Angel and the Flying Stallions

Mrs Brown’s face dropped. “Ride?” She turned to Issie in panic. “He is joking, isn’t he, Isadora? You did tell him that I’m utterly terrified of horses, didn’t you?”

Alfie and Issie couldn’t keep straight faces any longer and burst out laughing.

“Very funny!” Mrs Brown fumed as she clambered into the back seat of the Land Rover. Alfie and Avery loaded the last of the bags, then Alfie leapt into the driver’s seat and turned the Land Rover out on to the cobbled streets of downtown Seville.

Within an hour they had left the city and begun to climb through the forest-clad hills of Andalusia. As Alfie turned off the main road, yellow dust flew up from beneath the tyres and he began to steer more vigorously to avoid the potholes in the rugged road that wound around the hills. Soon they were surrounded by olive trees and then as the Land Rover began to descend into a green valley Issie felt her heart soar. There it was, El Caballo Danza Magnifico! Down below she could see the herds of mares with their foals grazing the sunburnt fields around the perimeter of the estate, its beautiful stone buildings arranged around a cobbled courtyard and enclosed by a vast, white stone wall.

“The mares are only allowed out to graze during the daytime now,” Alfie told Issie as they drove down the hill. “There was an incident last week, late at night. We think maybe it was bandits trying to raid the herd.”

Issie was horrified. “The mares and foals were all fine,” Alfie reassured her, “but since then Dad has insisted that we bring the horses in every night, just to be safe.”

“Do you think it might have been Miguel Vega’s men?” Issie asked.

Miguel Vega’s hacienda was El Caballo’s closest neighbour. The two great horse farms had been fierce rivals for many years and Vega was not above resorting to dirty tricks.

“Miguel Vega?” Mrs Brown joined in the conversation. “Why do I know that name?”

“He’s the one that stole Storm,” Issie reminded her mother.

Alfonso nodded. “Since your last visit, Señor Vega has been suspiciously quiet. I wondered how long it would be before he gave us trouble again.” Alfie shrugged. “Whoever it was, we have taken precautions now. The mares are locked up at night. It will not be easy for them to try again.”

The herd was grazing near the dusty road as they drove past and even Mrs Brown was captured by the beauty of these mares with their charcoal-black foals. “Why are the mothers white when their foals are black?” she asked.

“Lipizzaners and Andalusians are grey, but their foals are always born black,” Avery explained. “Their coats change colour as they age. Eventually the dark colour fades away completely and the horses become grey.”

“They don’t look grey,” Mrs Brown said stubbornly. “They’re white really, aren’t they?”

Issie sighed. Her mum was the most unhorsey person she knew. “Mum, technically there’s no such thing as a white horse,” Issie explained. “They’re always called grey.”

“We have over fifty horses,” Alfie told Mrs Brown, taking up the role as El Caballo tour guide. “All of them are bred here. We have the Lipizzaners and Andalusians, and we also have Anglo-Arabs – the same bloodlines as Isadora’s own mare, Blaze.”

Alfie pulled the Land Rover to a rough stop outside the gates of the hacienda and Issie leapt out of the car, swung open the enormous wrought iron gates and let him through. Alfie drove sedately around the cobbled compound, continuing his tour for the benefit of Mrs Brown. “That large building to the rear is the mares’ quarters, where we keep them at night,” he explained. “The stallions are in separate quarters over there and that building ahead of you now is our main indoor arena where the riders train the horses. And this…” he said, swinging hard on the wheel of the Land Rover, turning back around the fountain and parking the car in front of the central archway of the main hacienda, “…is our house, where you will be staying as our guests.”

Mrs Brown was stunned. “Much nicer than the Costa Del Sol!” she muttered.

The Nunez hacienda was a stately Spanish villa, two storeys high with curved archways on the bottom floor and top-floor balconies smothered in vines of brilliant pink and orange tropical bougainvillea. All the windows were trimmed with wrought iron window boxes filled with candy pink geraniums, and the front steps were lined with elegant topiaries of Seville oranges. The front door was made of heavy, dark-stained wood. It swung open and a man stepped out to greet them.

“Thomas!” Roberto Nunez skipped down the stairs and grasped Avery by the hand before pulling him into his arms in a manly embrace. “So good to see you again!”

“You too, Roberto,” Avery hugged the Spaniard who had been his best friend ever since they met as young riders on the international eventing circuit.

“And Isadora!” Roberto smiled. “Welcome back. And this lovely woman must be your sister?”

He stepped forward, took Mrs Brown’s hand and clasped it lightly in his own.

“Roberto,” said Issie, grinning at his charming antics, “this is my mum, Amanda Brown.”

“Welcome!” Roberto smiled. “Don’t worry about your luggage. Alfonso will take it to your rooms. Come in and sit down! Have something to eat and drink. You must be famished.”

He guided his guests towards the front door of the hacienda.

“Where is Francoise?” Avery asked, looking around.

