of a cart and take him down to the market grounds. He cannot fight his way free of that.”
“As you wish, your highness.”
The boy departed and Caution returned to the window to stand and watch.
Now the smith was a man with little love for the Stablemaster Lostler. He was the brother of the Stablemaster the Queen-in-Waiting had dismissed, and so he harbored a grudge against the man who had taken his brother’s position and livelihood. All knew this. And so when the page brought the word to him, I am certain the man did not delay, but set aside his hammer and hung up his apron and brought his heavy smithy cart around to the stableyard.
We saw him pull up his cart and stride into the stables. He carried a heavy length of chain. He was a massive man, tall as well as heavily muscled. Lostler had put the stud back in his stall and was working with a young bay filly in the exercise yard. The smith did not pause to speak to him. We were high above the stables, but even so, the stallion’s scream of fury reached us. Caution leaned forward on the stone sill, staring out, her eyes wide in her pale face, her mouth set. Hurt warred with the satisfaction of revenge on her features. I saw what she strove to do. She would sell away Lostler’s Wit-companion, tear from him that which he loved as she believed he had torn her love for him.
There was a second scream from the horse, and we saw Lostler call hastily to a groom who came to take the mare from him. The Stablemaster turned and ran back into the stables. For three breaths, all was calm below us. The groom began to lunge the mare, a stablehand approached the door with a barrow full of feed, while two young stableboys, brooms on their shoulders, followed him in.
But a moment later, the boys and the man with the barrow came scrambling back out. We heard shouts and saw men running both toward and away from the stables. A moment later, locked together, Lostler and the smith emerged. The smith was dragging Lostler by his shirt front. The Stablemaster’s face was bloodied, but he was still fighting, landing blow after blow on the impassive smith. We could hear the stallion’s angry screams from inside the stable. The smith drew the Stablemaster up to his full height, struck him a tremendous blow in the face and then dropped him disdainfully into the dust. Lostler fell bonelessly to the earth. The smith did not even look down at him, but strode back into the stable.
And Caution’s resolution failed her. “Lostler! No! What have I done?” she wailed as she stared down at the man’s still body. And then, moving more swiftly than she had in weeks, she spun away from the window and ran across the room. She was out the door while I was still staring after her. By the time I reached the hall, she was halfway down the stairs, running as no pregnant woman should. “My queen, mind your child!” I called after her, but she did not pause. And so I gathered my skirts and went after her, hampered by my own heaviness.
I was not as swift as she was. I was out of breath by the time I reached the bottom of the stairs. The best I could manage was a brisk walk, but when I heard her screams, I gritted my teeth and ran again. I pushed past other servants hurrying to see what the commotion was. By the time I emerged into the stable yard, a crowd had gathered. I shoved my way recklessly through the useless, shouting crowd, and still arrived too late.
I cannot say what had gone before. I saw the Spotted Stud, blood pouring from his chest as he reared to the sky, hooves flailing. He screamed, but it sounded like more anguish than pain. The Queen-in-Waiting, her hands lifted defensively against the stallion’s attack, cowered in the mud by the Stablemaster’s body. He was dying. She had tried to gather his body into her lap but his hands reached toward the Spotted Stud. As he fell back against her, dead or dying, I saw the unfurling rose of blood that was blossoming on his chest. Something had
“As you wish, your highness.”
The boy departed and Caution returned to the window to stand and watch.
Now the smith was a man with little love for the Stablemaster Lostler. He was the brother of the Stablemaster the Queen-in-Waiting had dismissed, and so he harbored a grudge against the man who had taken his brother’s position and livelihood. All knew this. And so when the page brought the word to him, I am certain the man did not delay, but set aside his hammer and hung up his apron and brought his heavy smithy cart around to the stableyard.
We saw him pull up his cart and stride into the stables. He carried a heavy length of chain. He was a massive man, tall as well as heavily muscled. Lostler had put the stud back in his stall and was working with a young bay filly in the exercise yard. The smith did not pause to speak to him. We were high above the stables, but even so, the stallion’s scream of fury reached us. Caution leaned forward on the stone sill, staring out, her eyes wide in her pale face, her mouth set. Hurt warred with the satisfaction of revenge on her features. I saw what she strove to do. She would sell away Lostler’s Wit-companion, tear from him that which he loved as she believed he had torn her love for him.
There was a second scream from the horse, and we saw Lostler call hastily to a groom who came to take the mare from him. The Stablemaster turned and ran back into the stables. For three breaths, all was calm below us. The groom began to lunge the mare, a stablehand approached the door with a barrow full of feed, while two young stableboys, brooms on their shoulders, followed him in.
But a moment later, the boys and the man with the barrow came scrambling back out. We heard shouts and saw men running both toward and away from the stables. A moment later, locked together, Lostler and the smith emerged. The smith was dragging Lostler by his shirt front. The Stablemaster’s face was bloodied, but he was still fighting, landing blow after blow on the impassive smith. We could hear the stallion’s angry screams from inside the stable. The smith drew the Stablemaster up to his full height, struck him a tremendous blow in the face and then dropped him disdainfully into the dust. Lostler fell bonelessly to the earth. The smith did not even look down at him, but strode back into the stable.
And Caution’s resolution failed her. “Lostler! No! What have I done?” she wailed as she stared down at the man’s still body. And then, moving more swiftly than she had in weeks, she spun away from the window and ran across the room. She was out the door while I was still staring after her. By the time I reached the hall, she was halfway down the stairs, running as no pregnant woman should. “My queen, mind your child!” I called after her, but she did not pause. And so I gathered my skirts and went after her, hampered by my own heaviness.
I was not as swift as she was. I was out of breath by the time I reached the bottom of the stairs. The best I could manage was a brisk walk, but when I heard her screams, I gritted my teeth and ran again. I pushed past other servants hurrying to see what the commotion was. By the time I emerged into the stable yard, a crowd had gathered. I shoved my way recklessly through the useless, shouting crowd, and still arrived too late.
I cannot say what had gone before. I saw the Spotted Stud, blood pouring from his chest as he reared to the sky, hooves flailing. He screamed, but it sounded like more anguish than pain. The Queen-in-Waiting, her hands lifted defensively against the stallion’s attack, cowered in the mud by the Stablemaster’s body. He was dying. She had tried to gather his body into her lap but his hands reached toward the Spotted Stud. As he fell back against her, dead or dying, I saw the unfurling rose of blood that was blossoming on his chest. Something had
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