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  ‘No!’ he said regretfully. ‘There are two, but they’re only starting.’

  The colt tried to stand on his wobbly legs, and managed to take a step or two. He nosed curiously at his mother, wondering why she was barely warm, wondering why the heavy rhythm of her regular, familiar heartbeat had suddenly stopped.

  ‘What about weaning?’ asked Michael in desperation. ‘Any mares –’

  Before he could finish, Brendan broke in, ‘There’s Glengarry! She finished up maybe ten days ago.’

  ‘You stay here with the colt, don’t let him get cold.’ Michael picked up an enamel mug and rinsed it in the water bucket, then he stepped out of the stable into the cold early-morning air. Soon it would be dawn. He yawned, gulping in the fresh air to try and keep himself awake.

  Glengarry shared her stable with another mare. She was a solid chestnut with a white blaze on her face. She lifted her ears and looked at Michael intelligently, wondering why he was disturbing her sleep. Her stable companion whinnied in annoyance.

  ‘Good girl! Good girl!’ said Michael, kneeling down on Glengarry’s bedding and trying to push her over sideways so he could see if she was still producing milk. She didn’t seem to be. Then he felt her udder and pressed on one of her teats, watching as the moisture swelled it. She just might be able to feed the foal.

  But how would he get her to accept Ragusa’s foal? Michael wondered. Mares were only interested in their own foals. Her blanket lay on a hook behind the door. He’d try that and perhaps some of her bedding.

  He looked at Glengarry. Surely she would be a good foster-mother? It was his only chance.

  He tried to milk her, but there was very little milk and most of it seeped onto his hands. The rest made a tiny pool in the enamel mug. Grabbing the blanket and some bedding, he left, closing the door carefully behind him.

  He could hear Brendan’s voice as he approached Ragusa’s door. The boy was singing to the colt. The young animal looked shaky and cold, and the young boy almost as bad. ‘He’s going downhill, Michael, I didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘It’s all right, Brendan, I’ve an idea. But I need you to help me. Here, take this blanket. I want you to rub it all over the foal – try and get some of the oil from the blanket on to him.’

  The foal lay still as the two of them rubbed his coat all over. Then Michael dipped his fingers in the mare’s milk and spread it over the young animal’s head and neck, wetting his nose area thoroughly. He wiped his hands along the dark mane and fine, brown-coloured coat of the bay colt, soaking the scared creature, who was now sniffing desperately at his fingers. Finally, they rubbed the scrawny hooves and legs in the bedding from Glengarry’s stable.

  ‘Ready!’ said Michael.

  Brendan nodded and the two of them half-carried and half-walked the brand new colt to meet his foster mother. The bewildered young foal shivered as they crossed the cobbled yard, the pale, dipping moon reflecting in his shiny eyes.

  The mare whinnied, smelling the strange animal as soon as they entered her stable. Michael told Brendan to leave the foal down on the straw a few yards from the mare. Then they both stood back, over at the door, watching silently, keeping the lamp almost out of sight.

  Nothing happened. The mare ignored the foal and the foal stayed weakly where he was.

  ‘Should we lift him over to her?’ urged Brendan.

  ‘No! Wait! Give them more time!’ whispered Michael.

  They waited and waited.

  After what seemed an age the mare got up and shook herself slowly, then she ambled over to look at the foal. Michael was worried in case Glengarry would nip at the orphan, but she simply ran her nose very lightly over the small form. Then, much to the boys’ disappointment, she turned her back on the foal and stood chewing at some hay.

  ‘Oh no!’ groaned Brendan.

  ‘Ssh!’ said Michael. ‘Wait!’

  The foal lay still on the straw. He seemed ready to just roll over and go to sleep, when suddenly he tried to push himself up on one leg then another, until he was finally standing. He was badly balanced and he knew it. Very shakily, he brought himself alongside the mare. Glengarry put down her head and began to sniff him – his back, his shoulders, his breast, his legs, running her soft nose along his coat, taking in his scent. Then she nuzzled his head. The foal balanced anxiously against her chest and belly. She nipped at him slightly. Then, taking her time, she nuzzled his head again, recognising her own scent, her own milk, before lifting her head and letting him suckle. The foal seemed confused, but he was hungry and exhausted and weak. There was very little milk, but the small colt had begun to feed.

