In Pursuit of the Green Lion by Judith Merkle Riley Read Free Book Online

ILERS had risen at dawn, heard prayers in his chapel, and was now preparing to ride out and inspect his pasture, where a number of his mares were in foal. It was not too far to walk, but a knight does not set foot on the ground when it’s possible to ride, so he was standing at the top of the stair before the low, carved arch of the door to his Great Hall, waiting for the groom to bring him the freshly saddled roan. Not a bad horse—a good fifteen and a half hands, tall enough for a man who would never shame his ancestors by being seen on a short horse—and the creature did have a pleasant amble. But he also had three white feet, and that’s a great flaw. The feet had bred true, and the amble hadn’t, so Sir Hubert had had him gelded. And while he wouldn’t have been seen among gentlemen on him subsequently, the animal’s gait was well suited to a man whose head was still throbbing as if Beelzebub himself had sat on it all night.
    Looking at the mares would help him make his decision. It was early in the season, too early, really, and he would have liked to see even some of the foals before he made his decision, but it couldn’t wait. The Duke was leaving for France again, and he was sworn to go with him. So something had to be done to slash through, at a single stroke, the knots that those damned lawyers had tied all about him to deny him his due. After all, who’d taken the risk, and borne off the prize? Him, not them. And he was damned well going to keep every penny and every square inch. It was fair spoils, and his due. Those imps of hell and their papers and Latin gibble-gabble should all be sent back to their vile maker, the Father of Lies. The only sort of people who are worse are the judges—especially the kind who take gifts from land thieves and false claimants. People of no proper blood, who talk through lawyers’ mouths, instead of man to man, and think the backing of an earl will win their case. Well, they’d find out Sir Hubert de Vilers was not a man to be trifled with; he’d apply counterpressure.
    As usual, the sight of his mares, all but one placidly and heavily in foal, soothed him. The cold wind ruffled their shaggy winter coats as they lifted their heads to stare at him. Walking gold, all of them. Yes, he’d do it. A duke outweighs an earl anytime—especially his duke, who was the greatest warlord in England. He’d take him the French stud, the famous French stud that he’d brought back from the wars, and the court cases would swing his way. A sacrifice, of course, but not as bad as it might be if enough mares weren’t in foal, or if the stud hadn’t been getting older. A great horse, still a real man’s destrier: gray, nearly seventeen hands, and as wide as he was tall. A good sire, too, even on the wretched English mares he’d started out with. Now he’d crossed the line back and got something worth looking at. Not quite deep enough in the chest, though. If he could somehow get the black’s chest and height, and the gray’s hindquarters and disposition, he’d be close—so very close. Of course, there was the black’s temperament. High, too high, but it might improve with age. There’s no reason, no reason at all, mused the old knight through his headache, that the French should breed the best destriers. Someday, if it all worked out, he’d have it: the perfect English destrier.
    For a moment there, standing in the brown, ice-mottled pasture beneath the wide, brooding dark sky, he could almost see the dream stallion before him. Eighteen hands, as broad as a house, with iron shod feet as big as trenchers barely visible beneath heavy feathering. Gray, of course, the best color, with a deep black velvety muzzle, and no ugly china eye. The de Vilers breed, they’d call them, and a man wouldn’t count himself properly mounted unless he had one.
    But his reverie was interrupted by the sound of shrill little voices, and the snorting, rumbling sound of a stallion that has been