No dream creatures these, pawing at the ground and pressing their broad chests against the restraining rails. These were solid reality. The foals born to them next spring would be just as fine.
The newcomers, who had wobbled courageously up the hill, now cocked their ears forward, appreciating the audience and glad to be back in the herd that they had formed since leaving Septimania. They even stepped out more surely across the road, sensing the end of their long and momentous journey.
Prom the small shelter built inside the pasture, several men emerged to greet and inspect the new arrivals. I noticed one man in particular, his one shoulder badly crooked, perhaps from an old injury. His angular face wore a slight smile and his eyes a measuring gaze as he looked from one weary horse to another. Or, to be precise, he looked at their legs. Shaking his head, he returned to the shelter and came out again with a bucket.
“They be worse than t’others,” he said gloomily to Bericus, who was bringing in his charge, the fourth of the stallions, Victor.
“They are, but I’ve every faith in your ability to set them right, Canyd.”
“Whyn’t you bring ’em to me in good shape, and then we’d be on our way out of here?” grumbled Canyd.
I watched as he ran a gentle, knowing hand down the sweaty stallion’s shoulder. Then he hunkered to examine the swollen legs. He clicked his tongue, shaking his head as he rose, his eyes on Victor’s deep chest and wide barrel. Lightly he ran his hands everywhere, as if making sure the stallion would recognize him ever after from his touch and his soft “Sa-sa-sa.”
Victor brought his head up, twisting it around to follow Canyd’s progress. When the old man came forward again, his hand held flat under the stallion’s nose, he placed both hands on the horse’s muzzle and blew into his nostrils, a trick I had seen my father’s head groom do with new animals. Victor had the scent of the man now.
Canyd went from one horse to the next, checking them over carefully, his tongue continually clicking or making soothing sa-sa noises. I was fascinated by his manner and method; so were the horses, who seemed to recognize him instantly as someone who would do them no hurt.
“All right,” he said finally, coming back to his bucket, which I saw held cloths soaking in a liquid. It had an astringent smell to it. “Gather ’round, ye louts. Y*ought by now to know how to tend these poor legs. I want every one of ’em stooped, properly, now. And I’ll do this fine lad.”
He looked up at brown Victor, smiling to himself in approval.
“What’re you standin’ about for, lad? Get busy,” he said, nodding at me and then at the nearest mare. “Nestor, Yayin, Donan, have at it, an’ let’s make these poor storm-tossed beasties comfortable.”
So I fell to with the others, my own weariness sloughed off with the need to tend my charges.
While I bathed the swollen legs of Dorcas, the mare I had led, Spadix wandered off, grazing here and there until he found a patch of ground that met with his approval. He dropped to his knees with a huge groan, threw his head down, and began to roll backward and forward, rubbing his backbone against the ground to ease his muscles.
I heard Canyd’s soft chuckle. “Worth a gold ring for every full turn he makes. Worth a lot, that ‘un.”
Spadix got to his feet again and shook himself from nose to tail. His exercise completed, he fell to grazing as if that had been his prime object in the first place.
Myself, I wondered if a good roll on the hard ground would help the unsettled feeling I still had: that a ship’s deck was rocking beneath my feet. Once or twice I had to grab at the mare to steady myself. At least she had four legs to prop herself on: “One in each corner,” as Solvin, my father’s old hostler, used to say-generally about a horse that he felt lacked any other redeeming quality. Dorcas was so enjoying having her legs bathed that she didn’t even notice my grasping.