Then, to my total consternation, Rhodri told me this time I would ride Cornix and lead the pony.
“You’re far too heavy now to ride that pony such a distance. And with his short legs, he’d be holding the cavalry to his pace. Not wise,” Rhodri said. “Since he’s still the stallion’s stablemate, he must go, or unsettle Lord Artos’s pride and joy. No, you lead him this time.”
I was aghast. My ability to stay on a horse had unproved, my reflexes sharpened by the desire to avoid more broken bones. And it was true that I had ridden Cornix from time to time and he seemed to be less fractious with me astride him than others.
“But… but…” Why was I putting up so many objections to having my most private dreams come true: to ride Cornix to Camelot; to see Lord Artos again; to be able to prove how useful I could be to him?
My thoughts were interrupted by a dig in the ribs from the mischievous Yayin, one of the unlucky riders who’d been thrown when trying to school the stallion. “And haven’t you always been whispering in that pony’s ear to tell Cornix to treat you nice?”
“I never-!” I turned on Yayin in self-defense. He jumped backward, grinning, and I realized he was only joking so I managed to laugh.
“Naw,” said Firkin, “he just smears his saddlecloth with that smelly glue.”
“That stalh’on knows just how much he can get away with, with Galwyn up,” another suggested slyly.
“Not when I’m teaching him, he doesn’t,” Rhodri said sternly, and the lads pretended to cower before the trainer’s displeasure. Then Rhodri put a companionable arm about my shoulders. “The horse trusts you, as you’ve had the care of him. I’d rather have someone he knows on his back for the journey than any stranger.”
Once back at the soothing task of grooming Cornix while he stood, hipshot, eyes closed, enjoying the attention, I quite liked the notion of riding the great stallion all the way to Camelot. I’d grown not only taller but longer and stronger in leg and arm, so I really could control Cornix’s explosive habits-most times. I knew he liked me, for he would come to his stall door on hearing my voice, and whicker at my approach. It was comical to see Spadix, who still shared the black’s stall, push his nose up beside Cornix, trying to look out over the high stall door. I always greeted my faithful pony first, for he had, in his own small way, been one of the reasons I was here with the horses of the land, and not struggling with the horses of the sea.
However, I was the only one from the farm selected for the journey to Camelot. I was very proud of that, and then was beset with all kinds of conflicting emotions: I wasn’t worthy of such trust; would I be able to cope with the responsibility? Would I know how to act at Camelot amidst warriors chosen for their skills, when I had only a small boy’s knowledge of arms, and little training as a swordsman?
No one seemed at all surprised that I had been chosen. Indeed Yayin appeared more respectful and even Firkin deferred to me. That was embarrassing. We were all the same here at the farm, weren’t we? We all mucked out every day, and exercised horses, and ate and slept together. I wasn’t sure which disconcerted me most: being chosen, going, or the responsibility of riding Cornix there.
Before the escorting troop arrived, Daphne took a hand in outfitting me for journey. Inspecting my clothing, she found what I had in deplorable condition, despite my best efforts to keep my garments clean and mended. Riding horses in all sorts of weather does tend to wreak damage on clothing.
So I was clothed in new leggings and smocks for the trip, and given a fine tunic and colored leggings to wear for attendance upon Lord Artos.
“If I learn”-and Daphne shook her finger at me as she, almost reluctantly, handed over the finery, as well as the set of sturdier garments for travel-“that you have ridden in that good tunic, or worn it mucking out after that great black hulk, I’ll flay you alive.”