Chapter 8

True to her word, Francoise had left the girls’ tickets at the door for the matinee session of El Caballo Danza Magnifico.

“Wow!” Stella was impressed. “These must be the best seats in the house. We’re so close to the arena we could almost touch the horses as they go past.”

“Maybe we will actually get to touch them,” Issie said. “Francoise is going to show us around backstage after the show and she said she would introduce us to the horses and riders.”

“I doubt it,” Natasha sniffed. “They don’t just let the public go backstage, you know. These are very valuable animals.” She turned to Issie. “When are we going to see the dancing mares that look so much like your mongrel pony?”

“They don’t come on until later. It’s the stallions first,” Issie replied.

The matinee show was very much like the performance the girls had seen when they came for Issie’s birthday. But none of them minded watching it a second time. When the white stallions came out doing a Spanish Walk, with their legs lifting out into the air in an exaggerated flamenco prance, the girls clapped and cheered louder than anyone. They held their breath when Marius strutted into the arena, kicking his hindquarters elegantly back in a Capriole. They were sitting so close they could smell the horse sweat keenly in their nostrils and hear the grunts and snorts as Marius performed the most spectacular haute école movements.

As Marius left the ring, Issie looked at the programme that each of them had been given with their tickets. “The Arabian mares are next,” she said excitedly. “They’re going to do the Dance of the Seven Veils. Listen to this…” Issie began to read out loud from the programme.

“The Dance of the Seven Veils is performed by the school’s six prized Anglo-Arab mares, all of whom share the same ancient Arabian bloodlines. These horses have been trained in the movements of the haute école like prima ballerinas, schooled by the famous Francoise D’arth, senior rider at El Caballo Danza Magnifico, formerly the head trainer at the Cadre Noir de Saumur in France. The Dance of the Seven Veils is an ancient tale. It was famously performed for the wicked King Herod by the beautiful Salome.”

Suddenly there was a hush throughout the arena as the lights went out and the spotlights were trained once more on the sawdust floor of the ring. There was the faint tinkle of saddle bells and strains of exotic music, then the audience started clapping as the dancing Arabians cantered gracefully into the arena.

Blaze could be an Anglo-Arab just like these mares, Issie thought. If that were true then, like Natasha said, she must be worth a fortune. The Arabians were all a deep, burnished liver chestnut with pale creamy flaxen manes and tails. Today their manes had been plaited up and the horses each wore scarves of silk chiffon knotted into their braided manes to match the veils worn by their riders.

Issie spotted Francoise D’arth immediately. She was leading at the front of the ride, wearing a veil and harem pants in deep midnight blue covered with tiny clusters of diamond stars. As she rode past Issie she raised one hand to give her a wave, and Issie caught Natasha Tucker giving her a look of astonishment. Even snooty Natasha would have to believe that this famous rider was Issie’s friend now.

Was Francoise really her friend though? Issie had waved back as the rider went past, but she didn’t return her smile. Issie’s instincts told her to trust Francoise. And yet, the more that she thought about it, the more certain Issie was that she was the mystery woman in the tack room that night. Why would the French trainer be prowling about the pony club in the middle of the night? Had she meant to cut Issie’s stirrup leathers and got mixed up and injured poor Annabel instead?

At the end of the show, instead of following the crowds out into the main foyer, Issie and the others all walked across the sawdust of the main arena towards the doors that led out to the stables. When they reached the vast arched doorway that the horses came through to enter the ring, a big burly security guard emerged from behind the pillar to block their path. “Sorry, kids. Riders only. No entry for tourists here,” he said sternly.

“It’s OK, Rene, these are the young riders I was telling you about. They’re with me,” a voice behind the guard instructed. Francoise D’arth stepped forward out of the darkness and stood in front of them, smiling warmly. She had changed out of her costume and was wearing a pair of dark navy jodhpurs and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

“Bonjour, Isadora!” she said, greeting Issie and looking along the row of faces beside her. “I know Kate and Stella, but you three I do not know.” She smiled at Dan, Ben and Natasha.

“Oh, sorry,” Issie said, “this is Dan and Ben, and this is Natasha. We all go to pony club together.”

“I hope you all enjoyed the show?” Francoise asked.

“Yes, thanks. Thanks for giving us the tickets,” Ben and Dan said together.

“Yes, it was a fabulous show,” said Natasha. “Your horses must be very expensive.”

Francoise laughed at this, “Well, yes, I suppose they are,” she replied. “All of our horses are bred from very select bloodlines that have been refined over centuries. The mares and stallions are chosen for their looks and temperament, and from the moment they are born, they are raised to be part of the riding school, to perform haute école movements and to dance for the crowds who come to see them—”

Natasha interrupted, “Yes, yes, but how much would my mum need to pay to buy me one of these horses?”

