Will

We ran on in the dim quiet of the forest. Will spoke now and again, giving me the way. I felt the strain after the freezing battle with the ford, and as the miles ground by exhaustion took me. At last I could not help but stumble as we made our way through a mass of fallen logs. Will was down from my back in an instant with a hand to my chest, a strong touch that stayed and soothed me in one gesture. He looked up into my eyes, his own dark and gentle. And more. There was something in them … a hesitation. He met my gaze levelly, and I saw the courage he needed to speak to me.

"I don't know what you are, witch or ghost or pooka. But you've done me no harm. Let me tend you, and I may do you some service."

His breath came heavy, labored with exertion and – I smelled it on him – fear. He thought me a witch or a sorcerer, or some fearsome being. I could not tell him the truth; I did not know that I wished to. A witch or a warlock he would fear, and give reverence. But a horse – I did not know what he would make of me.

This was certain: he knew me no simple beast. Whatever I wished, the thing could not be undone. I met his eyes, then tapped a hoof deliberately on the ground.

He came forward slowly, wary of me. No sound of pursuit came to my ears; no, it was I myself that he came to taut and nervous. He touched my shoulder, his eyes on my own until at last I turned my head from him. There was something in his glance, searching and deep, open and almost beseeching, that unnerved me. He stood a long moment touching my coat, then stooped and gave his care to my body.

He touched the sore skin of my knees, felt of my shoulder and took up my hooves to pick them clean. He took water from his flask and washed my scrapes and wounds with a gentle hand, keeping his eyes close to his work – but I saw how he glanced at me low under his lashes. At last he finished and spoke as he touched gently upon my knees and shoulder.

"These will be no lasting wound to you; some cuts and scrapes, no worse." His expression deepened, and his eyes met mine. "Yet you saved my life by it. I swear, you will never want a friend while Will Fletcher draws breath."

He put his hand on my neck, firm and resolute, as a man would grasp the hand of another to seal a bargain or a vow. It went against all I knew to trust him. And yet I dropped my head over his arm, rubbing my muzzle up to his shoulder in as clear a gesture as I could make. I would take his promise.

He nodded, troubled still. But he held his peace as he spoke.

"We'd best move on. They may find our trail. I know a place where we can lie hidden tonight, if you'll keep with me still?"

I nodded my head up and down, a sign I knew men understood. It startled him more than I thought it would to see the gesture used so plainly by a beast. He turned, muttering to himself as he stepped forward.

"Aye. You need no rope to lead you."

He led on, troubled and diffident, his bearing tense and his eyes quick and nervous. But he was true to his word, and more. He stopped often to see how I came and sought trails that would not overtax my sore knees. At last we came to a turn in a path where a hill rose steeply to the right, with a dead, craggy oak raising its branches atop it. There we turned and came around the hill to its flank. Beneath the shadow of the crest, half-hidden in the brush and leaves, I could make out – more by scent than by sight – a low cave sunk in the hill's side.

It was close with both of us in it. I had to stoop awkwardly to stand, but I was willing enough to lay down and rest, for our flight had left me spent and aching. Will worked at the mouth of the cave, pulling dead growth into place until the entrance was nearly invisible. He left a little gap through which I might pass to graze in the deepening twilight, and with Will standing watch by the dead oak, I did. The grass was rank and the bushes tough, but I filled my stomach and then went back to the cave. Will came and sat awkwardly across from me, silent and with none of his old ease about him. He made a scanty supper from a crust of bread, drank from his leathern flask, and then came to offer me silently the last bites of bread. I took it with a pulse of feeling in my heart. I did not know what to call it when felt for a man; I only knew that I had eaten much and he but little, yet he offered me the last of his food.

"Will you drink, Shanglan?"

He lifted the flask, meeting my eye, though warily. He poured the water in a slow stream and I drank of it as well as I could. He saved a mouthful or two against morning and put up the flask as he spoke.

"There is a spring not far distant, perhaps a mile off. Can you wait until morning to seek it?"

I nodded. He moved stiffly back to the far side of the cave and sat down to watch me in the fading light that came faintly from the entrance. He said nothing, only gazed long and silently until I felt awkward under his eyes. At last, after many minutes, he spoke.

