The Stacy Gregg 3-book Horse Collection: Volume 1

“Haya?” Ali is wide-eyed. “Are you all right? Haya?”

Haya brushes the sand off her jodhpurs. Why won’t her hands stop shaking? None of this is how it was supposed to be …

“She threw you really hard like a bucking bronco,” Ali says.

Haya brushes away her tears. Hateful, childish tears! She is supposed to be a rider and here she is on the ground crying like a little kid.

“I’m OK,” she tells Ali. Even though she is upset and shaken, Haya knows what she must do. She has to get back on the horse.

“Haya …”

Exasperated, Haya turns to her brother. “What is it?”

Ali points up the hill at the men who are walking swiftly down from the polo stables towards them. There are six security guards, including the guard that she spoke to at the gate who walked with them. The guards are striding towards them with a sense of purpose and at the centre of the group, looking very serious, is her father, the King.

“Baba is here,” Ali says.

In the car on the short journey back to Al Nadwa, her father, surprisingly, is not angry.

“No,” he tells Haya, “I am disappointed.”

Disappointed. The word cuts Haya like a knife.

“You left the house without a bodyguard, and without telling anyone,” the King continues, “got on an unbroken horse by yourself—”

“But I wasn’t by myself,” Haya says. “Ali was with me. And this is Frances’s fault! She wouldn’t let me see Bree …”

“Haya,” her father says. “Do you know why you got in trouble when you put your brother in the dumb waiter?”

“Because I got caught,” Haya says.

The King shakes his head. “Because what you did was dangerous. Ali could have been injured. And today, when you climbed out of the fire escape and left the house without your bodyguard, you put yourself in danger.”

“I’m sick of having guards following me around all the time. I can look after myself,” Haya asserts.

“Haya, it is in your nature to be bold. It’s an admirable quality. But please do not be naïve. You are the daughter of a King and a member of the Royal Hashemite clan of Jordan. When you disobey the rules and sneak out of the house alone, then you risk your life and your brother’s too. What would I do if you were kidnapped or worse?”

The King takes his daughter’s hand. “You and Ali are the precious gifts that your mother left behind. I will do whatever I must to keep you safe. Do you understand?”

The mention of Mama makes Haya’s eyes prick with tears. She never meant to upset her father, not like this.

“Yes, Baba,” Haya says, feeling the weight of his words. And then she adds, “Please don’t let the guard at the gate get into trouble because of this. It was my fault. I made him let us past.”

There is silence in the car, then the King sighs. “No one is in trouble. And I think it is best if I get Santi to move the filly back to Al Hummar. From what I saw of your antics today, I would prefer it if he were there to help you from now on. You are supposed to be breaking a horse, not your neck.”

Haya’s heart skips. “I can go there? To Al Hummar? I can break her?”

“If you try to go out again without a bodyguard, then you will be grounded for two months,” the King says, “but yes, I am allowing you to go to the stables to break in the filly.”

*

When Haya arrives at Al Hummar the following day, Santi is waiting for her with his music blaring from the record player and the smell of cardamom coffee filling his office.

“Your father tells me that you tried to ride her by yourself?” Santi says.

“She bucked me off,” Haya tells him. “I thought she would let me ride her, but she was totally wild and acted like she didn’t even know me.”

Santi considers this. “Titch,” he says, “come and stand behind me.”

Haya is puzzled, but she does as he asks.

“You see the chair there next to you?” Santi says. “Get up on it.”

Haya clambers up on the chair. “Now,” Santi says, leaning over in front of her, “leap on to my back.”

Santi has gone mad! But Haya does as he says. She jumps off the chair on to his back so that now he is piggybacking her.

“Now,” Santi says, “imagine I am Bree. I cannot see you. I do not know that it is you, Haya, on my back. For all I know, you are a mountain lion who has pounced, for this is exactly how a big cat might attack. So I am thinking that any moment now you are about to unleash your claws and tear me apart. How can I possibly get rid of you?”

Haya suddenly feels very foolish. “You can buck me off,” she says.

Santi stands up straight and Haya slides down off his back. “Do not be discouraged, Titch,” he says. “The filly loves you very much, but love will not stop her from giving in to instinct. When you jumped on her back on the polo field, you took her by surprise. She did the only thing she could do to protect herself.”

Haya thinks about Bree, the way the filly was still trembling with fear after she had thrown her to the ground. “It was my fault,” she says. “I scared her.”

