Angel and the Flying Stallions

Francoise was right. Her riders were amazing. The manoeuvres they could perform on their horses were nothing short of astonishing to watch. But Issie had never imagined herself in the same league. She wasn’t capable of performing this intricate ballet on horseback. She would only embarrass herself in front of Francoise’s riders. It sounded like a nightmare to Issie, but her fate had been sealed before she even set foot on Spanish soil. Avery and Francoise had agreed to this. She had to learn the haute école or she would not be allowed to take Storm home with her. She did not doubt that Francoise was quite serious about this. Or that Avery had agreed to it. She knew that neither of these formidable trainers would take no for an answer.

“OK, but I don’t understand how I’m going to do this,” Issie frowned. “You said a minute ago that Storm was still too young to learn haute école.”

“He is,” Francoise confirmed. “You will not be riding Storm in the school. You will be riding another horse.”

Francoise turned on her heels and led Issie and Avery further down the corridor of the stallions’ stables until they reached the stall at the end. Here she swung open the top of the Dutch door to reveal the horse that stood inside.

The stallion was almost as tall as Storm, sixteen-two hands high. His face had the noble bearing of a classical Andalusian with wide-set, soulful eyes and a dark, sooty muzzle. He was a grey, but his dapples had long ago faded so he was as creamy white as parchment. His long mane was like gossamer silk and it tumbled and cascaded over his broad neck and down his powerful shoulders. Only one thing marred this stallion’s pure and exquisite beauty – on the bridge of his Roman nose, just where the noseband of a bridle rests, were tiny jagged scars where once there had been deep cuts in the stallion’s flesh. The wounds were very old now and had healed over with time. Issie knew exactly how the stallion had received these scars – from wearing a cruel serreta bridle in the hands of Miguel Vega.

She reached up and stroked the stallion’s soft muzzle, touching the scar tissue tenderly as she looked deep into his dark, liquid eyes.

“Hello, Angel,” she said softly to him. “It’s me. I’ve come back.”

Chapter 4 (#ulink_478baee4-ea15-54fa-9626-f56d10a01d21)

Mrs Brown was astonished when Issie told her that dinner at El Caballo Danza Magnifico was at 10 p.m.

“But that’s the time I usually go to bed!”

“They do things differently here in Spain,” Issie told her. “There’s an afternoon siesta and then we eat dinner late.”

The Spanish afternoon siesta was the perfect way to sleep off their jetlag. Issie had been given the same room as last time, on the second floor with its own balcony overlooking the cobbled courtyard. Like the rest of the house, the room had dark-polished wood floors strewn with colourful, Moorish rugs. The walls of the bedroom were rustic plaster, tinted deep pink, and hung with ornate mirrors. Issie had flopped down on the rainbow-striped bedspread and fallen straight to sleep. When she woke up she was utterly starving and it was nearly 10 p.m.

Downstairs the massive dining table was decorated with vases of orange roses and was heaving with food. There was ‘rich man’s paella’ made with squid and spicy sausage, served with tomato bread, olives, and a huge plate of fried calamari and salt cod. To drink there was orange juice from the El Caballo’s orchard and red wine. Roberto poured them each a drink, then raised his own glass aloft.

“I would like to welcome back old friends,” he said, then smiled at Mrs Brown, “and new ones as well.”

Mrs Brown had helped Roberto to prepare the dinner that evening, and their vigorous discussions of Spanish food had prompted Roberto to mention the feria – the country fair that was being held in the village that weekend. The feria was a big event for the district, with food and dancing and, of course, all the local horse breeders with their best mares and stallions on display.

“It sounds amazing!” Mrs Brown enthused. “I’d love to go!”

Roberto smiled. “Excellent. We will all ride there together. I have a beautiful stallion, Ferdinand. He is so docile and kind he will be the perfect horse for you to ride. I shall make sure the stable hands prepare him for you.”

“All right,” Mrs Brown said nervously.

