Storm and the Silver Bridle (8 page)

Francoise stood in front of the loose box and made a clucking sound with her tongue. “Come on, Angel,” she said, softly coaxing. “It’s OK, boy, it’s me. I’ve brought someone to meet you.” At the sound of Francoise’s voice, the horse at the back of the stall gave a nicker and stepped forward into the light, thrusting his magnificent head out over the Dutch door.

He was a stallion, almost as big as Marius, and so handsome! Issie stared up at him. His face had the elegance of a classical Andalusian, with wide-set, soulful eyes and a dark, sooty muzzle. Unlike Marius, who still had grey dapples, this stallion’s coat was absolutely white, as pure as parchment. His mane tumbled over his neck and shoulders, lustrous and pearly, like the foaming white crest of a wave.

The great beauty of this horse made it all the more
upsetting for Issie when she saw the scars. On the bridge of the stallion’s nose, just where the noseband would normally sit, was a series of jagged gashes that had healed to form ugly scar tissue. The scars must have been caused by deep cuts into the stallion’s flesh. The wounds were so profound they had left these heartbreaking marks as a legacy, destroying the stallion’s otherwise perfect beauty.

Issie reached out a hand and touched the stallion’s muzzle. He gave a soft nicker as she gently stroked his noble face, her hand running over the bumps and lumps, as if she were reading them like Braille beneath her fingers.

“How did he get these?” Issie asked Francoise.

“They were part of his training,” Francoise said quietly. Issie was shocked.

“No, no,” Francoise shook her head. “Not here. Please understand, Isadora, we did not do this to Angel. It was a rival stable. The hacienda of Miguel Vega. Vega is a great horseman—but a cruel one too. In Spain, there is a special noseband called a
serreta
. The
serreta
has sharp metal teeth that dig into the bridge of the horse’s nose until he submits. It is very cruel. Throughout Spain, the
serreta
is considered an instrument of torture and is now banned. However, some horsemen, including Vega, continue to use them, even though it causes the horses unbelievable pain.”

Issie ran her hand over Angel’s scars once more. “So the
serreta
did this to Angel?”

“Miguel Vega did it to him,” Francoise said angrily. “Angel once belonged to him. Vega put the
serreta
on him when he was less than a year old—to break his spirit.”

“But if he’s Vega’s horse, then what is he doing here?” Issie asked.

“The race for the Silver Bridle,” Francoise explained. “The winning stable gets to take five horses of their choosing from each of their rivals.” Francoise reached out a hand to stroke Angel’s silver mane. “When we won against Vega’s stable ten years ago, I had just joined El Caballo. I was given the chance to choose a horse myself—and I chose Angel.”

“I can see why,” Issie said softly. “He’s very beautiful.”

“
Oui”
Francoise agreed. “But that is not why I chose him. I picked him because of his speed. Angel’s bloodlines date back to some of the greatest racehorses in the history of Spain. His sire has won many, many races. And I knew Angel could be fast too. I thought that one day, when he was fully grown, he would be able to defend El Caballo Danza Magnifico against Vega’s stables. He would race for us and bring home the Silver Bridle.”

“So will he be racing this time,” Issie asked, “against the other stables?”

Francoise shook her head. “I do not think so. Roberto wants Alfonso to ride for us in the race. A jockey needs to be light and quick and Alfie is the best in our stables.”

“Well, why doesn’t Alfonso ride Angel?” Issie was confused.

“Because Angel will not allow it,” Francoise said. “Ever since Vega put the
serreta
on him Angel has been afraid of men. He trembles at their touch. He will not allow a male jockey on his back. He has thrown all of our best riders—including Alfie. Of course,” Francoise added cheekily, “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“What!” Issie couldn’t believe it. “You’re joking, right? You don’t really expect me to ride him? He’ll throw me too!”

“You are not a man, are you?” Francoise smiled. “Angel has never thrown me. He will not throw you. It is only men that he fears, and rightly so, for it was a man—a brutal and cruel man—who did this to him.”

