Meridon. Philippa Gregory
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the driving seat, and another of Da’s young ponies, too small to be ridden by anyone heavier than me, and too wild to be managed by any normal child.
‘The hunter will go to a flash young fool,’ he predicted confidently. ‘And that young ’un should go as a young lady’s ride.’
‘He’s a bit wild,’ I said carefully.
‘He’ll sell on his colour,’ Da said certainly, and I could not disagree. He was a wonderful pale grey, a grey almost silver with a sheen like satin on his coat. I had washed him this morning, and been thoroughly wetted and kicked for my pains, but he looked as bright as a unicorn.
‘He’s pretty,’ I conceded. ‘Da, if he sells – can Dandy and me go to the fair and buy her some ribbons, and some stockings?’
Da grunted, but he was not angry. The prospect of the fair and big profits had made him as sweet as he could be – which, God knew, was sour enough.
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’ll give you some pennies for fairings.’ He slid the tack off Jess’s back and tossed it carelessly up on the step of the caravan. Jess jumped at the noise and stepped quickly sideways, her heavy hoof scraping my bare leg. I swore and rubbed the graze. Da paid no attention to either of us.
‘Only if these horses sell,’ he said. ‘So you’d better start working the young one right away. You can lunge him before your dinner, and then work him all the day. I want you on his back by nightfall. If you can stay on, you can gad off to the fair. Not otherwise.’
The look I gave him was black enough. But I dared do nothing more. I pulled Jess’s halter on and staked her out where she would graze near the caravan and went, surly, to the new grey pony tied on the back of the wagon. ‘I hate you,’ I said under my breath. The caravan tipped as Da went inside. ‘You are mean and a bully and a lazy fool. I hate you and I wish you were dead.’
I took the long whip and the long reins and got behind the grey pony and gently, patiently, tried to teach it two months’ training in one day so that Dandy and me could go to the fair with a penny in our pockets.
I was so deep in the sullens that I hardly noticed a man watching me from one of the other caravans. He was seated on the front step of his wagon, a pipe in his hand, tobacco smoke curling upwards in the still hot air above his head. I was concentrating on getting the grey pony to go in a circle around me. I stood in the centre, keeping the whip low, sometimes touching him to keep him going on, mostly calling to him to keep his speed going steady. Sometimes he went well, round and around me, and then suddenly he would kick out and rear and try to make a bolt for it, dragging me for shuddering strides across the grass until I dug my heels in and pulled him to a standstill and started the whole long process of making him walk in a steady circle again.
I was vaguely aware of being watched. But my attention was all on the little pony – as pretty as a picture and keen-witted. And as unwilling to work in the hot morning sunshine as I was. As angry and resentful as me.
Only when Da had got down from the caravan, pulled on his hat and headed off in the direction of the fair did I stop the pony and let him dip his head down and graze. I slumped down then myself for a break and laid aside the whip and spoke gently to him while he was eating. His ears – which had been back on his head in ill humour ever since we had started – flickered forward at the sound of my voice, and I knew the worst of it was over until I had to give him the shock of my weight on his back.
I stretched out and shut my eyes. Dandy was away to the fair to see what work she and Zima might do. Da was touting for a customer for his old hunter. Zima was clattering pots in the caravan, and her baby was crying with little hope of being attended. I was as solitary as I was ever able to be. I sighed and listened to a lark singing up in the sky above me, and the cropping sound of the pony grazing close to my head.
‘Hey! Littl’un!’ It was a low call from the man on the step of the caravan. I sat up cautiously and shaded my eyes to see him. It was a fine wagon, much bigger than ours and brightly painted. Down the side in swirly red and gold letters it said words I could not read; with a great swirly ‘E’ which I guessed signified horses for there was a wonderful painted horse rearing up before a lady dressed as fine as a queen twirling a whip under its hooves.
The man’s shirt was white, nearly clean. His face was shaved and plump. He was smiling at me, friendly. I was instantly suspicious.
‘That’s thirsty work,’ he said kindly. ‘Would you like a mug of small beer?’
‘What for?’ I asked.
‘You’re working well, I enjoyed watching you,’ he said. He got to his feet and went inside his wagon, his fair head brushing the top of the doorway. He came out with two small pewter mugs of ale, and stepped down carefully from the step, his eyes on the mugs. He came towards me with one outstretched. I got to my feet and eyed him, but I did not put out my hand for the drink though I was parched and longing for the taste of the cool beer on my tongue and throat.
‘What d’you want?’ I asked, my eyes on the mug.
‘Maybe I want to buy the horse,’ he said. ‘Go on, take it. I won’t bite.’
That brought my eyes to his face. ‘I’m not afraid of you,’ I said defiantly. I looked down longingly at the drink again. ‘I’ve no money to buy it,’ I said.
‘It’s for free!’ he said impatiently. ‘Take it, you silly wench.’
‘Thank you,’ I said gruffly and took it from his hand. The liquid was malty on my tongue and went down my throat in a delicious cool stream. I gulped three times and then paused, to make it last the longer.
‘Are you in the horse business?’ he asked.
‘You’d best ask my da,’ I said.
He smiled at my caution and sat down on the grass at my feet. After a little hesitation, I sat too.
‘That’s my wagon,’ he said pointing to the caravan. ‘See that on the side? Robert Gower? That’s me. Robert Gower’s Amazing Equestrian Show! That’s me and my business. All sorts I do. Dancing ponies, fortune-telling ponies, acrobatic horses, trick-riding, cavalry charges. And the story of Richard the Lionheart and Saladin, in costume, and with two stallions.’
I gaped at him. ‘How many horses have you got?’ I asked.
‘Five,’ he said. ‘And the stallion.’
‘I thought you said two stallions,’ I queried.
‘It looks like two,’ he said, unabashed. ‘Richard the Lionheart rides the grey stallion. Then we black him up and he is Saladin’s mighty ebony steed. I black-up too, to be Saladin. So what?’
‘Nothing!’ I said hastily. ‘Are these your horses?’
‘Aye,’ he said gesturing at the ponies I had noticed earlier. ‘These four ponies, and the skewbald which pulls the wagon and works as a rosinback. My boy’s riding the stallion around the town, crying-up the show. We’re giving a show in the next-door field. Two performances at three and seven. Today and Every Day. By Public Demand. For the Duration.’
I said nothing. Many of the words I did not understand. But I recognized the ring of the showground barker.
‘You like horses,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘My da buys them, or trades them. We both train them. We often sell children’s ponies. So I trains them.’
‘When will this one be ready?’ Robert Gower nodded to the grey pony.
‘Da wants to sell him this week,’ I said. ‘He’ll be half-broke by then.’
He pursed his lips and whistled soundlessly. ‘That’s fast work,’ he said. ‘You must take a lot of tumbles. Or is it your da who rides them?’
‘It’s me!’ I said indignantly. ‘I’ll lunge him all today and I’ll get on him tonight.’
He