The King of Shadows, page 41
“I grant that, but …” He looked into his father’s face. “Plain and simply, this horse interests me. I like that it can produce such speed when it pleases. Also … I wonder … if something happened between two seasons ago and last season to alter its …” He searched for the proper word. “Instinct,” he said.
Reuben nodded, his gaze also thoughtful. He offered a soft smile and said, “Your decision.”
“Very well!” Caudlecutt lifted his gavel. “I pronounce this sale a—”
“One shilling!” said Mac DeKay.
The gavel hung in midair. “Pardon me?”
“One shilling. That’s the bid from DeKay Enterprises.”
“Oh … young master DeKay … really … one shilling? I say … I am surprised at this paltry offer.”
Mac stood up. “It’s a valid bid. You asked, I replied.”
“But … sir … never in my life have I ever auctioned a horse off for one shilling! Young man, the tack is worth twenty times as much!” Caudlecutt jumped again, because Nemesis had given a loud snort and a hard pull that made the two men dig their heels an inch into the hoof-printed dirt.
“You can keep the tack,” was the calm response. “I bid one shilling for that horse.”
“Well … I mean to say …” Whatever he meant to say, it was preempted as Caudlecutt looked to another section of the chamber. “Might I hear an offer from our representatives of the adhesive concerns?”
Before there could be a reply Nemesis burst into action again, shrieking and jumping as if understanding the portent of the auctioneer’s inquiry, kicking so hard and frantically that Caudlecutt had to call for two other gents from the yard to give aid to the previous team.
“Not for me!” shouted one of the glue men over the noise. “Too many others go quiet to the hammer and don’t try to kill you ’fore you knock ’em!”
“Anyone else?” Caudlecutt sounded desperate. “Gentlemen, look inside yourselves!”
“Yes,” Norwood replied, “and I’m keeping my insides just where they belong!”
“One shilling!” Mac repeated. “On with the sale, if you please!”
“I will have to inquire of Master Robey’s agent!” Caudlecutt directed his watery gaze to a dark-suited, grayhaired and pipe-puffing man sitting to the right of the DeKays. “Mister Sinclair, what is your opinion?”
Sinclair smoked his pipe in silence until the quartet of struggling men got Nemesis under control once more, and then he gave a wave with the pipe and said, “I am instructed to sell the animal at any price.”
“But … zounds, man! My services in this instance equal only ten percent of one shilling?”
“One shilling for the horse,” Mac announced, “and one shilling for the house. And there you have it, so fret not on your fortunes.”
“Oh, very well then! I have one shilling! Do I hear two?” Caudlecutt shook his wigged head and slammed the gavel down, the sound of which started Nemesis spinning like a top and kicking in all directions. “Sold to DeKay Enterprises for the great sum of one shilling!” It had been an exasperated bellow. “Now, young sir! I’d like to see you get this beast home without wrecking your wagon!”
“My thoughts, exactly,” said Reuben under his breath. But he gave his son a gentle elbow to the ribs as Nemesis was battled out of the pit. “You will be the topper of the racing scribes before the week is out, so prepare yourself for the ink thrown at you.”
They sat through the showing of two more steeds, and then Mac excused himself from his father and went to sit on the bench beside Sinclair. “Pardon the intrusion,” he said, “but what can you tell me about the horse?”
“Dangerous,” was the answer, delivered with a wafting puff of smoke. “A biter, and very quick so defend your face. And a kick last week broke a stable boy’s shoulder in three places. That was the final straw, if you will.”
“He’s terribly thin,” Mac said. “He’s honestly not physically ill?”
“He is not. As reported to this auction house, his current high-strung condition is to account for that.”
“Very well, I’ll accept that. Tell me … who owned the animal before Master Robey?”
“I recall it was a Welshman, but Master Robey bought the horse as a yearling. You will have to inquire from him as to the rest of the history.”
“Thank you, I shall.”