Issie gave a gasp and nearly choked on a mouthful of paella.

“What? Mum, you’re going to ride?”

“Isadora,” her mum laughed, “I’m sure if Roberto says the horse is suitable for me then I’ll be fine.”

Issie couldn’t believe it. Neither could Alfie, who was sitting beside her. “I thought your mother was terrified of horses?” he whispered to Issie.

“She is!” Issie whispered back.

“It’s nice for Dad to have company his own age,” Alfie noted. “He’s alone quite a lot, while we’re away touring with the horses.”

Roberto Nunez was a widower. Alfie’s mum had died when he was only six and Roberto had never remarried. Roberto was a bit like her mum, Issie thought. Mrs Brown had split up with Issie’s dad when Issie was nine and she had been on her own ever since, bringing up Issie single-handedly.

Issie only wished that Francoise and Avery were getting along as well as her mum and Roberto seemed to be. The trainers spent most of the dinner bickering about the smallest, inconsequential things. It had started when Avery had commented on how nice Francoise’s hair looked, swept back off her face and arranged in a twist in the Spanish style, with a large tortoiseshell comb holding it in place.

“So you do not like my hair when it is worn down?” Francoise had countered.

“I never said that,” Avery was taken aback. “I only said it looked very nice tonight.”

“You know,” Francoise said, “I did not put my hair up like this just so I could get comments from you.”

“You mean you’d prefer it if I didn’t say that your hair looked nice?” Avery was confused.

“Exactly!” Francoise said.

Roberto, meanwhile, had noticed that Issie was not her usual self. “You have been very quiet tonight, Isadora,” Roberto noted. “I thought you would be excited about beginning your haute école training tomorrow?”

“Umm,” Issie didn’t know how to answer this. “I guess so.”

Roberto frowned. “That does not sound like enthusiasm to me.”

Issie picked at her paella with her fork. “I’m not cut out for dressage,” she admitted. “I’m more of a cross-country kind of rider, I guess.”

“Ah yes, I have heard all about your plans to become an eventer,” Roberto nodded sagely. “When I began my riding career as an eventer I too had little regard for the classical art. But once you see the beauty of the haute école perhaps you will learn to appreciate it. You will certainly find that the next few months here with us will not be wasted…”

“A few months!” Issie forgot her manners once more. “How long is this going to take?”

“It takes a lifetime to master the haute école,” Roberto answered.

“I don’t have a lifetime. I only have five weeks,” Issie said. “I need to get back to Chevalier Point. The new season will be starting and—”

“These things cannot be rushed. You will be able to leave when you are capable of looking after the Little One and know how to train him correctly,” Roberto said firmly.

Issie began to protest, casting a pleading look at Avery, but her complaints were cut short by a hammering at the front door.

“Are we expecting any company?” Roberto asked, looking at Francoise and Alfie. Both of them shook their heads. It was eleven o’clock at night. Even by Spanish standards, it was late for a visitor to be calling.

Roberto stood up from the table and was about to get the door when the banging stopped and footsteps echoed in the hall. The dining-room door suddenly swung open and standing there in front of them was the squat, tubby figure of Miguel Vega.

“What?” Vega demanded. “You do not answer your front door when someone is knocking?”

“You hardly gave me the chance!” Roberto Nunez replied. He was too amused by Vega’s sheer cheek to be truly outraged by his neighbour barging in. “What do you want, Miguel?”

Vega didn’t answer. His eyes had widened at the sight of Isadora.

“Aha!” he grinned like a hyena. “The chica! The little girl who beat me in the race! I should have known she was behind this!”

“What are you talking about, Vega?” Roberto Nunez was losing his good humour rapidly. “You storm into my house and…”

“Do not try to blame this on me!” Vega shot back. “You know what you have done, Roberto. No doubt the girl was involved. Well you will not get away with it! Give her back!”

Roberto was baffled. He looked at Isadora.