Spiral of Hooves Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright © 2013 by Roland Clarke.

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  SIXTY

  SIXTY-ONE

  SIXTY-TWO

  SIXTY-THREE

  SIXTY-FOUR

  SIXTY-FIVE

  SIXTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  THANK YOU

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Spiral of Hooves

  By Roland Clarke

  Copyright © 2013 by Roland Clarke.

  Cover design by Jonathan Temples

  Cover photo by Nick Perry

  Originally published by Spectacle Publishing Media Group in 2013

  Second edition by Createspace Independent Publishing 2017

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity, and are used fictitiously.

  All other names, characters, and places, and all dialogue and incidents portrayed in this book are the product of the author’s imagination.

  For Carrie,

  the daughter I discovered too late but who gave me a precious gift

  &

  For all those who died too young, for their country and for their sport.

  PROLOGUE

  QUÉBEC, CANADA – December 2011

  The chair spun across the floor as Lina Jardero stood, fists punching the air.

  “Caramba, the coward has emailed more ridiculous demands,” she said, and then paused as if expecting answers. “Why does everyone interfere in my work? Doesn’t anyone realise that I’m the scientist? There has to be an end to this.”

  Armand Sabatier swivelled in his chair and gestured towards the snow-covered fields outside the cabin. “It’s the Boissard way. This is their stud and they’ll continue to fight each other for control—whichever way we try to improve the situation.” He was reluctant to abandon the only family he had left, but withdrawal might be the sensible option. “We’ll be better off once we leave and start afresh.”

  Her hands pierced the air again. “Someone may act sooner. Nothing has changed, although the last two years were okay—we can’t let one person destroy everything we’ve struggled for.”

  As her anger wavered, she broke from his native French into American. He had seen the explosion coming, but her vitriol, when delivered in choicest Mexican, could be implacable. He was accustomed to the raven-haired Chicana’s passion and glad she restrained her vehemence this time. Lina’s research at Du Noroît Stud was crucial, and she could not afford to abandon the work.

  He stood and put his arms around her, knowing that a friend’s embrace should calm the professional fury.

  Her wolfdog, Mistico, nuzzled between them, drawing her affection and breaking the fragile link.

  “So you'll arrange everything today, Lina?”

  They needed a resolution, but Armand was concerned she took risks, even though she was capable of standing up for herself. One of the reasons he had given her Mistico had been his past failure to protect someone precious and accomplished.

  “Tackling anyone would be useless. Anyway, I’ve things I can do ’round here. It’s more peaceful than at the office where they’re meeting, and probably arguing.” She walked over to her chair, pushed it back and sat down, fingers poised on the keyboard. “And you?”

  “I want to stay, but I must see someone—about my environmental survey. I need to justify my position at Du Noroît somehow.”

  “You’re always too willing and anxious to please. Sometimes I think you’re not tough enough, Loup. I fear that nickname is inappropriate, despite your wolf pendant.”

  Armand smiled and said, “I’m happier in the lone wolf role with no need to be macho. We're at the stud as friends, as support.”

  He had told them enough; his past had been buried forever along with his old Loup identity. He just wanted to concentrate on his current life working at the stud, helping care for the horses, assisting where he could with the breeding programmes.

  He kissed Lina on both cheeks before putting on his skiing gear. The flurries outside were tapping the double-glazing at the front of the timber cabin. Any delay was risking the worst of the encroaching storm.

  “You should take the Skidoo. This weather may get worse before you’re finished.”

  “I must take some exercise and skis are quieter. I'll manage. My meeting’s only along the river trail where we exercise the horses. So I'll be back for lunch. Will you be okay?”

  She pointed at her attentive companion. “Totally, I’ve Mistico, and you always say he’s my real wolf. Please be careful, Loup—it’s treacherous out there.”

  *

  Savouring the tranquillity of the frozen world, Armand glided into the snow-laden trees. The first falls of the winter had buried the stud’s paddocks, although the top rails of the fences marked them out. Passable tracks had been cut into the snow and curved up to the horse barns nestled around the distant farm buildings. Despite the signs of hibernation, stud life at Du Noroît never ceased and any of the winter chores or the demanding workload could explain the head groom’s insistence on the urgent rendezvous.

  Odette must have a good reason. We trust each other—no one else. She alone can help me end the pain; heal the past.

  The wind picked up, dampening any other sounds. Glancing at the foreboding sky, Armand quickened the pace, his cross-country skis and sticks moving in unison.

  If I had any sense, I would've heeded Lina’s warning and played my un-athletic role. An inept nonentity. But I can always be mistaken for reckless—and Odette sounded desperate to meet.

  At least he could cope with sub-zero conditions. He was frustrated that this new life had been dragged down by one man’s callous disregard for everyone.