As Mac stood up to depart, Sinclair gave him a little cock-sided smile. “I think you should know the horse is more than temperamental. The animal is insane. Whatever will you do with him?”
“I suppose … test my faith in the value of a shilling,” Mac said. “Good day to you.”
To get the beast home. Yes, that was the challenge. The DeKays within the next few minutes decided to rest their laurels this day and commence for home, which was at least a three-hour journey. They had brought along the usual conveyance for the horse dealers, which was a broad wagon separated into three stalls and pulled by two sturdy dray horses, a ramp being lowered at the back to allow access to the stalls. This quickly became the first problem, as Nemesis fought like a four-legged demon against the men who struggled to lead the horse up the ramp. Both Mac and his father feared the wagon would be broken to shatters under the slamming hooves, and the old dependable drays quivered and grumbled at this assault by their wild brethren. But at last Nemesis was gotten into the center stall, the door was closed and bolted, and the sweating exhausted handlers were paid for their labors.
The DeKays set off for home, having to go across the river bridge and through the city. At the reins as Nemesis started screaming and kicking once more, Reuben said, “Now that we own this devil, what’s next?”
“We’ll get him fed up and calmed over the season. Then—if he’s able, and by that I mean still living—begin training say in September and hope for the best next year.”
“Get him calmed? Easier said than done, I’m sure.”
“Agreed with that,” Mac said, “but let’s give it time. And meanwhile I shall try to find out from Bertram Robey just what happened to the horse between seasons to make it so … angry.”
“Crazed, you mean.”
“Yes,” Mac had to admit. “Crazed.”
Two miles north of London Nemesis kicked the door off the stall and sent it spinning away like a cumbrous kite.
After a stop to retrieve the item the wagon trundled on, carrying father and son into the future.
Thirty-five
For the following few days, chaos reigned in the usually calm and always immaculate stables on the thirty-six acre DeKay estate. Nemesis was situated—with no less difficulty in getting the horse there in the first place—in a stall at the far end of the structure, with an empty stall between him and the next horse, Faultless Fellow, and an empty stall across from his own. From the moment of his arrival, Nemesis began to shriek and kick at the walls and the door, which the stable manager Langston immediately suggested be secured with an extra thickness of wood and a pair of stronger lockbolts. The work was done, the team of carpenters reporting to Reuben that they had nearly had their faces taken off when the head of Nemesis thrust through the upper open part of the door like the snout of a cannon and the teeth snapped so hard a hot breeze had fanned their hair. And even at a distance Nemesis’ wildness had an influence upon the other horses, for the chief trainer Mickels offered his report that Faultless Fellow, Greengrass Dancer, Surety and Vixen were all so agitated and restless they were off their feed, and out in the pasture they seemed too nervous to play their usual running games with the goats that racing horses always enjoyed as chums.
“He won’t eat,” said Mickels, who had owned the job for the past twelve years. “He don’t seem to be touchin’ the hay, and I know he’s not havin’ the oats. I tried with a bucket of corn but he snapped at me so fast I near lost my scalp. Then he just turned his arse to me and that was that.” He frowned, looking from Reuben to Mac and back again as they stood outside the stables on a chilly March morning, Mickels’ hand on the bridle of the prize-winning blue roan Bold Runner at his side. “Horse ain’t got no affinity to live, if you ask me. What are we to do with such a beast?”
“I’ll give it a try,” said Mac, who walked to a bucket of apples on the ground next to the barn’s main entrance. He picked up a healthy specimen and started in.
“Want some protection for your own scalp?” Reuben called, and his mouth twitched in that way he had before he delivered a jest. “You can use the helmet from the suit of armor in the parlor.”
“Thank you, but I’ll manage without the steel plate.”
“Honestly, son … be careful with that animal.”
