A Changing Land(72)

Willy pointed in the direction of the river. ‘Mebbe that way. Are you going riding?’

‘Maybe.’

They stood staring at each other until Willy returned to his brushing.

Angus scrambled through two lots of railings and walked across hoof-packed dirt. Standing alone, sniffing the wood of the yards, was the black gelding. Angus had christened him Wallace after William Wallace, the Scottish highlander who attempted to free them from the English. His father approved of his choice, reminding Angus that an animal with such a name would not suffer fools. Well, Angus knew that. He still had a bruise on his bum to prove it. Angus had reminded Wallace that his father was also a highlander, not that this shared allegiance made much difference. To date Angus had managed to stay on once out of seven attempts.

Angus slipped through the railings. Wallace trotted away. ‘Come on, fella,’ Angus called softly. ‘Come on.’ Having taken his father’s advice to make friends with Wallace, he’d spent the last few days, morning and night, feeding and talking to him. Willy appeared on the other side of the railings with a bucket of chaff. ‘Here,’ he called. ‘Try this.’

Reluctantly Angus accepted the bucket. As soon as he placed it on the ground Wallace walked forward and began to eat from it. When the horse lifted his head clear Angus slipped the bridle on. ‘Gotcha!’

Willy opened the gate and Angus led Wallace into a larger yard.

‘Jump on him here,’ Willy encouraged. ‘Bareback. You can ride bareback?’

Angus chewed his lip. He didn’t much like the thought of falling off again. Willy stared at him, his skinny black hands resting on his hips, his bare toes digging into the sand of the yards. Angus was sure he could see the beginning of a smile. Gritting his teeth, he led Wallace to the railings, climbing up until he was level with the horse’s back. The horse was stamping the ground impatiently, snorting and shaking his head.

‘Come on,’ Willy encouraged. ‘Get on.’

Angus hesitated, considered the ramifications of being too scared to continue, before flinging his right leg carefully over the horse’s back. His father had warned him of sudden movements and every muscle tightened expectantly in his body as he grimaced. He took a breath. Wallace barely moved. Shifting his bum into the centre of the horse’s back, Wallace moved strongly beneath him before wheeling from left to right. Angus dug his knees in as he’d been taught, tightened his grip on the reins and turned the horse to his right. Soon they were walking around the yard’s perimeter, his face all gappy eight-year-old grin.

‘Faster,’ Willy encouraged, perching himself on the top railing of the yard. ‘Faster.’

In response Angus touched the horse’s flanks. Wallace increased his speed. Soon he was in a trot. Trees in surrounding paddocks began to blur, the railings whizzed past his legs as Angus bounced lightly up and down.

‘Me too,’ Willy cried out. Without waiting for a response, he jumped from the railings when the horse passed by and landed behind Angus. Wallace reared immediately. Angus felt Willy’s hands frantically grabbing his shirt tail, then the boy was gone, Angus clinging to two great handfuls of mane.

‘Whoa, Wallace, good Wallace.’ Angus calmed the horse and turned to see Willy rubbing his bum. Wallace snorted and whinnied as Angus slid off his back, patted his nose and removed the bridle. ‘What did you do that for?’

Willy hunched his shoulders. His arm was bleeding where it had scraped the timber railings.

Angus moved to inspect the injury. ‘Come on now.’ He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tied it around the worst of the deep scratch. Willy watched warily, rubbing at his bum.

‘Hard, isn’t it?’ Angus bandaged up the wound. A few minutes later Wallace trotted up to nibble at his shirtsleeve. In the distance was a horse and rider. The boys ran to the railings and clambering to the top, looked out towards the west. ‘Wetherly,’ Angus guessed. ‘He rides like he’s on show, so Father says. But where’s he going?’

Willy hunched his shoulders and then pointed towards the orchard. It looked like Mungo waiting beneath the last of the orange trees, his hat cocked back on his head. Soon one of the maids came into view. With a grin, Angus elbowed Willy in the side and they ran from the stables, their feet soon crunching orange and lemon leaves soft with ruin as the morning sun crisscrossed the land. Angus spotted Luke’s empty camp at the base of a large tree and dived for his swag, Willy landing partially on him.