“Down at the stallions’ stables,” Roberto replied. “Isadora, perhaps you might like to go and let her know you have arrived?”

Issie’s heart was racing as she headed across the cobbled courtyard. It was so strange to be back here again! She couldn’t believe she was about to see Storm. Her stomach was tied in nervous knots. It had been so long.

The stallions’ quarters were located on the far side of the compound. From the outside they looked like all the rest of the buildings at El Caballo Danza Magnifico; classical Spanish stone with curved archways and tiled rooftops. But inside was a different story. The stallions’ quarters were ultra-modern and the loose boxes were state-of-the-art.

Issie looked down the row of stalls and at the far end of the corridor she saw Francoise D’arth. The French dressage trainer was wearing cream jodhpurs and a white shirt, her long dark hair tied back in a high ponytail. She was leading a horse and with one glimpse of the pretty, dished Arabian face with the wide, white blaze Issie knew it was him.

“Storm!” she called out, unable to control her excitement.

The horse suddenly froze at the sound of her voice and stood alert with his head held high. Without thinking, Issie raised a hand to her lips and gave a wolf whistle – the call she had always used back home when she played tag with the colt.

At the sound of the whistle, Storm let out a loud nicker and began to dance and skip, going up on to his hind legs so that Francoise was forced to pull him back down.

“Storm! Easy boy, no!” Issie cried out, aware that her call had rattled the big bay stallion.

It was too late. Storm reared up a second time with such force that he ripped the lead rope out of Francoise’s hands.

Francoise was an experienced horsewoman, but she hadn’t been expecting this and the stallion was too powerful. He broke free from her hands and surged forward, heading straight for the girl. His metal horseshoes chimed out against the hard concrete floor beneath his hooves as he cantered through the stable block.

Issie stood perfectly still. The bay stallion’s enormous, muscled body was thundering through the stables. She knew that he could easily trample her down or knock her over, and yet, as the horse continued to bear down on her, Issie wasn’t in the least bit afraid. This wasn’t any stallion, this was her horse. It was Storm.

The girl and the stallion were just a few metres apart when Storm pulled up dramatically to a halt and stood, snorting and quivering, in front of her. The stallion was sixteen-three hands high and every inch of him was pure muscle. Issie looked into his deep brown eyes and didn’t hesitate. She threw herself forward and flung her arms around the horse’s neck, burying her face in his long, black mane.

“Storm!” Issie was finding it hard to breathe, a sob was stuck in her throat and she was choking on her words. “Hey boy, it’s me.”

The stallion was trembling all over, nickering and stamping, flicking his head as if to say, “You’re back! Where have you been all this time? I missed you!”

At the far end of the corridor, Francoise D’arth watched this touching reunion and a faint smile crossed her lips. She had never seen a horse behave like that before, but then she had never known any horse and rider to have a bond as close as the one Issie shared with Storm. The girl loved the bay stallion and he had missed her dreadfully. But as Francoise knew only too well, it was not enough to love a horse. You must also have the skills to handle it. In the month to come, Issie would need to prove herself at El Caballo Danza Magnifico. But for now, Francoise stood back and let Isadora enjoy the reunion with her beloved horse. The girl would find out soon enough about the nature of the challenge that lay ahead.

Chapter 3

When Storm was nothing more than a skinny-legged colt running around the paddocks at Winterflood Farm, Issie had trained him to come when she whistled. It was a cute trick to teach a foal, but it was a totally different story now he had become a fully-grown stallion.

“I’m sorry,” Issie called out to Francoise as she led Storm back up the corridor, “I can’t believe he still remembers my whistle.”

“It is my fault,” Francoise replied as she strode forward to meet them. “I should have anticipated his reaction. They say that horses do not remember as you and I do, but this is not always true. Some memories run so deep they cannot be erased. He has not forgotten you, Isadora. That is quite clear.”

As if to confirm this, Storm gave another nicker and rubbed his handsome face up against Issie, using her as a scratching post just as he had always done in the paddock back home.

“Storm!” Francoise chastised the stallion. “Where are your manners? An El Caballo stallion doesn’t behave like that!”

Francoise took the lead rope and jiggled it to make him step back. Storm got the message and stood obediently while Francoise embraced Issie in the customary French way with a kiss on each cheek before adding a hug of her own.

“Welcome back to El Caballo Danza Magnifico, Isadora,” she smiled.

“It’s good to be back, Francoise,” Issie grinned.

Issie had been hoping that perhaps they could saddle up straight away. She was desperate to ride Storm for the first time and Francoise seemed to be reading her mind. “There will be time for riding soon enough,” the Frenchwoman said as she grasped Storm’s lead rope and began to guide him down the corridor back towards his stall, “I don’t think Roberto would be impressed if I took his guest out for a gallop straight away. We should go back into the house and get you settled in.” She smiled at Issie. “That is, if you can possibly bear to be apart from Storm again!”