“I will be.” Mac entered the barn and strode along the dirt-floored gallery, with the stalls on either side. Most of the horses were out either in the pasture or working on the practice track, but two of them—Brave Warrior and Windsong— poked their heads out above their doors to watch him pass. “Good morning, gentleman and lady,” Mac said, offering a smile. It had always intrigued him, as it had his father, how different the personalities of horses could be. It stood to reason that racing horses were high-strung, but above that component some could be friendly to humans and enjoy the company while others might do their work rigorously but show their disdain with the flip of a tail, the haughty turn away or in more extreme cases a snap or a kick. Some horses were cold, some were warm, some agreeable, some stubborn, and some could be as changeable as the weather. It was essential to employ handlers and trainers with long experience who’d seen all the variables of personality and could figure out how to get the best out of each type, and of course that same ethic applied to the jockey.
About midway along the gallery, Mac glanced to his right at an empty stall. It was clean of hay and simply bare. Above the door was a brass plaque that bore the inscription Younger, and just above that hung a reversed horseshoe in its luck-giving position.
Younger. A great sable-colored horse that had been his mother’s favorite, and a horse with a definite sense of humor. Often when Younger was out in the pasture and the ten-year-old Mac was romping around out there, Younger would get right behind him and walk in his footsteps, which scared the life out of him until he realized the horse was also romping. Once on a cold day in November Younger had seized the fleece collar of Mac’s jacket in his teeth and slowly … slowly … slowly lowered his head until the boy was on his knees. Then releasing his grip with a laughing nicker the horse had bounded away like the grandest rascal in the world. To add to his prowess as a joker, Younger had won both the Heresford Trophy and the Kennington Cup in the same season, and then the following season at the age of thirteen years had won four of eight races and placed in two more. But after Estelle DeKay had passed away of poisoned blood when Mac was twelve—and the doctors had done everything possible, even a specialist whose use of leeches to draw off the poisons had shown exemplary results in other cases—the horse had lost its humor and will to compete, and in time was simply put out to pasture and expired quietly at the age of twenty.
Thus Reuben, who had been severely grief-stricken after his wife’s death but had mustered his energy to soldier on as a good father to the boy, had kept Younger’s stall vacant in the stable, both as a great memory of a noble horse and to the loving memory of his wife of sixteen years.
Mac reached the stall of Nemesis, and looking in he found the horse standing with its backside to the door and its head facing a corner.
“Morning to you,” Mac said.
The horse’s ears perked up and the flesh along its spine shivered, but it gave no other reaction.
“I brought you something.” Mac tapped the apple on top of the door, which stood a little more than waist high to him.
Again there was no response.
“You know, you have to eat. I didn’t pay a shilling to watch you become a walking—” Skeleton, he was about to say, but suddenly Nemesis wheeled toward him in what was nearly a blur. The animal’s head with its bared teeth came at his face so fast the muzzle grazed his cheek before he could leap backward, and in so doing lost his footing. The crack of Nemesis’ teeth coming together sounded like the breaking of a broomstick. Mac fell to the ground on his back, the breath whooshing from his lungs. Just that quickly, the animal withdrew its head from above the door and retreated, but Mac had a glimpse of an eye that seemed to him to be a redglinting orb of pure hatred.
He got up and dusted himself off. He looked down the gallery and saw both Brave Warrior and Windsong watching with what appeared to be intense interest. Then he retrieved the apple he’d dropped, straightened his shoulders and drew up another draught of courage.
He approached the stall again, but this time with much more caution.
Nemesis remained immobile—a carved statue—and staring into a corner.
“What’s your trouble?” Mac asked, trying to keep his voice light. He tapped the apple once more to get the horse’s attention, but the stall might have been as vacant as Younger’s. “Look at me!” he said, with a bit more force. It did no good. “So,” Mac said after a moment of fruitless waiting for Nemesis to respond in some way, “it’s to be like that, is it? Well, you’ll find I don’t give up so easily. You’ll get good treatment here, I can vow, but you’re going to have to show me some willingness to—” Cooperate, he was about to say, when Nemesis stepped closer to the corner and pressed his muzzle right into it.
