“‘Tis not just stones y’kin worry about wi’ fine horses.” He beckoned me to the nearest mare and pointed at her long hoof. “See?”
I tried to see what he was pointing out to me but did not until he tapped on and traced with a gnarled fingertip a slight ridge on her horny hoof. “That’s a growth ring. She had a bad year then but it’s growing out. We’ll see that none other grows in.”
I stored that bit of knowledge away, as I was storing practically every word Canyd said. If I was to be of use to Conies Artos, I had to learn all I could about the care of his Libyan horses.
WHILE THE LATEST ARRIVALS were getting their land legs and accustoming their stomachs to the good British grass, there was much to do in preparation for the journey.
Bericus patronized merchants in both the village and the larger town near the old Roman fort, established at the first ford of the River Exe, well beyond its navigable reaches. Bericus had the use of one of Prince Cador’s horses, and I rode Spadix on the outward journeys, though the pony was often laden with supplies on the way back, with me walking at his head.
Bericus knew a great deal more about provisioning a long land journey than I did, though I had helped my uncle bargain for ship’s food in many Gallic ports. Bericus was also a soldier, so it was legion fare for which he haggled with his chain of gold rings. We would be eating wheat spelt, which was cheap and in good quantity at this time of the autumn.
I noticed that Bericus was most particular about the oats he bought for the horses, running his hands through the sacks to check the dustiness of the grain. Too much dust, and a horse could develop a bad cough. He demanded the best of the tanners’ wares, too, for we had to be sure the halters were sturdy enough to control our charges. Each of us would ride one and lead one, with pack ponies for our provisions.
Then, knowing that I stood up in all my possessions, Bericus found an oiled cape and a thick woolen tunic for me. Gone were the days when I worried about the fall of my tunic or what color to dye my sandal straps. The leggings and sandals that I had bought for myself in Burti-gala showed few signs of wear yet, so I thought myself well provided for. I did use a quarter of the second ring Tegidus had given me to pay a carter who was traveling to where my mother and my two sisters were living, near the fort at Ide, to carry a letter to reassure them. I had no illusions about my uncle’s kindness. Out of spite, he was as likely to tell them that I had drowned at sea as he was to admit that I had bettered myself in the entourage of Lord Artos.
While these forays gave me a respite from Iswy’s snide remarks and Decius’s notion that I should help him with his share of the chores, I had also to deal on my return with the envy such excursions caused. Egdyl then began to order me about, too.
“The fire needs tending, boy,” Egdyl said when I had just settled myself at the hearth for an evening meal the others were already eating. “Lively, now.”
The man had exactly my uncle’s manner and I could feel myself resisting.
“You can reach a log from where you sit, Egdyl,” Canyd said, and motioned for me to stay seated. He handed me my bowl of soup and a bannock of blaanda bread.
Ignoring me completely, Egdyl, Decius, and Iswy talked about friends at Prince Cador’s farms, frequently lapsing into Celtic. I may have been taught to speak a purer Latin than they, but I could follow the Celtic as easily, though I acted as if I could not. Once or twice, Iswy would mockingly slip in a phrase I customarily used. He had also taken to mimicking me, echoing the words I’d used in questions to Canyd.
My father had always taught me to bide my time instead of making abrupt judgments of either men or horses. The months with my uncle had taught me other lessons: how to survive as the lowliest of the crew, and how to recognize bullies. The long happy weeks with Lord Artos had sufficiently restored my self-esteem so that I would not, could not, return to the wretched, bullied existence I had endured on the Corellia and be the butt of jokes and the recipient of spite. I had no idea how I might reverse Iswy’s opinion of me-if, indeed, I could-but it was obvious that I would suffer his unfriendly attentions the entire way to Deva. That did not suit me. But I had to be careful how I called him to task, or I would suffer the loss of Bericus’s kind interest.