Storm Read online

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Acknowledgements

  When you’re shooting an arrow, focus is everything. Especially when you’re doing it in the middle of a crowded fairground, surrounded by the smells of fresh donuts and hay, and the sounds of children laughing and dogs barking and people clapping. But I wasn’t about to be distracted. I was here to win.

  I closed my right eye and focused on the target, moving from the outside rings to the centre, through white, black, blue and red to bullseye gold.

  I followed the drill I knew inside out: point the bow to the ground, nock the arrow in place, raise the bow, draw the bowstring back with my left hand until the arrow touches the anchor point of my chin. Pause.

  Another deep breath. I sighted along the length of the arrow, taking aim. Everything around me receded. There was only the bow, the arrow and, far away on the grass, the target.

  Just as I loosened my fingers, I heard a deep rumble of drumbeats from over the fence, and something flickered at the side of my vision. The arrow leapt from the bow and flew towards the target, but I knew it hadn’t got away cleanly. It hit with a thunk.

  Blue.

  A little “oh” of disappointment rose from the audience, followed by a polite scatter of clapping. As I lowered the bow, the boy next to me – the one who’d been coming second and was now in first place – smiled. He stepped up to the line for his turn.

  The drums rolled again. Then I realised it wasn’t drums I was hearing – it was hoof beats. The jousting had started. Two horses, heads and bodies covered in fabric emblazoned with heraldic emblems, charged towards each other on either side of a dividing fence. As the armoured riders lowered their long jousting lances, onlookers started cheering.

  The sound of hoof beats brought back the dream that woke me this morning.

  The drumming sound becomes louder and louder until the ground starts to shake beneath my feet . . . voices yelling, cheering, screaming . . . a blur of colour and motion. I see hooves – only the hooves – of a single horse, galloping towards me. I strain to see more. Dark grey legs moving fast, hooves throwing mud into the air as they come closer, until it feels like the whole world shudders with their force.

  And then, a sense of certainty unlike any I’ve ever felt, and the words deep inside me: THOU ART MINE.

  It had been so clear, almost like it was real.

  Smash! One of the jousting lances shattered as it hit the rider’s chest, knocking him off his horse. The crowd roared and clapped.

  How were we supposed to concentrate with that happening next to us?

  Beside me, the boy pulled his bowstring back in a fluid movement and took aim. I already knew he liked to shoot fast to try and scare his competitors.

  Thunk! Red.

  I exhaled. I still could win, if I hit the bullseye with my last arrow.

  Over on the jousting field the winning rider raised his lance in victory. The loser clambered to his feet and staggered towards his horse, which reared up and whinnied, towering over him as he tried to catch it. I could see the animal was scared – or maybe angry – as it threw its head up and swerved away.

  “Your turn,” the marshal reminded me.

  I had to concentrate. I blocked out everything and focused. Taking the final arrow from my quiver, I placed the arrow shaft on the rest and nocked the end. I felt the feathers brush against my fingers as I raised the bow and took aim.

  Another roar from the crowd, and a wild neigh from the horse.

  I shut my eyes. On a battlefield, distraction was everywhere. This wasn’t just a silly competition at the show. I was fighting a medieval war, where accuracy with a bow and arrow was everything. Where losing concentration could mean death.

  Another neigh rang out and thundering hooves vibrated through the ground. The crowd gasped.

  “Wait, Storm!” That was my dad’s voice.

  My eyes flew open. The riderless horse, robes and tassels flapping madly, had jumped the fence and landed on the archery field, between the targets and me.

  “Hold your shot!” the marshal cried out.

  I dropped the point of the arrow to face the ground. The horse hesitated for a second and then came straight at me, fast. His robes slid to one side, revealing a mottled grey coat underneath. Head high, he whinnied for a third time, his eyes locked on mine. He was wild and beauteous, and I knew he was calling to me.

  Just like in my dream.

  Without thinking, I let my bow and arrow slide to the ground and strode forward, holding my hand out. The horse skidded to a halt right in front of me, snorting and showing the whites of his eyes. Behind me, the crowd gasped, but I barely noticed. My attention was only on him.

  “Oy! Wait!”

  From the corner of my eye I saw the rider scramble clumsily through the fence and run onto the field, his armour clanking.

  “Don’t move,” he called. He approached the horse slowly, his hand out. The horse started to back away, but the man lunged forward and grabbed the reins. There was an “Ooh” from the crowd as the horse plunged and pulled wildly, but the man managed to calm him.

  He turned to the crowd, bowed and waved. “Anyone want to buy a horse? Going cheap!”

  A few people chuckled and then clapped cheerfully as the man nodded to me and led the horse off the field. I couldn’t take my eyes off them.

  “Come back,” the marshal said to me. “You’re clear.”

  My heart was thundering as loudly as those hooves had, and I felt giddy as I returned to my place. What had just happened?

  “Shoot, please.” The marshal was getting impatient.

  “Thank you,” I said, and then remembered they liked us to use medieval words in competition. “Grammarcy.”

  I took a deep breath and raised the bow again, fast and sure. Pulled the bowstring back, anchored the arrow against my chin, took aim and fired.

