Chapter Eight

Justice the old cob plodded on along the lanes. The day was hot and I was soon sweltering beneath the hay. With the rocking of the cart, I began to feel drowsy. After my restless night and early start, I must have dropped off.

The next thing I knew, the air was cooler and I was woken with a start.

The cart had stopped.

“Steady, lads,” said Mr Manly in a soothing way. From under the hay, I could see that Merrylegs’s ears were pricked and the cart shook as calm old Justice fussed and fretted in the shafts.

What was going on?

I heard the thud of galloping hooves in the distance. Merrylegs and the old cob both whinnied. They were answered with an excited neigh from far away across the fields. I could hear raised voices shouting in the distance too.

The cart creaked as Mr Manly shifted.

“Come on, Justice. Sounds like there’s trouble at Birtwick,” he said clicking his tongue. “Trot on. We best get home. . .”

Birtwick? So we were nearly there.

Justice had broken into a brisk trot.

The raised voices were still shouting far off. There seemed to be quite some hullabaloo – as if a large crowd had gathered. I could hear frantic neighs too. Urged on by the coachman, Justice had begun to canter. On the end of his rope, little Merrylegs was lolloping along behind. There wasn’t a moment to lose if I wanted to get out of the hay unseen.

“See you later, Merry . . . at Birtwick Park!” I whispered as I wriggled to the back of the cart. I was going to have to jump. I tried not to look down at the ground whizzing past. If this went wrong, I would break my back on the rough stones or Merrylegs would trample me with his hooves before he could even try and stop.

With shaky hands, I pulled Billy’s cap tight down on my head, closed my eyes and leapt sideways, praying I would land on the soft grass at the edge of the lane.

Whump! The wind was knocked out of me . . . but the ground was soft and mossy. I had landed on the verge. I opened one eye and rolled towards the high hedge, staying low in case Mr Manly turned his head. Thank goodness for Billy’s loose-fitting clothes. I would never have managed this in my skirts and petticoat. Not even in my riding habit.

As my breath returned, I lay back and smiled. I had done it. I had run away from home. I had leapt from a speeding cart. I was free.

As soon as the cart disappeared around the corner, I scrambled on to all fours. The bushes were flecked with wool and there was a small round hole in the bottom of the hedge which looked as if it might have been made by a sheep. I pushed my way through, eager to be off the public lane so I could sit a moment, steady myself and think.

But, as soon as I came out into the field on the other side, I blinked and gasped with surprise.

A beautiful black horse was galloping towards me. His saddle was hanging upside down beneath his belly, the stirrups flying up against his flanks. His reins were in a tangle too. His eyes were wild. But in spite of his disarray, he was the most incredible horse I had ever seen.

As I raised my head, I saw that the group of men I had heard were shouting and waving their arms from the next field as they sprinted in this direction. I could see the long, low shape of a stable block behind them.

Birtwick, I presumed. The horse must have bolted from home.

As he reached the hedge I had scrambled through he began to spin in wild circles, his long black tail held high with nerves. I saw the reins were caught around his leg; he might fall and break his neck.

“Whoa! Steady, boy.” I stepped forward and held out my hand towards him.

The horse skidded to a halt and stared at me, his ears pricked, ready to turn and bolt at any moment. At least he had stopped galloping. But his flanks were heaving and he snorted like a dragon.

I took another step forward and he threw his head in the air, rearing up in panic as the rein pulled against his leg.

“Shh. Don’t be afraid.” He had got himself in a terrible frenzy. If only I still had one of Merrylegs’s sugar lumps to offer him, then perhaps I could reach out and take hold of his bridle.

I looked down and saw that the front of Billy’s rough tweed waistcoat was covered with hay from the cart.

“Here, boy. It is not quite a sugar lump . . . but it is fresh and sweet.” I gathered the loose strands into a bunch and held the hay towards him as if I was a gentleman offering a lady a bouquet of flowers.

The frightened horse stretched out his nose and sniffed. He was big and beautiful – shiny black all over except for one white sock on his front leg and a perfect white star right in the middle of his forehead. The most beautiful creature I had ever set eyes on.

“You must be hungry after all that galloping,” I urged as he sniffed the hay again.

I noticed that the men had stopped shouting. Even from so far away they must have realized I was having some success and were holding back to see what happened next.

The horse nibbled the top of my bouquet of hay. I held my breath as I leant forward and slipped my fingers under the noseband of his bridle.

“Got you!” I said gently. I did not want to tug on the reins while they were still around his leg. But as he pulled the hay from my fingers and began to chew it, I raised my other arm and scratched between his ears. He let out a low sigh and lowered his velvet nose into my hand.

“There. Just like Merrylegs.” I laughed. “A big softy after all.”

The young horse watched me, still breathing heavily. He was even more wonderful close up than he had been from far away. His dark intelligent eyes blinked as he flared his nostrils.

“I wonder what your name is?” I whispered, letting him get used to the sound of my voice. “Maybe Ebony? Or Midnight? Just plain old Blackie, perhaps?” No. None of these seemed quite right. It would have to be something grand and beautiful. I had never seen a horse like him.

Still whispering, I ran my hand down his leg. He seemed to trust me at last and obediently lifted his hoof as I unlooped the tangled rein.

“There, that’s better isn’t it?” I said, holding the loose reins like a rope. I kept one hand close to the bit in his mouth. But, as soon as I tried to lead him forward, I realized we would have to do something about the saddle too. It was still hanging upside down underneath his belly.

I took one hand from the reins and patted his neck, moving gently towards his back. I had to stretch up to reach. He was so much bigger than Merrylegs. Fifteen or nearly sixteen hands perhaps. He was only a little smaller than Father’s hunter, Magnum, but of a much lighter build.

I patted his back and sides all around the upside-down saddle, stroking and soothing him. He turned his head to watch but didn’t shy away.

At last, I was brave enough to give a tug, but the saddle wouldn’t shift. I would have to try and unfasten it instead. As I pulled aside the leather flap I saw what had made the saddle slip in the first place. The strap holding the girth was almost frayed right through and hanging by just a few strong threads. I fumbled with the buckle.

Thump! The saddle hit the ground. The big black horse sprung forward again in fright. But I still had hold of the reins.

“Steady,” I coaxed, stretching out my hand until he let me rub his nose again. “You’re not a fighter, I can see that. You’ve had a fright. But look – now that silly old saddle is gone.”

I glanced across the big field towards the stable block where the men were watching.

“Well done, lad,” called one of them and I smiled to myself. I had almost forgotten I looked like a boy.

“Come on then,” I said, leaving the saddle lying in the mud and walking the magnificent horse beside me. “Time to take you back home.”

Everyone had said Squire Gordon had a fine stable at Birtwick Park. But I had never dreamed of a horse as magnificent as this.