Page 60 of Seducing the Sorcerer
“Sorry. Pains me to think of it. There was one horse. Philo, we called her. Short for Philosopher because she had such a considering look in her eye. She’d been the old lord’s favourite for nigh on thirty years. She’d been the wheel horse for his carriage. Right reliable. Dependable. Lovely horse. Followed him around like a great big dog, she did. Used to put her head in his breakfast room window and eat crusts out of his hand.
“Anyway, Philo was too old for anyone to want her. I led her to the knackers and she followed me like a lamb. I had peppermints, see, which she was partial to. She liked the chalky ones best. And I held her while the bloke took his gun and drove that great iron bolt in her head. I had to stay because she was frightened, see? But I thought she might feel less frightened if I was there with...with a pile of peppermints in...in my hand.”
Fenn had to wipe his eyes again. And his nose. He saw something move out of the corner of his eye and realised Morgrim was offering him a handkerchief. A black one, of course. He took it and blew his nose, hard. He’d never told the full story to anyone before, and it was pouring out of him; all the details, all the pain, like a torrent. If Morgrim had spoken a word, Fenn might have been able to stop. But Morgrim was just sitting there in the hay, in silence. Listening.
“Thanks,” Fenn said, holding up the handkerchief. He held on to it though. Just in case.
“Anyway, I did all that. I sold all the horses or saw them put to death. And then I came home. To the estate. It wasn’t going to be my home for much longer, but I had nowhere else to go. I was supposed to be out within the week. And as I walked up the driveway, I saw one of the footmen, drinking out of a bottle. Nico, his name was. Young bloke. I didn’t know him well because he was new. And he’d lost his job and I’d lost everything and he called me over and offered me a swig and I took it.
“And I asked him no questions and he asked me none. He knew where I’d been. Happen he could see in my face what it had done to me. And I said, ‘what about another bottle?’ and he said ‘in the cellar’ and I went and got one. It wasn’t locked but I knew it was stealing. I knew it. I did. But at that moment I didn’t care. I don’t know; it was almost like I wanted to be caught and punished for something because I was that miserable. And we drank that bottle too, sat there under a tree, the meadows silent and empty around us what should have been full of horses. And we finished it and I said ‘what about another?’ and he agreed and I went a second time to the cellars and this time I took a bottle of brandy.
“And they found us, of course, and the new lord had us arrested and charged. The magistrate was a friend of his. And anyway, I didn’t deny it. I had stolen them bottles.”
Fenn took a deep breath.
“So, I did my time, but I didn’t get no letter of recommendation after that. I was twenty-seven by then, and ashamed of myself. So, I left Mandillo. And that was when I got the worst shock of my life. Because although there are stables still on some of the big estates, they wouldn’t look at me without a recommendation. And once, when they did take a chance, they dug a bit like what you did, and they found out I was a thief and maybe a drunkard and I lost the job anyway.
“So, I set to wandering, and I tried this and that. And could have knuckled down to a farm job or a factory job or whatever. But somehow, I couldn’t. It was like I was haunted. Because I knew what life could be like. It was as if I couldn’t rest until I’d found another stables and another chance to be happy.”
Outside, the rain came down heavy again. It roared on the slate roof and gurgled in the gutters.
“A few years back I got a job as stable manager for the pack horses that used to do the Crielli Pass run. I told you that. It was too steep, too narrow, too windy for velocipedes or carriages, so people had to ride, or walk. And I was horrified when I took it on because the horses were so thin. And some of them had sores and they just weren’t looked after right. And I soon realised why. He barely fed them, the bloke what owned them. I complained but he wouldn’t budge over his profits. I bought feed out of my own pay for years, because I couldn’t bear to see them at the end of a long day without enough to eat. But I was always giving him the rough edge of my tongue about it, so he hated me, and when the tunnel went through, he sold them off or sent them for slaughter and he wouldn’t give me a recommendation either. Said I was ‘too abrasive’. That’s what he called me. Because I told him he was starving them horses when he was.
“Anyway, then I had what most folk would call a stroke of luck. I’d got friendly with the young fellow what was in charge of building the tunnel. An engineer, he was, and he was a bit like you in that he was a clever bloke who liked his men rough. And he knew he’d done me out of a job with his tunnel, so he put in a word and got me a post as one of the toll keepers. Halver for a carriage, brass for a velocipede and a copper for foot traffic.