  Thunk!

  Gold. The bullseye.

  Thou art mine, I thought, as I lowered the bow.

  My parents, Lux and Breeze, with help from Gramps, herded my younger siblings together to watch the prize giving. I wanted only to go and find my horse, but I needed my prize money so I waited, clenching my fists behind my back while the judge awarded second-place to the boy I’d beaten.

  Finally, she handed me an envelope and draped the gold winner’s sash over my shoulder. “Congratulations,” she said. “I love your costume.”

  It was idiotic that the prize was a brightly printed nylon sash. It looked ridiculous over my forest-green skirt with its criss-cross leather lacing up the front, and the cream undershirt with the embroidered bodice – an outfit that had taken me weeks to colour and sew.

  “Grammarcy, but it’s not a costume. I make all my clothes. And the natural dyes.”

  “Goodness!” She looked surprised.

  As soon as she walked off I tore open the envelope to find eight fifty-
dollar notes tucked neatly inside.

  Four hundred dollars for shooting some arrows? I’d never had that much money in my life. The Code of Chivalry said Despise pecuniary reward. My family grew and made most of what we needed, traded and bartered for other stuff, and only bought things we absolutely couldn’t do without.

  “Well done,” I heard my father say. I shoved my bow and quiver into his hands and set out at a run.

  “Storm?” he called.

  “Anon!” I yelled over my shoulder.

  This was the first year the local show had included a Medieval Fair, and putting the two events on at once had brought together all sorts of people. Medievalists mingled with old-fashioned farmers, horse riders, tourists, hippies like my family, and old locals like my grandad. A group of neat, polished girls with neat, polished horses turned to watch me curiously as I ran past, long auburn curls flying behind me, overdress flapping around my ankles.

  A whinny rang out from behind a nearby float and my heart leapt. He was still here! I charged around the float and nearly ran right into him. The horse – my horse – danced around on his lead. The rider, still wearing his muddy armour, tried to calm him, while being told off by a grey-haired woman with a stern voice.

  “You had no right!” Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was furious. “Mist could have been badly hurt.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Mist is fine. We’re using light lances. It’s the riders who get bruised, not the horses.”

  “You should have asked me!”

  “I did ask you!”

  “You said you were riding in the show, not in some dangerous medieval rubbish.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t be doing it again,” he said, then added “Whoa!” as the horse threw his head up and tried to pull away.

  I took a few steps closer and the horse turned to look at me. Without his robes, he was even more magnificent. Dark grey, with big light spots all over him, and a lighter face.

  “May I help you?” The lady looked me up and down. She wore spotless cream trousers, a crisp blue shirt, and brown riding boots that gleamed. Her grey hair was pulled into in a neat bun and her back was broomstick straight.

  “I’d like to buy him,” I blurted.

  At her incredulous look I quickly added “Prithee,” then changed it to “Please,” when I realised she didn’t know what prithee meant.

  The rider winked at me and grinned. “And who are you, fair maiden?”

  “I’m Storm.”

  “Well, Storm, I’m Robert and this is my great-aunt Margery.”

  “Mrs Brown to you,” the old lady said. “I don’t know what kind of name Storm is. Morning Mist is a mare. And she isn’t for sale.”

  She? I’d assumed the horse was a he. So she was female, and a mare, whatever that was. It didn’t make any difference. I still wanted her.

  “But he said . . .” I looked at Robert, and so did the old lady.

  He smiled. “I said she was going cheap. I was kidding! But Aunty Marge, you should sell Mist. She’s bored and lonely out there in the paddock. Why don’t you let this girl buy her?”

  “Why don’t you mind your own business, Robert?” Mrs Brown looked at me more closely. “Ever ridden a horse?”

  Somehow I knew it wasn’t the time to lie. “Never.”

  “What makes you think you could?”

  “I dreamed about your horse last night. I know it was her. She was the same colour. I dreamed we were . . . meant to be together.”

  She snorted and shook her head. “Meant to be together? You’re one of those hippy kids, aren’t you? Don’t know the value of money, or hard work either.”

  How could I explain I was a Medievalist living in a family that believed in self-sufficiency and homeschooling? I wasn’t a lazy scobberlotcher. I worked really, really hard, every day. But I had the feeling Margery – Mrs Brown – wouldn’t see it that way.

  “I do have money.” I pulled the prize envelope out of my pocket and held it out. “Four hundred dollars.”

  Robert was the one who snorted that time, though he stopped when I glanced up at him. The old lady actually rolled her eyes. Morning Mist made a rumbling sound and stretched her nose out in my direction. I wanted to pat her, but I made myself stay still.

  “Put her in the float,” the woman snapped at Robert. “Mist isn’t for sale. Anyway, she’s worth ten times that amount.”

  She turned away, and Robert shrugged ruefully. As if she knew I’d failed, Mist suddenly dropped her head, stopped fidgeting and allowed him to lead her up the ramp, her hooves thudding on the wooden boards.

  I felt like crying. “Fare thee well,” I whispered.

  “Storm?” Lux caught up with me. “What’s going on?”

