“Excellent!” Hugo said with genuine pride, wiping sweat from his brow. “You’ve the makings of a proper horsewoman. I’ve seen knights with years of training show less grace in their first attempts.”
He patted her foot.
“Now, shall we try walking?”
“Walking,” Rachel said weakly, gripping the reins like they were the only things standing between her and certain doom. “Just walking. Nothing fancy. No galloping, no jumping, no... What’s the word... caracoling?”
“Caracoling is for show-offs and courtiers trying to impress ladies,” Hugo assured her with the authority of someone who’d witnessed many such displays. “We’ll start with a gentle walk around the yard. Just squeeze gently with your legs, and Goliath will respond. He’s been trained to obey the slightest pressure—no need to kick him like some village plow horse.”
Goliath, apparently tired of standing still while the humans discussed his participation in their educational endeavor, decided to take matters into his own hooves. He lurched forward with the enthusiasm of a creature who’d been bred for charging into battle, not strolling gently around training yards with nervous beginners.
Her shriek could probably be heard in the next county.
“Sweet mother of pearl!” she yelled, bouncing in the saddle like a sack of grain as Goliath picked up speed.
“How do I stop this thing? Where are the brakes? Why doesn’t this come with a manual?”
“Gentle pressure on the reins!” Hugo called, jogging alongside them with surprising speed for someone his size. His voice carried the calm authority of someone who’d coached panicking riders through worse situations. “Don’t saw at his mouth—just steady pressure and speak to him. He knows his name!”
“I’m not speaking!” Rachel yelled back, frantically attempting to follow Hugo’s instructions while Goliath continued his enthusiastic tour of the training yard. “I’m negotiating! Begging! Offering to empty entire coffers for his cooperation! What do horses want? Apples? Sugar cubes? My firstborn child?”
“Try ‘whoa,’ mistress!” Hugo called out, his voice mixing genuine concern with barely suppressed laughter. “Or ‘easy, lad’—he knows both commands!”
By some miracle of physics, luck, or divine intervention, she managed to get Goliath to slow from a bone-jarring trot to something that might generously be called a walk, though it felt more like riding an earthquake with hooves.
“Well done!” Hugo boomed with genuine pride, his scarred face beaming as if she’d just successfully completed some sort of equestrian miracle rather than barely surviving a basic training exercise. “You stayed on! You kept your head! Most importantly, you didn’t give up when things went awry.”
“Stayed on,” she repeated, her voice slightly hoarse from terror and shouting. “Right. That’s definitely what I was going for. Not elegance or control or any sort of actual riding skill. Just... not dying.”
“’Tis the most important skill of all,” Hugo assured her with the wisdom of someone who’d survived too many battles to count luck over skill. “Any fool can look graceful when everything goes according to plan. The measure of a true rider—or warrior—is how they respond when everything goes to hell.”
There was something in his tone that suggested he spoke from extensive personal experience. Rachel caught a glimpse of the man who’d fought beside Tristan in France, who’d earned that broken nose and missing tooth through years of combat, who’d followed his friend into exile without question or complaint.
By the time the sun reached its zenith, Rachel had achieved what could charitably be described as basic competence. She could mount Goliath without requiring assistance (most of the time), she could make him walk in approximately the direction she intended (usually), and she had only fallen off twice (which Hugo assured her was remarkable progress).
“That’s enough for today,” he announced as she dismounted with only minimal graceless flailing. “You’ve pushed yourself hard, and Goliath approves of your efforts. See how his ears are pricked forward? That’s interest, not irritation.”
Rachel looked at the horse’s ears, which did indeed seem unusually alert. “Or a sign that he’s plotting my demise for the next time I try to mount him.”
“Nay,” Hugo said seriously, stroking Goliath’s neck with genuine affection. “He respects persistence. This lad has thrown me more times than I can count, but he’s also carried me through Hell itself without faltering. Trust, once earned, is not easily broken.”
The words carried weight beyond their immediate meaning, and Rachel found herself studying Hugo’s weathered face. There was loyalty there, bone-deep and unshakeable, the kind that had kept him at Tristan’s side through disgrace and exile.
“Now then,” he announced, apparently transitioning seamlessly to the next phase of her education, “time for blades.”
“Blades?” She squeaked. “Please tell me you mean eating utensils. Preferably dull ones that require extensive chewing.”
“Knife throwing!” Hugo said with the enthusiasm of someone announcing free gold for everyone. From somewhere about his person, he produced a collection of throwing knives that made her wonder if he was part human, part armory.
“Every warrior should know how to strike from a distance. It’s an essential skill for hunting, for battle, for those moments when an enemy draws too close and you need to discourage their advances.”
“Right,” Rachel said slowly, looking at the wicked-looking blades glinting in the afternoon sun. Each knife was perfectly balanced, edges honed to razor sharpness, grips wrapped in leather that showed the wear of constant use.
“Because what this day really needed was the addition of sharp objects being hurled through the air by someone who can barely stay on a horse.”
“’Tis about accuracy, not strength,” Hugo explained, his teaching manner shifting to something more technical. “These aren’t meant for hacking through mail or splitting skulls—they’re for precision work. Stop a charging enemy, bring down game, create opportunities when circumstances demand creative solutions.”
He selected one knife, turning it over in his massive hands with surprising delicacy. “This particular blade saved Tristan’s life at Calais. French crossbowman had him dead to rights while he was down with a wounded horse. One throw, thirty paces, caught the bastard right in the throat before he could loose his bolt.”