And that was the end of their first conversation. Mac took a bite of the apple and tossed it into the hay beside Nemesis, who gave not a whit of interest in what the other horses found to be a delightful treat.
In the evening at supper, Mac announced to his father his intention to take the chestnut mare Melody—one of the working horses, not a racer—and travel the next morning to Bertram Robey’s estate northeast of London, a day’s trip of about forty-two miles. “I want to find out more about that horse,” he explained. “If we can’t get it to eat, it’s not long for this world.” He packed a bag that night, parrying Reuben’s good-natured jab at his son’s wish not to lose his investment of a single shilling, and at the gray light of dawn was on his way.
Robey was a well-known and greatly respected breeder and owner of racing horses, and his estate situated outside the town of Chelmsford was to Mac’s eye in the late afternoon sunshine an orderly emerald paradise, the new grass of spring coming in, the rolling pasture with some of the horses out at play, and the green-trimmed white mansion atop a rise surrounded by ornamental shrubbery and trees. He inquired from the butler at the door if he might have a word with the master of the house, and was escorted into Robey’s sumptuous study lined with leather-bound books and the shining cups and awards his horses had won over the years. Robey himself—a trim, medium-sized gentleman in his late fifties with gray hair tied back in a queue and a gray goatee that came to a sharp waxed point—stood up from his desk and motioned the young man in.
“A visit from Maccabeus DeKay!” said Robey, shaking Mac’s hand. “An honor, this is! Uh oh! Am I sensing you wish the return of a shilling from your recent purchase?”
“No, nothing like that, sir. I’m only wishing some information.”
Robey bade Mac to sit in one of the two cowhide chairs before his desk and asked the servant to bring in a bottle of brandy and a pair of glasses.
“I apologize for not sending a messenger ahead to request an appointment,” Mac said as Robey settled into the other chair. “But as you might guess this is a matter of urgency.”
“Of course. You’ve bought a horse that is intent on suicide.”
“Sir?”
“Killing himself by degrees. Oh, he has periods where he’s on his feed just like any other horse, and then he goes off it again. It’s been going all year. I disliked putting him up for auction but I really had no choice. He’s caused some injuries and has been disruptive to the other animals, and that I cannot abide no matter what his past history has been. I will say also that no horse has ever died on my property and I intend to maintain that standard. Therefore the auction, the single shilling, and here you are. Ah! And here’s our brandy! Benson, please pour us each a glass and leave the bottle on the table, if you please. Now tell me, Mac, how’s Reuben and what does the season look like for DeKay Enterprises?”
They spent a while talking about the season ahead and racing in general. It was not for a small reason that it was known as “the sport of kings,” for while many kings did indulge, those who were not kingly still invested royal amounts of money in the endeavors. The events were held at private tracks owned by wealthy sponsors who took a percentage of the winnings and could always be counted on to hold the most lavish parties to bolster their status as the elite of the elite. Mac and Robey spoke of the excellent horses they had seen in action—of course, Robey’s view was much enriched by his more advanced years—but each shared a chuckle over the time Dunston Dooley had jumped the outer rail at Parmenter, thrown his jockey and given all a merry chase through the outlying woods, and the instance where Sweet April at Lord Ringgold’s estate had chosen to turn tail and run the opposite direction of the other horses causing Lord Ringgold to pull out nearly all the remaining sprigs of his hair.
Mac took a taste of the very fine brandy and said, “I grant your belief that Nemesis may be attempting, as you put it, suicide … if that is indeed his intent, but my question would be … why?”
Robey steepled his fingers and frowned, constructing a reply. “As I believe Sinclair told you, I bought Nemesis as a yearling. The word had come to me that a certain Welshman was getting out of the sport as it had become too expensive for him. Well, I found a shocking scene when I visited the man’s farm. He knew very little about the upkeep and welfare of horses, particularly not the high-spirited breeds of which we are accustomed and hold in high regard. To be blunt, Nemesis was poorly treated and whipped almost daily, which had resulted in an angry and nervous animal. Untrusting of humans also, I might add.”
