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

disturbed. Peasant brats in the stallion pens? No, by God, the widow’s brats.
    “Bring the oat pan and stick it through the gate, Alison, and when he comes near the wall and puts his head down, I’ll get on. Then you open the gate. All right?” It was the bigger one speaking. How old was she? All children looked the same age: small. Hadn’t her mother said she was nearly six? She had clambered up to the top of the stone wall of the black stud’s pen like a monkey, sticking her toes in the cracks, and now he could see her curly red head emerging at the top of the wall as she got ready to drop on the stallion’s back. The little figure stood out against the morning sky, cloakless and barefooted, as she crouched like a cat getting ready to pounce. Damn her, Urgan was roused up; he might fling himself against the wall and take an injury. The little one, bundled up in a cloak with a pointed hood, stood in the mud before the gate.
    “Now, Alison, open the latch and run back!” the thin little voice called. The stallion snorted, threw his head up, and rolled his eyes wildly as the tiny creature dropped on his back. He was preparing to smash her against the wall when the gate clicked open, and instead he smashed his heavy chest into it, banging it open so that it crushed Alison into the mud.
    “Cecily, no-o-o-o-o!” he heard the belated cry from the distant upstairs window. For some reason the high, thin cry spooked the stallion, who changed his strategy of dealing death to one of flight.
    “Head him off!” Sir Hubert shouted to the groom, and clapped spurs to the wretched gelding. The boldness of the brat was extraordinary: she hadn’t a hope of clinging to the huge barrel with her short legs. It was all balance and hands—she’d tangled them deep in the stallion’s mane and was holding on for dear life. But it couldn’t last long. At every stride, she was thrown in the air; the slightest mishap and she’d be under the slashing hooves. She looked straight ahead, her eyes glassy with determination and terror. The black was headed for the wide, stony-bottomed brook that meandered across the meadow and gave Brokesford its name. At this speed, and with the slippery snow patches still on the ground, the horse would fall and break his neck, and very likely kill the little rider into the bargain. Sir Hubert came in at a full gallop from the stallion’s left side, and for a moment pulled even with the frantic stud. The stallion’s frothy flanks were heaving; his eyes rolled crazily. Great conformation, rotten temperament, was the old knight’s thought, at the very moment when he snatched the brat off by the back of her gown and threw her across the withers of his roan. And as his prize stud ran insanely on toward the brook, the ungrateful little bundle lying in front of him squeaked,
    “Put me down! I was doing fine!”
    “Fine indeed, you little monster, you’ve killed my stud. And if you weren’t worth eight hundred pounds to me, I’d wring your neck right here!”
    It was prophecy. The stallion careened crazily into the water, slipped and fell, and didn’t rise again. He was thrashing and squealing in the water, raising his head up frantically, his eyes terrified. Cries could be heard as people ran from the house, and when the groom pulled up, Sir Hubert was already dismounted. He was deep in the muddy brook, all mucked up with mud and blood, trying to hold the immense horse’s slippery, wet thrashing head.
    “Leg’s broken,” he shouted to the groom. “Hand me your knife; I have to cut his throat.” It was something he’d done often enough on the battlefield—in fact, it was the only time anyone had ever seen him weep. But to put down a destrier at home, the best he’d ever put good money on, why, that filled him with an explosion of rage and grief. He was crazy with the loss and the stupidity of it, so crazy there was no telling just what he’d do. The groom hesitated a moment at the order. The