‘I saw it,’ Karel agreed. ‘Not sure that I believed it, but I saw it.’
‘You only saw it once,’ said Rodney. ‘He was doing it constantly throughout the session – and I’m convinced that he was doing it unconsciously.’
‘As fast as the one I saw?’ Karel asked. Rodney nodded emphatically.
‘If anything, faster. He was adding an extra stroke to the routines but staying in time with the call.’ He hesitated, then finally said what they were both thinking. ‘The boy is a natural.’
Karel inclined his head thoughtfully. Based on what he’d seen, he wasn’t prepared to dispute the fact. And the Battlemaster had been watching the boy for some time during the session, he knew. But naturals were few and far between. They were those unique people for whom the skill of swordplay moved into an entirely different dimension. It became not so much a skill as an instinct to them.
They were the ones who became the champions. The sword masters. Experienced warriors like Sir Rodney and Sir Karel were expert swordsmen but naturals took the skill to a higher plane. It was as if for them, the sword in their hand became a true extension not just of their bodies, but of their personalities as well. The sword seemed to act in instant communion and harmony with the natural’s mind, acting even faster than conscious thought. Naturals were possessed of unique skills in timing and balance and rhythm.
As such, they presented a heavy responsibility to those who were entrusted with their training. For those natural skills and abilities had to be carefully nurtured and developed in a long-term training programme to allow the warrior, already highly proficient as a matter of course, to develop his true potential for genius.
‘You’re sure?’ Karel said eventually and Rodney nodded again, his gaze out the window. In his mind he was seeing the boy training, seeing those extra flickers of lightning fast movement.
‘I’m sure,’ he said simply. ‘We’ll have to let Wallace know that he’ll have another pupil next semester.’
Wallace was the sword master at the Redmont Battleschool. He was the one who had the responsibility for adding the final polish to the basic skills that Karel and the others taught. In the event of an outstanding trainee – as Horace obviously was – he would give them private tuition in advanced techniques. Karel curled his bottom lip thoughtfully as he thought about the time frame Rodney had suggested.
‘Not until then?’ he said. The next semester was almost three months away. ‘Why not get him started straight away? From what I saw, he’s already mastered the basic stuff.’ But Rodney shook his head.
‘We haven’t really assessed his personality yet,’ he said. ‘He seems a nice enough lad, but you never know. If he turns out to be a misfit of some kind, I don’t want to give him the sort of advanced instruction that Wallace can provide.’
Once he thought of it, Karel agreed with the Battlemaster. After all, if it should turn out that Horace had to be disqualified from Battleschool because of some other failing, it might be embarrassing, not to mention dangerous, if he were already on the road to being a highly trained swordsman. Disqualified trainees often reacted with resentment.
‘And another thing,’ Rodney added. ‘Let’s keep this to ourselves – and tell Morton the same thing. I don’t want the boy hearing any word of this yet. It might make him cocky and that could be dangerous for him.’
‘That’s true enough,’ Karel agreed. He finished the last of his beer in two quick draughts, set his tankard down on the table and stood. ‘Well, I’d better be getting along. I’ve got reports to finish.’
‘Who hasn’t?’ the Battlemaster said with some feeling and the two old friends exchanged rueful grins. ‘I never knew there was so much paper involved in running a Battleschool,’ Rodney said and Karel snorted in derision.
‘Sometimes I think we should forget the weapons training and just throw all the paper at the enemy – bury them in it.’
He gave an informal salute – just touching one finger to his forehead – that was in keeping with his seniority. Then he turned and headed for the door. He paused as Rodney added one last point to their discussion.
‘Keep an eye on the boy, of course,’ he said. ‘But don’t let him become aware of it.’
‘Of course,’ Karel replied. ‘We don’t want him to start thinking there’s something special about him.’
At that moment, there was no chance that Horace would think there was anything special about him – at least, not in any positive sense. What he did feel was that there was something about him that attracted trouble.