“And so, I sat there, in my tollbooth, with my elbow out the window and I took the money and opened the gate a hundred times a day. And the next day I did it all again. I had a room in the tollhouse as a perquisite and—Gods! I tried so hard to be grateful. I knew I ought to think I was well off, with a steady job and a place to live. I knew it was lucky. I knew it.
“But all the same, I took to drinking my pay away at the end of every week. And that there tollbooth felt every day more like a prison cell. Or a coffin. And I thought back on some of the past jobs I could have stayed at—because I’d had some, see—where they never thought to ask about my background. And some of those jobs had had a horse or two to look after. None of them big stables, not like I was used to, but I decided an outdoors job with one horse would be better than what I had.
“And one day at the end of my shift I went for a walk and I never went back. Abandoned my post. Don’t know why I did that. Wasn’t right in the head. But I thought if I went back, I’d die. Not on the outside maybe. I’d still be breathing and talking and taking tolls, but inside. You know what I mean? I felt like there was just one little live spark inside me and if I didn’t give it air right away it’d snuff out and I’d be dead.
“So, I walked. And I took what work I could find and I slept where I could. And I told myself it was better than living and dying inside that coffin, and I tried to believe that was true. But it was cruel hard sometimes and I don’t know how much longer I could have kept on.
“And then, of course, I went to that farm and got the worple horse. And here I am. And that...that’s what I reckon you ought to know.”
Fenn stopped. His mouth was dry and his head was aching and he felt useless and empty and as if he’d ruined something good, talking at Morgrim for so long. He hadn’t meant to go on and on. Now he’d finished, he wasn’t sure what had possessed him. Morgrim was a gentleman, so he hadn’t interrupted, but he must be bored stiff, listening to all Fenn’s complaints and old woes.
“Sorry,” Fenn said dully. “Never told no one all that before. Don’t reckon I’ve talked so much in all my life.”
“Fenn?”
Fenn looked up reluctantly. He felt as if he’d taken a beating and had no defences left. So many words had vomited out of him that he felt he had none left to respond to anything Morgrim might say.
But Morgrim took his hand and kissed him, very soft, on the lips. “I’m sorry. About all your beautiful horses.”
“They weren’t never mine,” Fenn said.
It was what he always said to himself, as if by reminding himself of the fact he could somehow harden up and remove himself from the pain. Morgrim’s brows came down in a gentler version of his terrifying frown.
“Of course they were yours,” he said.
Fenn wanted to disagree, but the words wouldn’t form in his mouth and in any case, suddenly he knew that Morgrim was right. They had been his horses, all of them. Maybe not in law or in anyone else’s eyes, but deep down, in Fenn’s heart, they had all of them always belonged to him, as truly and as certainly as he had belonged to them. And maybe he felt even worse, because Morgrim was handing him back a whole lifetime of pain, but somehow he also felt stronger, because finally someone had seen him and understood and was allowing him to be soft and hurt and in anguish.
Morgrim got to his feet and pulled Fenn into the first stall where the blanket lay at Squab’s feet. The horse gave them a sleepy glance and twitched its ears. Fenn lay down on the blanket, too worn out to speak or do anything else. Morgrim left the stall and Fenn thought that was it, that Morgrim would leave him there and go back to the tower to sleep in his bed.
But Morgrim came back into the stall. He’d got the lantern and his robe. He put the robe on over his head, but left the buttons undone. He turned the lantern off, lay down next to Fenn and put an arm around him. And they were still, surrounded by the scent of hay and horses and the hiss of the rain. Morgrim was warm against him, demanding nothing, but creating with his presence a strong and subtle magic that was at once astounding and familiar.
Fenn closed his eyes, and the drip that sounded like footsteps became the crisp thud of a horse’s hooves, and he was riding Philo one more time. Not taking her far because she wasn’t a saddle horse, but she tolerated him on her back after all this time. And the air was golden with poplar fluff and they were heading to the top field, where he’d let her loose to eat the sweet grass and to stand with her companions in the cool of the evening, whisking their tails at the flies as the sun went down.
