Rake Most Likely To Thrill. Bronwyn Scott
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news to Archer. He was starting to see that his mother’s stories of the great race had left out certain details. It was easy enough to do. When one lived in a particular milieu, there were nuances that one took for granted and assumed everyone else did too. ‘I think I understand, but give me an example.’
Giacomo grinned and warmed to the subject. ‘Consider the horse that won the July Palio, Morello de Jacopi. He is owned by Lorenzo Jacopi, but the Pantera Contrada drew him for the race. It doesn’t matter what contrada Jacopi is aligned with, if any. For the race, the horse is Pantera’s. If the horse is selected again for the August Palio, another contrada might draw him.
‘Hopefully us.’ Giacomo leaned in although there was no one on the road to hear. ‘He’s the best-looking horse this year and I think we could put a better fantino on him than any of the other contradas.’
The remark wounded Archer although he knew it wasn’t his uncle’s intention. He could be that rider if his uncle would give him a chance. ‘If the horse has proven himself by winning, surely he’s an immediate choice for the August race,’ Archer put in.
‘You Englishmen are always so direct.’ Giacomo laughed. ‘You’re thinking just like your father, that speed matters. It does to some extent. But now, you must think like an Italian, like a Sienese. If we all know who the fastest horse is, the race is less exciting. Why race if the outcome is certain?’ He gave Archer a sharp look, daring him to debate the proposition.
For all that his mother had taught him about her city and her language, she’d not taught him that. Archer had no answer. ‘First you tell me a contrada doesn’t enter its own horse and now you tell me the race isn’t about speed? I’m afraid it all seems a bit counter-intuitive.’
‘It’s like this,’ his uncle explained, clearly revelling in the chance to delve into the intricacies of the great race. This Archer was prepared for. His mother had told him that for many in Siena, the mental exercise of the Palio was raced all year. ‘Every contrada should have an equal chance to win the Palio. To that end, the horses are selected to give everyone the best chance for an equal race. Obviously, horses who are hurt or not in good physical condition are not considered. They would obviously put the contrada who raced them at a disadvantage. But also, a horse who is too good might give a contrada who drew it an unfair advantage. When the capitani vote for the horses that should be in the drawing, we vote for the horses that will create the most equal race. The horses that are chosen for the honour are neither too fast or too slow, but just right. They fit well with each other.’
The fastest horse didn’t race? That sounded crazy to Archer but he did not dare to say it out loud. It would be imprudent to question a centuries-old tradition. Who was he to say it was wrong? It was merely different, vastly different than the straightforward tradition of speed he’d been raised to.
‘Of course, a good fantino isn’t going to let a horse go all out in the trials if he’s too fast,’ Giacomo put in cryptically. ‘There are ways to ensure your horse fits in.’ Good lord, Archer thought. This wasn’t a horse race, it was a chess game. Based on the statistics, Torre played the game well. His uncle’s contrada had won the Palio eleven per cent of the time over the past three hundred or so years. Many of the successes of the past twenty years had been his uncle’s doing as the contrada’s capitano.
The farm came into view, a lovely spread of flat green pasture fanning out before them with a brown-brick farmhouse rising in Tuscan style in the background. The age-old desire of man to claim land and to make it his own surged within Archer, so compelling was the scene spread before him. This was what he wanted—a home of his own where he was master, not of the land necessarily, that was rather egotistical, but master of himself and his destiny, where his children ran alongside the horses in the grass, where his sons and daughters would ride bareback through the fields, where he worked hard each day and retired each evening to a table full of fresh country food and a wife to warm his bed and his heart.
It was an entirely fanciful notion. He had some of that in Newmarket but there, he was always the earl’s second son and the stables had been part of the family long before he’d taken over. There was also the issue of wealth and social standing. There were appearances to keep up at Newmarket. He could not muck out the stalls or work too closely with the stable hands. He could hand out orders, design breeding programs and instruct the riders who exercised the Crawford string. But that was all. Heaven forbid his father heard his son had been out riding like a common jockey or cleaning stalls. And his father always heard. How many times had he been told by the earl that gentlemen rode to the hunt? That they bet on the races?
They swung off their horses as the man they’d come to meet strode out to greet them. Michele di Stefano was a man of middling stature and easy confidence, dressed in farm clothes. There was hand-shaking and cheek-kissing, something Archer didn’t think he’d ever get used to. He couldn’t imagine Haviland ever kissing his cheek, although he could very well imagine Nolan doing it just to goad him. Nolan would like Tuscany with all its touchy rituals. Nolan was a great believer in the idea that people were more inclined to trust you if you touched them.
They tromped out to the stables and the paddocks where his uncle’s two horses—both high-spirited chestnut beauties—were running the length of the fence. Giacomo and the man talked briefly before the man excused himself to see to other guests. For the first time, Archer noted how busy the stables were. They were not the only guests who’d come to see the horses. ‘I see you’re not the only one who thought to come out and view the horses,’ Archer said slyly.
Giacomo elbowed him teasingly. ‘Everyone is interested in making the race equal. There are three weeks until the horses are chosen. The capitani from the different contradas will spend the time travelling to the different stables looking for horses and fantini. Naturally, the capitani have been looking all year, but now that we’ve got one race behind us, we know what must be done for the next. We’re looking to fill in gaps.’ Giacomo lowered his voice. ‘What that really means is that we’re all looking for a horse to beat Jacopi’s Morello.’ This last was said with more seriousness than it had been on the road, a clear indicator that they were in earnest on this mission.
‘Tell me, mio nipote, what do you think of the horses?’ Here came the first test. Archer was ready.
‘I think they run quite nicely, but at a distance that is all I can tell. Let’s go in. I want to look at their legs.’ Archer was already heading into the paddock, slices of apple retrieved from a pocket and at the ready in his outstretched hand, his voice low and sure. It was an irresistible invitation. Both horses wasted no time making his acquaintance.
Archer stroked their manes and played a bit with them before beginning his examination. He checked teeth and ran his hands down their legs, finding the bones strong and the muscles cool. ‘They are in good shape. Now, how they’ll do with a rider remains to be seen.’ He brushed his hands on his riding breeches and stepped back.
‘We should take them to my farm, then, to join the others?’ his uncle asked. ‘I have riders there who will work with the horses we want to nominate.’
‘Yes, definitely take them,’ Archer said confidently, his blood starting to hum at the mention of a horse farm. He’d not realised his uncle had a place outside the one in town. ‘Perhaps I could deliver them for you if you’re busy?’ He was suddenly anxious to see this place.
His uncle smiled and Archer grinned, laughing at himself. He had taken his uncle’s bait quite easily. ‘You’re just like your father when it comes to horses, eager as a school boy.’ His uncle clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You may pick them up tomorrow and deliver them to our villa.’ There was something else in his uncle’s eyes too, something that said he had passed the first test.
‘Just like my father?’ Archer queried, not sure if he liked the sound of that. He’d spent most of his life trying to avoid such a comparison.
His uncle studied his face for a moment, his happy eyes sobering a little. ‘Like he used to be the summer