Word had gone round about the strange scene at the training ground. His classmates, not understanding what had happened, all assumed that Horace had somehow annoyed the Battlemaster and now waited for the inevitable retribution. They knew that the rule during the first semester was that, when one member of a class made a mistake, the entire class paid for it. As a result, the atmosphere in their dormitory had been strained, to say the least. Horace had finally made his way out of the room, intending to head for the river to escape the condemnation and blame he could feel from the others. Unfortunately, when he did so, he walked straight into the waiting arms of Alda, Bryn and Jerome.
The three older boys had heard a garbled version of the scene at the practice yard. They assumed that Horace had been criticised for his sword work and decided to make him suffer for it.
However, they knew that their attentions would not necessarily meet with the approval of the Battleschool staff. Horace, as a newcomer, had no way of knowing that this sort of systematic bullying was totally disapproved of by Sir Rodney and the other instructors. Horace simply assumed that was the way things were supposed to be and, not knowing any better, went along with it, allowing himself to be bullied and insulted.
It was for this reason that the three second year cadets marched Horace to the riverside, where he had been heading anyway, and away from the sight of instructors. Here, they made him wade thigh deep into the river then stand to attention.
‘Baby can’t use his sword properly,’ said Alda.
Bryn took up the refrain. ‘Baby made the Battlemaster angry. Baby doesn’t belong in Battleschool. Babies shouldn’t be given swords to play with.’
‘Baby should throw stones instead,’ Jerome concluded the sarcastic litany. ‘Pick up a stone, Baby.’
Horace hesitated, then glanced around. The riverbed was full of stones and he bent to get one. As he did so, his sleeve and the upper part of his jacket became soaked.
‘Not a small stone, Baby,’ Alda said, smiling evilly at him. ‘You’re a big baby so you need a big stone.’
‘A great big stone,’ Bryn added, indicating with his hands that he wanted Horace to pick up a large rock. Horace looked around him and saw several larger pieces in the crystal clear water. He bent and retrieved one of them. In doing so, he made a mistake. The rock he chose was easy to lift under the water, but as he brought it above the surface, he grunted with the weight of it.
‘Let’s see it, Baby,’ Jerome said. ‘Hold it up.’
Horace braced himself – the swiftly running current of the river made it difficult to keep his balance and hold the heavy rock at the same time – then he lifted it to chest height so his tormentors could see it.
‘Right up, Baby,’ Alda commanded. ‘Right over your head.’
Painfully, Horace obeyed. The rock was feeling heavier by the second but he held it high above his head and the three boys were satisfied.
‘That’s good, Baby,’ Jerome said and Horace, with a relieved sigh, began to let the rock down again.
‘What are you doing?’ demanded Jerome angrily. ‘I said that’s good. So that’s where I want the rock to stay.’
Horace struggled and lifted the rock above his head once more, holding it at arm’s length. Alda, Bryn and Jerome nodded their approval.
‘Now you can stay there,’ Alda told him, ‘while you count to five hundred. Then you can go back to the dormitory.’
‘Start counting
,’ Bryn ordered him, grinning at the idea.
‘One, two, three …’ began Horace, but they all shouted at him almost immediately.
‘Not so fast, Baby! Nice and slowly. Start again.’
‘One … two … three …’ Horace counted and they nodded their approval.
‘That’s better. Now a nice slow count to five hundred and you can go,’ Alda told him.
‘Don’t try to fudge it, because we’ll know,’ threatened Jerome. ‘And you’ll be back here counting to one thousand.’
Laughing among themselves, the three students headed back to their quarters. Horace remained in midstream, arms trembling with the weight of the rock, tears of frustration and humiliation filling his eyes. Once, he lost his balance and fell full length in the water. After that, his heavy, sodden clothing made it all the harder to hold the rock above his head but he kept at it. He couldn’t be sure that they weren’t concealed somewhere, watching him, and if they were, they’d make him pay for disobeying their instructions.