Issie laughed at this, but really she would rather have stayed out here, exhausted, grubby and jetlagged, and fallen asleep beside her horse on the straw in his stall than go to the luxury and comfort of her room in the Nunez hacienda. But Issie knew that would have sounded ungrateful, so she followed Francoise as she led the stallion back to his loose box.

“He has grown up so beautifully, hasn’t he? Look at his topline!” Francoise gestured at the ridge of muscle along the stallion’s neck just beneath the glossy, black mane. “You can see by the developing muscles that we have already begun his training in the dressage school. He is still too young for the advanced haute école manoeuvres. They will come later. We are taking things gradually, but already my riders think he shows great promise. Once he learns collection and paces he will be ready to progress to the ‘airs above ground’.”

Issie felt herself tense up. Francoise was talking about Storm as if he still had more training to come. But how could that be possible when they were here to take him home to Chevalier Point? Francoise was acting as if he wasn’t actually going to leave El Caballo Danza Magnifico!

“We’ll keep training him when we get him home, of course,” Issie said, hoping that she was subtly making it clear that she expected to take the colt back with her, “but dressage isn’t really my priority. Avery believes Storm will be a great prospect as an eventer.”

Francoise looked serious. “We have had long discussions about this, Tom and I. When you first agreed to keep the colt with us, it was so that he could be schooled as a classical dressage horse. And, as I have been trying to impress upon Tom, his training has not yet finished.”

“What do you mean, he hasn’t finished?” Issie was getting edgy. “I’m here to take him home.”

Francoise frowned. “But surely you know about this? I made it clear to Avery that I could not permit you to take Storm away now. The stallion’s basic training has begun, but he has yet to learn the truly advanced moves of dressage. It would be wrong to drag him out of the best classical school in the world when you could not possibly complete his training back home in Chevalier Point. Only an haute école rider will do for a horse such as Storm. That is why we came to the arrangement.”

Issie was taken aback. “Arrangement? What arrangement?” This couldn’t be happening! “I’ve come all this way and now you’re telling me I can’t take my own horse home?”

“Non, non!” Francoise shook her head. “That is not what I am saying. Of course you will take him.” She paused. “But first, you must fulfil your side of bargain. That was the deal that I struck with Tom.”

The conversation had grown tense. Issie desperately wanted to make a childish snatch and take back the stallion’s lead rope. She was jetlagged and on the verge of tears, trying to behave like an adult. But Issie didn’t feel very grown-up. She didn’t want to be having this conversation. She just wanted her horse.

Footsteps echoed in the stable block, and Francoise and Issie both turned to see Avery walking up the corridor to join them.

Francoise emphatically slid the bolt on the door, as if to make a point that the stallion was still under El Caballo lock and key, and then turned to face Avery with her hands on her hips. “I assumed you would have explained it to her by now. What is going on here?”

Francoise’s abruptness took Avery by surprise. “Well, bonjour to you too!” he smiled at her. “I was expecting at least a French kiss on the cheek before we started fighting.”

His amused expression seemed to infuriate Francoise. “Do not be cute with me! We made a contract. And, since it involves Isadora too, I thought you would have told her about it.”

Avery’s smile disappeared. “I did tell her. I said that we would be staying here for at least a month to fulfil the terms of the training contract.”

Francoise shook her head as if she was trying to rearrange jigsaw-puzzle pieces inside her brain. “But you didn’t tell her anything more than that?”

“Hey!” Issie was getting fed up with the to-and-fro between Avery and Francoise. “I’m standing right here! Will you please stop bickering and tell me what’s going on?”

Francoise cast a sullen look at Avery then turned to Issie. “If you want to take Storm home to Chevalier Point, you must know how to train him first.”

“I know how to train a horse,” Issie frowned. “I’ve schooled Fortune and Comet. I’m quite capable of teaching Storm the basics…”

“No,” Francoise interrupted her, “not the basics, Isadora. If you want to take Storm you must know how to continue his dressage education. You must learn the ways of classical dressage so that you can ride the haute école.”

Issie was gobsmacked. “You’re kidding me, right? Francoise, I can barely get through a dressage test for a one-day event. I can’t do any fancy moves!”

“Believe me, Issie,” Avery interjected, “Francoise is only too aware of your limitations when it comes to dressage.”

“Tom has told me about your riding on the eventing circuit,” Francoise continued. “Your dressage tests are, without fail, sub-standard. This is why I insisted that you must stay and learn haute école.”

“You agreed to this?” Issie was stunned. “It’s like you’re checking me into some kind of dressage rehab! You’re both ganging up on me!”

“It’s not like that,” Avery said. “You might not realise it now, but you will benefit enormously from what Francoise is suggesting.”

“You will have a month at El Caballo training in the dressage school with my riders,” Francoise explained. “The performers are all in training mode preparing their new routines for the upcoming touring season, so the timing couldn’t be better. You will train with the school as if you were one of them. It is a great honour, as I am sure you can appreciate. These riders are some of the best horsemen in the world. Their knowledge of dressage is second to none.”

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

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?”