Mistress of the Sun by Sandra Gulland Read Free Book Online

take his feet up roundly and set them down surely, never to stumble.
    “But he is not to go hoodwinked,” Laurent explained to Petite one day, lying abed with a hot wrapped brick on his chest. “That’s what Monsieur Bosse and some of our neighbors do, I know, but depriving a colt of sight takes away his delight and stirs up an excess of fear.”
    “Yes, Father,” Petite said, eager to get Diablo beyond the pasture. She longed to see how fast he could go.
    “Enough of this horse-talk, Laurent,” Françoise said, coming into the room with a basket of needlework. “Louise is almost seven now. It’s time our daughter started acting like a girl.” She handed Petite her unfinished sampler.
    Chastity, humility, piety: Petite groaned.
    P ETITE SANG AS SHE CLIMBED the narrow path to the back field where Diablo grazed. The spring woods were sprinkled with lily of the valley, periwinkle, and, in amongst the holly, a blue orchid she called “wishes.” She noted the narrow rabbit tracks running toward rock outcroppings and hoof-marks where deer had jumped the path. The melodic chirps of spring birdsong intermingled with the staccato tap of a woodpecker and the raucous calls of the jays.
    As Petite emerged from the woods, Diablo whinnied. She climbed over the fence and stood as he cantered to meet her. She made a motion with her hand and—slowly, ponderously—he knelt before her. She pressed her face into his neck, stroked his velvety nose. Then she slipped onto his back and commanded him to stand, her bare legs hugging his sides. She sat for a moment, enjoying the vista, the gentle rolling hills, the river, the woods. She felt like the goddess Diana, fearless and strong.
    It hadn’t taken her long to learn that she only had to think slow and Diablo would slow, think canter and he would canter, think gallop and he would race like a courser. It hadn’t taken her long to discover that she had no need of a bit, much less a bridle, that he responded fully to the slightest pressure from her legs. At her command he would jump any log, bush or gully. He trusted her. Today they would leave the confines of the pasture, go up the hill and into the woods.
    She put him through his paces and then nudged him into a canter, steering him towards a low point in the fence. “Yep, yep!” she said, grabbing a fistful of mane as he surged over the fence and up the trail. The wind brought tears to her eyes. They were flying! At the crest of the hill, Diablo slowed, then stopped. Petite fell forward onto his neck, weak with the thrill of it.
    A rustle made the horse startle, and Petite looked back. It was the runt, scrambling up the forest trail, panting and wagging its tail. Petite groaned: she would have to lead it back home. She turned Diablo around, toward a path that came out behind the barn.
    Diablo’s pace relaxed into an amble. As they headed back, she sang “Ave Maria,” letting her feet swing with his steps. The puppy followed, staying out from underfoot as Diablo picked his way through brambles and then through a mud sink, a boar wallow Petite hadn’t seen before. The boar must be of good size, she guessed—it had rubbed mud onto tree trunks fairly high up. She noted the location: about five strides northeast of a sweet chestnut tree felled for shingles. Her father would want to know. He andthree companions, gentry of the neighborhood, went boar hunting on Michaelmas, when wild pigs were high in flesh.
    “Pup,” she called out, looking behind. The shadows were lengthening, and she knew not to be around a boar bog late in the day.
    Diablo’s ears swiveled. Petite turned the horse and trotted back. At the bend, she spotted the puppy, snarling and growling. Suddenly, a boar charged out of the bushes. It caught the pup with a cheek tooth and tossed it into the air, splattering blood onto the leaves. Diablo planted his feet, and Petite tumbled over his head.
    Petite tried to rise, but her left leg collapsed under her. The boar