"Right..." the boy grumbled, holding his head. He turned to see his master striding away, long boots covered in fresh horse muck. One wouldn’t think it, seeing how they interacted these days, but the boy rather like his master, tough though he was. He was a man of great station, despite his lowly birth. Lord Blackwell’s Master of Horse, and hounds too, and hawks, whenever the Lord had an interest in them. Now, though, it was difficult to tell what he was. Master of Horse for Ernest, perhaps? He wasn’t a peasant, like the boy himself, he was Serving Class, but he had served in the stables in the sa way the stable boy had, and he told the boy, during his more positive monts, that he had a knack for them.
As he led the next horse in – a very easily irritated young mare called Ginger – the stable boy tried to rember those positive comnts.
"I’ve a knack for this," he said to himself. "Master said so. I’m good with the horses, the hounds like , and the hawks are sothing I’ll learn in ti..."
Ginger reared, as if in disagreent, lashing out with her front hooves. He was used to that. He gently pulled her down again, whilst avoiding the worst of the danger.
"There, there," he said patting her. "I know it’s no fun for you either, being rushed along like this. No fun for you thinking about the battles to co too. But it’ll co alright, I tell you, all will be well."
He started to brush her, and he liked to think that he was having the effect of calming her down. He produced an apple out of his sleeve – he kept a few of them, for the more troubleso horses. His master didn’t seem to mind that they disappeared from the storerooms. He seed to realize that the boy was stealing them for the horses, rather than himself. So part of him, the boy thought, might have even approved of that fact.
Ginger’s nose caught whiff of it, and she snuffed his empty hand, neighing in irritation, until he laughed, and showed her the right hand. Then she was chomping away happily, as he brushed down her sides, and then her rear, and quickly inspected the state of her hooves, to make sure they wouldn’t need to call the farrier down for her. That was the cause of more than a few dead cavalryn – horses that needed re-shoeing before their battle. Just that slight discomfort to the beast was liable to see them rear in the face of fear, in the face of the wall of spearn that they’d so often have to confront.
It was the horses that the stable boy found himself feeling most sorry for. He’d seen the piles of dead n that had arisen as a result of the many battles that had happened, but he saw too the horses that had been left behind, and discarded. There were no burials for them. There were hardly any prayers said, save for those of a rider, if they had been lucky enough to survive the battle in the horse’s place.
They were loyal beasts. Trained for that purpose. As brave as the n that rode them. They fought to the end, they gave their lives for the sa cause, but they were never allowed the proper reward for it.
There were those that saw them as tools. That kicked them to discipline them, that used fear as the teacher when breaking in a new horse. The stable boy hated such n. For what kindness would there be in the horse’s life, if it ca not from those, like himself, who were given the task of looking after them.
Ginger was a fiery beast. Once her apple was finished, she snapped at him with that active mouth of hers, trying to bite him. It was clear to see that she hated him. Even for her, however, the stable boy’s patience never ran out. He knew what awaited her, in the battles that were to co. He feared for her. It pained his heart to look after her, and then send her to war, off with the rest of them.
"You be safe now," he said to her, once the job was done. He ran his hand down her snout, and she didn’t bite him for once. "You be safe, and you be brave – and you had better co back here again afterwards. There’ll be an apple waiting for you if you do."
Ginger didn’t bite him. She left more ek than she had entered. The boy straightened himself up quickly, hearing the clomping of his master’s boots, as he hurried down the path between the stables.
They paused behind him. They shouldn’t have. His master was far too busy to be paying attention to the likes of him.
A hand on his shoulder. A brief acknowledgent. "You’re a good lad," he said. "A good lad. I don’t know what the future will bring us, boy. I don’t know how this business with a Patrick King will end, or even what will be left of Ernest, co a couple of weeks. But if the world were a right place, you’re who I’d want to see inherit this position of mine."
Then he was striding away again, ever busy, not even allowing the stable boy his reply. The stable boy watched him go. His master was a good master, he knew it. Strong, able to talk to nobles, but more importantly, he was good with the horse. His approach was the sa kindness that the boy himself had learned. If it had not been, to work in the stables as he now did, it would not have been nearly as fun.
The stable boy fancied that, even if they stopped his pay, he would have liked to work in those stables forever. He would have liked to know that soone was there, wishing the horses well, as they went off into battle.
The next horse ca in, led by one of his colleagues, a boy bigger than him, and just a little older, as the stableboy stood staring off into the distance.
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