“Never mind,” Santi says firmly. “That is the past and now we start again.”

He smiles at Haya. “First she learns to take the bit in her mouth, then she feels the girth round her belly and saddle on her back. And then, finally, the rider.”

“How long will it take?” Haya asks.

“Patience is what you need for breaking in horses, Titch,” Santi says. “It will take as long as it takes.”

*

In the yards at Al Hummar, the head groom Yusef waves to her. “Princess Haya, you are back!” he grins. “You have come to help me clean out the loose boxes maybe?”

“Not today, Yusef,” Haya smiles.

Santi has put Bree back in her old loose box to the left-hand side of the first courtyard. When Haya arrives at her stall, there is already a groom in there with the filly, mucking out the damp straw into a wheelbarrow. He is not much older than she is, with a lean build, black hair and grey eyes. At the sight of Haya looking over the stable door, his grey eyes go wide, like a hare that has just spied a falcon.

“Hello, I’m Haya.”

The boy looks shocked. He makes a clumsy attempt at a bow. “I know, Your Royal Highness.”

“Has Bree settled in OK?”

“Bree?” The boy looks terrified.

“That’s my nickname for her,” Haya says, looking at the bay filly standing at the back of the loose box.

“Oh, yes, Bint Al-Reeh is very settled, Your Royal Highness.”

“And how long have you been here for?” Haya asks the boy.

“One month,” he says. “I mean, one month – Your Royal Highness.”

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen, Your Royal Highness.”

“And what is your name?”

“Zayn, Your Royal Highness.”

“Zayn, you don’t have to say Your Royal Highness in every sentence when you speak to me, you know.”

“Yes, Your Royal Highness. I mean, no, Your Royal Highness. I mean – yes!” Zayn is so flustered he looks overwhelmed with relief when Santi comes to take Bree to the round pen.

“The new groom is strange,” Haya tells Santi once they are alone with Bree. “I don’t think he likes me.”

“Zayn?” Santi smiles. “He is daunted by you.”

“Why?”

“Because he has never met the daughter of a King before.”

*

Haya is expecting Santi to enter the round pen with her, but instead, he leans on the railings giving instructions while Haya handles Bree on her own.

Today she is teaching Bree to wear a bridle. The filly is accustomed to a halter, but the bridle is new. As Haya slips the reins over Bree’s head and then lifts the bridle headpiece up to the filly’s muzzle, Bree pulls her head away.

“It’s OK,” Santi says. “Try holding one arm round her muzzle as you lift the bridle up.”

Bree keeps her head still as Haya works her fingers to ease open the corners of Bree’s mouth. After a couple of attempts, she manages to open the filly’s jaw enough to slip the bit in. Haya does up the straps while Bree champs and frets at the new sensation of the metal bit.

“That is quite normal, a good response,” Santi reassures Haya.

After a few minutes, Haya takes the bridle off and then tries putting it on again. This time the filly does not make a fuss about accepting the bit. “That is very good,” Santi says. “Take it off again and she can go back to the loose box – that is all for today.”

Haya is surprised. They have been in the round pen for less than half an hour. “We break in a horse without a battle,” Santi says. “Quiet and slow. Put her back in the box and give her some feed – let her know that she has been a good horse.”

The next day at the round pen they put on the bridle again. Bree still champs at the metal, but she is quite relaxed so Santi says she is ready for the saddle blanket. “Remember that anything on their back is a lion,” Santi reminds her. “Show her she is safe. Rub her down with the saddle blanket to show it will not hurt her.”

At first, Bree tenses her muscles, but Haya stays calm, stroking her shoulders and neck with the cloth, persisting until the mare settles. Very soon Bree does not even flinch when Haya vigorously flicks the blanket over her hindquarters.

“Very good.” Santi leans over the railing of the round pen watching them. “Make a fuss of her and take her back to the stables.”

*

The next day the routine is the same once more and Haya thinks that Santi will call it quits when Bree walks calmly with the saddle blanket on her back, but instead, he says, “I think she is ready for the saddle.”

The saddle is an English one, very old and made of hard brown leather. It is quite heavy and Haya struggles to lift it on to Bree’s back. When she feels the weight on top of her, Bree collapses forward, as if she is about to drop to her knees, with a queer look on her face, giving throaty snorts. Haya keeps a hand on the filly’s neck and keeps talking to her the whole time, reassuring her. Then, carefully, she reaches under Bree’s belly and grasps the girth – slowly, gently – and raises it and does up the straps.