"You're a witch?"

I shook my head. For once, I felt the frustration of my mute tongue. I had never before met a man who cared what a horse might think or wish or say. I had never felt the urge to speak. But now I did.

He thought upon my response.

"You're a sorcerer? Some magus or the like?"

I shook my head again.

"You're some … person enchanted into a horse?" His look and tone told me how he doubted this, but he was at a loss. I shook my head again. Helpless to tell it, I reached out my head, put my muzzle to his hand and nosed it, mouthing it with my lips. His skin was salt, tasting of his scent. He touched my muzzle uncertainly, and his eyes met mine. But there was only silence between us.

He sank into thought. And at length, without thinking, he brought his hands up to rub between my eyes and stroke my jaw as he would with any other horse. As he lowered his lips to kiss my nose in an absent-minded gesture, he halted and thought of his actions. He paused, half-bent over my muzzle, and looked into my eyes.

"You're a horse. You were born a horse."

I nodded, my head pressing against his hands as they cupped my chin and nose.

"But you know our words. You think as we do."

I nodded again. His expression was deep, profound, and troubled.

"And you have always been so."

I nodded a last time. He held my gaze still. Then slowly and gently he brought his lips to my nose and kissed it. His touch shuddered through me. I felt relief when he lifted his lips from my skin, but pain as well, and a terrible longing.

"Ah, Shanglan." His voice was deep and full with an honest pity. "You must have lived the veriest hell."

He stroked my jaw, his eyes soft with sorrow. I did not know what to expect of him. Now he knew me only a horse – not a creature of magic or power, but only an animal that might challenge no man even for the ownership of its own body. But his eyes spoke to me warm and gentle, and his hands touched soft on my muzzle.

He slid forward across the rough, dry floor of the cave. His hands were warm on my head, and as I closed my eyes he drew me to him. Under his touch I let myself slowly down upon my side and lay my head in his lap. He stroked my mane as he spoke.

"Is there some other man knows your nature?"

I shook my head awkwardly in his lap. It was strange to lay so, but the soft movement of his hands on my neck brought a deep comfort to me. Resting silent for a time, he brushed my forelock back and stroked beneath it. When he stooped to kiss my brow, I felt neither surprise nor alarm – only warmth, and welcome. He raised his lips to speak again, his voice low and soft.

"And you showed yourself to save me?"

I closed my eyes and moved my head faintly, a nod. His hands slid over my head and neck with a warm, light motion. He whispered, his voice, always soft, dropping to a faint breath against my skin.

"What did I do to warrant that? Did you not want your freedom?"

I shuddered through my body. I could not help it, not with the question and the brush of his lips on my ear as he whispered it. I shook my head weakly.

He kissed my brow again, his hands stroking my neck with a movement somehow soothing and stirring at once. I trembled as he spoke low and intent.

"You had your choice to save or leave me, Shanglan. You saved me. I will see that you do not regret it."

His hands worked upon me still, stroking my neck, my mane, my nose. Were I human, I would have wept. How could men bring such kindness with their touch, such comfort in their presence – and never have shown me this before? How had I lived all my life under the dominion of human hands and never known that they might bring pleasure? Now his palms slid over my muzzle in a warm caress that spoke deep to my spirit. I shivered and lay still as he slid his body from under mine, cradling my head to bring it gently to the cave's floor. He stroked my neck, soothing me with low, quiet speech as his hands urged me to stillness.

"Shhh. Let me draw the ache from you."

He knelt by my head and drew his hands down my forelegs. I trembled under his touch, stirring and intimate. As he came to my knees his hands lifted to the faintest whisper of contact. I flinched, nervous of the tender wounds; he looked into my eyes, his own deepening with repentance, and slid his hands down to my fetlocks to stroke and soothe. Thought was impossible; under his touch, I grew hot and rootless, burning with confusion and hunger for his lingering touch and the soft brush of his lips.

He ran his hands down my legs, speaking softly as he did. He called me the name he had given me and bid me to lie easy as he rubbed the length of my forelimbs. His hands closed stronger about the flesh, stroking and then kneading it, first above the knee and then below. I shivered, nervous of my wounds and frightened, in truth, at the simple power he worked upon me. It was not his hands I feared; it was the grip he had on my spirit, worked through his touch and the deep warmth of his eyes. It kept me still through the hot turmoil of my heart.