“Poor Angel.” Issie looked at the stallion’s gentle face, those soulful black eyes. “Anyone who could hurt a horse like this must be a monster.”

Francoise suddenly went very quiet and didn’t respond.

“The brushes are in the stall,” she said, changing the subject. “You can groom him while I fetch the saddles.”

Grooming Angel proved to be quite different from brushing Blaze or Comet. For starters, the grey stallion was much taller than her horses at home. Issie tried tiptoeing at first and then had to give up and turn the grooming bucket upside down to stand on it so she could reach his mane. It usually took Issie no time at all to whip a comb through Blaze’s mane, which was kept pulled short and neat, but Angel’s mane was quite different. It was long and silky, like fairy-tale princess hair.

“Aren’t you beautiful?” Issie said under her breath as she ran her body brush along the crest of Angel’s magnificent neck. Then she caught sight of those scars once more and a shiver ran up her spine.

“Here you go!” Francoise’s voice startled her back to reality. She passed Angel’s bridle over to her and Issie was shocked when she saw that there were long black leather tassels hanging down the front of the brow band.

Francoise smiled. “Don’t worry, it is not a
serreta
. That’s just a
mosqueto
, a fly switch—all the horses here wear them.”

Issie put on the bridle and then Francoise showed her how to put on the Spanish
vaquero
saddle. It was heavy,
and twice the size of Issie’s normal saddle, with a sheepskin pad on the top of it.

“It’s like sitting in an armchair!” Issie giggled when Francoise legged her up.

Francoise led the two horses out into the courtyard and then mounted Marius. She smiled at Issie. “Have you ridden a stallion before?” she asked.

Issie nodded. “My Aunt Hester has a black warmblood called Destiny.”

“Spanish stallions are quite different, you will see,” Francoise said. “Angel has a temperament that matches his name. He is a sweetheart. I ride him all the time and he is very fit. Although,” she added, “he may be a little fresh. I have not ridden him for two weeks.”

Angel was indeed fresh. The stallion fought against Issie’s grasp as they rode out into the courtyard, cantering on the spot with eagerness as she held him back.

“Follow me!” Francoise called over her shoulder as she pressed Marius on into a canter and set off across the courtyard towards the wrought-iron gates at the entrance of the hacienda. Issie followed, but she was still holding Angel back to a trot, afraid of the speed the stallion had in him.

Angel was sixteen-two, the same height as Destiny,
but he was much more muscular, with a broad neck and powerful haunches typical of his Spanish breed. Issie could feel the incredible strength this horse possessed, and it scared her. What would happen if she let the stallion get his head? She gripped the reins tight in her fists as they cantered out of the gates, holding Angel back as they trailed behind Marius.

“Are you OK?” Francoise looked back over her shoulder as she cantered on.

“Uh-huh,” Issie nodded. She was still holding Angel back tightly.

“Let him have his head a little,” Francoise said. “You can trust him.”

Issie realised at that moment how she must look up there on Angel’s back, her mouth held rigid with fear, hands stiff with nervous tension. She took a deep breath and did as Francoise said, relaxing her shoulders, softening her hands and releasing the reins a little. She was amazed when Angel didn’t suddenly bolt off. He relaxed too and fell into a steady stride alongside Marius.

“Good boy!” Issie gave him a slappy pat. She sat up in the saddle and looked around her, beginning to enjoy the ride, taking in the beauty of the El Caballo estate. It was beyond gorgeous here, the fields full of mares and
their foals, grazing or sheltering from the heat under the low-hanging boughs of the olive trees.

They cantered on, heading towards the rocky foothills at the rear of the estate, and as the ground underfoot began to get rocky Francoise pulled Marius up to a trot. “The footing is rough from here on,” she said. Then she pointed at the hills ahead where bare, grey boulders marked the entrance to a narrow gorge. “We go through here,” she said. “Follow me. It gets very narrow at certain points, only wide enough for us to ride in single file, but do not worry, the horses know this path well. It leads to the higher pasture, El Caballo land where the mares and stallions graze when grass is scarce during the dry months.”