“Take the girth up another hole. Make it tight enough so that it won’t slip,” Santi advises. “OK, now knot the reins on her neck and let her go.”

Bree lunges forward in a rush, thinking she can get away from the saddle by outrunning it. When the saddle stays firm on her back, Bree shakes her head and gives a half-hearted buck, attempting to dislodge the strange beast. But when that doesn’t work, she simply accepts the saddle and begins to trot round the pen. “See how she tests the boundaries and then quickly she understands?” Santi says to Haya. “She is smart, even for an Arabian.”

“Shall we take her back and untack her?” Haya asks.

“No.” Santi shakes his head. “Today I think you should ride her. Look how calm she is. She is ready to be ridden.”

The other grooms have gathered to watch Santi and Haya. Along with Yusef there is Radi, the slightly-built groom, and Attah, a Bedouin with bandy legs from spending all his life in the saddle. They lean against the fence with the new groom Zayn.

Haya should feel nervous with all these eyes on her. But the strange thing is, once she steps out into the round pen, the world slips away. It is just her and her horse. Bree walks up to Haya and thrusts her nose into the girl’s chest as if to say, “Thank goodness you’re here! There’s this thing stuck on my back …”

Haya whispers private words to Bree as she moves all around her, stroking her coat, letting the filly feel her touch. Then she reaches her arms across the saddle and bounces up off her feet, resting a little of her weight on Bree’s back. She stays up there for a moment, then drops lightly back to the ground. Bree seems quite happy so Haya tries again, only this time she lies right across the saddle and keeps her weight there. Her body is draped across the saddle, as if she were a sack of grain slung on to the back of a mule.

Bree turns her head round to sniff at Haya as if to say, “Hello! What are you doing there?” Her eyes are inquisitive and her lips take a friendly nibble at Haya’s long dark hair. Haya smiles and runs her hand over the filly’s shoulders.

“I think I could try sitting up on her now,” Haya says. “Should I do it?”

“You know her best,” Santi says. “Trust your instincts.”

If she tries to sit up too soon, Bree will panic and buck like she did on the polo field. Haya will end up on the floor of the round pen and all her hard work of the past weeks will be undone.

“What do you think, Bree?” she whispers. “Are you ready?”

Haya braces her forearms, grasping the front and back of the saddle in each hand before smoothly kicking up her right leg and swinging it neatly across Bree’s rump. And there she is, sitting up in the saddle, astride her horse again.

And this time everything is different. Haya sits up tall on Bree’s back and she feels the very last thing that a rider on an unbroken horse should. She feels safe. Bree sniffs Haya’s foot in the stirrup as if to say, “Now what are you doing sitting up there?”

Haya strokes her neck. “I’m not going to hurt you,” she reassures the filly. “We’re just going for a little ride. A few steps, Bree, that’s all.”

The filly walks stiffly at first, as if she is holding her breath, but in just one lap of the round pen, it is as if she barely notices she has a rider on her back. When Haya puts her legs ever so lightly against Bree’s sides, the filly reacts on cue, moving forward at a trot, her head held erect with ears pricked forward, her thick black tail raised high so that it streams out behind her. Haya rises easily in time with the filly’s rhythm, and then, when Bree is ready, with her heart pounding, Haya sits deep in the saddle and clucks with her tongue. Then Bree canters.

Bree’s canter is delicate and light as air. Haya closes her eyes, feeling the strides come like waves beneath her.

To break a horse in is something many riders dream of their whole lives. At just eleven years old Haya has done it all on her own. She is the first, the only person, ever to ride this filly. She has tamed the wind.

*

“Baba!” Haya runs through the doors of Al Nadwa, her face flushed with excitement. She cannot wait to tell her father about it.

As she runs through the corridors beneath the portraits of the Kings, her heart is soaring and she breaks into a grin when she catches sight of Ali running towards her.

“Ali! I did it! I rode her. Where is Baba?”

“Baba is in the Blue Room,” Ali says.

Then Haya registers the look on Ali’s face. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

“I heard Baba talking to Frances.”

“What about? Ali? Tell me!”

“They are sending you away!” Ali’s voice is trembling. His face is streaked with tears.

“Haya, you are going to boarding school.”

This is all because I stuck Ali in the dumb waiter?” Haya fights to hold back the tears.

“Of course not, Haya,” her father says.

