Jack Whyte - The Sorcer part 2 - Metamorphosis

Only in the far southwest, in Ironhair's Cornwall, could I see any threat of unrest, and there was nothing I could do about that, outside of sending my own spies into Ironhair's lands to discover what was happening there. I resolved to do that as soon as possible, after consulting with my brother and our senior strategists. In the meantime, I would write to Germanus, in care of Enos, and also to Vortigern.

Thus resolved, I set out to look for my brother, to share my thoughts with him.

THIRTEEN

I arose earlier my second day home, but dawn was already bright in the sky and Tress was absent from my bed again. I made my way downstairs, my head still full of sleep, and found my way to the bathhouse, but judging by the evidence of water splashed about, she had already been there and gone. Some time later, fully dressed and hungry, I entered the Villa's kitchen to break my fast and learned from Plato that my lady had made her way up to the fort to join Shelagh, as she had the previous day. Curious now as to what these two might be about so early in the day, I asked Plato to have my horse brought to the main entrance, and when I had eaten I went directly up to the fort to find them.

I had another mission that morning as well. I needed to go to the stables and talk to one of our masters of horse about selecting a new mount to replace my faithful Germanicus. My requirements were simple: the horse merely needed to be physically large enough to bear my weight. I would have preferred it to be a black, but I was prepared to accept anything I could find, for the time being. The loss of Germanicus was yet too fresh for me to relish the thought of having to replace him with another mount of which I might become fond.

Although the morning sun was now high in the sky, it had not yet penetrated the open doors; the stables were still dark and cool, illuminated by flickering lamps set into mortared sconces over wide bowls that would catch any falling sparks before they could ignite the straw that lay piled on the floors. I rode directly in through the large double doors, to be surrounded immediately by the thick, living smell of the place. Nothing else in the world smells like a horse barn. I breathed deeply and looked about me before dismounting, searching for the groom who ought to be on duty, since the stables were never to be left untended. On this occasion, however, I was alone in the huge building, save for the animals, more than three score of them, in their stalls.

I tied my reins around a post, intending to return and unsaddle the animal and brush him down once I had looked at the horses at the far end of the barn, where single stalls housed the aristocrats of our equine population. The stables had been swept very recently, the streaks of broom sweeps still clearly visible on the hard packed floor, and a fresh pile of straw had been brought in but not yet spread. Clean as the floor was, I picked my way carefully as I walked, attempting to keep my fine new boots dry. There were twelve single stalls, but I went no farther than the first of them, where I found a high and noble head craning high above mine, looking down at me. My first impression was of tremendous height, and then of jet black ears twitching and pointing downwards, the space between them filled with a stiff, high standing mane. And then I saw the eyes.

Hardly daring to believe that such a horse could be here, in these stalls, I moved forward and opened the gate. He backed up nervously, tossing his head and whuffling through his great nostrils as I approached. When I was face to face with him I stopped, looking up, and then stretched out my hand. He hesitated there for a count of three heartbeats, then gently dipped his head and stretched his neck to investigate my hand with his soft muzzle. I felt immediate regret that I had brought no gift for him, but I contented myself with stroking his muzzle silently and simply looking at him, or at as much of him as I could see. He seemed coal black, but so was the interior of the stall. He made no effort to withdraw from me, and finally I hooked my fingers into the plain rope halter that he wore and led him, first out into the central aisle of the barn and then out into the full light of the morning, where I could examine him properly.

He was magnificent, taller at the shoulder and more heavily muscled than even Germanicus had been, and a lump swelled in my throat as I looked at him, at the way the light made his glossy coat shimmer like black water. His mane and tail were long and clean, and great feathery leggings grew down over his fetlocks, almost concealing his hoofs ; completely. His back was straight and broad and the muscles of his chest rippled as he moved, backing up, away from me. There was not a blemish on his entire coat; he was black from the tips of his ears to the polished black horn of his hooves.

"His name is Bucephalus." I swung about at the unexpected sound of the voice so close behind me. Shelagh and Tress were watching me from the doorway of the stables, and so astonished was I to see them there that it did notoccur to me to ask them how they came to be there. Instead, I turned back immediately to the horse.

"Whose is he?"

I heard Tress laugh. "He's yours, of course." By the time I had whipped my head around to look at her, all trace of ' laughter had faded from her face and voice. "We did not expect Germanicus to die, any more than you did, but Ambrose had this colt set aside for you four years ago, before he was even a year old, and had him raised in secrecy. Germanicus was beginning to grow old, and Ambrose foresaw the day when he would no longer be strong enough to carry you... "

Shelagh took up where she had left off. "Donuil told me about Germanicus as soon as he arrived, and so we had Bucephalus here brought in yesterday from the farm where he was raised. "

I smiled at Shelagh, thanking her wordlessly, and then turned back to the horse. "He's been well broken, I can see that. There's no fear in him, no skittishness. Who trained him, do you know?"

"I did. " Shelagh's statement, and the casual way she said it, brought me around on my heel to gape at her, but she ignored my surprise completely. "And there's coltishness in him to spare. He's a wild one, but he has a sweet disposition once he has given his trust. " She smiled at me, no more than a trace of mockery in her eyes. "Much like you, in fact. "

I was still gaping. "You broke him by yourself?"'

"No, not by myself, not all alone. I worked with the master of horse. But I was first up on his back and I was first to ride him. He taught me all his tricks; I taught him mine. "

"I see. " I could tell from the colour in her cheeks that Shelagh was proud of her achievement in this, and justifiably so. I glanced at Tress. "And did you name him, too? Bucephalus?"

"Not I! Yon's a foreign name from foreign parts. I had nothing to do with it. "

"I believe you, Shelagh, " I told her, grinning widely. "But d'you know who Bucephalus was, the first Bucephalus?"

"Aye, the horse of some Outland king. "

"Emperor, Shelagh, he was more than a mere king. He was the greatest warrior of all the ancient world, before the time of Rome. Alexander of Macedon. Men called him Alexander the Great, and his horse was Bucephalus."

"Aye, I've heard. And it threw him over a cliff, did it not, and killed him? Bad omen for a king who would ride this one. It was your brother Ambrose who named him."

"Ah, Ambrose again. Then I had best thank him soon, for he has made me a fine gift, here. The name is wrong, nevertheless, and we'll change it now. Bucephalus was white, as I recall. This fellow's name is Germanicus. The' ninth Germanicus to serve Britannicus."

Tress had moved forward to stand beside me, and as I placed my arm over her shoulders I became aware for the first time of how strangely she was dressed. I had grown used to seeing Shelagh in men's riding clothes over the years, but now I realized that beneath her long, concealing cloak, Tressa was also wearing some form of armour. I brought her around in front of me and pulled apart the edges of her cloak, staring in amazement at the toughened leather cuirass she was wearing over a short, military kilt of armoured straps. Her long legs were breech clad like a trooper's, albeit in far finer leather and far more richly worked, very much like my own. By the time I raised my eyes from her legs to her face, she had blushed crimson. I looked from her to Shelagh.