He watched me close, his eyes to mine. Under his hands my straining muscles yielded as I fought to conceal my trembling. He reached forward to stroke my mane and stooped to kiss softly at my shoulder. The brush of his beard was strange and stirring; I flinched, but it was not pain that drove the shudder through me. I did not know what it was, but it grew as his hands slid up to my shoulders and then inward over my chest.

I was alive to his touch. It moved upon me in ways no groomsman had ever matched or sought to – a gentle exploration, a warm touch that spoke and sought my reply. I knew neither what he asked, nor in truth what I answered – but I did, and my spirit called back to him no less than my body. His hands moved strong upon me, and when he closed his eyes and kissed softly at my muzzle, I trembled in welcome and pressed my nose to his lips.

At last it was done. I could no longer say if it was pain, joy, release or torment. I knew only that when he held my head in his hands and kissed softly just below my ear, I shuddered through my body. He lingered, bowed over me, his lips pressed to my coat and saying no word. His hands lay upon my neck and nose, and as he drew a long breath against my skin, they trembled. Then he lifted his lips and stroked my mane.

"Sleep, Shanglan," he murmured, in the darkness now complete. "I will keep watch."

When I woke he was by me still. He had curled against my back, and his arm was over my shoulder. As I lifted my head he woke as well, and stretched and came to himself.

I was shy of him, and he of me. I do not know if his heart misgave him as mine did, but he looked anywhere but at me and went swiftly to scout the wood. When I came out blinking into the early light he was there leaning by a tree, but he only nodded and spoke no word. I think he wished to be gentle to me; at least, when he had drunk a mouthful from his flask, he came to pour the last over my lips. But he did not touch my head or my muzzle, and I was ashamed to realize how much I wanted him to. At last he patted my withers, a brisk touch that did not linger, and turned back to the trail.

"Best we make our way," he said, his voice sounding thin and false. "It's a long mile to water, and I don't doubt you feel the thirst. There's good grazing there if you can bide the journey."

He glanced up at me, quick and shy, and I nodded. We took to the trail and walked in silence. Will was diffident, much in his own thoughts and troubled with them, and kept from me to the side of the path. I went quietly and tried not to show how I missed his easy company. He glanced at me now and then, awkwardly; then at last he stopped abruptly and faced me.

"I'm sorry, Shanglan. It's strange," he said, troubled but earnest. He glanced down, then touched my cheek, his voice softening. "I don't know what to make of you. But I am sorry. And I will do right by you."

He said this last with a determination almost fierce. I did not know what to make of it, only that it was of a piece with the tension that sang through his body and the ill ease that marked his every movement. With fleeting shame I thought of his hands upon me in the cave, but pushed it from me. There was nothing there but my own mind. And with his speech he seemed to master himself; by the time we reached the stream his pace was easier, and he did not flinch when his shoulder brushed my own.

We drank, and I cropped the grass at the brook's edge as swiftly as I could. Will had lain hungry that night, and would see not food until we made his camp; I would fill my stomach better when he might eat as well. While I grazed he foraged, taking a few wild strawberries and a leaf of sorrel to stay his stomach. He came to me with the last red berry and offered it flat in his palm.

I took it. The taste was sweet against the salt of his palm. He touched my neck, and suddenly it came back to me – that hot trembling turmoil I had felt the night before.

"You might have trusted me, Shanglan," he said softly. His words were gentle. Not a complaint; a regret. "Before the ford. I would not have betrayed you."

I met his eyes for a long moment. How would matters have changed? How would I have felt his hands upon me, and how often? He met my eyes steadily, and in the end it was I who looked away.

We went on more swiftly when refreshed. Will was quiet but less distant, and spoke to me now and then as we walked. Still, he seemed caught up in his own thoughts. As noon drew on we paused for a moment's rest near a stand of beeches, and as I snatched a hasty meal he came to speak to me.

"We're nearing the camp," he said, touching my shoulder hesitantly. "Do you think it best that they not know of you at once?"

I nodded. It frightened me even that Will knew me. He nodded, then spoke on awkwardly.