Francoise raised one eyebrow and smiled at her. “Oh, but I am afraid they are not for sale at any price. Besides, I am not sure that you could ride them. These horses are very finely trained in the ways of dressage and they all know a trick or two.” She turned and smiled at Isadora. “It takes a very special rider to handle an El Caballo horse. “Now,” Francoise said, “who would like to meet my horses?”

The stables for the El Caballo Danza Magnifico were divided into two separate wings. “One for the stallions,” Francoise explained, “and one for the mares. When we are touring like this we do not spend much more than a month in each place,” Francoise continued, “and during that time we must always find suitable accommodation for our stars.”

They were standing now in a long avenue of stables, with a broad concrete floor bordered by stalls on each side. Francoise walked up to the first stall and unbolted the top half of the Dutch door, swinging it open so that Issie and the others could look inside.

As the young riders moved closer to look Francoise gave a sharp whistle and there was a nicker in reply from the rear of the stall. There was the sound of hooves on straw and then an elegant chestnut mare popped her head out over the bottom half of the door. Issie was struck immediately by how much she looked like Blaze. She had the same delicate dished nose, but instead of a blaze, she had a perfect diamond-shaped star on her forehead.

Francoise murmured something to the mare in French and the horse lowered her head so that Francoise could give her a scratch underneath her forelock. The mare grunted with pleasure at this. “This is Jetaime, one of my six dancing mares,” Francoise said. “She is just finishing her hard feed now and I was about to give her a hay net.”

“Are all the mares in the show sisters?” Stella asked. “They all look so alike.” Stella cast Issie a meaningful look.

“No,” Francoise said. “They are not all sisters, although they do look alike, don’t they? Many of them do have the same sire. Some do not. We choose them to match each other, and many of our troupe are handpicked before they are even a year old.”

“What about the stallions?” Kate asked.

“The white ones are Lipizzaners, all bred from the ancient bloodlines of six great sires. There is some Arab blood in there, Andalusian, too, from Spain, and also from the sturdy white Karsk horses of Eastern Europe. Today we keep our herd on a farm in Spain, where we train the horses at our own stables and choose the best stallions to perform in our shows,” Francoise said.

“What sort of a horse is Marius?” Kate asked.

“He isn’t white like the rest of them.”

Francoise smiled. “Marius, the grey horse which you saw performing alone, is a Lipizzaner too, but he is younger than the rest. Lipizzaners only become white when they reach a certain age. Marius is still young—he is only eight. When he was born he was almost black, but now as he grows up his coat is dappled. Perhaps when he is ten, his grey will have faded completely and he, too, will be as white as the others.”

“Can we meet Marius?” Issie asked.

“Of course! He is in the round pen now with Wolfgang. They usually spend a little time together after each performance. Now, who would like to give Jetaime her hay net before we go? Stella, why don’t you help me?”

After Stella, who was quite overcome with excitement at being chosen for the task, had fed Jetaime, the others took it in turns to give the mare a brush with a body brush while Francoise undid her plaits and combed out her mane.

Then Francoise closed the stable door and led them down the concrete corridors and through another door to a new row of stables. “This is where we keep the stallions,” Francoise said. “Although occasionally if the weather is nice, we graze all the horses outside—keeping the mares and stallions in separate fields, of course.”

Francoise walked briskly down the concrete corridor towards wide wooden double doors at the end of the hall. “This is the round pen. I think Marius is in here still,” she called back over her shoulder.

Francoise swung open the doors and they found themselves in a round wooden room with a high ceiling. It was a bit like the bullfighters’ rings that Issie had seen on TV. They were standing up high now behind a railing, and in front of them the space dropped away so they were looking down on a round arena sunken into the floor below them. The arena, which was about twenty metres wide, was bordered all around by three metre high wooden walls, and the floor was covered in sawdust. In the middle of the ring stood a tall man with short blond hair. He was holding a long, black lunging whip which he now lifted up above his head. As he waved the whip he gave a whistle.

In front of him, the dapple-grey stallion shifted his hooves uneasily and backed up, reversing so that he was almost sitting on his hocks. The horse gave a low snort and Wolfgang began to circle the whip around above his head. Now he whistled again: once, twice, three times.

Marius shook his head up and down as if nodding in agreement and then, as delicately as a ballerina, he rocked back on his hindquarters and raised his front legs up into the air so that he was rearing up. The stallion held the pose for a moment and then Wolfgang lowered his whip to the ground and the horse dropped too, coming back to rest in a perfect square halt.

“Wolfgang!” Francoise yelled. The blond man looked up at her and waved. Then he barked instructions to the stallion in a language that Issie didn’t understand, and with a shake of his magnificent head Marius turned from the centre of the ring and headed towards the wooden barrier, his long, floating trot chewing up the ground so that it only took a few strides before he reached the wall. When it looked as if he was going to run into the side of the arena, Marius gave one more arrogant flick of his head, turned and started to trot around the perimeter.

Wolfgang shouted out another instruction and Marius began to canter. His neck was arched flamboyantly and every now and then he would lash out with a Flying Change, throwing his front hooves into the air as if striking out at an imaginary foe.