  Michael sighed with relief. Brendan punched his fist in the air and mouthed a silent Yes!

  ‘That’s the grandest thing I ever saw,’ whispered Brendan, his voice filled with admiration.

  Michael smiled. Brendan reminded him a lot of himself at that age. The lad liked animals and was kind to them.

  ‘We’re not out of the woods yet, Brendan. She might still reject him, you know, and we can only hope she has enough milk to feed him.’

  ‘Oh!’ Brendan’s face fell.

  ‘Come on, we’ll try and get a bit of sleep before the early ride-out.’

  The two stable lads quietly closed the door on the mare and the new foal and walked back towards the upstairs rooms where they slept. Morning light streaked across the sky and signalled the start of yet another busy day.

  Ragusa’s stable lay silent. Michael glanced over at it as he climbed the narrow, creaking stairs, and wondered how could life and death be so closely connected on that one night.

  CHAPTER 3

  Morning Boy

  TOSS WAS IN TROUBLE with George Darker over the loss of the valuable mare. He railed against the unfairness of it all and shouted back at the estate manager, who had not listened to his original warnings about Ragusa.

  Lord Buckland himself arrived down at the stables. He had liked Ragusa. ‘A good horse!’ he said sadly. ‘Won a few good races in her day and we’ve bred many a fine filly from her.’

  But this didn’t stop them sending for the knackers’ cart to come and take her away. Michael made sure that young Brendan was busy elsewhere; the lad was upset enough.

  Miss Felicia, the youngest daughter of the house, appeared in the stables too. She’d heard there was a new foal. Strict instructions had been given that there was to be no mention of the demise of Ragusa. Nothing was to spoil the eleven-year-old’s enjoyment at seeing the new horse.

  ‘I thought the mare’s stable was there!’ Felicia said to Michael, pointing to Ragusa’s empty stable. Michael didn’t say a word.

  The young girl clapped when she saw the bay colt and the chestnut mare standing close together.

  ‘Oh, he’s lovely! Just so perfect! But he’s not one bit like his mother!’ she declared

  ‘Perhaps he’s more like his father,’ offered Michael, trying to make light of it.

  He liked Miss Felicia. She spent half of her time in the stables and was a proper little tomboy. Her older sister, Rose, was about Michael’s own age and a beauty, but she rarely set foot in the stableyard unless it was to request a carriage. She had no interest whatsoever in horses, or in the stable lads and grooms and jockeys who worked for her father.

  ‘Michael! Didn’t you hear me? Which do you think is the finest horse in my father’s stables?’ enquired Felicia, letting the new foal nuzzle at her fingers.

  ‘Well, that I’m not sure of, Miss, it would depend on what you’d be wanting the horse for. Samson and Jolly are two of the best farmhorses you’d ever get, and your father’s pair of greys are considered the finest carriage horses in the county. Your father loves Old Tom when he wants to go out on a day’s hunting – he says rain or wind or sleet, Old Tom never lets him down. And you … well, do you remember that you had a great shine for Markey?’

  ‘Markey isn’t a horse,’ the girl spluttered. ‘Markey’s a donkey.’

  ‘Well, that didn’t seem to ma
tter when you were small and you’d be sneaking him carrots and apples.’

  Felicia giggled. ‘Which do you think?’ she insisted, tossing her auburn curls off her face.

  ‘Some of them are fast. Jerpoint’s very fast. Nero’s won four races already and Toss feels that Juno might have a good chance this season.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, I like this youngster,’ he said, nodding towards the colt.

  Felicia ran her white palm along the foal’s coat. ‘He’s a bit small and a bit wobbly,’ she stated, ‘but I like him too. What’s he called?’

  Michael shrugged. ‘He was only born early this morning, Miss. Toss hasn’t had time to discuss it with your father yet.’

  ‘This morning!’

  Michael nodded, trying to block out memories of Ragusa.

  ‘Then … I think we should call him Morning – Morning Boy. I’ll tell Father.’

  Michael smiled. Whatever that young lady suggested, her father usually agreed to. Having no sons, Henry Buckland was besotted by his two daughters, especially Felicia, who followed him around like an over-eager puppy.

