The destrier snorted and flung a hoof at Ramsay. Ramsay dodged out of the way, wondering if he imagined the gleam in the stallion’s eye. Was this protest a rite of passage for any who would deign to groom him?
Otto cleared his throat pointedly as Ramsay approached the stallion again and began to brush its rump with some caution.
“You were saying, Otto?” Ramsay invited. A shiver ran over the horse’s flesh but he settled with one last stamp of his feet, perhaps enjoying the attention enough to cease his protest.
Perhaps Ramsay gained some favor.
He guessed any reprieve would be a short one.
“I was saying,” Otto continued, leaning against the wall. “That some men are wrought for planning and others for quick thinking.”
“Of course.” Ramsay was watching all four hooves, alert for another objection from the horse as he brushed the steed’s other side.
“And you have always been one to plan with the best. It is because you anticipate your opponent so very well and have a scheme to counter his move before he has even decided to make it.” The older man’s voice was filled with pride. “I taught you that.”
“Aye, sir.” Ramsay proved his mentor correct by moving crisply to right just before the horse kicked. The hoof missed him completely and the stallion turned to grant him a look of such vexation that Ramsay almost laughed aloud.
Talbot did laugh and the beast exhaled furiously, making his nostrils flare. Talbot was beyond the stallion’s reach, but he retreated another step, just to be certain. The destrier grunted with a kind of satisfaction and swished his tail.
Ramsay would laugh only when the steed was groomed and he was out of range, uninjured.
“But for some reason, you erred on this day,” Otto continued. Ramsay glanced up in time to see him nod sagely. “This horse will be your undoing. You should not have taken him.”
“I had to make our interruption look like a robbery.”
“Aye, butthishorse.” Otto shook his head. Before he could continue, the stallion kicked suddenly. Ramsay darted aside but found himself between the horse and the stone wall. The stallion lost no time swinging a hip to crush Ramsay against the wall, the force of the blow making Ramsay blink. He feared he heard the crack of a bone.
He immediately jabbed the brush into the stallion’s belly in retaliation, knowing it would twinge but not truly hurt. The beast snorted with indignation and stepped away, nostrils flaring, feet stamping. Another of those ripples ran over the steed’s skin and Ramsay sensed that the stallion was mustering its strength.
Ramsay retreated to a safe range and the pair glared at each other, the destrier fighting the bridle all the while.
“Perhaps that is a sufficient grooming on this day,” Ramsay said.
The horse snorted, tugged at the reins, then bit at the air for emphasis. He stamped a heavy foot and swished his tail, his dark eyes fixed upon Ramsay all the while.
“It is as if he knows you have no right to him,” Talbot said.
“And what will you do with him?” Otto demanded. “You cannot ride him and you cannot sell him. Even bringing him here might have been noted, and people do talk. This horse will lead the lady’s family and defenders to us as surely as if you dispatched invitations to each and every one of them.”
“Come, Otto,” Ramsay argued. “It is a horse, a fine horse, to be sure, but…”
“But it is clearly one of the legendary black steeds bred and raised at Ravensmuir. Such size. Such majesty.” Otto gestured and Ramsay could have sworn the horse preened. Did the creature stand taller, as if aware that he was appreciated—and that all appreciation was justified? “He could be naught else. That family are kin with the lady you pursued this day and they defend their horses as vehemently as their women and their keeps.”
But Ramsay was staring at the horse. Otto had to be right. He had heard of the magnificent ebony horses bred at Ravensmuir, of course. Who had not? But he had never imagined that they were as wondrous as the tales told about them.
“Where is Ravensmuir?”
Otto shrugged. “On the very coast, perched on the lip of the firth.”
Ramsay glanced his way, the direction not providing sufficient detail.
The older man shook his head. “East of Edinburgh, close to Kinfairlie, its sister holding. To the north and east. Perhaps five days ride in haste, six or seven at leisure.”
This horse snorted and tossed its head proudly, making that obsidian mane flutter, as if vexed to be ignored. When Ramsay looked, the creature held his gaze as if daring him to acknowledge the truth—or as if he would speak aloud, providing better direction to the holding where his lineage was cherished. If he was typical of the steeds bred at Ravensmuir, their reputation was deserved, indeed.
Ramsay fetched an apple, aware that he was avidly observed.
He offered it to the horse, his hand gloved and flatter than usual, so great was his concern that he would lose a finger in the transaction.
