Storm and the Silver Bridle (9 page)

“I don’t know what tall stories your father has told you
about me,” Avery grinned, “but that was a long time ago. These days I lead a very quiet life.”

“It doesn’t sound very exciting,” Alfonso said. “Who would give up international eventing to be head instructor at a pony club?”

“Alfie!” Roberto told him off.

“No,” Avery said, “I know what he means. When I gave up riding, I had offers of all kinds of jobs, which I suppose you would call glamorous, but I wanted to do something that really helped young riders.” He cast a glance at Issie. “Besides, a lot more action happens in Chevalier Point than you might think.”

It was Roberto who brought the conversation around to Miguel Vega. As he told everyone at the table about what a monster Vega was and his fears that it was Vega who had taken the colt, Issie and Francoise exchanged looks. Issie wanted to blurt out the news about their ride today to Vega’s hacienda, but it was clear from the swift kick that Francoise delivered under the table that it would be best not to mention it. Instead, she remained quiet as Roberto explained about tomorrow’s
feria
.

“The parade is a great tradition, a chance for the haciendas to celebrate and show off their best horses before the race the following weekend,” he explained.

“I would be honoured if you would both ride alongside us as guests of El Caballo Danza Magnifico.”

“So all of the twelve haciendas will be there?” Avery asked. “Including Vega’s?”

“
Oui”
Francoise answered him. “Especially Vega’s. He would not miss this chance to boast—he expects to win this year. He will be there, riding his best stallion, the black giant Victorioso, the horse that he will ride in the race.”

“Vega doesn’t have a jockey from his stables who can ride for him?” Avery asked.

“Pah!” Roberto snorted. “Vega is too vain. The tubby old fool believes he is the best horse rider—the only one at his stables who is good enough to ride in the Silver Bridle.”

“The rival haciendas assemble in the village square,” Francoise continued. “The parade starts at the entrance to the square and follows along the same route where the race will take place.”

“I don’t understand.” Issie was confused. “How can the race take place in the middle of a village square?”

“Isadora,” Francoise said, “the Silver Bridle is no ordinary horse race. It is not run on a race track the way your thoroughbreds race in New Zealand. The race is meant to test not only the speed of the horse, but also the courage of the rider, and for this reason the race is run
through the very streets of the village, the same way that our ancestors rode it two hundred years ago when the tradition began.”

“On the street?” Issie couldn’t believe it. She imagined horses running through the narrow dusty alleyways of the Spanish villages she had driven through on her way to El Caballo Danza Magnifico. “That would be suicide!” Issie shook her head.

“It is very dangerous,” Francoise agreed. “The village square itself is quite wide, but not wide enough for twelve horses, as you can imagine. There is much shoving and pushing from the riders, and from the crowds who line the streets and cheer for each hacienda.”

“How far do the horses run?” Avery asked.

“Three times around the square. Almost two kilometres—the same length as a normal horse race,” Francoise said. “But not all of them will make it to the finish line. The course is dangerous and the jockeys are ruthless. They will fight tooth and nail to get a clear space as they gallop and there are always dirty tactics. Every time this race has been run, a horse has fallen. Many have been injured or even died in the course of this race.”

“Why don’t you just tell them you won’t take part in the race? Can’t you just say no?”

Alfonso shook his head. “You do not understand how deep this tradition is with us, Isadora. To win the Silver Bridle demands the utmost skill, the greatest courage. It is a test of true manliness. To refuse to race would be the mark of a coward.”

“So you’ll risk your best horse?” Issie was horrified. “You’ll risk Marius, just to prove that you are a man?”

“Do not misunderstand my son,” Roberto said. “We do not take this lightly. Yes, there are risks, for Marius, and for Alfonso also. But it is the way of our people, our tradition and our culture. I cannot turn my back on it, and neither can Alfonso. No matter what happens, El Caballo Danza Magnifico will take part in this race, just as we have done now for nearly two centuries.”

“Don’t you see, Issie?” Francoise looked at her pleadingly. “This is a good thing. If Alfie and Marius win the race, if El Caballo takes the Silver Bridle, then we get to choose five horses from every stable.”

“So?” Issie said.

Francoise reached and grasped Issie’s hand in her own. “So if we win, we can choose Nightstorm as one of the five. We can get the colt back.”

Issie had never expected Roberto Nunez’s hacienda to have email access. The traditional Andalusian stone villa was over two centuries old. The very last thing Issie had expected to stumble across was a hi-tech media room.

Issie had found the room by mistake before dinner that evening. She had walked in, thinking it must be the bathroom, and had been confronted by computer screens and electronic gadgets. Francoise had laughed at Issie’s amazement when she spoke about it at dinner that night. “El Caballo Danza Magnifico performs around the world. We’re a big international business, so naturally we are very well-equipped here.”

After dinner, Francoise lent Issie one of the laptop computers from the office. “It is wireless, so you can access the internet and your emails from anywhere in the house, including your room,” she explained.

The first person Issie emailed of course was Stella. It was an enormous long email all about everything that had happened so far. Issie told Stella about the shock of discovering that Avery and Roberto were old friends. She described in detail how beautiful and exotic the surroundings were at the hacienda. She wrote about riding Angel for the first time and Francoise’s suspicions that Vega was the one responsible for taking Storm.

Stella emailed back immediately and her email was just one line.

Ohmygod!
she wrote,
Alfonso sounds really dishy. Is he handsome? I bet he is! He probably looks just like one of the Jonas Brothers!

Issie groaned when she read it. Typical boy-mad Stella!

Alfonso is really nice
, Issie wrote back,
and yes, I suppose he is handsome. But in case you’d forgotten, Stella, I already have a boyfriend—his name is Aidan!

