I could see where they came from. His was – if one could use the word – an antique head, narrow, and sculptured like a Greek relief, while the rest of his body was massively muscled. The eye was remarkable, big and dark and liquid, gentle and yet male.
He whickered again at the sight of the carrots and bent his head to receive them. Annalisa and Timothy fed him, and the two of them were soon busy with him, almost crooning over him as they handled him. I watched for a little, then wandered off down the lines to look at some of the others. They were mostly stallions, the palominos looking at this close range a good deal more impressive than the Lipizzaner, but all relaxed and resting comfortably. I noticed one or two bandaged legs among the others, and a nasty graze skinning over on one palomino rump, but on the whole it seemed to me that the Circus Wagner had got off lightly. Nothing terrifies horses so much as fire, and if even one or two, in their panic-stricken plunging, had lashed out or broken loose, they could have caused immense damage to themselves and others.
At the far end of the stable one or two of the horses were lying down already, so I didn’t go past them, since no horse will allow you to pass his stall without his getting up, and I didn’t wish to disturb them. But the ponies I talked to, mischievous shaggy little beasts, twice as quick and twice as naughty as their big brothers, and at this moment all twice as wide awake. By the time I had worked my way back to the beginning where Annalisa and Timothy still stood talking softly in the royal box, the two stablemen had gone, and all seemed settled for what remained of the night. In the stall next to the end one – opposite the white stallion – stood another horse of much the same height and build as the Lipizzaner, but very different to look at. He was a piebald, with ugly markings, and he stood with hishead drooping and mane and tail hanging limply, like uncombed flax. I thought at first it was the clever, ugly beast that Annalisa had ridden in the rodeo, then saw that this was an older horse. His feed was scarcely touched, but his water bucket was empty. As I watched, he lowered his head and blew sadly around the bottom of the dry bucket.
I spoke softly, then laid a hand on him and went in.
Annalisa saw me and came across.
‘Because we spend so much time with the King horse, you talk with the beggar? I am sorry, there is no carrot left.’
‘I doubt if he would want it,’ I said. ‘He hasn’t touched his feed. I wasn’t just being democratic; I thought he looked ill.’
‘He is still not eating? He has been like this all the week.’ She looked from the full manager to the empty bucket, and a pucker of worry showed between her brows. ‘He was my Uncle Franzl’s horse, the poor old piebald . . . Ever since the fire he has been like this; nobody else looked after him, you see, always my uncle. He is old, too; my uncle used to say they were two old men together.’ She bit her lip, watching the horse. ‘I think he is – what is the word? – weeping for my uncle.’
‘Fretting. That may be true, but I think there’s something wrong physically, too. The horse is in pain.’ I was examining him as I spoke, running a hand down the neck, turning back the rug to feel the withers. ‘See how he’s sweating; he’s wringing wet over the withers and down the neck, and look at hiseye . . . his coat’s as rough as a sack, Annalisa. Has anyone seen him?’
‘The vet came from Bruck after the fire, and he has been twice more since then. On Thursday, he was here.’
‘And he looked at this one?’
‘He looked at them all. Not this one, perhaps, after the first time, because there was nothing wrong.’ She looked doubtfully at me, then back at the old piebald. ‘Yes, I can see he does not look very good, but if there had been anything . . . anything to see . . .’ She hesitated.
Tim said: ‘Vanessa’s a vet.’
Her eyes widened.
He whickered again at the sight of the carrots and bent his head to receive them. Annalisa and Timothy fed him, and the two of them were soon busy with him, almost crooning over him as they handled him. I watched for a little, then wandered off down the lines to look at some of the others. They were mostly stallions, the palominos looking at this close range a good deal more impressive than the Lipizzaner, but all relaxed and resting comfortably. I noticed one or two bandaged legs among the others, and a nasty graze skinning over on one palomino rump, but on the whole it seemed to me that the Circus Wagner had got off lightly. Nothing terrifies horses so much as fire, and if even one or two, in their panic-stricken plunging, had lashed out or broken loose, they could have caused immense damage to themselves and others.
At the far end of the stable one or two of the horses were lying down already, so I didn’t go past them, since no horse will allow you to pass his stall without his getting up, and I didn’t wish to disturb them. But the ponies I talked to, mischievous shaggy little beasts, twice as quick and twice as naughty as their big brothers, and at this moment all twice as wide awake. By the time I had worked my way back to the beginning where Annalisa and Timothy still stood talking softly in the royal box, the two stablemen had gone, and all seemed settled for what remained of the night. In the stall next to the end one – opposite the white stallion – stood another horse of much the same height and build as the Lipizzaner, but very different to look at. He was a piebald, with ugly markings, and he stood with hishead drooping and mane and tail hanging limply, like uncombed flax. I thought at first it was the clever, ugly beast that Annalisa had ridden in the rodeo, then saw that this was an older horse. His feed was scarcely touched, but his water bucket was empty. As I watched, he lowered his head and blew sadly around the bottom of the dry bucket.
I spoke softly, then laid a hand on him and went in.
Annalisa saw me and came across.
‘Because we spend so much time with the King horse, you talk with the beggar? I am sorry, there is no carrot left.’
‘I doubt if he would want it,’ I said. ‘He hasn’t touched his feed. I wasn’t just being democratic; I thought he looked ill.’
‘He is still not eating? He has been like this all the week.’ She looked from the full manager to the empty bucket, and a pucker of worry showed between her brows. ‘He was my Uncle Franzl’s horse, the poor old piebald . . . Ever since the fire he has been like this; nobody else looked after him, you see, always my uncle. He is old, too; my uncle used to say they were two old men together.’ She bit her lip, watching the horse. ‘I think he is – what is the word? – weeping for my uncle.’
‘Fretting. That may be true, but I think there’s something wrong physically, too. The horse is in pain.’ I was examining him as I spoke, running a hand down the neck, turning back the rug to feel the withers. ‘See how he’s sweating; he’s wringing wet over the withers and down the neck, and look at hiseye . . . his coat’s as rough as a sack, Annalisa. Has anyone seen him?’
‘The vet came from Bruck after the fire, and he has been twice more since then. On Thursday, he was here.’
‘And he looked at this one?’
‘He looked at them all. Not this one, perhaps, after the first time, because there was nothing wrong.’ She looked doubtfully at me, then back at the old piebald. ‘Yes, I can see he does not look very good, but if there had been anything . . . anything to see . . .’ She hesitated.
Tim said: ‘Vanessa’s a vet.’
Her eyes widened.
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