The Stolen Queen by Lisa Hilton Read Free Book Online Page A

Lusignan eyes, and the prettiest white blaze on his nose. From the way he lowered his head as I stepped up to the mountingblock and the delicacy with which he snuffled a palmful of hay from my hand I could see that he was a very intelligent horse but from the flare of his nostrils and the strength of his hindquarters I saw, too, that he was wild when he chose it. ‘I shall call him Othon,’ I declared.
    â€˜What kind of a name is that?’ asked Agnes. She had consented to my learning to ride but she was not pleased.
    â€˜A very good old name, Agnes,’ I said haughtily. I didn’t say that it was a pagan name, or that I remembered it from my papa’s stories of the Norsemen who sailed down from their icy kingdoms to conquer France hundreds of years ago. The Taillefers, my family, had defeated the Norsemen. The stories of the Norsemen spoke of a magical horse, the best among gods and men. A steed that ran between the earth and the sky with mysterious signs carved into his bridle.
    â€˜Is he a suitable horse for a lady?’ Agnes asked the groom who held Othon’s bit. I caught his eye.
    â€˜Very suitable, madame,’ he replied courteously, his face grave.
    â€˜And your name?’
    â€˜Tomas, madame.’
    â€˜Very well, Tomas. You may begin Lady Isabelle’s lesson.’
    From the moment Tomas handed me into the saddle, I knew that I didn’t need to learn. I had pretended to have a horse of my own for years, riding broomsticks and branches, to Agnes’s despair, for was I not a Courtenay and a Taillefer? It was in my bones. I knew it as soon as I squeezed my knees against Othon’s flank and felt him settle beneath my weight.I knew how to hold the rein just so as not to hurt his delicate mouth. I knew how to listen through my sinews to the rhythm of his blood. I leaned forward to whisper in his ear, ‘Just a little time. We must be quiet, Othon. And then we shall fly, you wait and see.’
    So for several afternoons, Tomas walked us around the yard under Agnes’s measuring eye, calling out instructions and pretending to correct my posture and my handling of the bit. I could see how impressed he was with the way I rode, and that made me want to be even better. As we dutifully turned circles and figures of eight, I let my mind loose as I had not done since my mother left, dreaming of tournaments where I would disguise myself as a knight and charge down the list, unseating the famous champions of France, and then, tearing off my helmet, I would reveal that I was Isabelle, the finest horseman in France. King Philip would be astonished, the musicians would make poems about us, and I would wear the queen’s favour in my braids. I would lead our men in battle and bring peace to our lands, and Hal Lusignan would beg for the favour of being my squire.
    My splendid dreams ended with a bump. Othon had thrown me, and I lay in the schooling ring, with sawdust all over my face. I jumped up before I had my wind back, desperate to show Agnes that I wasn’t hurt, but she was already bustling towards me.
    â€˜Isabelle! Oh Isabelle! You are too bold!’ She petted me while she scolded, and though my eyes burned with tears, they were of rage, not pain nor fear. How dare Othon behave so rudely? Irubbed my face and saw old Tomas laughing at me, which made me angrier than ever.
    â€˜They can feel it, my lady, if you are too proud. He was just showing you who’s master.’
    â€˜He is my horse!’
    â€˜Indeed. But if you take your whip to him he won’t respect you. Old creatures, horses. Look at him now.’
    I stepped up to Othon and rubbed his soft nose. He was pulling naughtily at some fronds of weed that overhung the ring, showing me that he didn’t care. Tomas was right: it was I who had been rude.
    â€˜I didn’t mean to insult you, Othon,’ I whispered. ‘I am grateful that you allow me to ride you, truly.’
    For an answer,