downhill, picking its way.
“Let’s jump it,” Roger called.
Fulk gathered his reins and rapped his heels on the horse’s ribs. His horse burst into a lope, straining at the pull of the steep slope; behind him, Roger let out a yell, and his horse thundered after Fulk’s. Fulk tightened his reins to give the horse something to lean on. The broken trunk of the bee tree rose out of the grass like a wall, and the ground all around it was littered with branches. The horse gathered itself like a bow bending and sailed over the trunk, its neck and head reaching, reaching—Fulk clutched a handful of mane and watched the bee tree flying beneath them. The horse landed and stumbled and flung itself at a full gallop downhill. Roger’s horse pounded after them, a wild drumming of hoofbeats. Fulk shouted. The wood rushed toward them, thick and dark, full of low branches. They swerved into the mouth of a narrow deer trail. Birds screamed and fluttered in the trees overhead. Fulk crouched in his saddle. He had lost a stirrup when the horse stumbled, and he poked his foot around, blindly hunting it—the iron stirrup cracked him on the ankle and he gave up. The ground flattened out and his horse lengthened its stride, pricking up its ears. Glancing back, Fulk saw Roger crashing along after them, ducking branches; his horse’s nostrils were red and wide, pumping.
A windfall appeared in the trail, and Fulk’s horse hurled itself over it almost without checking. Branches scraped Fulk’s back and the pommel of his saddle struck him hard in the stomach. He put his head down—let the horse find its way—and used his hands and legs to steady it and urge it on. The shifting of the horse’s balance delighted him, its quick coordination. A tree whacked his leg.
The horse crashed through a narrow place between two clumps of yew and burst out onto the meadow around the monastery. Behind them, Roger yelled, and the sound of his horse’s hoofs drew nearer. Fulk’s horse flattened its ears to its head and drove on, straining for more speed. Fulk headed it up toward the monastery gate. Roger’s horse was the faster and with each stride crept closer. The monastery gate was gone, leaving only a gap in the rock wall just wide enough for one horse. The lean gray head of Roger’s horse drew even with Fulk’s knee; sweat had stained it dark as armor. Flecked with yellow stonecrop, the monastery wall sailed toward them. Fulk pressed his rein against his horse’s neck, moving it over against Roger’s gray, trying to keep the other horse behind him; the rein shaved the thick lather from the horse’s neck in plumes.
Roger shouted. His horse surged up head to head with Fulk’s, and in two strides, right before the gate, the gray pulled out in front. Fulk sat back to stop his horse. The two plunged headlong through the gate and into the courtyard.
Their hoofs rang on stone. Fulk sawed on his reins. Skidding on the half-buried paving stones, the gray tried to stop and could not and ran into the oak tree beside the door of the chapel, and Roger fell off into the branches. Fulk wrestled his horse to a stop and burst out laughing.
The gray horse stood shaking is head and snorting. Roger clawed his way out of the tree, his hair in his eyes, and looked dazedly from side to side. Fulk bent over his saddle pommel and sobbed with laughter.
“I won, at least,” Roger called, and went toward his horse. When Fulk looked up, he was laughing, too. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and rode over to the well, which still stood in one corner of the courtyard.
“That’s a good horse,” Roger said. “He tried hard enough.”
Fulk slid down from the saddle. “He’s stronger than yours.” The gray was a famous racer; Roger was always winning races at fairs and tournaments with him. Roger hauled up a broken wooden bucket full of water from the well, and the horses thrust their heads forward, snorting.
“No,” Fulk said, elbowing his horse away.
“Let’s jump it,” Roger called.
Fulk gathered his reins and rapped his heels on the horse’s ribs. His horse burst into a lope, straining at the pull of the steep slope; behind him, Roger let out a yell, and his horse thundered after Fulk’s. Fulk tightened his reins to give the horse something to lean on. The broken trunk of the bee tree rose out of the grass like a wall, and the ground all around it was littered with branches. The horse gathered itself like a bow bending and sailed over the trunk, its neck and head reaching, reaching—Fulk clutched a handful of mane and watched the bee tree flying beneath them. The horse landed and stumbled and flung itself at a full gallop downhill. Roger’s horse pounded after them, a wild drumming of hoofbeats. Fulk shouted. The wood rushed toward them, thick and dark, full of low branches. They swerved into the mouth of a narrow deer trail. Birds screamed and fluttered in the trees overhead. Fulk crouched in his saddle. He had lost a stirrup when the horse stumbled, and he poked his foot around, blindly hunting it—the iron stirrup cracked him on the ankle and he gave up. The ground flattened out and his horse lengthened its stride, pricking up its ears. Glancing back, Fulk saw Roger crashing along after them, ducking branches; his horse’s nostrils were red and wide, pumping.
A windfall appeared in the trail, and Fulk’s horse hurled itself over it almost without checking. Branches scraped Fulk’s back and the pommel of his saddle struck him hard in the stomach. He put his head down—let the horse find its way—and used his hands and legs to steady it and urge it on. The shifting of the horse’s balance delighted him, its quick coordination. A tree whacked his leg.
The horse crashed through a narrow place between two clumps of yew and burst out onto the meadow around the monastery. Behind them, Roger yelled, and the sound of his horse’s hoofs drew nearer. Fulk’s horse flattened its ears to its head and drove on, straining for more speed. Fulk headed it up toward the monastery gate. Roger’s horse was the faster and with each stride crept closer. The monastery gate was gone, leaving only a gap in the rock wall just wide enough for one horse. The lean gray head of Roger’s horse drew even with Fulk’s knee; sweat had stained it dark as armor. Flecked with yellow stonecrop, the monastery wall sailed toward them. Fulk pressed his rein against his horse’s neck, moving it over against Roger’s gray, trying to keep the other horse behind him; the rein shaved the thick lather from the horse’s neck in plumes.
Roger shouted. His horse surged up head to head with Fulk’s, and in two strides, right before the gate, the gray pulled out in front. Fulk sat back to stop his horse. The two plunged headlong through the gate and into the courtyard.
Their hoofs rang on stone. Fulk sawed on his reins. Skidding on the half-buried paving stones, the gray tried to stop and could not and ran into the oak tree beside the door of the chapel, and Roger fell off into the branches. Fulk wrestled his horse to a stop and burst out laughing.
The gray horse stood shaking is head and snorting. Roger clawed his way out of the tree, his hair in his eyes, and looked dazedly from side to side. Fulk bent over his saddle pommel and sobbed with laughter.
“I won, at least,” Roger called, and went toward his horse. When Fulk looked up, he was laughing, too. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and rode over to the well, which still stood in one corner of the courtyard.
“That’s a good horse,” Roger said. “He tried hard enough.”
Fulk slid down from the saddle. “He’s stronger than yours.” The gray was a famous racer; Roger was always winning races at fairs and tournaments with him. Roger hauled up a broken wooden bucket full of water from the well, and the horses thrust their heads forward, snorting.
“No,” Fulk said, elbowing his horse away.
Similar Books
