Page 24 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

Michel dreamt of the cats that had seen him jump into the river. Their eyes were no longer blue but the deepest black. In his dream he reached for the twinned eyes, trying to coax them near, trying to ask them what they wanted. Saint-Émilion, they whispered. Saint-Émilion. Come to me, they whispered.

And then he awoke.

He looked about him; all was calm. The grass was still and heavy under the early morning dew, the sky lightening with every moment – all was as it should be. Michel sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His clothes were damp, and he could feel the chill reaching his bones.

The dawn brought with it the sounds of waking crows, and blackbirds that squawked as they flew then dived for food, accompanied by the lighter trill of a sparrow or the coo of a wood pigeon. The wind had let up into a gentle breeze that now stirred the leaves into a soft murmur, and the long grass into whistles and squeaks.

Michel was hungry. Hungry and cold. He pulled his knees to his chest and listened to the morning chorus as it sang sweetly above him, wishing for Odette’s café – for hot coffee and a warm croissant. He took some bread from Isabelle’s parcel and ate it dry, ignoring the ham and cheese in the greaseproof paper – he had to ration the food.

From behind the rustle of leaves came a new sound – not new to Michel for he had heard it before, but new to this field, full of blue and pink wildflowers that tipped their heads above the long grass, competing in their height as to who should be the prettiest, the brightest. It was the stomp he knew – a pawing almost, irritable and scared. He closed his eyes to help place it. The clack of wheels, the loud voice of Madame Geneviève – yes! He opened his eyes. The horse, the horse he’d heard on the train – the one he knew had wanted to get away – it was here. As soon as the thought entered his mind, from behind a thicket of blackberry bushes it appeared, a young Friesian stallion with a shining blue-black coat that shimmered with each movement in the daylight.

Michel stood and watched as the stallion cantered, then trotted and came to a stop a few yards away. It was tired; its nostrils flared and its flank was slick with sweat. The horse bent its head and sniffed at the damp morning grass before he began to pull and chew at it, as if he had not eaten for weeks.

Michel was in awe of him. The sheer height, perhaps seventeen hands or even more; the gloss of his coat and his strength was something to behold. Certainly Monsieur Abramowski had never had a stallion of this calibre. Michel edged closer, shuffling on his hindquarters, picking at blades of grass with his thumb and forefinger, as if he too were eating. Within a minute or so, he was a few feet away and could hear the rhythmic chomp and grind of the stallion’s teeth as he ate. Suddenly, the stallion noticed him and raised his head. His ears bent back, with one hoof he pawed at the ground as if in warning for Michel not to come any nearer.

Michel began to hum a tune, a tune that he had mastered over the years; a soothing song that perhaps his mother had sung to him as a baby, but one which he had always used on horses to gain their trust.

At first the stallion had no interest, snorted at Michel, and took a few steps backwards. Michel sat on the ground and dipped his head, not making eye contact but continuing with his song. The horse soon dipped his own head once more, sensing no threat from Michel. Michel moved closer still, ripping some grass and holding it out in his palm, eventually nudging the stallion’s nose. The horse gently ate the grass from Michel’s hand; the hairs on the silky soft muzzle tickling his palm. He was bedecked in a bridle and reins of rich black leather and gold. No saddle meant no rider, and to Michel that meant this horse was in need of a new master.

The pair continued in this way for over half an hour, with Michel never ceasing his calming song, the stallion not ceasing in his goal to eat.

As the sun warmed Michel’s back, he took a risk and laid his palm flat on the stallion’s cheek, stroking it gently, whispering soft words in his ear. The horse welcomed Michel and sniffed at his shoulder, allowing Michel to rest his head on his cheek so the two of them would look to an observer to be in a lovers’ embrace.

Michel slowly stood, all the while talking to the horse, now patting his neck, his flank. He gently took hold of the reins, and the stallion obliged as Michel led him to his sleeping spot, where he packed up his bag and slung it over his shoulder.

Michel led the horse slowly down the steep hill until he reached the thicket of trees. He found a rough stump, stood on it, and prepared to mount. At that moment, a deep cry pierced the air, causing the stallion to skitter in fright, ears back and eyes wide. Michel looked up to the hill where, comically, a short man in red breeches and a white shirt that flapped open ran headlong towards Michel, his arms in the air, his voice deep with authority. Michel climbed down from the stump and watched as the man, sweating, rotund, pink as a suckling pig and hairy as one too, came into view. The ringmaster, Werner.

‘Le voleur! Le voleur!’ the ringmaster sang, all the while his round thick belly moving side to side as he ran towards Michel.

Michel waited calmly and stroked the horse’s neck.

‘Le voleur!’ The ringmaster was in front of Michel now. Out of breath, he leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees, drawing in air quickly. ‘Le voleur,’ he gasped.

‘I am no thief,’ Michel answered.

‘My horse. You stole my horse! Le voleur!’ The ringmaster stood now, hands on hips, breathing heavily, sweat dripping down his red face, soaking his twirled moustache.

‘I did not know he belonged to anyone.’

‘What, you saw no bridle? You are blind?’

‘I saw a scared horse. I calmed him,’ Michel said.

‘You!’ The ringmaster pointed a finger at Michel. ‘You! I recognise you! Coming onto my train and now stealing my new horse. I knew you were trouble the moment I laid eyes upon you!’

Michel raise his palms in surrender. ‘I was just trying to calm him. No more. It is what I do, I train horses.’

Although short, the girth and strength of the ringmaster was plain to Michel; his forearms were taut and large, his neck wide; a man used to getting his way.

‘I promise,’ Michel said. ‘I was just trying to calm him.’

The ringmaster dropped his hand by his side, then with his other, wiped away the sweat that had pooled in his moustache. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Tell me how you did that. Beau does not want to be tamed.’

‘I did not say he is tamed, but calmer; that is certain.’

‘And what would it take to tame him? For me to do it?’

‘I am not sure that you can,’ Michel said.