Reuben nodded, his gaze also thoughtful. He offered a soft smile and said, “Your decision.”
“Very well!” Caudlecutt lifted his gavel. “I pronounce this sale a—”
“One shilling!” said Mac DeKay.
The gavel hung in midair. “Pardon me?”
“One shilling. That’s the bid from DeKay Enterprises.”
“Oh … young master DeKay … really … one shilling? I say … I am surprised at this paltry offer.”
Mac stood up. “It’s a valid bid. You asked, I replied.”
“But … sir … never in my life have I ever auctioned a horse off for one shilling! Young man, the tack is worth twenty times as much!” Caudlecutt jumped again, because Nemesis had given a loud snort and a hard pull that made the two men dig their heels an inch into the hoof-printed dirt.
“You can keep the tack,” was the calm response. “I bid one shilling for that horse.”
“Well … I mean to say …” Whatever he meant to say, it was preempted as Caudlecutt looked to another section of the chamber. “Might I hear an offer from our representatives of the adhesive concerns?”
Before there could be a reply Nemesis burst into action again, shrieking and jumping as if understanding the portent of the auctioneer’s inquiry, kicking so hard and frantically that Caudlecutt had to call for two other gents from the yard to give aid to the previous team.
“Not for me!” shouted one of the glue men over the noise. “Too many others go quiet to the hammer and don’t try to kill you ’fore you knock ’em!”
“Anyone else?” Caudlecutt sounded desperate. “Gentlemen, look inside yourselves!”
“Yes,” Norwood replied, “and I’m keeping my insides just where they belong!”
“One shilling!” Mac repeated. “On with the sale, if you please!”
“I will have to inquire of Master Robey’s agent!” Caudlecutt directed his watery gaze to a dark-suited, grayhaired and pipe-puffing man sitting to the right of the DeKays. “Mister Sinclair, what is your opinion?”
Sinclair smoked his pipe in silence until the quartet of struggling men got Nemesis under control once more, and then he gave a wave with the pipe and said, “I am instructed to sell the animal at any price.”
“But … zounds, man! My services in this instance equal only ten percent of one shilling?”
“One shilling for the horse,” Mac announced, “and one shilling for the house. And there you have it, so fret not on your fortunes.”
“Oh, very well then! I have one shilling! Do I hear two?” Caudlecutt shook his wigged head and slammed the gavel down, the sound of which started Nemesis spinning like a top and kicking in all directions. “Sold to DeKay Enterprises for the great sum of one shilling!” It had been an exasperated bellow. “Now, young sir! I’d like to see you get this beast home without wrecking your wagon!”
“My thoughts, exactly,” said Reuben under his breath. But he gave his son a gentle elbow to the ribs as Nemesis was battled out of the pit. “You will be the topper of the racing scribes before the week is out, so prepare yourself for the ink thrown at you.”
They sat through the showing of two more steeds, and then Mac excused himself from his father and went to sit on the bench beside Sinclair. “Pardon the intrusion,” he said, “but what can you tell me about the horse?”
“Dangerous,” was the answer, delivered with a wafting puff of smoke. “A biter, and very quick so defend your face. And a kick last week broke a stable boy’s shoulder in three places. That was the final straw, if you will.”
“He’s terribly thin,” Mac said. “He’s honestly not physically ill?”
“He is not. As reported to this auction house, his current high-strung condition is to account for that.”
“Very well, I’ll accept that. Tell me … who owned the animal before Master Robey?”
“I recall it was a Welshman, but Master Robey bought the horse as a yearling. You will have to inquire from him as to the rest of the history.”
“Thank you, I shall.”
As Mac stood up to depart, Sinclair gave him a little cock-sided smile. “I think you should know the horse is more than temperamental. The animal is insane. Whatever will you do with him?”