  The Frenchman gritted his teeth and lowered his head against the gusts. He pushed for a rise and crested it, turning as Odette cantered along the cleared trail below on a young stallion. Focused on where the trees crushed the narrowing track towards the rocky bank and the turbulent water, she was oblivious of Armand, who traversed the steep slope past a ruined cabin towards the trail. He skied nearer, intending to meet her as arranged.


  The stallion reared suddenly as if bitten by an angry insect, and Odette fought to control the bucking animal. Clumps of snow dropped from the overhanging branches, splattering the woman’s burgundy jacket. White snow merged with the red, creating a vision too much like seeping blood. Armand’s head reeled.

  A confusion of images hit him: an unseen force thrusting the rider towards the torrent; the horse bolting for home in a whirl of hooves; a white-clad figure with a crossbow dissolving into the blizzard.

  The howl of a wolf echoed in his head.

  The snow swept in and whipped around Armand as he fought against the storm in his brain, forcing back the terrors the cyclone might resurrect from his past. He struggled down the slope to reach Odette, but she had vanished.

  The whiteout descended, blanketing any evidence that might have remained, leaving Armand bewildered and uncertain as to what he had witnessed. Now his panic was building, reawakening the haunting memory that had never faded from his heart. He was back in another country, helpless, as he watched a broken body struggle for life, and the blood on his hands spilt on trampled snow.

  The storm in his head swept over him, and he collapsed.

  GREAT BRITAIN AND FRANCE - 2012

  ONE

  The pale sun strove to reach through the mist to the frozen ground. In the dawn light, Carly Tanner rode her horse down the track and through the gate in the blackthorn hedge. Their breath sent out tendrils of steam as the pace quickened down the first pasture towards the fields beyond. The crunch of frost mingled with the squeak from the well-polished saddle.

  The home-bred grey mare responded to every subtle request from Carly, whose heart was beating to the rhythm of the hooves. Around her, the sounds of birds mingled in a tapestry of trills and melodies, with the call of a cock pheasant rising above the other songs. At times like this, Hazelmead was more like home than a workplace.

  On the lower pastures, she slowed Sylvan Torc to a halt and peered into the mist that rose in swirls from the stream flowing under the wooden bridge. She eased the horse into a walk along the banks of reeds, searching the gloom ahead.

  A distinctive scent drifted on the air before the vixen appeared, majestic in her long coat and thick brush with black hairs streaking the tip. Dead rabbit in her jaws, the vixen stared at Carly and the horse with piercing eyes. Then, as though deciding they were no threat, the silent hunter turned away, trotted across the bridge, and vanished into the veil of white.

  For a while, Carly considered how this devoted mother could become the quarry. Deserved perhaps if she had killed prized lambs and prolific egg-layers, but she dreaded the vixen’s taste for forbidden flesh inviting either the jaws of hounds or the teeth of a gun. The vixen haunted these mists, a reminder of life’s intricacies and cruelty.

  Death was too close, although it had always been part of her life growing up on a farm. Her mother’s death was still hard to bear, even after two years. Finding Marguerite face down in the mud had been a traumatic warning that their shared disorder killed if uncontrolled. So, Carly controlled her diabetes, trying to accept it as normal, even if there were frustrating restrictions. Still, her loss remained, and tears too often escaped.

  She cast a bouquet of winter aconites into the water and watched the flowers drift downstream like a Japanese lantern. This ritual soothed the pain, but before the memories overwhelmed her, she pressed Torc into a trot, concentrating on staying firm in the saddle.

  As they passed the bramble-smothered gate on the edge of a copse, she remembered the chores that lay ahead. At least she had fed all the horses and cleaned the yard. For now, she would enjoy this short hour of freedom. She broke into a canter, blood racing and red hair streaming from under her hat.

  Maybe the post would bring a letter from the French Equestrian Federation granting her mother's last wish, that Carly ride for France. Would her application succeed on just the maternal nationality? Or would she need to produce more prolific results to prove her credentials? Not that those were imminent.

  At least on Sunday, she would be show jumping Torc. Perhaps an elusive win would end their run of poor performances. The mare had an incredible jump, but Carly’s shortcomings as a rider held the partnership back.

  Approaching the farm buildings, she reined Torc back and walked the mare past the tractor shed, and the cattle shed, where the farmer had overwintered slaughterhouse-destined bullocks—that was up until 2001 and Foot and Mouth, the darkest time for farming. The buildings were now abandoned, left for grass and wildlife to reclaim.

  As his groom, she had pleaded with the farmer for more horses to be brought on and sold to keep the yard going. If the liveries paid something, the farmer was deaf to any diversification that yielded anything but instant cash. But soon, he would find that all the liveries would be moving to better places, despite all her efforts.