  ‘Felicia! You are to come into the house immediately!’ They both turned at the same time to see Rose standing at the gate to the cobbled yard. ‘Mary is running you a bath and you are to get changed. Mother is very vexed with you.’

  ‘I’ll be along in a minute,’ Felicia muttered in annoyance, kissing the middle of Morning Boy’s nose.

  ‘Now!’ insisted her older sister, reluctant to walk across the cobbles in case she stood in some horse dung.

  Felicia turned on her toes. ‘Rose Geranium Cowslip Buckland, I’ll be with you right now! ‘she shouted.

  Michael tried to hide his smile. Miss Felicia reminded him so much of his younger sister, Peggy. Full of spirit. Poor Rose had turned the colour of a turkey-cock and was walking as fast as she could, skirt flying, back up the avenue. At the top of the rhododendron-lined avenue stood the big house.

  Michael remembered when, as a young lad, he had first come to work in the stables of Castletaggart House. He had found it so hard to believe that anyone could live in such a grand place, with its hundreds of sparkling window-panes and stonework ledges and wide granite steps. In the six years since he’d come to work at the big house Michael had learnt so much – not only about horses, but about the big house and its ways.

  At first Toss had only let him clean out the stables, just mucking out, the very worst job in the place. Michael begged for the chance to ride the horses and was overwhelmed with disappointment at each refusal. Still, Toss had no complaints about his work.

  ‘I’m watching you!’ was all Toss would say.

  Obviously, Michael had to show his ability before he would be trusted with any of the Buckland horses. In time, Toss gave him his chance.

  There was no doubt that Castletaggart House was the finest house ever and Lord Henry Buckland a very wealthy man. Every fish that swam in the river and lake, every cow that grazed on the vast green fields, every pheasant and woodcock that inhabited the undergrowth, every apple or cabbage that grew from the rich brown soil was part of the vast Buckland estate. There were about forty tenants’ cottages on the estate for the workers and their families. The tenant farmers worked the estate lands and in return were given a patch of ground where they could only grow barely enough to feed their own families.

  Michael would watch these men – young, middle-aged and old – come cap-in-hand to the estate manager’s office, queuing outside to pay their rent and hand over their dues. They reminded him of his father long ago, that same wooden look in their faces, their eyes set, their hearts hardened. They probably had ignored the pleas of wives and children to hold a few shillings back in case the winter was hard, or the sickness came – or worse, God forbid, that the potatoes would fail again. No, these men would pay their way and hand over the money they earned, the crops they grew, the animals they raised. They had no choice.

  George Darker, the estate manager, would write down the figures in big brown ledgers. He was barely civil to them, stubbing the page with a dirty finger to show where they were to sign their name or make their mark.

  Sometimes Lord Henry, if he was in the mood, would join them, puffing his pipe, making polite conversation with the men.

  Michael could sense a growing feeling of unease amongst these tenant farmers. He listened as they talked between themselves, behind cabin doors and in crowded public houses. Michael wondered what would come of all this talk. These men wanted change …

  ‘Michael! Are you listening to me?’

  Michael looked down.

  Felicia was gazing up at him, impatient. ‘I’ll be back down to see Morning Boy tomorrow afternoon, after my lessons.’

  ‘That’s fine, Miss.’

  She raced across the yard, swinging on the open gate, and humming to herself as she tried to catch up with her sister and make amends.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Visit

  MARY-BRIGID LOVED TO GO visiting even if it did mean having to get her hair brushed and pulled and braided back into two tight plaits. She swung her head from side to side, feeling the comforting wallop of hair against her cheek as she followed her mother along the bumpy laneway towards the Hennessys’ cottage. Eily walked briskly, carrying Jodie on her hip. The hedgerows were covered in heavy red droopy fuchsia bushes, and beneath them clumps of spiky orange flowers sprang out everywhere. It was a grand day for a walk and their friends’ cottage was only about another half-mile away. Mary-Brigid was looking forward to seeing the Hennessy boys again – it was a while since school had closed for the holidays and she missed her friends.

  The Hennessys’ cottage was a bit bigger than their own, but as they came near it Mary-Brigid couldn’t help but notice that some of the thatch needed patching and the windows needed mending. She waited patiently as her mother called at the open door. ‘Hello, Frances! God bless all here.’ They went into the turf-smelling, untidy kitchen.

