01.24.08
Rowena and the Welsh Cob
Another extract from the novel “A Bugle For The New Day” by Frank Pearson.
The wind had freshened in the valley, bringing with it a hint of brine from the sea, and Rowena gratefully pushed the prop under her line of washing, hoisting it into welcoming breeze, her eyes roving over the rooftops and over the hills and her mind with them to her younger brother. She had attempted to channel her thoughts into her directions but the dull ache would not go away; A picture of Glyn was too clear before her, and agonizing it was, for she had seen the misery in his face as she bade him farewell, not that she needed such tangible proof to realise he would be unable to cope with the roughness of the life into which he had been thrown. Acceptance of the fact that it was Glyn’s destiny to follow his brothers into the quarry was all the harder to bear now the fateful day was upon her.
Uppermost in the catalogue of issues which should be able to divert her thinking, was her own position, fast approaching crisis point according to her Mam, for here was she, nigh on twenty-three, and no sign of matrimony. Busy indeed were the needles in the village, clicking away, knitting her a shawl of spinster hood, and she apparently unmindful of it. Opportunities to end her single status had been there many times, but hopeful suitors were put off and always turning tail and fleeing with dented ego’s. “Too fussy you are, my girl.” her Mam constantly chided her, “too high and mighty” and there was no denying that was the impression she gave with her strange aloofness, her refusal to conform to what was accepted as the natural progression of life.
Rowena could not be considered beautiful, although her hair was a source of pride, cascading about her shoulders black as winter night when all others were short and bobbed, but she carried an air of mystery that intrigued and bewildered and finally reduced crestfallen gallants to a state of utter confusion, so that they had to make light of their defeat by calling her a teaser. If a key to the enigma of Rowena existed, it was in her eyes; Smoky grey pools forever changing, as though moody and concealing layers beneath, lit on occasions with darts of light that danced and transformed them as though a stone had been tossed into shrouded water, but the mists would close in again and nothing would be revealed.
“I say.” A voice broke into her reverie and she turned to see a young man at the gate. “My horse has gone lame. I wonder if you could help.”
The man was a stranger and he spoke with the refinement of gentry. She pushed her hair away, her voice at once anxious as an animal appeared to be in trouble. “Your- your horse?” she stammered.
“He is in the lane.” replied the man. “I’ve tethered him to a tree. I don’t want to risk-”
She was past him before he could offer further explanation, pushing him into the wall in her haste to reach the stricken horse, a flurry of apron and petticoats that left him with mouth open for any interested flies.
A four-year Welsh Cob stallion stood in the lane, well bred and finely groomed, with bold and prominent eyes, filled now with fear and pain. Tossing his head and pawing the ground, he viewed Rowena with suspicion until she put out a hand, soothing and conciliatory, and began to speak to him in a soft musical tone. He shook his head and cocked an ear as though listening to something comforting, and his rider took a step nearer as though to overhear what the strange girl was saying, removing his cap and wiping his brow more in consternation than to remove perspiration. “All I need is an outhouse, a barn, somewhere I can keep him.” said the young man defensively. My stable lad will know what to do.”
She had now taken the horses cheek piece and pulled down the stallion’s head so that she could whisper directly into his ear. What she was saying was incomprehensible to the bemused rider and he began to look uneasy. “I think he trod on a stone.” he said lamely.
Rowena flashed him a look of daggers. “Quiet now. Enough you have done.”
He stepped back quickly as though she has slapped his face and he watched her now examining the Cob’s body with hands that were gentle and caressing and obviously experienced, moving with tenderness to the hind quarters, where she seemed to find something amiss. Back to the horse’s ear for more weird talk and the young rider wondering for a moment whether he was watching witchcraft; there was a lot of it in these hills, so he had been told. Her words could be Welsh, or maybe some heathen tongue, but whatever their origin, there was no denying that the horse understood and found comfort there, until she returned to the place where she had made her discovery, braced herself and gave a sudden tug. The horse screamed and bucked, but she was talking to him once more in that reassuring voice and the enraged Cob was soon calm again, and nuzzling her in obvious gratitude.
The rider fingered his cap nervously as she strode up to him, her face taut and dark as her hair. She thrust out her hand to him, opening it to reveal a nasty looking bur.
“Look you at this.” she snapped harshly.
“Poor devil. He must have got that when we came through the wood.” he replied meekly. “I really am most grateful.”
“Grateful? Grateful is it, and that all? For you, and what of the horse? Torture for him a thing like that would be. Could you not see with those uncaring eyes you have got.”
He looked into her resentful face, into her eyes smoldering with the threat of fire, and felt like an erring schoolboy. Replacing his cap and drawing himself up to his full height, he summoned his remaining dignity.
“I didn’t know where to look, dam it.” he retorted. “I don’t need to know. We have stable people for that sort of thing.”
“A clothes horse is it then you are riding?” she stormed. “Flesh and blood is there and you know nothing of it. This poor beauty is ailing for the weed. And his feet are a shame upon him.”
“The-what?” he stammered. “And what is wrong with his feet?”
“Nothing do you know, is that not a fact, fancy boy? Out they should be in your stables, for it is sure not horses they have in their heads-or in their hearts.”
He could not face her eyes; they were accusing him and at the same time mocking him, destroying him. Shimmering with solicitude for the horse, they showed no sympathy for him; only contempt could he see there, filling him with the desire to run away, his composure completely demolished, but he was unable to take another step, for there was a strange bewildering fascination that held him prisoner and reduced him to the size of the bur she had tossed contemptuously away.
“Can I take him now?” he asked timidly.
“No you cannot. A little longer he will need, and then…” Her voice failed her as she noted his discomfort for the first time. A wave of forbearance swept from her innermost depths and stilled her tongue, surprising her with it’s insistence to wrought change in her and bathing the stranger in a warm glow far transformed from the image of a pampered wastrel she had of him. For so long her resolution had been as a suit of armour about her, protecting her from the weaknesses she saw in other women, but now she found it of no avail, powerless to prevent that imp from dancing out of the mist clouding her eyes and the brazen smile from parting her lips and lighting her face with radiance…
To be continued..
Copyright; Mark Pearson 2008.
Kathy said,
January 25, 2008 at 10:22 pm
You did tell your dad I was Irish didn’t you?
Mark Antony said,
March 5, 2008 at 2:36 pm
Actually Kathy, I don’t think I did