“I suppose … test my faith in the value of a shilling,” Mac said. “Good day to you.”
To get the beast home. Yes, that was the challenge. The DeKays within the next few minutes decided to rest their laurels this day and commence for home, which was at least a three-hour journey. They had brought along the usual conveyance for the horse dealers, which was a broad wagon separated into three stalls and pulled by two sturdy dray horses, a ramp being lowered at the back to allow access to the stalls. This quickly became the first problem, as Nemesis fought like a four-legged demon against the men who struggled to lead the horse up the ramp. Both Mac and his father feared the wagon would be broken to shatters under the slamming hooves, and the old dependable drays quivered and grumbled at this assault by their wild brethren. But at last Nemesis was gotten into the center stall, the door was closed and bolted, and the sweating exhausted handlers were paid for their labors.
The DeKays set off for home, having to go across the river bridge and through the city. At the reins as Nemesis started screaming and kicking once more, Reuben said, “Now that we own this devil, what’s next?”
“We’ll get him fed up and calmed over the season. Then—if he’s able, and by that I mean still living—begin training say in September and hope for the best next year.”
“Get him calmed? Easier said than done, I’m sure.”
“Agreed with that,” Mac said, “but let’s give it time. And meanwhile I shall try to find out from Bertram Robey just what happened to the horse between seasons to make it so … angry.”
“Crazed, you mean.”
“Yes,” Mac had to admit. “Crazed.”
Two miles north of London Nemesis kicked the door off the stall and sent it spinning away like a cumbrous kite.
After a stop to retrieve the item the wagon trundled on, carrying father and son into the future.
Thirty-five
For the following few days, chaos reigned in the usually calm and always immaculate stables on the thirty-six acre DeKay estate. Nemesis was situated—with no less difficulty in getting the horse there in the first place—in a stall at the far end of the structure, with an empty stall between him and the next horse, Faultless Fellow, and an empty stall across from his own. From the moment of his arrival, Nemesis began to shriek and kick at the walls and the door, which the stable manager Langston immediately suggested be secured with an extra thickness of wood and a pair of stronger lockbolts. The work was done, the team of carpenters reporting to Reuben that they had nearly had their faces taken off when the head of Nemesis thrust through the upper open part of the door like the snout of a cannon and the teeth snapped so hard a hot breeze had fanned their hair. And even at a distance Nemesis’ wildness had an influence upon the other horses, for the chief trainer Mickels offered his report that Faultless Fellow, Greengrass Dancer, Surety and Vixen were all so agitated and restless they were off their feed, and out in the pasture they seemed too nervous to play their usual running games with the goats that racing horses always enjoyed as chums.
“He won’t eat,” said Mickels, who had owned the job for the past twelve years. “He don’t seem to be touchin’ the hay, and I know he’s not havin’ the oats. I tried with a bucket of corn but he snapped at me so fast I near lost my scalp. Then he just turned his arse to me and that was that.” He frowned, looking from Reuben to Mac and back again as they stood outside the stables on a chilly March morning, Mickels’ hand on the bridle of the prize-winning blue roan Bold Runner at his side. “Horse ain’t got no affinity to live, if you ask me. What are we to do with such a beast?”
“I’ll give it a try,” said Mac, who walked to a bucket of apples on the ground next to the barn’s main entrance. He picked up a healthy specimen and started in.
“Want some protection for your own scalp?” Reuben called, and his mouth twitched in that way he had before he delivered a jest. “You can use the helmet from the suit of armor in the parlor.”
“Thank you, but I’ll manage without the steel plate.”
“Honestly, son … be careful with that animal.”
