Читать книгу Angel and the Flying Stallions - Stacy Gregg, Stacy Gregg - Страница 10

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.

“No, no!” Vega shook his head. “Not the girl. I don’t want her back. I want the mare. The one you stole from me!”

“What?” Roberto was stunned.

“Hand her back now and we will say no more about it,” Vega said. There were beads of sweat appearing in the furrows of his brow, glistening beneath the black oil slick of his hairline.

Roberto Nunez’s voice became cool. He was no longer amused. “If there is a mare missing from your herd then it is none of our affair.”

“Your land borders mine,” Vega replied. “It had to be you. I have just brought my herd in for the evening and Laeticia is gone. She was one of my favourites. A great breeding mare and I know that you have long admired her too, so do not play games with me!”

“Miguel,” Roberto said stiffly. “I think you need to leave now. To accuse a man of theft in this way is a very serious business.”

“But you accused me of it once!” Vega shot back.

“Yes,” Roberto conceded, “but then you had stolen Nightstorm, hadn’t you?”

Vega shrugged. He couldn’t argue with this logic since he had indeed stolen Issie’s colt.

“You have my word as a gentleman that I had nothing to do with your mare’s disappearance.” Roberto continued, “Our own mares were disturbed recently. Perhaps this is not an isolated occurrence. If so, then all of our horses may be in danger. Instead of charging about like madmen we should be working together to solve this problem.”

Vega’s lip curled beneath his moustache. The whole time he had been speaking, he had also been making furtive, greedy glances at Francoise, who sat silently at the table. “Perhaps you are right, Roberto,” he said with a greasy grin, “we should work together. Perhaps the lovely Francoise might accompany me on a ride around the farm in the moonlight to look for my mare?”

Francoise had long ago learned to ignore Vega’s romantic attentions, but that never seemed to stop him from pestering her with leering stares or asking her out. She gave Vega a cool stare. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. There is no point in looking for the mare in the darkness.”

“What a pity!” Vega said, his eyes still fixed on her. “A moonlight ride is so romantic and you do look so lovely tonight, my dear Francoise. Your hair looks very nice.”

Vega gave a bow to Francoise and then a nod to Roberto as he took his leave, slamming the door shut behind him.

There was silence at the dinner table as all eyes turned to Francoise. “That is it!” she snapped. “There will be no more talk about my hair ever again!”

Issie bit her lip but it was no good. She took one look at Alfie and the pair of them collapsed into fits of giggles.

After dinner Issie went to bed, still puzzling over the mystery of the missing horse. Normally she might have considered Vega’s story to be some kind of cunning ruse to divert suspicion. And yet she didn’t think so this time. She had seen the genuine fury on Vega’s face when he stormed through that door, and the look of concern too. Vega was jealously possessive of his horses. He was clearly worried about the missing mare, Laeticia.

Issie lay awake for a long time thinking about this, before she eventually fell asleep. In her dreams Spanish castanets were clack-clacking away. The clacking became louder and louder and then an even louder noise jolted her out of her slumber. It was the sound of a horse whinnying. Drowsy and jetlagged, she realised that the first sound she’d heard hadn’t been castanets at all, but hoofbeats on the cobblestones directly outside her balcony window.

Issie got out of bed and padded across the wooden floor to the balcony. Down below in the courtyard, illuminated in the moonlight of this warm summer night, was a grey horse. Not an enormous elegant breed like the Lipizzaners in the stallions’ stables, but a pony. Not much more than fourteen hands high, and very old, with a sway back and just the slightest smattering of faded dapples on his rump. He had a snowy white face and his eyes were deep black. The pony stared up at Issie expectantly, stamping and pacing. How long had he been there? She had been in such a deep sleep and now to wake and find him here once more! She felt her heart racing.

“Mystic!” she whispered down to him. “It’s OK, I’m coming!”