Rolley burst into the barn, a whip in one hand, his face ghostly pale. “Adam! Come quick! It’s the roan—I tried to tell him he wasn’t fit to be rid, but he wouldn’t listen.”
Ash bolted from the stable, nearly colliding with a group of bluebloods in hunting attire who huddled to one side, gripping the reins of their horses while a groom struggled to control a pack of leashed mastiffs. And beyond them was Crusher, ears flat, eyes rolling, bucking and crow-hopping, doing his best to fling his rider off his back. Meanwhile, Marshall Bellamy was trying to move in close enough to grab hold of the gelding’s reins without being trampled in the process.
The rider was skilled, to have kept his seat for that long, but just as Ash arrived, the gelding slammed against a stone wall and finally succeeded in dislodging him. The man fell, rolling, trying to evade the horse’s flying hooves.
Ash’s first instinct was to let Crusher trample the fool, but Bellamy was moving in again, stepping between the horse and the fallen rider, desperately trying to drive the gelding back far enough so that the rider could scramble away. Fearing the horse marshall would be trampled instead, Ash came in from the side, managed to snag one of the reins, and pulled the gelding’s head around so he circled away from the other two. He managed to get a hand on Crusher’s withers and pushed soothing magic into him. He kept on turning the horse in a tight circle, repeating “whoa!” until the plunging stopped and the ears came forward and Crusher stood still, shaking and blowing hard. On three legs.
Blood was running down the fourth leg. Not the one with the abscessed hoof. Ash didn’t need a close look to tell that the cannon bone was shattered just above the fetlock, the bone poking through the skin. That sometimes happened when a lame horse put too much pressure on his three healthy legs. Ash pressed his fingers between the gelding’s eyes, trying to help him with the pain, but it nearly knocked him on his ass.
Bellamy walked toward him. “You all right, Adam?”
Ash shook his head, pointed wordlessly at the broken leg, and Bellamy’s face went gray. “Scummer,” the marshall muttered, and looked away.
The rider was on his feet now, brushing himself off, straightening his sleeves. He wore a fine hunting coat, embroidered with red hawks, now besmirched with dirt. A long cut across his cheek oozed blood, and his sandy hair was disheveled.
The rest of the hunting party clustered around him, chattering like sparrows. “Your Majesty? Are you injured? Shall we call Master Merrill? Thank the Maker you weren’t killed!”
Your Majesty.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl while Ash’s heart accelerated, thumping painfully in his chest. He watched wordlessly as the king of Arden shook off his courtiers, grabbed Rolley by the front of his barn coat, and yanked him close. “Imbecile. I thought you said that beast was improving. He’s worse than before.” He gave Rolley a shake.
“Y-your Majesty,” Rolley croaked, teeth chattering. “I—I’m sorry.”
With that, King Gerard backhanded Rolley across the face, sending him staggering.
A red mist collected before Ash’s eyes. This was the man who’d tried to bully his mother into marrying him. Who’d been responsible for the murder of his sister and his father. Who’d tried to murder him, and would do so again in a heartbeat.
This was the monster to blame for so many losses. The world would be a better place without him.
Taking hold of his amulet, Ash took a step toward the king, but Bellamy stepped in front of him, gripping his shoulders and glaring into his eyes.
“Don’t lose your head, Adam.”
“Get out of my way.”
“No,” the horse marshall said. “It won’t do poor Crusher any good, and you’ll likely get us all killed. I’m the one that hired you, remember.”
“It’s worth it,” Ash growled, trying to push past him, but Bellamy gripped his arm and held on.
“Not to me and Rolley, it isn’t,” Bellamy said. “And not to you, either, because you won’t touch him, not with magery. He’s got a charm against it, or something.”
“A charm against magery?” Ash looked past Bellamy to the king, once again surrounded by his anxious crew. “Are you talking about a talisman, or—”
“I wouldn’t know about such things.” Bellamy made the sign of Malthus. “If you just have to give it a go, do it somewhere other than my barn.”
The marshall turned toward the king. “I’m sorry about what happened, Your Majesty,” he said. “Rolley here was right, the gelding was improving. I don’t know what got into him today. Now we’ll have to put him down, I’m afraid.”
The king slapped his riding gloves across his palm. “Do it,” he said. “The beast is a devil.” He turned and walked away without a backward glance. And, with him, Ash’s first chance at making good on his promise.
Ash watched him go. Was he being smart, strategic, levelheaded? Or was he simply a coward?
18
LADY OF GRACE