  She turned past the barn where the old horsebox was parked beside the dwindling stack of straw and hay. In the tidy yard decorated with hanging baskets and ringed on three sides by twelve covered stables—some with names on their doors—she untacked Torc. Eight of the stables were empty, as most of the horses were outside, rugged up for protection from the weather. Three liveries had already left, and nobody was clamouring to move in.

  With a competition imminent, Carly had brought her mare in from the fields. She led her into the end stable, labelled TORC, and then checked that she had remembered to replenish the hay while re-doing the stable’s straw bedding. Inside the next-door box was Torc’s four-year-old daughter, Dido; known as Queen of Carthage when Carly entered her in any competitions. So far she had shown little of her dam’s flair.

  Outside, her flat-coated retriever, Guinness, emerged from his siesta, exuberant again after his earlier exertions, helping Carly hack out horses for owners who required the full livery service. Guinness had been a twenty-first birthday present from her parents, arriving as a furry ball. Now five, he was the companion she could always depend on.

  As she glanced around the refuge that she had claimed amidst the decay, she realised that this ordered home for the horses held most of the remnants of her life.

  TWO

  The cobblestones sparkled with the remnants of morning rain fading in the sunlight. Change of country, change of weather, and change of job. Armand had learned to adapt and move on. Another day and having checked the horses in his charge, he collected the feed barrow and walked out of the yard under the clock tower. He gazed down the poplar-lined drive, past the white-railed paddocks, and across the flat landscape, looking for some pleasure in the black fields. The new Boissard acquisition, Fenburgh Stud, appeared tranquil, but experience had taught him otherwise. England could hide danger as much as Canada.

  Back on Du Noroît, death had been lurking in the whiteness. Something had stirred just out of sight, yet his rational mind had called it a paranoid delusion. The accident had not been suspicious, according to the police, but an unfortunate tragedy.

  I must always remain alert to danger. I sense it, but who can I trust? Lina? Her work comes first. Gilles craves thrills. Can I find some peace here in England? I could end this all. I can find life in the dikes, hedges and windbreaks, but home will always be in the forests of the Cévennes… tangled in memories.

  Yet he had chosen to disconnect from that world to survive. He had tried to connect with his ancestral roots in Québec, but that had only ended in more tragedy. This new existence was another chance to rebuild his life, although this time, he must remain aloof.

  A throaty roar echoed across the paddocks, bringing Armand’s attention back from the past. A red Subaru Cosworth Impreza swept into the drive, fishtailing as if the driver were rallying, not coming back late from a night in the city. Gilles Boissard pulled the car to a stop, jumped out from behind the wheel, stretched his lanky frame, and then smoothed back his dark hair before walking around the limited-edition car. He took the hand of a sleek blonde as she slid out from the passenger seat, and then draped a fur coa
t over his intended conquest’s shoulders as he kissed her dark pink lips. She patted his cheek then followed him inside the pseudo-Georgian mansion. The butler would be sent out for the luggage.

  Armand turned away. Gilles might not show his face in the yard for a few hours, and by then, someone else would have exercised most of the horses—apart from the stallion, Dragon Du Noroît. With rare exceptions, no one but Gilles rode the twelve-year-old, known by the stable name Drac.

  Heading past the mirrored indoor school, Armand wondered if Gilles’s blonde catch rode, or was just another admirer devoted enough to watch from the tiered seating. Frustration at Gilles welled inside of Armand and pulled at the threads of their friendship.

  Back in the modernised Victorian stable yard, the cooing doves and the contented horses calmed him, but the sounds did not alleviate the exasperation at how much Gilles ignored his work. Not just his efforts at ensuring a spotless yard, but also in hacking out the horses he was permitted to ride. But Armand would bend to every whim and errand now that they had moved to Fenburgh Stud and created a new direction.

  Could he ignore the return of the old nightmares when they plagued his sleep? The doctors had warned that they would, but drugs were not an option that Armand was willing to try. Therapy had taught him to recognize that guilt and suspicion only fed his perception of normal situations. However, that was all in the past, in France.

  Closing his eyes, he saw forests and a blue sky, heard birds and waterfalls, smelt flowers and the earth. Nature, experienced or remembered, that was the key to his self-therapy—along with the power and grace of the horses.

  However, sometimes, snowstorms invaded his waking day, thrusting him back into his memories of Canada, of a day confused by rumours.

  On that day, when he woke in his bed, he had thought a wolf was howling his name, but it was only Mistico licking his face. Lina had explained that she was concerned when the flurries had built into a blizzard. Supposedly, Mistico proved invaluable in helping her find Armand, who had fallen in a snowdrift on his way to work. She said his insistence on independence could have proved fatal. Did he need reminding?