"It might be well, Shanglan," he said, "if you came to them ... more as a horse." His eyes met mine pained and a little ashamed. "They would look to see you haltered. And ... ridden. I would not ask it, but they will think it strange if you are not."

I hated it. I hated the rough touch of the halter, that slave's harness. But it was the riding that frightened me – the feel of Will's body on mine when he sprang to my back by the ford, the warmth and rouse of him. It drove a shudder though me. I did not know how to face him, or how to take his presence. With the memory of lips upon me it rose to a raging madness, and it harrowed me to face it.

But it must be done. He was right. I bowed my head for the halter. It had been good to live free of it this day past, but I stooped to it, and after a moment's pause he raised it to my head. I shuddered but closed my eyes and forced myself still as he slid it up and over me.

"Only this, Shanglan," he whispered, stroking my neck slowly with his hand. I had not guessed how it would take me, to return to the mark of my servitude now that he knew what I was. I felt a hot humiliation as I took the guise of a slave again. There. With him. But his eyes were deep with his promise, and as they met mine he kissed my nose softly. "Only this. And only if you will."

I looked away. The nearness of him, the scent of his breath, the brush of his beard on my muzzle – all of these worked a power that left me helpless. I closed my eyes, and when he put his hands to my head I pressed my muzzle to his chest and leaned there, feeling him strong and close before me, breathing him in with his touch upon me. When at last his hands closed gently in my mane, I stooped down and let him mount.

He settled upon me warm and heavy, legs pressing my sides, hands on my mane and neck. It woke something in me, something deep, primal, and unanswerable. Down in the depths of what I was, below even the fear of his rule, was this – a memory. Man and horse. Then he stooped to touch his lips to my neck, and it was good.

It was a long moment before I could shake off the tremor of my limbs. I stood there with him upon me, my heart and mind so deep in his sensation that I hardly saw the wood before me. At last I half-mastered myself, though shivering still, and took to the path in a trot. The day was warm and sweet, and in the deep green shade of the summer noon I ran joyous. The light was fine and golden, and with Will close upon my back I felt a soar like a swallow's, with his hands soft upon my neck and his body all along mine.

I was drunk with it, and sorry, truly, that we came so swiftly to the first sign of his camp – a low mossy rock, hardly seen amongst the bracken. Will slid down to examine it, and I felt a moment of pain as his body left mine. Then he showed me the rock, with another set upon it, and told what it meant – the smaller positioned to show whether the camp was now to the north, or the east, or the west, for they moved about to avoid their enemies. We struck off to the east along a dry creek bed, and other signs followed – a hollow stump in which shaped stones were left, and a thicket with a rotting log to be placed to one side or the other. Then at last from above we heard a sharp cry of "Halloo!" I stopped, and Will called back.

"Halloo above! It is Will Fletcher!"

"Will?! By God, it is!"

A man came sliding down a tree as fast as he could go. As he did, Will's hand touched warm and strong on my shoulder.

"We're here, girl," he murmured. "Hold steady, and trust in me."

Then he slid down from my back, and he and his comrade met in rough and joyous embrace.

Soon I was amongst men once more. We came to a large encampment, twenty or more men and women together. Like Will, they wore leather and clothing of brown and green, and they had a rough, hardy look about them. Will was welcome indeed, for there were cries of joy and many ran to see him. He used the confusion to keep me by him, greeting his comrades while he gave me my head. But at last an older man with long, grizzled hair, one Will called John and greeted with special welcome, called a young boy over.

"Here, Watt! Take Will's horse. I want his tale of Longford and no delay. I'm no judge of the duke if he's forgotten us. Will, what did ye see in the way of guardsmen?"

Will took the halter rope and began to lead me down toward a line of trees where other horses were tethered. "Stay, Watt," he said, motioning off the dark-haired boy who ran toward us. "She wants no hand but mine. Like as not she'll harm you."

John laughed, shaking his head. "And yet ye'll ride her with naught but a halter? Will, I know you fancy yourself a horseman, but sure you'll not have us swallow that."

He turned to me, still laughing. I laid back my ears and snapped at him, as ill-tempered as Will would have him think me. He laughed less then, and stepped back smartly.

"You ride that beast? You're a braver man than I."