My Lady Jane(80)

First, she decided, she would get dressed.

“Gifford.” She cleared her throat. “I don’t want to question your honor, but that’s exactly what I’m doing.” She threw the cloak over his head so that he couldn’t peek at her while she put on the clothes he’d just discarded.

Gifford-the-horse made a huffing sound, but held still as she dressed. His clothes were warm and slightly sweaty. They smelled of horse. Everything was much too big, but she tightened the belt as small as it would go and rolled the hems of her pants and sleeves. Then she tied her hair into a quick braid and freed Gifford of his blind.

“So I’m to ride on your back?” she asked nervously. “And break Horse Rule three?”

He tossed his head in the affirmative.

She tromped over in too-large boots to inspect the other horse’s saddle.

She’d read about saddles in The Great Saddle Controversy: Pros and Cons of Various Saddles and the Best Choice for a Patriotic Englishman. This saddle only vaguely resembled the ones she’d seen sketched in the book, but how hard could it be? Seat, saddle tree, girth, blanket. There was a small saddlebag as well, but Jane didn’t open it to inspect its contents. No time.

Pet let out a yip. Hurry, she seemed to say.

“Hold your horses,” Jane muttered as she began to unsaddle the borrowed horse. This proved to be a challenge, since the horse was much taller than she, and the saddle weighed at least half what she did, but finally she managed to haul it off and dump it on the ground.

The pad of blanket underneath was damp with sweat, but she didn’t have a choice except to drape it over Gifford’s back with an apology. Still, she was wearing his clothes. He could wear their horse’s blanket.

Next came the saddle again. Gifford was at least kind enough to walk over to a large rock, flat enough for Jane to stand on. But his movement had gotten the blanket all out of place, so she had to drop the saddle, fix the blanket, and urge Gifford to stay still while she adjusted the saddle into place. With some difficulty, she fitted the girth strap into its buckle and tugged as tight as she dared. When she hopped off the rock to inspect her work, she realized horse-Gifford looked a lot . . . rounder than normal. “Are you holding your breath?”

Gifford blew out and resumed his normal proportions while Jane tried again to tighten the girth.

By now, Pet was running circles around the group. Jane gave the girth strap one more good yank—Gifford dramatically heaved a breath—and then reached for the other horse’s bridle.

Gifford shied away from her, snorting. The message was clear: she might be able to break Horse Rules 1 and 3, but Horse Rule 2 still stood. No bridling the horse.

“Fine, but at least let me take this off. I don’t want him to trip on the reins.” She unbuckled the other horse’s bridle and let it slide to the ground. Then she grabbed the saddlebag and strapped it onto Gifford.

Pet whined and barked and circled again, tighter. Both horses’ ears flickered backward. Even Jane could hear the pounding of hooves now. Mary’s men were catching up.

She threw herself onto Gifford’s back and tried not to fall off as he launched himself like an arrow in the direction they’d been heading before, the other horse following close behind.

Jane tried to keep her head down. Twigs and brush snapped around her as Gifford ran tirelessly on. He leapt and swerved and pounded through the trees and close underbrush, sure-footed and strong, and even when the forest became too thick for speed, he stubbornly continued forward.

They’d been going for a while when, as abruptly as he’d started, Gifford stopped. The other horse stopped, too, and Pet, who sat down a few feet away. For a minute they all just stood there, breathing hard.

“What are we doing?” Jane hissed.

The other horse began ripping up bites of grass. Gifford bobbed his head, as if acknowledging a good idea, and nibbled on his own patch of greenery.

“Gifford, this is not the ideal time to take a break,” Jane admonished him, leaning over his neck. “The soldiers are still close.”

Gifford shook his head so his mane rubbed across her face. She spat out horsehair, straining to hear anything under the wind rustling trees and the horse teeth grinding grass into a gross, green pulp.

“This is stupid,” she commented.

Then, without warning, Gifford turned on the other horse and bit the air close to his nose.

The horse—previously believing Gifford to be a friendly man-horse—reared up and screamed. Jane shrieked and clutched the pommel as tightly as she could while Gifford pushed forward, snapping and lunging at the other horse. He circled around him, blocking the jagged path of the way they’d come until the poor creature had no choice but to peel off into the woods.

They listened to the horse crash through the underbrush. Then Jane, Gifford, and Pet were alone.

Jane pressed her hands against her chest and dropped her forehead against Gifford’s neck. “That was mean,” she said, and reached forward to flick his ear. “He was a nice horse.”

Gifford blew out a breath and immediately began picking his way through the woods, doubling back to the deer trail.

So as to leave less of a trail, Jane realized. Now anyone who followed them here would likely follow the new trail the other horse had left, not expecting Jane and Gifford to go back the way they’d come.

“I see now,” Jane said. “I guess I forgot the plan. That was still mean, though. You should try to be nicer to the other horses. You’re herd animals. Who will you run with if he goes back to tell the others of your two-faced personality? Who will you compare apple notes with? Soon you won’t have any friends but me.”