  “I want to buy this horse.” I clutched my envelope. “But the lady doesn’t want to sell her to me.”

  Margery glared at the two of us. At the archery competition I’d felt right at home in my medieval clothes, but here, away from the other costumed competitors, I was getting strange looks. Underneath my woven skirt I wore brown elastic-sided work boots. My long curly hair hung loose and straggly, and the blue winner’s sash looked out of place. Lux was a typical hippy, his long dreadlocks drawn into a thick bunch that hung down his back, his hard feet encased in dusty sandals, his clothes worn and grubby.

  Margery glanced at her watch and called to Robert. “Drive Mist home. It’s time for the marmalade prize. At least one part of this show hasn’t gone to the dogs.”

  She gave me and Lux one last disgusted look and strode away in the direction of the pavilion.

  “Bad luck, fair maiden,” Robert said. “But she’s right – Mist is no horse for a beginner.”

  “I can save up,” I said desperately. “I can learn to ride.”

  He shrugged. “Mist belonged to Margery’s husband – he died last summer. She hasn’t got over it, and neither has Mist. Forget about this horse. You should check out pony club, over in the ring. You’ll find yourself another pretty dapple grey, don’t worry.”

  He called out to a man walking past. “Hey Ivan, give me a hand with the armour will you?”

  Lux put his arm around my shoulders and drew me away. “I didn’t know you wanted a horse.”

  “I don’t want a horse. I want that horse.”

  He nodded. “Why don’t we go and have a look at the pony club anyway?”

  I was fighting back tears, but I didn’t want Lux to see. I didn’t understand it myself. I’d never even thought about horses before – they were things that stood in paddocks. What had happened?

  “We need a family discussion before you go buying a horse,” Lux added. “They’re pretty expensive to look after.”

  I didn’t know why they would be so expensive. Horses just ate grass, didn’t they? But I nodded. I tucked the envelope into the pocket of my dress and we headed back towards the main show ring.

  In the main arena the neat, polished girls, dressed in immaculate jackets, velvet helmets and long shiny boots, trotted their horses in a big circle. Two people – the judges, I guessed – stood at the centre. This must be the pony club.

  The horses did look pretty. Their manes and tails were plaited into tight braids, their hooves gleamed and their coats literally shone in the sun. They trotted in unison, necks arched. At some invisible signal, they sped up. Most were still obedient, but a couple of riders seemed to be struggling – one to get her horse to go faster, another to stop hers crowding into the one in front.

  “Collect, collect!” A man’s voice nearby cut into my thoughts as he shook his head in frustration. He wore smart riding gear like the girls, shirt neatly tucked in, boots polished, and a tailored black coat. A bunch of neatly dressed parents stood with him, watching the competition closely. Were all horse people insanely tidy and clean?

  He spoke again, apparently to himself. “You’re on the wrong leg, and off the bit!”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. I knew the language of archery. The fletch – the three
feathers at the arrow’s end, one cock’s and two hen’s. The vambrace – the leather guard, still buckled around my bow arm to protect the skin from the slap of the bowstring. Fistmele – the correct distance between a bow and its string. I’d recited them at night when I was falling asleep. I loved those old medieval words. But I had no idea of the language of horses and I knew nothing about riding.

  The horses slowed down, and the riders steered them into a line and made them stand still. Breeze, Gramps and my brothers and sisters joined us as the first horse and rider performed alone, walking, trotting and cantering around the ring, stopping, going backwards, keeping still.

  Talia, my baby sister, grizzled in Breeze’s arms, and my brother Cedar pulled at my sleeve. “What are the horses doing?”

  “I have no idea,” I said.

  “Horsey! Horsey!” my youngest brother Boobook squeaked.

  “I need to feed the littlies,” Breeze said to Lux. “There’s a good picnic spot under the tree. Sorrel’s already climbing it.”

  “We won’t be long,” Lux said.

  Talia let out a hungry wail. Black-coat-man turned in our direction, frowned and called, “Could you be quieter please?”

  “Those animals look so unhappy,” Breeze said, lowering her voice, but only slightly. “It’s cruel. Come on kids.”

  “I’ll stay here with Storm and watch for a while.” Gramps joined Lux and me, leaning over the wooden railing. As Breeze took the younger ones away, we watched the horses going out one by one, and their riders trying to get them to do what they were told.

  “Your grandmother was in the pony club, back when she was a girl,” Gramps said to me. “She was pretty good.”

  “Really?” I said. “You never told us that.”

  Gramps winked. “Still a few surprises up my sleeve.”

  Looking at them side by side, you’d never know Gramps and Lux were related. Gramps was definitely not a hippy, or a medievalist. He lived in a neat house surrounded by a garden with very short grass and very neat flowerbeds. He played golf and bowls and some game called Bridge. I was pretty sure he’d be liking the neat horses and nice clothes of the pony club riders.

  When all the horses had finished their routines, the judges went into a huddle and I checked out the competitors waiting. The girls held themselves straight and still, and so did the horses. Occasionally one of them swished its tail. None of them were full of life like Morning Mist.