Flame of Sevenwaters by Juliet Marillier Page B

trot and at a canter, then made to halt while Duald came in close to run expert hands over neck, back, rump, flank. But I could see trouble coming. When Duald took the leading rope in his own hand and moved Swift on again, taking him through a series of sharp turns, warning signs were plain in the horse’s movement and in his eye. Surely Duald could read those clues? He’d been in charge here since I was a child. Was he the kind of man who must stamp his authority on a creature rather than train it with love?
    Emrys would not speak up. Not only was his Irish limited, but a visiting groom, however expert, did not challenge the chieftain’s stable master. But he and I both knew that look in Swift’s eye; it was a red flag. In a moment the horse would make a bid for freedom, and he was strong. The small group of grooms and serving people stood to one side of the circle. On the other side there was now an audience of two, for Luachan had come up to lean on the fence, a striking figure in his gray robe, and beside him stood my brother Finbar, who was just tall enough to see over the barrier.
    Swift halted suddenly, jerking his head one way, then the other. He shied, hooves flailing, and Duald lost his hold on the leading rope. The grooms gasped in unison. A vision flashed through my head, the horse trying to leap the fence, Finbar standing in the way, those hooves…
    “Swift,” I called, using the special tone of voice he recognized. “Swift, calm. Calm.” Using my forearms for balance, I put my foot between the withies of the fence and rolled myself over the top, dropping to stand inside the circle. “Calm, my lovely boy. Green field. Still water. Calm now.”
    “No!” shouted Duald, gesturing me away and sending Swift into an erratic canter about the circle. “Lady Maeve, move back!”
    I took a step forward, praying the horse would not knock me down. “No, you move back,” I said, not altering my tone. “Emrys, I need you in here.”
    Swift wheeled this way, that way, the leading rope swinging as he looked for an escape. This barrier would not hold him; he had jumped far higher obstacles in his time.
    “What do you think you—”
    “Move back, Duald.” I did not take my eyes off Swift to look at him, but Duald must have realized I meant business, for he stood still as Emrys slipped through the gate on the far side and approached step by step, saying not a word. “We don’t want him to bolt. Let us do this; Swift knows us.”
    Then I forgot Duald. “Calm, Swift. Beautiful boy. Calm now,” I murmured, keeping my voice steady as the yearling ran, as he kicked out at the barrier, tearing ragged holes in the neatly woven withies, as he tossed his head and breathed in angry snorts. “Easy, boy.” Emrys stood quiet, waiting for his opportunity.
    The two of us had done this many times before, though not under such conditions. We had worked with Swift as he grew from a leggy foal to a fine young horse. It took patience. He would seem to steady; then at the slightest distraction—a man coughing, a clanking of buckets, other horses stirring behind him in the stables—he’d be off again, dancing out of range before anyone could get a firm hold on the rope.
    I tamped down my anger at Duald for bringing the situation about. I set aside my ill will toward my mother and my dread of tonight’s public appearance. I kept my breathing slow, my voice even and quiet. I did my best to hold Swift’s eye. I kept on talking to him. And eventually, as so often before, a time came when he was no longer frightened, but had begun to play a game with us: Will I give in yet, or will I test them further? Which way will I jump, left or right? Run a little or stand still?
    “Calm now, lovely boy,” I murmured, moving in close as he came to a quivering halt, breathing hard. I laid the soft back of myhand against his sweat-dewed coat. “Kind hands and quiet.” I stroked his neck, all the while speaking to him. Swift stood still,