  ‘Eily! I’m right glad to see you and the children,’ said Frances Hennessy. ‘And how’s Mary-Brigid, the best girl in these parts?’

  ‘Fine, thank you, Mrs Hennessy!’ Mary-Brigid replied shyly.

  ‘Sit ye down! Sit ye down!’ Frances was busy feeding Colm, her youngest boy, who, with his scattering of pale ginger curls and freckled nose, was the very image of his mother. ‘I’ll wet the tea in a few minutes.’

  Jodie disappeared off straight away to play with little Eoin, who was much the same age as himself. But Mary-Brigid’s friends, the twins, were nowhere to be seen, so she sat quiet and embarrassed as her mother and Frances chatted.

  ‘The twins will be along in a minute, pet,’ said Frances, ‘and they have something special to show you.’ She laughed, flinging back her plump neck and ignoring the dirty floor and mess of unwashed clothes in a heap in the corner. She was delighted with her visitors.

  ‘The fire’s a bit low, Mary-Brigid, will you be a good child and run out and fetch in a bit of turf for us?’

  At the side of the house, Mary-Brigid looked at the sorry pile of dried-out old turf which lay on the ground. Her own daddy worked up on the bog as often as he could and already had a pile of turf almost the height of the chimney stacked against their house for the winter. The Hennessys would have to get a lot more turf, as they certainly hadn’t enough here to get them through the year. She selected four pieces that weren’t too crumbly and carried them inside, where her mother and Frances were deep in conversation.

  ‘There isn’t a spare penny, Eily. Paddy won’t even organise himself to cut enough turf to keep us going when the bad weather comes.’ Frances sounded really upset now.

  ‘Maybe John could bring some over for you,’ offered Eily. ‘We have plenty.’

  ‘That’s kind of you. Poor Paddy isn’t himself at the moment.’ Frances was almost in tears. ‘The new landlord came over here with William Hussey, his agent, and the two of them gave Paddy a right going over about yields and about that thistle
field out back.

  ‘Everyone hereabouts knows that that field has grown nothing but thistles for years,’ she went on. ‘The agent said that Paddy’s not working the land properly, not growing enough crops, not paying enough rent … I tell you, Eily, Paddy’s right upset about it, angry like; there’s no telling what fool idea he’ll get into his head.’

  Mary-Brigid tried to concentrate and understand what they were talking about. She could tell by her mother’s face and voice that it was something bad.

  ‘This new landlord, Frances, what’s he like?’ Eily asked.

  ‘Dennis Ormonde? A quare fellow!’ said Frances. ‘He wants us to work like slaves so that we can pay him a higher rent.’

  ‘A higher rent!’ gasped Eily.

  ‘Aye! Paddy’s right worried that Hussey is going to try and make us surrender our holding and evict us!’

  ‘He couldn’t do that! He wouldn’t!’ cried Eily.

  ‘Mark my words, Eily, there’s no telling what that man will do to the tenants!’ Frances said angrily, shaking her head of wavy curls.

  A clatter of noise disrupted the conversation as the twins, Pascal and Patsy, appeared at last. They both looked grimy and dishevelled, but that didn’t matter a bit to Mary-Brigid. She jumped up to join them and get away from the serious conversation of the mothers.

  ‘Mam, can we bring Mary-Brigid to see Mo?’ they asked.

  ‘Aye!’ nodded their mother, who had brightened at the sight of the two nine-year-old rascals. ‘I’m trusting you boys to take good care of her, and keep her out of trouble.’ A puzzled look filled their identical features, as if they would never dream of getting into trouble!

  ‘Arragh! Run off the three of ye,’ said Frances with a laugh, ‘and give Eily and meself a bit of peace!’

  * * *

  Mary-Brigid was out of breath after an hour or more of haring around with the twins as they showed her everything – the muddy pool near the ditch where some frogs lived, the huge oak tree that Patsy said he’d climbed to see a crows’ nest, and the well which was so deep that if you dropped a stone in, you couldn’t hear it land. But the twins kept the very best thing to last. Mo, the farm cat, had had kittens and they took Mary-Brigid down to the old out-house to see them.