“I will be.” Mac entered the barn and strode along the dirt-floored gallery, with the stalls on either side. Most of the horses were out either in the pasture or working on the practice track, but two of them—Brave Warrior and Windsong— poked their heads out above their doors to watch him pass. “Good morning, gentleman and lady,” Mac said, offering a smile. It had always intrigued him, as it had his father, how different the personalities of horses could be. It stood to reason that racing horses were high-strung, but above that component some could be friendly to humans and enjoy the company while others might do their work rigorously but show their disdain with the flip of a tail, the haughty turn away or in more extreme cases a snap or a kick. Some horses were cold, some were warm, some agreeable, some stubborn, and some could be as changeable as the weather. It was essential to employ handlers and trainers with long experience who’d seen all the variables of personality and could figure out how to get the best out of each type, and of course that same ethic applied to the jockey.
About midway along the gallery, Mac glanced to his right at an empty stall. It was clean of hay and simply bare. Above the door was a brass plaque that bore the inscription Younger, and just above that hung a reversed horseshoe in its luck-giving position.
Younger. A great sable-colored horse that had been his mother’s favorite, and a horse with a definite sense of humor. Often when Younger was out in the pasture and the ten-year-old Mac was romping around out there, Younger would get right behind him and walk in his footsteps, which scared the life out of him until he realized the horse was also romping. Once on a cold day in November Younger had seized the fleece collar of Mac’s jacket in his teeth and slowly … slowly … slowly lowered his head until the boy was on his knees. Then releasing his grip with a laughing nicker the horse had bounded away like the grandest rascal in the world. To add to his prowess as a joker, Younger had won both the Heresford Trophy and the Kennington Cup in the same season, and then the following season at the age of thirteen years had won four of eight races and placed in two more. But after Estelle DeKay had passed away of poisoned blood when Mac was twelve—and the doctors had done everything possible, even a specialist whose use of leeches to draw off the poisons had shown exemplary results in other cases—the horse had lost its humor and will to compete, and in time was simply put out to pasture and expired quietly at the age of twenty.
Thus Reuben, who had been severely grief-stricken after his wife’s death but had mustered his energy to soldier on as a good father to the boy, had kept Younger’s stall vacant in the stable, both as a great memory of a noble horse and to the loving memory of his wife of sixteen years.
Mac reached the stall of Nemesis, and looking in he found the horse standing with its backside to the door and its head facing a corner.
“Morning to you,” Mac said.
The horse’s ears perked up and the flesh along its spine shivered, but it gave no other reaction.
“I brought you something.” Mac tapped the apple on top of the door, which stood a little more than waist high to him.
Again there was no response.
“You know, you have to eat. I didn’t pay a shilling to watch you become a walking—” Skeleton, he was about to say, but suddenly Nemesis wheeled toward him in what was nearly a blur. The animal’s head with its bared teeth came at his face so fast the muzzle grazed his cheek before he could leap backward, and in so doing lost his footing. The crack of Nemesis’ teeth coming together sounded like the breaking of a broomstick. Mac fell to the ground on his back, the breath whooshing from his lungs. Just that quickly, the animal withdrew its head from above the door and retreated, but Mac had a glimpse of an eye that seemed to him to be a redglinting orb of pure hatred.
He got up and dusted himself off. He looked down the gallery and saw both Brave Warrior and Windsong watching with what appeared to be intense interest. Then he retrieved the apple he’d dropped, straightened his shoulders and drew up another draught of courage.
He approached the stall again, but this time with much more caution.
Nemesis remained immobile—a carved statue—and staring into a corner.
“What’s your trouble?” Mac asked, trying to keep his voice light. He tapped the apple once more to get the horse’s attention, but the stall might have been as vacant as Younger’s. “Look at me!” he said, with a bit more force. It did no good. “So,” Mac said after a moment of fruitless waiting for Nemesis to respond in some way, “it’s to be like that, is it? Well, you’ll find I don’t give up so easily. You’ll get good treatment here, I can vow, but you’re going to have to show me some willingness to—” Cooperate, he was about to say, when Nemesis stepped closer to the corner and pressed his muzzle right into it.
And that was the end of their first conversation. Mac took a bite of the apple and tossed it into the hay beside Nemesis, who gave not a whit of interest in what the other horses found to be a delightful treat.