If this was the way of things, then so be it, he thought. But he promised himself that, first chance he got, he was going to make somebody pay for the humiliation he was undergoing.
Much later, clothes soaked, arms aching and a deep feeling of resentment burning in his heart, he crept back to his quarters. He was too late for the evening meal but he didn’t care. He was too miserable to eat.
‘Walk him around a little,’ said Halt.
Will glanced back at the shaggy pony, who watched him with intelligent eyes.
‘Come on, boy,’ he said, and pulled on the halter. Instantly, Tug braced his forelegs and refused to move. Will pulled harder on the rope, leaning back in his efforts to make the stubborn little pony move.
Old Bob cackled with laughter.
‘He be stronger than you!’ he said.
Will felt his ears reddening with embarrassment. He pulled harder. Tug twitched his ears and resisted. It was like trying to pull a house along.
‘Don’t look at him,’ Halt said softly. ‘Just take the rope and walk away from him. He’ll follow.’
Will tried it that way. He turned his back on Tug, seized the rope firmly and began walking. The pony trotted easily after him. Will looked at Halt and grinned. The Ranger nodded his head towards the far fence of the paddock. Will glanced across and saw a small saddle, placed across the top rail of the fence.
‘Saddle him up,’ said the Ranger.
Tug clip-clopped docilely across to the fence. Will looped the reins around the fence rail and hefted the saddle across the pony’s back. He bent down to fasten the girth straps of the saddle.
‘Pull them good and tight!’ Old Bob advised him.
Finally, the saddle was firmly in position. Will looked eagerly at Halt. ‘Can I ride him now?’ he asked.
The Ranger stroked his uneven beard thoughtfully before he answered. ‘If you feel that’s a good idea, go ahead,’ he said, finally.
Will hesitated for a moment. The phrase stirred a vague memory with him. But then eagerness overcame caution and he put one foot in the stirrup and swung himself nimbly onto the pony’s back. Tug stood, unmoving.
‘Get up!’ Will said, drumming his heels against the pony’s side.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then Will felt a small tremor of movement go through the pony’s body.
Suddenly, Tug arched his muscular little back and shot straight into the air, all four feet leaving the ground at the same time. He twisted violently to one side, came down on his front legs and kicked his rear legs high into the sky. Will sailed neatly over the pony’s ears, turned a complete somersault in the air and crashed on his back in the dirt. He picked himself up, rubbing his back.
Tug stood nearby, ears up, watching him intently.
Now, why did you go and do a silly thing like that? the eyes seemed to say.
Old Bob leaned against the fence, sides heaving with laughter. Will looked at Halt.
‘What did I do wrong?’ he asked. Halt ducked under the fence rails and walked across to where Tug stood watching the two of them expectantly. He handed the bridle back to Will, then laid one hand on his shoulder.
‘Nothing, if this were an ordinary horse,’ he said. ‘But Tug has been trained as a Ranger horse –’
‘What’s the difference?’ Will interrupted angrily and Halt held his hand up for silence.
‘The difference is, each Ranger horse has to be asked before a rider mounts him for the first time,’ said Halt. ‘They’re trained that way so that they can never be stolen.’
Will scratched his head. ‘I’ve never heard of such a thing!’ he said.
Old Bob smiled as he walked forward. ‘Not too many folk has,’ he said. ‘That’s why Ranger horses never get stolen.’
‘Well,’ said Will, ‘what do you say to a Ranger horse before you mount him?’
Halt shrugged.
‘It varies from horse to horse. Each one responds to a different request.’ He gestured towards the larger horse. ‘My horse, for example, responds to the words “permettez moi”.’
‘Permettez moi?’ Will echoed. ‘What sort of words are they?’
‘They’re Gallic. They mean, “Will you allow me?” His parents came from Gallica, you see,’ Halt explained. Then he turned to Old Bob. ‘What are the words for Tug here, Bob?’
Bob screwed up his eyes, pretending that he couldn’t remember. Then his face cleared.
