“No problem, sir. May I assist in any way?”
“Not unless you can turn back time.”
“Your Grace?”
Maximilian shook his head, grinning faintly. “Never mind. I was headed to the stables. You may accompany me, if you like.”
“Certainly.”
Maximilian had inherited not just his father’s wealth, vast estates, and titles, he also inherited the service of what he suspected was the realm’s most competent steward. He had known Nigel all his life, and under his leadership, the dukedom ran more smoothly than one of the prized Bromenville horses. Never had a problem come up that did not get immediately resolved once Nigel discovered it. Though Maximilian might have liked to call him a friend, Nigel kept their relationship at a firm and polite distance.
“How is the bay mare?” Maximilian asked, half turning toward Nigel as they crossed the castle’s bailey. “Is her foal nursing well?”
“Yes, indeed. Both are eating their heads off. However, I am not so certain this foal is up to Bromenville standards.”
“Oh? Why do you say that? I thought his conformation was excellent.”
Nigel made a yea-nay gesture. “In many ways, yes. But his near fore fetlock has a slight twist that may not be fixable as he grows. It was hidden in the straw when you last visited.”
“I see.”
Maximilian’s grandfather built the huge stable complex behind the castle’s high walls, and his father added to it over the years. While many horses, including the valuable Bromenville stallions, were housed in the castle’s stables as they were during medieval times, most were stabled outside it. With the decline of criminal activity and the cessation of Scottish raiders crossing the borders to steal horses and cattle, the Bromenvilles built the stable blocks without fear of the horses being stolen in the night.
The late summer sun began its descent over the Yorkshire moors as the two men walked into the stable yard. Grooms hurried about their work, hand exercising horses, washing sleek hides, mucking stalls, and laying down fresh straw. Maximilian’s grandfather built the huge buildings in a double rectangle, while his father added several more stables in an outer ring. Beyond them stood the barns for hay and straw, tack and harness, the carriage house, and other storage barns.
Maximilian headed toward the foaling stable set aside for mares to deliver their babies, while the others housed non-pregnant mares, younger unbroken horses, stallions, and the less valuable hacks and carriage horses. Each stable building was governed by a head groom who watched over both horses and grooms.
Maximilian greeted the bowing man with a smile. “Fergus, I just wanted to check on the bay. Nigel says she is doing well.”
“Indeed, yes, Your Grace,” Fergus replied with a hint of a Scottish accent. “I am pleased with her progress, despite her difficult delivery.”
He led them down the spotlessly clean brick aisle, passing rows of stalls, still speaking. “As you know, this was her first bairn, Your Grace, but she is a good mother. The wee colt is smaller than I would like, however.”
Many of the stalls they passed held curious occupants, who stuck their heads over the wooden half doors as though inquiring who entered their domain. Maximilian rubbed noses as he passed, never failing to delight in these stunning creatures. If his forebears had not started this extensive horse breeding, he knew he would have.
“Small is not always a bad thing,” he said as they stopped in front of the bay’s stall. “This colt’s sire was a bit on the small side when he was born, yet grew into himself. Perhaps it is in his bloodline.”
The new mother turned her head from her full manger, chewing her hay, her dark eyes bright with interest as she gazed at the men. Her colt, as dark a bay as his dam, had three white stockings and a narrow blaze down his face. He tried to hide as Maximilian entered the stall, but he caught and held the foal in a firm grip. Carefully, he picked up the colt’s right front leg to examine.
“You are right, Nigel.” He released the foot but not the colt. “We will have to watch that as he grows. He is still a very nice colt, what?”
“Yes, indeed, he is. With that flashy coloring and good bone, he will still make a top-notch riding horse.”
Maximilian spent a few moments rubbing the colt all over, lavishing affection on the newborn, asking the baby to accept his touch without fear. He grinned up at the other men. “I like him. He has a wonderful attitude.”
Fergus nodded. “I suspect the groom that looks after this mare is in love with him.”
“There is a great deal to like,” Nigel said.
Maximilian released the colt, who immediately trotted around to his dam’s other flank and tried to suckle. “Let’s hope that fetlock straightens out,” he said as he walked across the roomy stall toward the door. “If not, he will still make a nice gelding I can sell, even if I cannot get as much for him.”
“The Bromenville name will add pounds to his price,” Nigel said as Fergus closed and latched the stall door.
Fergus bowed as Maximilian and Nigel left the foaling stable. Although there were no issues, Maximilian enjoyed walking around the structures, checking on his horses, asking questions of the grooms, feeding the animals treats of carrots or apples. By the time he finished his rounds, full dark had fallen. The nearly full moon rose, casting a faint yellow glow across the trimmed grass.
“You may go if you wish, Nigel.” He paused to gaze out over the moors. “I want to enjoy the evening for a space.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Nigel bowed and walked away, headed toward the castle.
