The First of July(12)

The nuns kept themselves more or less to themselves behind their high wall. The orphans were quiet boys and girls whose eyes slid away from strangers’ smiles or the offer of a cake from a shopkeeper. When they grew up, those who weren’t funny in the head went to be soldiers or laborers if they were boys, and the girls became servants or did sewing. Death was quite a frequent visitor at the convent.

“They think they’re some kind of saints because they tidy things up,” said Godet. “And because we don’t want children who remind us of our indiscretions and sorrows, nobody asks any questions.” He lit his pipe, sucked hard two or three times, his eyes half shut. “Me, I’d rather give a child to a tribe of savages with bones in their noses than the holy sisters.”

Jean-Baptiste was used to Godet’s ways, but this time he was shocked. Even his mother said her prayers every night, slowly in summer, very quickly in winter.

An hour later, one of de Potiers’s men brought in a bay gelding, leading it with a halter.

“It’s got the jiggers,” the man said, twitching the rein, stepping back a pace. “It’s a holy horror her ladyship calls Prince of Araby, but I call it a little bugger that needs the sting of a stick to show it who’s master, and now it’s gone and shed a shoe.”

Godet moved forward to take the rein, but the groom held tight. “It’s best I hang on,” he said. “You never know what he’s got in mind.” The horse was rolling its eyes and pawing the ground. Jean-Baptiste took the long way around its rear end to take the money.

Godet was stroking the horse’s flank now, murmuring to it, and the beast stopped fidgeting and trying to walk sideways. It exhaled noisily and stood still.

“Well, you’ve got a way with them, for sure,” the groom said and, at the sound of his voice, the horse started up again.

Godet and the horse stood and looked at each other.

“Well, are you going to fix it?”

Godet grunted. He stood in silence, stroking the animal for a minute or so, then ran his hand slowly down the horse’s leg and lifted its hoof. He looked down, smoothed it with his hand, feeling for roughness as Jean-Baptiste had seen him do so many times before.

“Well, will you look at that,” the groom said. “I’ve never ever seen him so easy.” He stepped closer and the horse shuffled away from him, but Godet held him firm.

Jean-Baptiste handed him a file and he began to smooth the hoof, making no quick movements that might startle the bay, though it occasionally tossed its head to rid itself of flies. The forge always had this problem on warm days. When all was done to his satisfaction, Godet set the foot down.

“They say that there’s trouble brewing… .” said the groom. “Of course we hear these things up at the chateau, seeing as Monsieur is an intimate of the president. What he says is Europe is a tinderbox. If there’s a war, France will be right in the middle of it, he says. They’ll need soldiers. Revenge for the last time.” He pulled irritably at the halter and the horse did a little sideways step. “But Monsieur de Potiers wouldn’t let me go because he likes things just so. He’s a stickler. So that’s all right then.” He shot a glance at Jean-Baptiste.

Godet had turned away and was choosing metal for the shoe. He took a piece down, placed it in pincers, and set it into the fire. As he moved back toward them, the horse shook its head and flies lifted off. The groom’s response was to tug hard on the rein.

“Hold still, you bugger,” he shouted.

As the horse sheered away backward, the groom caught his foot in the trailing end of the halter rope and fell. The horse reared up. De Potiers’s man rolled fast to avoid the animal’s hooves, but Godet was slower and perhaps more trusting. The horse kicked out and caught him a mighty clout on the leg. As the leg collapsed under him, Godet grabbed instinctively at the first thing to hand, grasping wildly at the handle of the pincers, which tipped off the forge, and he fell to the floor with a groan. The metal spun in an arc, Jean-Baptiste ducked, and the hot iron hit the horse, which no one had tried yet to recapture. The animal went mad. It whinnied and rose up, its hooves like weapons. Jean-Baptiste jumped back. The groom was already cowering on the other side of the anvil, but Godet was just lying there, stunned, and as the horse’s front hooves came down, they landed on the old man’s head and chest. Jean-Baptiste moved as quickly as he could, but the horse was crashing into everything now and the noise seemed to enrage it further. By the time he grabbed the rope, it was almost impossible to hold.

He shouted at the groom: “For God’s sake, help me. Get it out of here.”