Stepsister(60)

“That horse is no good,” the man said. “He could’ve killed you.”

Isabelle ignored him, but Martin didn’t; he looked right at him. His ears pricked up. His nostrils flared. He stopped dead. A smell hit Isabelle then, a rank, low stink of blood and fear and death, moving like a wraith through the iron spikes. Martin smelled it, too. He was trembling. Isabelle was worried he would bolt again.

“Come on, Martin, please. We have to go,” Isabelle said, pulling on his noseband.

But Martin refused to budge. He planted all four hooves into the dirt, raised his head high, and let out a whinny so loud and piercing, so heart-rending, the Isabelle let go of his bridle.

And that’s when she realized that Martin wasn’t looking at the man; he was looking past him, at a horse on the other side of the fence. She took a step towards the yard, slowly, as if in a trance, and then another. Martin called out again, and the horse behind the fence answered.

“Don’t,” the man said. “It’s not something a girl should see.”

But Isabelle did see. She saw a flash of darkness between the bars. Wild eyes. Lethal hooves. There were four burly men around the animal, but they couldn’t subdue him. Even though they had ropes and weapons and he had nothing, they were the ones who were afraid.

Martin had a friend once. He was magnificent. Tall, strong, and fearless. If Martin had been human, he might’ve hated him for being everything that he, Martin, was not. But Martin was not human and so he loved him.

Horses never forget a friend.

Martin had smelled his friend. And heard him. A horse as black as night and ten times more beautiful.

Martin knew that horse. He loved that horse.

And so did Isabelle.

She wrapped her hands around the iron bars and whispered his name. “Nero.”





Sixty-Three


Isabelle ran.

Along the fence. Past the man, who was yelling at her to stop. Through the gates. And straight into hell.

Two sheep who’d jumped out of their pen were running through the yard, bleating, ducking their pursuers, desperate to escape. Cattle lowed piteously. Fresh carcasses were being hung to bleed out; older ones were being quartered.

And in the centre of it all, a black stallion fought for his life.

Death’s servants, four burly men, circled him. One of them had managed to get a rope around the horse’s neck. Another had caught one of his back legs, throwing him off balance. A third man caught the other back leg. The horse went down. He made a last, valiant attempt to get up, then lay in the mud, his sides heaving, his eyes closed.

The fourth man was leaning on a sledgehammer. He gripped its wooden handle with both hands now and lifted the heavy steel head.

“No!” Isabelle screamed. “Stop!”

But no one heard her, not over the bleating of the sheep and bawling of the cattle.

Isabelle ran faster, shouting, pleading, screaming. She was only a few feet away from the horse, when her foot came down in a puddle. She slipped and went sprawling.

Spitting filth, Isabelle picked up her head in time to see the man lift the sledgehammer off the ground and raise it high, spiraling it around his body, the muscles in his strong arms rippling.

A ragged scream burst up from her heart and out of her throat. She launched herself, half crawling, half stumbling through the mud and blood and threw herself on the horse’s neck.

Just as the man swung the sledgehammer.





Sixty-Four


The hole the sledgehammer made was deep.

Isabelle knew this because the man who’d swung the tool forced her to look at it. He grabbed the back of her dress, yanked her off the horse as if she were a rag doll, and dropped her in the mud. She landed on her hands and knees.

“Do you see that sledgehammer? Do you see what it did?” he shouted at her.

Isabelle nodded even though she could only see the handle. The head was buried in the ground.

“That could’ve been your skull!”

The man, a burly giant, was shaking like a kitten. He’d swung the sledgehammer with all his might and then, in the space of a heartbeat, a girl had thrown herself in its path. He’d wrenched his body to the left at the last possible instant, swinging through and hitting the ground instead of the girl.

Isabelle stood up. Her dress was smeared with gore. Her face streaked with it. She didn’t care. “Don’t kill my horse,” she begged. “Please.”

“He’s my horse. I bought him. You don’t want him. He’s too wild.”

“I do want him.”

“Then you can pay me for him. Four livres.”

Isabelle thought of the money tucked under the wagon’s seat and had to fight down the urge to run and get it. But she was not a thief.

“I don’t have any money,” she said miserably.

“Then find some, girl, and fast. You’ve got until tomorrow morning. We open the gates at seven sharp. Be here on time, with the money, or he goes.”

Isabelle nodded. She told the man she’d be back. She told herself that she’d think of something. She’d get the money. Somehow.

“Let him up,” she said, looking at her horse.

No one moved.

“Let. Him. Up.” It was not a plea this time, but a command, and the men heard it. They removed the ropes they’d used to restrain him.