“Well,” the marshall said. “Let’s have a look at your work. Come with me.”
When the blackbird made as if to follow, Bellamy put up his hand. “I’ll nanny this one,” he said. “I promise I’ll toss him back if he doesn’t suit me.”
He led Ash to a box stall in the rear. As they drew near, a horse poked his head out, ears flat, eyes wide and rolling, snorting his distrust. He was a rich blue roan with black points, not the standard dun color typical of Ardenine military mounts.
Ash stopped a short distance away, setting down his bags. He could smell infection from where he stood. “What’s going on?” he murmured, more to the horse than to Bellamy. But Bellamy answered.
“He’s a three-year-old, and he’s been out on campaign all summer,” Bellamy said. “Came back in a foul mood that’s just gotten worse. He’s favoring his right front leg, but nobody can get near enough to take a look. My farrier was the last one that tried, and he got kicked in the head for his trouble. Now he’s off his feed, and I’m worried he’ll go down for good.”
The farrier or the horse? Ash thought of saying, but didn’t. “What was he like before he left in the spring?”
“He’s a good horse,” Bellamy said, a bit defensively. “He was always willing if you knew how to manage him. Oh, you know, like most horses, he’d get away with whatever he could, but he was never mean-tempered. Not like this.”
Ash liked the fact that Bellamy stood up for his horse. “How long has he been off his feed?”
“Couple weeks.”
“What’s his name?”
“Crusher.”
Ash raised an eyebrow. “Crusher?” At the sound of his name, the gelding’s ears pricked forward.
Bellamy grimaced. “He’s a warhorse, all right? Man doesn’t want to ride into battle on a horse named Daisy.”
“You have a point.” Ash stood, hands on hips, studying the horse, noting his prominent backbone and ribs. “He’s lost weight?”
Bellamy nodded. “I’d say so.”
“Has anyone checked his teeth?”
Bellamy rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Be my guest.”
Ash laughed. He liked the horse marshall—he couldn’t help it. “Maybe later, after we’ve gotten to know each other.”
“Anyway, like I told you, the problem seems to be in his foreleg.”
Ash squatted and rooted through his carry bag, finally coming up with an apple he’d picked along the road. He crossed to the stall, moving slowly and deliberately, avoiding eye contact with the gelding. Still, the ears went back again and the roan showed his teeth. When he shied back, Ash could see how he favored his right foreleg.
“Hey, now,” Ash murmured, keeping the apple out of sight. “Something’s hurting you, isn’t it? No wonder you’re snarly. But you know we’re just trying to help.” The ears flicked forward again and the gelding’s nostrils flared as he caught the scent of the apple. It was a good sign that he was still interested in food.
Ash just kept talking, keeping up a gentle one-way conversation as he watched the gelding’s neck muscles relax. Finally, he extended his flat hand, the apple centered on his palm, and Crusher lipped it up and crunched it between his teeth, his whiskers tickling a little.
Behind him, Bellamy released a long breath he’d been holding.
Ash let Crusher snuffle the back of his hand, then scratched him all along his neck and withers, trickling soothing power through his fingers, relieving the white-hot pain that coursed through the horse. Before long, the roan was pushing with his nose, wanting more. After a few minutes, Ash unbolted the lower stall door, pulled it open, and stepped into the stall.
Crusher’s tail clamped down, ears back again. “It’s just me,” Ash murmured. “You know me, don’t you?” Another ten minutes of work, and Ash had the halter on him and his head secured. After that it was a matter of persuading the gelding that it was a good idea to allow Ash to pick up his foot. It helped that he could all but eliminate the pain. Unfortunately, that required that he take it on himself.
Fortunately, Ash had a high threshold for pain.
He examined the hoof, which badly needed picking out. The shoes were nearly worn through. This horse had been ridden hard. The hoof was hot, the pulse fever-fast above the fetlock. Puss oozed from a crack along the white line and around one of the nails.
Ash looked up at Bellamy. “It’s an abscess,” he said. “I’m going to drain it. If you look in my carry bag, you’ll find—not that one!” he all but shouted. Bellamy looked up, startled.
That’s all I need, Ash thought, to have the king’s horse marshall pull an array of shivs and poisons out of my travel bag.
“The other one. Look for a white bag labeled ‘horse mustard.’ Measure out a cup, thoroughly wet it with water, then bring it to me.”