King of the Wind (15 page)

An awed silence fell over the little company. Then, as though the wall of a dike had given way, there was a torrent of noise. Jeweled hands broke into spontaneous applause. Every voice shouted in admiration.

The Earl of Godolphin laughed aloud. Here, at last, was the answer to his dream!

Except for her tail, which was a smoky plume, Roxana was the shininess of white marble in the sun. And she wore no housings at all, only a halter made of silken rope, and across the browband were tiny rosettes of blue satin.

Roxana pawed the springy turf. She seemed glad that the jolting, jarring ride was over. A high whinny escaped her.

Suddenly there was an answering whinny, so shrill and joyous it sent shivers racing up and down Agba’s spine.

“Aha!” spoke up one of the noblemen. “Hobgoblin is already welcoming his mate.”

A smile played about Agba’s lips. The whinny of welcome had come from Sham,
not
from Hobgoblin.

For a full moment Roxana alerted. Her head went up; her tail went up; her ears pricked. The noblemen gasped. If Roxana had been beautiful before, she was a living statue now.

Agba’s heart melted. He had intended to hate Roxana, but all the hate was washed away.

“What symmetry!” exclaimed the Duke of Bridgewater.

“She is built like a fawn!” cried Lord Villiers.

“Aye. Exquisitely made,” said the Earl of Marmaduke. Agba scarcely heard their remarks. Way down at the end of the stables he saw Sham’s head thrust out. He watched Roxana toss her mane at him, like a girl tossing her curls. He heard her whinny, this time softer, fuller, than the last.

Now there were two answers. The deep, grunting neigh of Hobgoblin and the ecstatic bugling of Sham.

“Twickerham,” the Earl spoke tensely, “ Hobgoblin shall meet his mate. Have him brought out.”

Again the paddock was bathed in stillness. It was so quiet that Agba could hear a leaf drifting lazily to earth. A goldfinch flew overhead in yellow arcs, spinning a thin thread of song.

Titus Twickerham’s words rang in Agba’s ears.
A mare worthy of Hobgoblin.
That overfed monster! Agba could stand the unfairness no longer. He ran to Sham’s stall. He threw wide the door. Out streaked a tongue of golden fire. It was Sham, trumpeting to the skies, Sham tasting his freedom with a wild leap. He overtook Hobgoblin being led out of his stall. He whirled around and challenged the king of Gog Magog. Hobgoblin jerked his head into the air, breaking the catch of his lead rope. For one deathly still moment the two stallions faced each other. Then they charged, the noisy thudding of their bodies lost in savage screams.

The grooms were benumbed, stupefied. For seconds they were unable to move. Then they all began running at once, getting in each other’s way, throwing bucketfuls of water at the furious stallions. It was useless—like trying to smother a forest fire with hearth brooms. The air crackled and ripped with the sound of flailing hooves and snorts and shrieks.

Sham was little and quick. His legs were steel rods. He danced on them, making fierce thrusts. Hobgoblin was like a great war horse beside Sham. Now he swung his lumbering body around and gave a tremendous kick with all the power of his hindquarters.

Agba saw Sham drop down on the ground to miss the blow. In a second he was up again, spinning around to face Hobgoblin, beating at him with his flinty hooves. He saw Sham open wide his mouth and use his strong young teeth, not to bite, but to hammer with. The blows seemed no heavier than hailstones to Hobgoblin. Yet they maddened him into a wild rage. He lunged, baring his teeth, ready to sink them into Sham’s neck.

With a mighty cry, Sham tossed his head upward, catching Hobgoblin under the jaw, actually lifting him up on his hind feet. The little horse rained blow upon blow on Hobgoblin, forcing him farther and farther up on his hind legs until finally he fell over backward, thrashing and kicking.

Agba beat his fists together. The great Hobgoblin was down! The massive, heaving, hulking body was grunting in pain and defeat.

A ringing cry of victory burst from Sham. With a rush he sought Lady Roxana. He leaped about her, prancing lightly as if his legs were set on springs. He arched his magnificent neck. He plumed his tail. His eyes were bold, his body wet and shining. Sham, the fleet of foot, the pride of the Sultan’s stables, was on parade before the beautiful Roxana.

Suddenly they were together, touching each other with their noses, talking in excited little nickers. Then, manes and tails in flowing motion, they streaked to the far end of the paddock. It seemed plain to Agba that both Sham and Roxana wanted to be far away from the distasteful, groaning Hobgoblin.

Agba wanted to sing for joy. He longed to talk, to laugh, to cry. His hands flew to his throat helplessly. But it was Roxana whose voice substituted for his own. It was her whinny, high and joyful, that said all he wanted to say.

A
FTER A MOMENT of stunned silence, the Earl of Godolphin led his guests away. Twickerham ran to Hobgoblin, rolled him onto his belly and helped him rise. When the horse was once more in his stall, the groom followed the Earl. He must have orders before he saw Agba.