“He is young; he still has too much energy in him!” Wolfgang laughed as he watched the stallion snorting his way around the arena. He whistled at Marius and the horse slowed down to a trot again as Wolfgang climbed up the rails of the wooden arena, pulling himself up so that a few moments later he was standing next to Francoise.

“He’s sooo beautiful,” breathed Issie, leaning over the rails, unable to stop looking, mesmerised by the movements of the horse.

“Yes, he is,” Wolfgang agreed. “But he is not easy. Of all the stallions I have trained, Marius is the most talented—and the most wild. He can be unpredictable.” As if to prove this was true, at that moment Marius suddenly gave a squeal and rose up on his hind legs, his front hooves thrashing wildly in the air.

“I am sorry.” Wolfgang frowned. “I should not leave him alone like this during a training session. A stallion must always be watched.”

And with that he slipped back over the fence, shimmying down gracefully on to the sawdust, and jogged across to Marius, who was now standing perfectly still and waiting for him as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

“You see now why I prefer my mares.” Francoise smiled. “They are temperamental, yes, but not quite so lethal as a stallion can be.” She watched as Wolfgang led Marius out of the ring.

“I must go now, too,” she said. “The horses must be fed and prepared for yet another performance tonight. I hope you have enjoyed the show. I will get Rene to show you out.”

“Wait!” Issie said, panicking suddenly that Francoise would disappear before she had the chance to ask her the question.

“I mean, I wanted to ask you a question, Francoise, before you go.”

“Of course.” Francoise smiled. “What is it?”

“Why did Blaze rear when you whistled at her in the paddock the other day?”

Francoise’s smile suddenly disappeared. For a brief moment Issie saw the look of shock on the Frenchwoman’s face. Then she regained her composure.

“If I startled your mare it was a mistake and I have apologised.” Francoise’s voice was measured and cool. “It was nice to see you again, Isadora. But I must go now. Please take good care of Blaze. I will see you soon, no doubt.”

“What was that all about?” Stella was wide-eyed as they left the stables. “Francoise is definitely up to something. What’s her deal?”

Issie shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said, unable to keep the concern out of her voice. “But I need to find out.”

As Kate’s mum drove them home that night Issie thought about the way Francoise had reacted. Did she have a secret? And what did it have to do with Blaze?

Issie had been shaken from her daydreams by Stella and Kate asking if she would mind being the one to feed the horses that evening. She had been only too happy to say yes. After Francoise’s strange behaviour she had suddenly felt a desperate need to check up on Blaze.

The light was fading and the sky was bruised purple and turning black when Issie finally arrived, later that night, at the pony club. Issie parked her bicycle up by the gates and looked out across the paddocks. Blaze, Toby and Coco had their heads down grazing happily, tearing up fresh chunks of sweet, green summer grass. They all looked up when they saw Issie, and Blaze nickered a greeting, knowing that Issie had come to feed her.

After her last experience in the tack room, Issie knew exactly where to find the light switch and she flicked it on before she entered the room. The bins of horse food were all lined up against the far wall and colour coded so that the riders couldn’t get confused. Blaze’s pony pellets were in the big blue feed bin, while Toby and Coco were both having chaff and sweet feed from the green and yellow bins.

Issie took the lids off the feed bins and used the scoop hanging on the hook next to the bins to measure out the right amounts into the ponies’ feed buckets. Then she took all three buckets over to the tap and filled them with a little water, mixing the feed around with her hands. She smelt a strange, bitter smell rising off the pony pellets as the water mixed in with them, and she screwed up her nose.

Outside the tack room on the other side of the fence she could hear Blaze, Toby and Coco stomping their hooves restlessly They knew their dinner was coming. “Just a minute!” Issie yelled out to them.

She stacked Toby and Coco’s feed buckets on top of each other and tucked them under one arm, picked up Blaze’s bucket and tucked that under the other arm and stepped outside. As she walked through the doorway, Issie gave a cry of alarm. There was someone there! No, wait, not someone. In the darkness the shape stepped nearer to her. It was a horse. It was Mystic!

“Hey, boy!” Issie laughed. “Oh, you gave me such a shock.” Mystic was staring at Issie now, his eyes were dark with intent.

“What is it, Mystic?” Issie noticed that something wasn’t right. Mystic was tense, pawing the ground with his left hoof, shaking his mane and looking agitated.

“Mystic, what’s wrong?” Issie was really worried now. Mystic’s nostrils were flared and he had a wild look in his eyes. The grey gelding snorted and stomped in front of her. Then suddenly he rose up on his hind legs so that he was towering above Issie. His hooves thrashed in the air perilously close to her head as he lashed out at her.

Issie screamed and panicked, throwing the feed buckets to the ground, leaping backwards and out of the way of Mystic’s flailing front legs. “Mystic!” she screamed. “Stop it!”