‘Oh yes, I recall!’ he said. ‘This ’un here, he needs to be asked, “Do you mind” afore you get on his back.’
‘Do you mind?’ Will repeated and Bob shook his head.
‘Don’t say it to me, youngster! Say it in the horse’s ear!’
Feeling a little silly, and not at all sure that the others weren’t having a joke at his expense, Will stepped forward and said softly in Tug’s ear:
‘Do you mind?’
Tug whinnied softly. Will looked doubtfully at the two men and Bob nodded encouragement.
‘Go on! Climb on now! Young Tug won’t harm ’ee now.’
Very carefully, Will swung himself onto the pony’s shaggy back once again. His back still ached from the previous attempt. He sat there a moment. Nothing happened. Then, he tapped his heels gently into Tug’s ribs.
‘Come on, boy,’ he said softly.
Tug’s ears twitched up and he stepped forward at an easy walk.
Still cautious, Will let him walk around the paddock once or twice, then tapped again with his heels. Tug broke into a gentle trot. Will moved easily to the rhythm of the horse’s movement and Halt looked on approvingly. The boy was an instinctive rider.
The Ranger unclipped the short length of rope that held the paddock gate closed and swung the wide gate open.
‘Take him out, Will,’ he called, ‘and see what he can really do!’
Obediently, Will turned the pony towards the gate and, as they passed through into the open ground beyond, tapped once more with his heels. He felt the muscular little body beneath him bunch momentarily, then Tug broke into a fast gallop.
The wind rushed past Will’s ears as he leaned forward over the pony’s neck, encouraging him to even greater speed. Tug’s ears pricked upwards in response and he went even faster than before.
He was like the wind. His short legs were a blur of motion as he carried the boy at full speed towards the edge of the trees. Gently, not sure how the pony would react, Will applied pressure to the left-hand rein.
Instantly, Tug veered to the left, racing away from the trees at an angle. Will kept the gentle pressure on the rein until Tug was headed once again back towards the paddock. Will gasped in amazement as he saw how far they had come. Halt and Old Bob were tiny figures in the distance now. But they grew rapidly larger as Tug flew over the rough grass towards them.
A fallen log loomed in front of them and, before Will could make any effort to avoid it, Tug had gathered himself, steadied and leapt over the obstacle. Will let out a shout of excitement and the pony whinn
ied briefly in reply.
They were almost back to the paddock now and Will pulled gently on both reins. Instantly, Tug slowed to a canter, then a trot, finally coming down to walking pace as Will maintained the pressure on the reins. He brought the pony to a standstill beside Halt. Tug tossed his shaggy head and whinnied again. Will leaned forward and patted the pony on the neck.
‘He’s terrific!’ he said breathlessly. ‘He’s as fast as the wind!’
Halt nodded gravely. ‘Perhaps not quite as fast as the wind,’ he said, ‘but he can certainly cover ground.’ He turned to the old man. ‘You’ve done well with him, Bob.’
Old Bob ducked his head in appreciation and leaned forward to pat the shaggy little pony in his turn. He had spent his life breeding, training and preparing the Ranger Corps’ horses and this one ranked among the best he’d seen.
‘He’ll keep that pace all day,’ he said fondly. ‘Run them fat battlehorses into the ground, this ’un will. Youngster rides him well, too, Ranger, don’t ’e?’
Halt stroked his beard. ‘Not too badly,’ he said. Bob was scandalised.
‘Not too badly? You’re a hard man, Ranger! Youngster sat him light as a feather through that jump!’ The old man looked up at Will, sitting astride the pony, and nodded in appreciation. ‘’E don’t saw away at them reins like some do, neither. Got a light touch with a horse’s soft mouth, ’e ’as.’
Will grinned at the old horse trainer’s praise. He sneaked a quick look at Halt but the Ranger was as grave-faced as ever.
He never smiles, Will thought to himself. He went to dismount, then stopped himself hurriedly.