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the herds that inhabited the mountains were proud and wary of humans, no matter how well they spoke the language. Isabeau had learned to speak with horses almost as soon as she learned the language of the birds, for as Meghan said, horses often knew as much as their masters, if not more, and were usually happy to chat. This horse was angry, Isabeau could hear that, and also frightened. Her ready sympathy was stirred and she crept forward, looking up at the horse as he reared and plunged about. What she planned to do, she hardly knew, but before she had a chance even to reach up a hand to the horse's snarling muzzle, a strong arm whipped around her waist and she was swung out of the way.
"Stable yards be no place for bonny lasses," a laughing voice said in her ear, and she was thrown up into the air and caught. Isabeau squealed with pleasure. "Here, catch," the man said and threw her over to one of his companions who caught her easily and set her down on the ground.
Rather rumpled and on her dignity, Isabeau turned back to see her rescuer moving forward easily to catch the stallion's halter, seizing one ear in his big hand. He was tall and very dark, and dressed in tight black breeches, a torn crimson shirt, and a leather waistcoat, his long black hair tied back from his face. Isabeau recognized him—he was one of the jongleurs that Meghan had not allowed her to watch earlier in the evening. The stallion had quietened at his first touch, but his eyes were still rolling and his hooves danced across the bricked floor. Stroking the stallion's sweaty neck, the jongleur whispered a few words into the ear that he still held and gradually the stallion calmed.
"He's guid wi' horses, my da," someone said with pride. Looking round, Isabeau saw the boy who could turn cartwheels as easily as she could run. His dark face was dirty and his clothes—a sky-blue embroidered jerkin over a frilly shirt that had once been white—were ragged. His thin legs were like sticks below the short, torn trousers, stuck into boots obviously far too large. Isabeau did not mind his ragged appearance—he had a mischievous face and black eyes that sparkled with interest as he looked at her in her demure gray dress and white cap.
"What did he say to the horse?" Isabeau asked.
The boy's face clouded a little. "Och, just nonsense," he said. "The words do no' mean much—it's the tone o' voice that matters."
Isabeau was about to press the point, when she felt herself caught around the waist and swung up into the air again. She looked down into the jongleur's handsome face and laughed with delight as he tossed her up into the air. "Has your mumma no' told ye wee lassies shouldna try and play with big bad horses?"
"I like horses," Isabeau protested.
"Aye, but maybe no' all horses are nice horses," he said.
"He was a nice horse, he just did no' want to be here," Isabeau explained. "His new master is horrible."
"Is that so, lass?" the jongleur exclaimed. "And how would ye ken that?"
Isabeau immediately flushed with confusion. "'I just ken," she said lamely. "He looked like a nice horse."
For some reason the jongleur found that funny, throwing back his head and laughing. "Well, my bonny lass, next time maybe try no' to play right under a horse's hooves, no matter how nice the horse may be."
He set her down on the ground and from somewhere about his clothes found some colored balls which he juggled smoothly from hand to hand as he talked. "Run back to your mumma, now, lassie, she'll be missing ye. Come on, Dide, ye'd better be runnin' home too. I'm going to find out what entertainment this sleazy inn can offer." The balls disappeared as if by magic, and fie strode off into the inn, followed by his companions.
The two children looked at each other, and with squeals of laughter began to play a scrambling game of chase and hide through the bales of straw and barrels and boxes which lined the courtyard and stables. It was the most fun Isabeau had had since she left the