To Carry the Horn

Chapter 2-3

Rhys and George ambled to the nearest stable where two more of the small men in red came out to greet them and take their horses. George dismounted and followed the one who was leading Mosby inside, wanting to be sure of his horse’s comfort.

As Mosby was led into a loose box, George asked, “What shall I do with my gear?” Rhys pointed to a room at the end of the stable aisle, clearly a tack room. “You’ll be assigned a chest during your stay. Come see.”

The lutin silently handed him a basket that had been hanging on the stall door. George unclipped his sandwich box and wire cutters from the saddle and added them to the basket. Then he unbuckled the girth and removed the bridle. Mosby bent his head to some fresh hay and oats in a manger and a welcome wooden bucket of cool water, while one of the grooms began rubbing him down, standing on a stool to reach high enough.

George used the advantage of his height to pull off the saddle and pad, and another groom took them from him, along with the bridle. With the basket in his hand, George gave Mosby a pat on his hindquarters and followed Rhys to the tack room to claim an unoccupied chest. Several were stacked up in the sunlight streaming through the window, and more in the dimmer corners.

Wouldn’t hurt to have a bit more light in here, he thought. He stood in the doorway looking for a light switch. No power? He looked up to confirm his suspicions—no lights. But what’s that next to the window? He walked over and stared at an ordinary oil lamp hanging from a hook on the wall, like a sconce. It seemed so normal, in this place, but where did it come from? It was the first thing he’d seen that didn’t look like it was manufactured here. A shiver went up his spine at the incongruity.

I’m not the only thing in the wrong place.

Meanwhile Rhys and one of the lutins had pulled out an empty chest and opened it.

“How shall they mark the chest and stall for your stay, my lord?” Rhys asked.

George looked around and saw no names or even letters or numbers on the chests, only a variety of what seemed to be symbols drawn in charcoal on small wooden shingles hung on hooks. They were largely simple geometric shapes or drawings of an animal, reminiscent of heraldic signs. He recalled seeing similar charcoal drawings on some of the stall doors.

He thought of the old Talbot arms that hung in his grandfather’s dining room, gold on red. “A lion rampant,” he said whimsically, without thinking, but Rhys nodded and it was clear he understood the heraldic term’s meaning: “standing to strike.”

“Very well. I would judge that your task is done. Allow me to return you to my lord Gwyn.”

Rhys preceded him to the front of the dim stable. As George paused on the threshold behind him, he heard light running footsteps and a bright form leaped at Rhys, causing him to stagger lightly. George’s eyes adjusted and he saw a young teenage girl dancing about his guide. Her blond braid bounced along her back over her simple rose-colored dress.

“Did you see it? What did it look like? Is he really dead? They won’t let me in there. What about the stranger? Did he do it?”

Rhys grabbed her shoulders, smiling, and forcibly held her in place to slow her down. “What courtesies are these to our guest?” he said.

George emerged from the dimness of the stable entrance and she stopped, abashed, staring at him.

Rhys said to him. “Please excuse this ill-mannered display.” He looked at her sternly, if fondly. “Allow me to present Rhian, my sister. Rhian, this gentleman is George Talbot Traherne. He’s brought the pack safely home for us.”

She brushed the loose wisps of hair off her face and dropped into a courtesy, glancing up at her brother to see if this was acceptable. George smiled down at her. “No, I didn’t do it.” Her cheeks reddened.

She rose and said forthrightly, “Thank you, sir, for your deed and please excuse my unbridled words.”

She took her brother’s arm and accompanied them to the house.