Francoise clucked Marius on and Issie followed behind. The sheepskin saddle was so comfy she tried riding a sitting trot instead of rising up and down and found it to be quite easy. Angel’s trot was floaty, which helped a lot. She was already getting a feel for the stallion’s paces, and she was sure that the horse was beginning to understand her aids too, listening to her cues. She could see Angel’s ears swivelling back and forth, a sign that he was paying attention to her, as they negotiated their way through the gorge.

Not that Angel had any choice but to keep moving straight ahead. The gorge was narrow, with sheer rockface rising high on either side. Nothing grew here in the pale chalky soil except for a few tufts of tussock sticking out of the cliffs. Issie looked up and saw the gap between the cliffs above her and a thin river of blue sky floating over her head. Then she lowered her eyes to the front once more, her gaze set on Francoise’s back as they rode on.

“It is not much further to the other side,” Francoise called over her shoulder, anticipating Issie’s question. And then, a few moments later, the narrow path became wider again and they were clear of the gorge and out the other side once more with flat, dry pasture stretching out in front of them.

Francoise pulled Marius to a halt. “This is the high pasture, the last of El Caballo grazing lands,” she explained to Issie. She pointed ahead of her. “Do you see that orange grove and the brick wall with the turrets beyond the trees?”

Issie nodded.

“That is Miguel Vega’s hacienda,” Francoise said. “The orange trees mark the point where our land stops and his property begins.” Francoise’s eyes narrowed against the sun as she stared ahead. “It is only natural, I suppose, that the two best horse studs in Spain should be right beside
each other like this,” she said. “Vega’s family has been here for centuries, just like Roberto’s. Their ancestors knew that this lush, fertile land was the best place to raise horses. And it was only natural too, I suppose, that the families would become such great rivals.”

Issie reached a hand down to stroke Angel’s neck and, as she did so, she caught a glimpse of the stallion’s profile and the ugly scars that marred his beautiful face. “I hope I never meet Miguel Vega,” Issie said. “If he could do this to Angel then he must be horrible.”

Francoise looked tense. “Isadora, I am very much afraid that you may have to meet him.” She took a deep breath before the words came stumbling out. “Because we think it is Miguel Vega who has taken Nightstorm.”

Issie would have ridden to Vega’s straight away to confront him and demand that he return the colt if Francoise hadn’t grabbed at Angel’s reins and held her back, calming her down until she saw sense.

“It is useless to go in there angry and without any plan,” she said bluntly. “If you really want to get Storm back then we must be smart about it. Miguel Vega went to great lengths to steal your colt—do you really think he will simply hand him back again?”

Even in her fury, Issie had the sense to listen to Francoise. “I should never have brought you here like this,” Francoise said. “I am sorry. I know it is hard, but please be patient, now is not the time. You will only endanger your colt if you rush off to face Vega now.”

And so Issie cast one last, longing look at Vega’s hacienda, and then turned Angel around under Francoise’s watchful eye and followed Marius back into the gorge towards El Caballo Danza Magnifico.

She knew Francoise was right. Yet at that moment, turning her back on her colt had been unbearable. To be so near, and still unable to help him, was beyond painful. Francoise reassured her that it wouldn’t be long to wait.

“We will get our chance tomorrow—at the
feria
. It is a huge festival, held every ten years to celebrate the race for the Silver Bridle. Vega is bound to be there. Roberto will tell you all about it when we meet for dinner tonight.”

Dinner that evening was held in the main dining room and was a grand affair to celebrate the arrival of the guests. Issie hadn’t been sure if she would like Spanish food, but everything tasted wonderful—there was deep fried calamari, fresh tomato bread and rich, hearty paella.

Alfonso had clearly been expecting to spend the meal talking to Avery about the good old days and his father’s adventures, but Avery fobbed him off.