacques continued on with the lesson: ‘A horse is a brave and noble creature. Just think how he allows a man to mount him. As far as the horse is concerned, every rider imitates an attack by a predator. The big lion jumps onto the horse’s back to bite down on his spine while hugging the horse’s neck in order to tear it open with its claws.’
Gerald rolled his eyes. He had long ceased reminding Jacques that there were no lions in Ireland.
‘Remember to keep your musket straight. Your arms must
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