would follow her command. She acted quickly, nipping and kicking at the mares to make them do her bidding, rounding them up to move away from the approaching threat. Many of the mares had young foals at foot slowing them down, but Margarita urged them to be quick, attacking stragglers with squeals and bites, keeping the group tight so that no foal or mare would be left behind. Within seconds they were grouped together, ready to run – but where to? The gates to the hacienda had been closed for the evening so they could not come in to the safety of the courtyard.
The mares began to circle helplessly, driven into a frenzy, as Margarita fought to keep the herd together. If any foal or mare broke away now and left the safety of the herd they would be in even greater danger!
Inside the stables, Storm sensed that the galloping horses were very near now, but he could do nothing to help the mares. In desperation, he rose up on his hind legs and brought his front hooves crashing down hard on the door of his stall. But the doors were made of solid oak, built to withstand a thousand strikes, and his hooves barely scratched their surface. Frustrated and helpless, the bay stallion held his head high and whinnied again. This time the piercing urgency in his cry carried through the night and reached not only the mares, but the sleeping occupants of the hacienda.
Inside the house, lights flickered on. There were shouts of confusion and a moment later three figures came out on to the front step – Roberto Nunez, the owner of El Caballo Danza Magnifico, his son Alfonso, and his head dressage trainer Francoise D’arth. All three were still in their pyjamas and they hurriedly pulled on riding boots and raced down the steps into the cobbled courtyard.
“Go and check on the stallions’ stables,” Roberto instructed Francoise. “Alfonso, put on the floodlights in the courtyard and open the gates. I’ll bring in the mares!”
As Alfonso and Francoise set off running across the courtyard, Roberto turned around and ran back inside the hacienda. When he re-emerged a moment later, he had a shotgun in his hands. If his mares were being attacked by wolves or rounded up by bandits then he needed to be fully prepared.
As soon as Alfonso switched on the courtyard lights and heaved open the heavy wrought iron gates the terrified herd of mares swung about at full gallop and headed for the safety of the compound.
There was a mad clatter as the mares’ hooves struck the cobbled stone of the courtyard and they galloped in to safety, their foals running alongside them.
“Are any mares missing?” Alfonso asked his father.
There were over twenty mares gathered in the middle of the courtyard. To anyone else they would have appeared almost identical, and yet Roberto Nunez could tell them apart at a glance. His eyes flitted swiftly across the herd and he breathed a sigh of relief. All of his prized mares and their offspring were here and they were safe!
“Close the gates!” Roberto ordered. Alfonso pushed the heavy gates shut once more and then came over to join his father. “We’ll have to start bringing the mares in again at night,” he told Roberto. “I think there are wolves about.”
“No,” Roberto Nunez shook his head. “Something was out there tonight, but I don’t think it was wolves.”
“Bandits? Vega’s men maybe?” Alfonso asked.
“Perhaps.” Roberto looked uncertain. “The question is, did they intend to steal the mares or were they after an even greater prize?”
As he said this, Francoise D’arth emerged from the stallions’ stable block and ran towards them. Although she was French, and not Spanish like Roberto and his son, she could easily have been mistaken for a member of the family with her long black hair and lithe lean physique, earned through long hours in the saddle.
“I’ve checked the stalls,” she told Roberto Nunez. “The stallions are safe.”
“All of them?” Roberto asked nervously. “Even the Little One?”
Despite the fact that Storm was actually the tallest stallion in his stables, Roberto could not break the habit of referring to him by his nickname – Little One.
Francoise smiled. “Nightstorm is fine. He must have been the one that sensed the danger. I am certain that it was his call that woke me.”
“Well,” Roberto said, “we take no more chances. From now on the mares must be brought in again each night.”
He looked at Francoise. “Perhaps you should assign one of your grooms to stand guard by the stallions’ stables for the next few nights as well.”
“Oui,” Francoise agreed with him, “I’ll organise a roster. Meanwhile, I will stay with the horses tonight.”
Roberto seemed satisfied with this plan. “Keep a close eye on the Little One,” he told her.
“Of course I will,” Francoise nodded. She knew how important Storm was. Nothing must happen to the young stallion, especially now. In two days’ time, his mistress was arriving in Spain to claim him.
Far away on the other side of the world, in Chevalier Point, Storm’s owner, Issie Brown, was utterly unaware of the danger her horse was in. All her thoughts were focused on just one thing – getting a clear round.
The showjumping fences in front of Issie were set at a metre-twenty and it was a tough course. Thankfully Comet, the skewbald gelding she was riding, could eat jumps like these for breakfast.
A clear round was vital if they wanted to win today at the Chevalier Point one-day event.
A combined score from all three phases – dressage, cross country and showjumping – would decide the winner. Issie and Comet’s weakness in the dressage phase that morning meant they went into the cross country with a decidedly average score.
Issie wasn’t surprised – dressage was never their forte. Instead, the partnership relied on blitzing their competition on the cross country and showjumping courses to pull them up the rankings. So far they’d managed to go clear and fast around a tricky cross-country course that had got the better of many of the other riders. Providing Issie could coax Comet to yet another clear round in the showjumping phase, they had every chance of winning a ribbon.
Even though Comet was a bold cross-country ride, he was also a remarkably careful showjumper. He hardly ever scraped the rails, picking up his feet cleanly over the jumps. As they set off around the course, the skewbald felt fresh and eager despite his exertions across country just a few hours earlier. He took the first three fences with deceptive ease, jumping them as if they were no more than trotting poles. At the treble Issie tried to check the skewbald in preparation for the jump, but Comet gave an indignant snort as if to say, “Leave me alone, I know what I’m doing!” He shook his head defiantly to loosen the reins and bounded forward in a bouncy canter, popping the first fence on a perfect canter stride and then leaping to take all three fences without so much as grazing a pole!
“Good boy!” Issie gave the skewbald a slappy pat on his sweaty neck and turned him towards the spread. They took it neatly and cantered on. Only two more jumps and they would be done. The skewbald pony was now hitting his stride and he cantered towards the next fence with ears pricked forward. Issie turned Comet sharply in mid-air over the jump and by the time they landed they already had the next fence in their sights. It was a wide oxer, and as they flew it with a huge leap the crowd broke into spontaneous applause. Only one more jump to go! At the final fence Comet stood back and jumped far too wide. This time his hooves scraped across the top rail, rocking it in its metal cups and