In the evening at supper, Mac announced to his father his intention to take the chestnut mare Melody—one of the working horses, not a racer—and travel the next morning to Bertram Robey’s estate northeast of London, a day’s trip of about forty-two miles. “I want to find out more about that horse,” he explained. “If we can’t get it to eat, it’s not long for this world.” He packed a bag that night, parrying Reuben’s good-natured jab at his son’s wish not to lose his investment of a single shilling, and at the gray light of dawn was on his way.
Robey was a well-known and greatly respected breeder and owner of racing horses, and his estate situated outside the town of Chelmsford was to Mac’s eye in the late afternoon sunshine an orderly emerald paradise, the new grass of spring coming in, the rolling pasture with some of the horses out at play, and the green-trimmed white mansion atop a rise surrounded by ornamental shrubbery and trees. He inquired from the butler at the door if he might have a word with the master of the house, and was escorted into Robey’s sumptuous study lined with leather-bound books and the shining cups and awards his horses had won over the years. Robey himself—a trim, medium-sized gentleman in his late fifties with gray hair tied back in a queue and a gray goatee that came to a sharp waxed point—stood up from his desk and motioned the young man in.
“A visit from Maccabeus DeKay!” said Robey, shaking Mac’s hand. “An honor, this is! Uh oh! Am I sensing you wish the return of a shilling from your recent purchase?”
“No, nothing like that, sir. I’m only wishing some information.”
Robey bade Mac to sit in one of the two cowhide chairs before his desk and asked the servant to bring in a bottle of brandy and a pair of glasses.
“I apologize for not sending a messenger ahead to request an appointment,” Mac said as Robey settled into the other chair. “But as you might guess this is a matter of urgency.”
“Of course. You’ve bought a horse that is intent on suicide.”
“Sir?”
“Killing himself by degrees. Oh, he has periods where he’s on his feed just like any other horse, and then he goes off it again. It’s been going all year. I disliked putting him up for auction but I really had no choice. He’s caused some injuries and has been disruptive to the other animals, and that I cannot abide no matter what his past history has been. I will say also that no horse has ever died on my property and I intend to maintain that standard. Therefore the auction, the single shilling, and here you are. Ah! And here’s our brandy! Benson, please pour us each a glass and leave the bottle on the table, if you please. Now tell me, Mac, how’s Reuben and what does the season look like for DeKay Enterprises?”
They spent a while talking about the season ahead and racing in general. It was not for a small reason that it was known as “the sport of kings,” for while many kings did indulge, those who were not kingly still invested royal amounts of money in the endeavors. The events were held at private tracks owned by wealthy sponsors who took a percentage of the winnings and could always be counted on to hold the most lavish parties to bolster their status as the elite of the elite. Mac and Robey spoke of the excellent horses they had seen in action—of course, Robey’s view was much enriched by his more advanced years—but each shared a chuckle over the time Dunston Dooley had jumped the outer rail at Parmenter, thrown his jockey and given all a merry chase through the outlying woods, and the instance where Sweet April at Lord Ringgold’s estate had chosen to turn tail and run the opposite direction of the other horses causing Lord Ringgold to pull out nearly all the remaining sprigs of his hair.
Mac took a taste of the very fine brandy and said, “I grant your belief that Nemesis may be attempting, as you put it, suicide … if that is indeed his intent, but my question would be … why?”
Robey steepled his fingers and frowned, constructing a reply. “As I believe Sinclair told you, I bought Nemesis as a yearling. The word had come to me that a certain Welshman was getting out of the sport as it had become too expensive for him. Well, I found a shocking scene when I visited the man’s farm. He knew very little about the upkeep and welfare of horses, particularly not the high-spirited breeds of which we are accustomed and hold in high regard. To be blunt, Nemesis was poorly treated and whipped almost daily, which had resulted in an angry and nervous animal. Untrusting of humans also, I might add.”
