'A real mover,' Mullan said. He and Grandfather exchanged a look, and Michael knew the horse was as good as bought. 'Fifteen hands, I'd have said,' Pat offered.
'Och, no.' The man was out of breath. 'Fourteen three.'
'Fourteen, you told me,' Pat said easily. 'Just a wee pony, no more.'
'Sure I knew if you thought she was this size you'd never even look at her. And she's worth a look, isn't she?' Pat stared at him with a look that was both annoyance and amusement, and the man grinned hideously, knowing he had been right.
They haggled whilst the mare stood uncomprehending but attentive, the muscles quivering in her flanks.
'Sixty pounds would seem fair.'
'Guineas would be fairer, and a few more at that.'
'What would you say, then?'
'Well, what would you offer? Be realistic now.'
'No, no. It is for you to say. What would you be wanting?'
The man stated a price which made Grandfather and Mullan sputter with mirth and wipe their eyes. 'So you're a comedian,' Mullan laughed.
The price came down. They argued. Grandfather made as if to walk away in disgust. Mullan pulled him back. They threw up their hands, drew attention to her height. This was a horse, not a pony. Ate more. Needed more careful handling. Wasn't quite what they had been looking for.
The price fell further.
The owner shook his head in despair. The beast was a family pet. His daughter would be heartbroken. Hard times forced such measures. Pat tried to bring the price down a last time, but it had hit bedrock. The man was obdurate. He and Grandfather looked at one another, gauging; finally Pat spat on his hand and stuck it out. They shook, each believing he had the better bargain.
'We bought her!' Michael cried.
Mullan patted his head. 'Two white feet, Mike, remember. We had to buy her. Now get you up on the cart.'
They were even slower on the way home, the chestnut tied behind, Felix plodding along in front, keeping to a walk to spare the mare's feet. A subtle gold came into the air, heralding the wane of the afternoon. Blackbirds darted out from the hedges in front of them, alarmed. The roads were quiet. Pat and Mullan were discussing grazing, winter feed, hay and tack. Horse talk, wholesome as apples. Michael looked back at the white-splashed face of the mare. She was staring wide-eyed at the woods to their left.
They were nearly home, and the trees wound about the little river. They could hear it churning in the quiet of the coming evening. The woods were thick here, perhaps half a mile above the bridge. They butted on to meadows and fields of barley.
There was movement there, in the shadow of the trees. Shapes were coursing along low to the ground, grey as smoke.
Demon growled deep in his throat.
Michael peered harder. Dog-like silhouettes loping along-the edge of the meadows. Were they after sheep?
With a clatter of cracked branches a great stag came leaping out of the woods, sprays of leaves caught in its antlers and the insides of its nostrils gleaming like blood. It was gasping and heaving, stumbling, its coat foamed with sweat and matted with briars. The other creatures gave a collective howl and changed course in pursuit. They were wolves.
One fastened on the stag's near hind and was flung away with a kick. The stag turned and lowered its head. A wolf was caught by a vicious swipe and Michael saw something like a dark streamer ripped out of its belly. One of its fellows darted in and fastened its muzzle deep in the stag's groin. It bellowed and spun around frantically, trying to claw forwards with a hind leg, the antlers swinging madly and dispensing oak leaves
And then was gone. They had turned a corner round the wood and the duel was out of sight. Demon and the chestnut mare had quietened. Pat and Mullan were still talking horses. Michael sat back with his eyes shining. Wolves. There were wolves in the woods.
ONE DAY WHILST negotiating a broad fire-scarred clearing they were ambushed and caught, the wolves sliding out from the ragged boulders and the shadow of fallen trees. It was rough, uneven ground for the horses, and they had not torn along two hundred yards before the grey went down with a scream and Michael saw Cat flung away like a doll. He hauled on the reins, dragging the chestnut from a full gallop into a tearing halt. His free hand whipped out the heavy sword from the saddle scabbard. There was a torrent of snarling and snapping behind him and he had to force the terrified horse round with what strength he could muster from his crippled hand.
The grey was already dead. Wolves swarmed over it like lice, bracing their forefeet upon the body and ripping out chunks of quivering meat with sideways jerks of their heads. Cat was on her hands and knees, groggy from the fall. The wolves were ignoring her for the moment.
Michael kicked his mount viciously, but the smell of the wolves and the blood was terrifying her. She backed away with her ears laid against her skull. He hammered the flat of the sword on her head and then on the flank. Cat was looking around her with dawning comprehension. Any moment now the wolves would notice her. Snarling wordlessly, Michael scythed the edge of the blade along his steed's rump, and she jumped forward just as the first wolves left the grey's corpse with red muzzles, smelling the woman crouched nearby. The horse powered forward, knocking them aside. Michael swung the blade, felt it tear through fur and muscle, swung again at one which was going for the mare's belly and clipped and crunched the skull. Cat leapt behind him and her slim arms locked around his waist, He stabbed the blade into a yellow-eyed face, and then staggered in the saddle as a heavy weight smote his left arm and clung there. The horse wheeled in panic-stricken circles, and Michael felt the maw of the wolf fasten deep, deep, in his forearm, the mad eyes glaring at him over the blood-soaked snout. He shrieked with pain and fear as the wolf s weight began to drag him from the saddle. Only Cat's arms kept him there, but his right foot left the stirrup and slid up to the horse's neck. The mare's body lurched as she kicked out to the rear, and with what seemed like infinite slowness he brought the sword round for a shortened stab, deliberately chose one of the glaring eyes and thrust the point into the socket. It grated on bone, caught for a second, then scraped free as the jaws opened and the wolf slid silently from sight. He kicked the chestnut onwards and she broke into a gallop. His left arm was numb, and he could see the blood dripping from it. Like that good wine we had, he thought muzzily. It was Cat who saved the sword as it slipped from his fingers, who took the reins from his nerveless hand, who kept him on the horse as they pitched along in mad flight with the wolves loping and snapping around them.