Issie hadn’t forgotten about Aidan. She thought about him all the time, even if she hadn’t seen him for months since she left Blackthorn Farm. Aidan had sent her a few emails since then. He had written to say that the film job, the one that had previously fallen through, was now back on and they were back in the movie business. He and Aunt Hester had loads of well-paid work and the farm was now financially secure.

She was about to start on an email to Aidan when there was a knock at the door and Avery came in.

“Francoise told me you were doing some emailing,” Avery said. “I just wanted to remind you to write one to your mum. I promised her that you would let her know once you’d arrived safely.”

“OK,” Issie replied. She stifled a yawn. What was the time, anyway? She looked at the clock over her bed. “Wow. It’s nearly midnight.” She was surprised.

“They stay up late in Spain,” Avery said. “We’ll have to get used to their timetable. They eat dinner at ten, they go to sleep at midnight and they have siestas in the afternoons. The whole place stops for a nap at three o’clock.”

“Even the grown-ups?” Issie was amazed by this. “How long do they sleep for?”

“A couple of hours,” Avery said. “They do it because it’s too hot in the afternoons to do any work. It’s the tradition here.”

“Yeah, there are lots of weird traditions here,” Issie said darkly.

Avery looked at her. “You mean the Silver Bridle?”

Issie nodded. “Tom, I just don’t get it. Storm is my colt. Why do we have to wait to run some stupid race to win him back? Why don’t we just go to Vega’s stables and force him to give Storm to us?”

“I think we have to trust Roberto on this one,” Avery said to her. “He knows the culture here and if he says the race is our best chance to get Nightstorm back from Vega, we have to go along with him.”

Issie wasn’t sure about this, but she was too tired to argue. “I’m gonna email Mum and then go to bed,” she told Avery.

“Good idea,” her instructor said. “Get some sleep. It’s a big day tomorrow.”

Preparations for the
feria
took the entire morning. Saddles were polished until they glistened and every rider in El Caballo stables put on their best
vaquero
costume. It was the horses, though, who got the most attention. Their coats were groomed until they shone and their manes were plaited, not in the traditional English way seen at gymkhanas, but with thick double-rows of French plaits that ran in two braids down each side of the horse’s neck from one end of the mane to the other. Their tails too, were dressed, the top halves plaited into a long French braid and then the switch of the tail elaborately knotted up at the end.

Issie was riding Angel again for the parade and had saddled him herself that morning with a rainbow saddle
cloth for the occasion. The stable grooms had helped her get ready too, showing her the Spanish way of tying brilliantly coloured red, orange and violet bobbles into the stallion’s mane.

By eleven o’clock all the riders were mounted and ready to go. Except for Francoise.

“What is taking her so long?” Avery checked his watch.

“Here she is!” Issie said.

Francoise emerged into the cobbled courtyard, not in her usual uniform of
vaquero
trousers and jacket, but in a hot-pink flamenco dress covered with large black polka dots. The dress hugged tight to Francoise’s body all the way down past her hips and then turned into a riot of frills and flounces around her legs. She wore her hair tied back severely in a bun, with a gigantic red rose securing it in place.

“It is traditional.” Francoise shrugged when Issie and Avery both stared at her wide-eyed as she walked over to join them, taking the reins of her mare. “Although I cannot say I am happy about having to ride side-saddle in this dress,” she added grumpily. “One cannot control a horse properly riding side-saddle.”

Francoise had chosen one of El Caballo’s chestnut Anglo-Arab mares to ride to the
feria
today. Issie was
riding alongside her, Roberto was riding Marius, and Avery had been given one of Roberto’s best stallions, a bay Lusitano called Sorcerer. Six other
vaqueros
, including Alfonso, were also riding with them today, each of them on one of El Caballo’s grey Lipizzaner stallions.

As the riders headed out through the gates of the hacienda they instantly fell into groups. Avery and Roberto rode ahead together laughing and chatting, at ease with each other as only old friends can be. Alfonso rode out at the front of them alone, holding the El Caballo flag. Behind all of them rode the El Caballo horsemen, and then Issie and Francoise, bringing up the rear. Apart from Francoise, who was riding a mare, Issie noticed that all of the other riders had something in common.

“Why does no one ride geldings here?” Issie asked Francoise as they trotted out of the El Caballo gates, heading up the dusty hillside road that would lead them the short distance to the village.

“In Spain it is only stallions,” Francoise explained. “The Spanish stallion is not as wild and uncontrollable as other breeds. Indeed he is so well-mannered that even small children of three or four years old can be seen riding a stallion.”

Francoise looked over at Issie’s horse. “Angel is such
a typical Andalusian stallion,” she said. “I remember when we first brought him to El Caballo as a young colt. He had been so badly mistreated by Vega and he was terrified of men, but even then he would always let me near him, and his nature was so gentle, so sweet. He is nearly eleven now, but he has not changed. Whenever I am home at El Caballo, I ride him each day and I marvel at how willing he is. He will do anything for you. You will see.”

Issie knew what Francoise meant. When she had ridden Destiny there was always the sense of a power struggle between her and the black stallion. He was wilful, with a mind of his own. Angel wasn’t like that at all—he was sensitive and willing to please. It made Issie even sadder about the scars on Angel’s nose. Why would Vega use a barbed metal noseband on such a sweet-natured horse as this? It didn’t make sense.

The village was on the hill rising up above El Caballo Danza Magnifico. It was a pretty sight with its whitewashed terraced houses with terracotta roofs all built right next door to each other. The houses all clustered around the central square, which was where Issie and the other riders were heading. They trotted their horses up the winding cobbled streets and gathered at the entrance to the square,
where the other riders were organising themselves into their haciendas, preparing to parade under their racing colours around the fountain at the centre of the square.