“We’ll do a few turns at a canter,” said Bran. “I’ll give the command when you’re to take him into a run. We need to test his speed in the slop, and the Yorkshire weather provided. Will you be able to keep your seat without the stirrups?”
“Aye,” said Lafferty. “I’ve got the feel of it now.”
“Good man,” said Bran on a nod.
Artemis had never heard a general issuing commands, but she imagined that was how it went—succinct and without emotion. And though she was certain the jockey and the stable lads hadn’t been in the army, they responded like soldiers. Bran was a man who commanded respect.
Perhaps for another reason, too.
From beneath her lashes, she cut a glance toward his profile.
One could almost forget the scar on the other side of his face. But she suspected that scar played a part in what commandedrespect from these men. It proclaimed to the world that Lord Branwell Mallory might have been born the indulged son of an earl, but he’d gone through something ferocious—something most would never go through.
Yet she sensed something more. One didn’t acquire scars and injuries on the outside without accumulating a few scars and injuries on the inside, too.
What further scars and injuries did Bran carry inside him?
He held his hand to his mouth in readiness to call out his next command—the one she’d known was coming. She braced herself as he said, “And … run.”
A slick of damp coated Artemis’s palms, and her heart became a hammer in her chest, as beneath the urging of Lafferty, Radish lengthened his stride and quickened the turnover of those long, muscular legs.
Radish was about to show them what he could do.
It was when a horse got up to speed, with all the tension and strain movement put on the body hard at work, that the defects would out. There were all sorts of defects, too, not just of the heart. Take the story of Bartlett’s Childers, for example. He’d been the full-brother of Flying Childers, who had been the greatest racehorse of his era. Bartlett’s Childers, however, never took to the turf in a race, for he was also known as Bleeding Childers. He’d been possessed of a condition that caused blood vessels to break and bleed through his nose when he got up to speed. Because his condition was visible, his life was saved.
But many, like Dido, weren’t so fortunate.
Yet Artemis understood that what happened to Dido, and even Bleeding Childers, was rare and wasn’t likely to happen to the glorious racehorse presently demonstrating his prowess on the turf.
The first thing she noticed about Radish, beyond his impeccable conformation, was he wasn’t a sweet horse like Dido.
Nor was he joyful like her, either.
He didn’t appear to run for the sheer love of it, but rather out of challenge to himself, to see how fast he could go in a determined, business-like manner. This horse wanted to run—and he wanted towinby some measure he’d set in his mind.
It was plain for all to see.
Radish possessed the heart of a champion.
Through her nerves, Artemis was able to relax an increment and experience the exhilaration one couldn’t help but feel at such a sight—the sheer glory of it. Besides, she must watch. Otherwise, how could she detect that one telltale sign? The one that signaled a mortal defect.
Her gaze slid over to take in Bran. He was watching carefully, too, his gaze fixed and steady as Lafferty pushed, pushed,pushedRadish to greater and greater speed.
Bran would notice if anything was amiss with Radish.
Strangely, the realization settled her as Radish’s stride extended and his turnover increased and he found his speed.
Radish was headstrong, but so was Bran. So, he trod a delicate line where it wasn’t a clash of personalities, but rather patience, will, and united purpose. He lifted his hand to his mouth. “Can-ter.”
Lafferty took the command, as did Radish, as they eased off the pace.
“He’s a contender.” The words were out of Artemis’s mouth before she could hold them back.
“Aye,” Bran grunted.
“Sir Abstrupus thinks he’s a lost Thoroughbred.”
“Might be,” said Bran without much interest. “Sir Abstrupus likes myths.”
