What delighted me most were the pair of fleece-lined boots that tied on all the way to my knees. These would help my shins and toes recover from the chilblains that often kept me awake at night. We were having a very cold spring and the itching kept me up, even with the salve Canyd had given me. Everyone was looking forward to warmer weather, when such winter ailments would cease.
THE TROOP ARRIVED-somewhat supercilious, as warriors can be, toward the farmers whom they protected. But the soldiers’ attitude changed for the better when they saw the big, bold black Libyan stallions they must escort. The soldiers were properly impressed when they were taken to the fields to see the broodmares and their foals. The foals that they had had at foot last year were yearlings now, and if their glossy black-and-brown coats did not make them stand out from the native ponies, their size did. They were the same height as most of the grown animals at grass.
The captain of the troop, Manob, looked askance at me when I was introduced as Cornix’s hostler and veterinary; he nodded more approvingly when Teldys listed my abilities.
Manob’s men were a very rough lot and regarded mere farmers with small tolerance and much skepticism. I knew that I would have to prove myself to them on the trip and I was very nervous about that.
In my eyes, however, Manob rose in estimation when he most courteously asked Canyd to check over the feet of the troop’s horses.
“Some need their hooves trimmed, and we’ve one that’s walking short.” Manob frowned. “But there’s no heat in the leg.”
“Bring him first,” Canyd said, and gestured to me to accompany him.
Immediately Manob bellowed for the trooper to present his mount. Hoping I’d be able to guess right on the cause of lameness, I followed Canyd to the smithy. There we donned the heavy leather aprons that protected us against a horse pulling his foot roughly from our grasp.
I nodded at Alun and his sons, who were finishing the last of the sandals I would be taking with me. The day before, I had sharpened my hoof knives, so my tools were all in the smithy; but I didn’t move for them until Canyd gave me another peremptory gesture. When he saw my startled expression, he nodded solemnly.
“Begin this journey as you mean to go on, Galwyn,” he said. The use of my name warned me that I would be doing the work while he oversaw it. Well, at least he’d be there now to support-or deny-my ministrations.
“Trot him up,” Canyd called, waving his arm at the soldier leading a bright bay pony.
It, too, was larger than the usual moor ponies, and it occurred to me that Lord Artos had been trying before, with some degree of success, to breed size from local animals. But they were still ponies in build: stocky, short-coupled-tough, yes, but not long enough in the leg or big enough in the barrel and chest to support men who were seventeen or sometimes eighteen hands in height.
As I had been taught, I watched for any unevenness of stride.
“He’s favoring the near fore,” I said, noting when the pony’s head bobbed.
Canyd made one of his agreeing sounds.
Even as we watched, the horse’s stride leveled. When his rider brought him to a halt in front of us, I had a notion as to the problem.
Running my hand from the pony’s shoulder down his leg, I could feel no heat. So I hauled his foot up by the hairy tuft of fetlock. He was, at least, well accustomed to having his feet attended, for he did not resist.
There was just a touch of heat in the sole, at one side. I took my tongs and clamped about that section of the horny hoof. The pony struggled to free his foot but I had it firmly caught between my knees and had set myself, prepared to forestall any resistance. I took a paring knife and carefully, right at the point of tenderness, cut. Almost instantly a gout of dirty gray-yellow fluid gushed out, released by the knife cut.