Sixteen hands and a bit, warmblood with a strong dash of Arab, and young-four or maybe even a little less, early teens in horse years. Enough muscle and bone to carry a man in full armor, but a floating gait like thistledown. Spring sunlight brought out the gloss of her black coat and mane, where mud hadn't spattered up her legs and onto her belly and chest. Some idiot had left her saddled for far too long, and it was an odd-looking saddle as well, a tiny thing.
"Any of you recognize her?" he asked sharply.
"No, my lord," the head groom said respectfully, shaking his head. "Never seen her before in my life, and I think I'd remember; that's a fine horse. But there's a lot of bloodstock here with the army."
Wickham nodded in turn. The groom was a decade and change older than the knight, nearly forty, and very good at his job-otherwise he wouldn't be working at the Protector's principle country residence. Instead of replying the younger man walked further on the dung-littered, close-cropped grass of the paddock, extending a hand and talking soothingly.
"Whoa, girl. Steady there: " In a slightly different tone: "By God, someone was riding her without a bit! That's just a hackamore! And that's a kid's saddle, look at the stirrup-leathers."
The horse snorted and tossed its head as he approached, turning three-quarters on and looking at him out of one eye. It tossed its head again as he ran a hand down its arched neck, and stamped one foot on the ground. That made a faint ringing sound, like a muted, far-off cymbal.
This is the first horse I've ever seen in all my life without a single fault I could find, he thought. What a pity if nobody could claim her!
"You're a good-natured lady too, I bet," he said. You'd have to be, if a kid was riding you. Even so, what a stupid risk – this is a warhorse if I've ever seen one. What the helclass="underline"
He eased the bridle off and gave it a look. It was a perfectly standard piece of harness, new-made but from well-tanned leather kept supple with neat's-foot oil and hard work, perhaps a little simpler and lighter than most; the metalwork was plain brass and stainless steel and someone had cleaned it carefully not too long ago. The saddle was elementary, a mere pad, even lighter than an English hunting saddle, and secured by a single girth. He unbuckled that as well, lifting it off her back, and then the saddle blanket, marveling at the condition of the muscles of her back and barrel. Leaving a saddle on a horse for days was a crime, although possibly she'd just run off. But whoever owned her had cared for her very well indeed before that. He cast a quick look at her hooves, which was easier when she picked one up and pawed at the turf. They were sound, and the shoes looked fairly new, and as if the farrier knew his business.
"Get me a hobble," he snapped over his shoulder, offering a piece of dried apple in one palm.
The horse took it, then turned away again; it twitched its skin when he tried to stroke its neck again. The head groom picked up the light pad saddle and turned it over in work-hardened hands.
"Sir James," he said suddenly. "Look at this!"
The knight drew himself out of a dream. It had been a very pleasant dream; nobody claimed the mare, he performed some heroic deed right where the right person could see it in the battles to come: title on the estate near Walla Walla he'd been half promised: the Protector gave him the stud services of his Salafin, and he bred him to this proud beauty to produce the perfect destrier:
"What is it?" he asked sharply.
"Look," the groom said simply, holding up the saddle.
There was a design on the flap, tooled into the fine-grained brown leather with an awl. A circle flanked by two crescents pointing out to left and right:
"Jesus!" he said, crossing himself and taking half a step back, scrubbing his hand against his side. "Hecate's moon. The Witch-mark!"
"Should I get a priest, my lord?" the groom said expressionlessly.
"Yes. And get the officer of the day-Lord Burton. And get me that hobble."
An under-groom came running with it an instant later. He took it in his own hands and advanced again, stooping.
"So, so, so, quietly there, girl-"
"Watch out!"
Sir James managed to get an arm up before the hoof hit his face. It was a forward flick with the forehoof, not a milling downward strike, and only the bone of his arm broke midway between elbow and wrist as the sheet steel of the vam-brace bent. His breath hissed out at the spike of shrill, cold agony up the nerves of his arm, and he curled around it. More pain as a stamp cracked ribs through mail and padding, and then the mare was away and took the fence in a floating leap that brought a gasp of wonder to him, even through the agony in arm and chest.
Hands lifted him a little, and he cursed breathlessly. "Carefully, oaf! It's a sprung rib and a broken arm. Get a doctor."
So much for my visible heroism, he thought. I'm not going anywhere except very carefully to the toilet for the rest of this campaigning season.
"That was one beautiful horse, though."
Tail and mane like flags, it paced away northward.
Near Mount Angel, Willamette Valley, Oregon
March 6th, 2008/Change Year 9
"Nigel!" Juniper said, and seized him for a quick, fierce hug before stepping back.
"My dear," Nigel Loring said, slightly shocked at how haggard Juniper's face had grown. "I heard. I seriously don't think they'll hurt him, though. They'll want to make use of him."
Juniper nodded. "They'll expect fear for him to wear me down, the which I will not allow," she said stoutly. "And since there's nothing we can do about it now, let's attend to what we can do."
He nodded, keeping the admiration off his face. I worry enough about Alleyne now, and he's a man grown, he thought. I can't begin to imagine what it would have been like to have him carried off at nine. And I know full well she's thinking But I wasn't there! Over and over again.
Instead, he looked up at the sky. It wasn't raining anymore, this cold and windy afternoon, but it was wet enough, with wisps of fog drifting from the tops of the trees on the ridges about them. That would neutralize the enemy's air scouts, at least for a while.
Juniper took a deep breath and ducked back under the awning set up under an overhang of the gravel pit's wall. There was very little there, besides the shelter itself; a bedroll covered in hard-woven greased wool, and a small chest that mostly contained maps now spread out on a folding table. Sam Aylward was looking at one as they entered, standing side-by-side with John Brown; he dipped his head to Juniper, and then nodded to his old commander.
"Lady," he said. "Sir Nigel."
"What's the word?" the CORA leader said eagerly. "My guys' horses are get-tin' hungry. They can't eat fir needles."
"I had a very productive conversation with Abbot Dmwoski and his staff," Nigel said. "A most remarkable man. We all left safely-they have a remarkable collection of secret passages and posterns, too. And now we should really begin."
The rancher nodded. "Glad to get on with it," he said. "Our fodder's just about gone and there isn't enough grass up here. Wouldn't want to try this if my remuda lost its edge."
"Very well," Nigel said. He bent over the map, and everyone else followed suit. "The encampment is here, with ditch, bank and barbed wire on top, and a surveillance tower at each corner."
Juniper nodded, blinking her leaf green eyes. He admired the way she could put aside grief; even more, he admired the way she'd picked up the tricks of the fighter's trade without any formal training, simply by experience and by being around experts.
"First, let's poke them with a stick," she said.
Lord Emiliano Gutierrez, Baron Dayton, Marchwarden of the South, looked down at the commander of the eastern mercenaries attached to his force.