Agba, meanwhile, had gone back to work to avoid showing his joy. Not until darkness closed in did he realize what he had done. Then the gravity of it struck him. He had acted without orders. He had allowed Sham to fight Hobgoblin. Sham might
have killed the Earl’s favorite stallion, his star of hope!

The boy swallowed hard. He had hurt the kindliest friend he had ever had. He was ready to take whatever punishment might come.

So it was with no surprise that, as he stood in Sham’s stall, he saw coming toward him the quick, spidery legs of Titus Twickerham. They cast long, frightening shadows because of the lanthorns which the groom held in each hand.

“Agba!” he called out as soon as he was within hearing. “What I has to say can be said
over
the door.”

There was not the slightest hesitation or stammering in Mister Twickerham’s speech. It was as if he had wound up his words in a ball and now had only to unwind them.

“The Earl wants to be quit of ye,” he pronounced. “He don’t want nobody ever again to mention ye or yer horse in his presence. He can’t trust himself to look at ye. Not ever. Not ever, do ye hear?”

Agba bent his head. He could understand. He thought of the wheat ear and unconsciously began tracing the swirling hairs on Sham’s chest.

“Look me in the eye, ye blockhead! Take yer fingers off o’ that weed. Listen sharp! All yer nag is fit for is cat’s meat. Yet his lordship says ye’re to saddle him immejate and follow the North Star ’til it brings ye to Upware Inn. Get a-goin’ with that saddle!”

Agba went for the saddle. His hands were shaking as he laid it on Sham’s withers and slid it into place. Sham stretched his neck in Mister Twickerham’s direction, opened wide his
mouth, bared his teeth, and let forth a high and mighty neigh.

“Kill-devil!” the groom spat. “Laugh all ye want to now. Ye an’ yer hooded turtle of a boy, and yer cat, too, is going to Wicken Fen. And there, in the dismal swampland, ye’re going to end out yer days.”

Agba felt a chill. The night mist was rising. It reminded him of the dank air of Newgate Jail.

“Shiverin’ in yer timbers, be ye, Agba?” taunted the groom. “Ye an’ yer high-soundin’ book name! Now we’ll see if it’ll help ye to follow directions. When ye comes to Up-ware Inn, ye’ll see letters written on the gable of it. They spell out:
‘Five Miles From Anywhere. No Hurry. ’ ”

Titus Twickerham scratched his head. “Huh!” he exclaimed. “Maybe ye can’t read any more’n you can talk. But no matter. Ye can’t miss the inn if ye follow the North Star. Then ye turn right fer five miles an’ ye’ll come upon . . .” here the groom poked his head close to Agba’s and let the words whistle through his teeth, “an’ ye’ll come upon Wicken Fen! And there, in the miry bog, ye’ll find a ghost-like hovel waitin’ just for ye.”

Agba’s hands had suddenly grown icy. It was all he could do to buckle Sham’s girth strap. But at last he stood ready, taking nothing in his saddlebag but Sham’s rub-rag and a spool toy which the Duchess had given Grimalkin.

“His lordship is far too kind to ye,” muttered the groom as he opened the door of the stall. “He says fer me to fasten a lanthorn to each o’ yer stirrups. Then ye won’t fall into the dykes and get drownt. Though, to my mind, ’twould be good
riddance of all of ye. Then I wouldn’t have to be sending ye barley and oats every fortnight like I’m ordered to.”

He came so close now that his coarse hair scratched Agba’s face. “Fer me,” his voice rasped, “I’d sooner be buried alive as spend one night in the fen country.”

Grimalkin began yowling nervously. He leaped onto Mister Twickerham’s head and from there to Sham’s saddle. From the height of Sham’s back he looked down on the groom as much as to say, “A mounting block! That’s all
you
are!”

The groom made a wry face at the cat. “Humpf,” he scoffed. “Ye an’ yer mute friends be nothin’ but fen slodgers!”

Now Agba swung up on Sham, and together the three creatures went out into the night.

Life was hard in the fenland, even though Titus Twickerham carried out the Earl’s orders. When the roads were passable, he sent barley and oats by a peasant farmer who delivered his load and drove off as fast as his horse would take him.

After he had gone Agba would light a peat fire and make barley gruel for all to share.

Sometimes Agba speared for eels and pike in a crooked stream. But he was clumsy, as he had nothing but a sharp stick for a spear. Besides, the coarse sedge grass along the streams was razor sharp, and it cut Agba’s arms and legs until he had to bind them with strips from his turban. So it was not often that he and Grimalkin enjoyed the delicacy of fresh fish.

Titus Twickerham had told the truth about Wicken Fen, Agba thought in the long nights when the wind moaned and the owls hooted. It
was
dismal ground.

In winter a white wilderness of snow walled the three creatures inside their hovel. Then Agba’s mind flew back to all the promises he had made Sham, and his eyes would search Sham’s to catch the faintest mistrust in their purple depths.