“Then it’s because Frances told you how I tried to slide down the banisters?” Haya sniffs. “I was totally safe. I wore my riding helmet.”

“Actually,” her father says, “I didn’t know about that particular incident.”

He takes Haya in his arms. “You haven’t done anything wrong. We’ve talked about this, and the time is here now. You are eleven years old, and your future lies ahead of you. It is my responsibility to prepare you for it as best I can and the best schooling I can give you is in England.”

This is the tradition. Her Baba went to Harrow and Sandhurst and Mama went to school in London. Now it is Haya’s turn to be educated abroad.

“Please, Baba,” Haya begs. “I’ll do everything Frances says – I’ll study hard and do all my homework. I want to stay here with you and Ali.”

“I want you to stay with me too,” the King says. “But I cannot keep you here. I must do what is right. Frances says that you are doing well in your studies, but you need specialist teachers in science and mathematics and languages. You passed your eleven-plus with excellent marks. You should be very proud of being accepted. Badminton is a very good school.”

“What about Bree?” Haya sniffles.

“They have an excellent equestrian department at Badminton.”

Haya perks up. “So I could take her with me?”

“No,” the King says. “But there will be other horses that you can ride.”

“I don’t want another horse,” Haya says. “I don’t want to go.”

*

Boarding school begins in September, which means Haya has three months left at Al Nadwa. She clings on to the days, trying to keep them alight like candles, to make them burn forever, but time keeps moving and she cannot stop it. So she spends every possible moment that she can with Bree. As soon as Frances releases her from her lessons, she goes straight to the stables.

Most days when she arrives, Zayn is there in Bree’s loose box. She has told him loads of times that she can do it herself, but he always mucks out for her before she comes. He grooms Bree too, and the filly’s fine bay coat has a sheen that Haya has never seen before.

“How do you get her so glossy?” she asks. And Zayn shyly shows her the wisp he has made out of hay. “You use it like this,” he says, massaging the filly in vigorous circles.

“Who taught you how to make hay wisps?”

“My father, Your Royal Highness. He taught me everything about horses. He told me once that all Circassians can ride from the day we are born. We are natural horsemen.”

“Does your father have many horses?”

“My father died when I was seven years old,” Zayn says and his voice weakens and becomes so quiet that Haya can hardly hear him. “He was killed in Black September.”

Haya feels his grief connect with her like a sharp pain in her belly. “I am so sorry,” she says. “You must miss him so much.”

Zayn takes a deep breath and when he speaks again his voice is strong once more. “My mother says that my father would be very proud that I work in the King’s stables. I live with her and my two sisters and the money from my wages keeps all of us.”

He digs about in the back pocket of his trousers and produces a worn leather wallet. He opens it to show Haya the photo inside.

“That is my mother there and those are my sisters,” Zayn says. “They’re both at school now. They were only babies when my father died …”

Haya looks at the photograph. “Your mother is very beautiful,” she tells Zayn and without thinking she begins to speak of her own mother too. “There are lots of photographs of my mother in the palace. Baba tells me stories about her. I think about her all the time, but... I cannot really remember her, not properly.”

It is the first time that Haya has admitted this to herself, let alone out loud, and somehow it feels like a tiny bit of pressure has lifted.

“I remember my father,” Zayn says. “I don’t know if that’s better or worse.”

He looks at Haya, and his grey eyes are filled with the sadness of loss. “I didn’t think you’d be like this,” he says.

“Like what?”

“Like a … real person.”

Haya raises her hand and strokes Bree’s muzzle. “That is why I love it so much here. The horses do not care that I am a Princess. And Santi and Yusef, they pass me a broom and ask me to clean the yard and I am happy.”

*

Now that she is back at Al Hummar, Haya no longer has to endure lessons with Mrs Goddard. Santi comes down to the round pen with her each day to help school Bree.

“Bree must accept the bit, and work as a true dressage horse,” Santi teaches Haya. “She must respond to the lightest touch.”

This is not easy on a horse like Bree. She is willing and so clever, but she is also inexperienced and Haya must teach her everything right from the beginning. Santi shows her how to use her legs to move the filly not only forward, but sideways, and how to tune Bree in to her cues so that she requires only the slightest tap of the heel to change pace, or the softest tightening of the reins to come back to a halt. Bree can be a little hot-headed. When Haya’s signals confuse her, she will toss in an objectionable buck as if to say, “Really, I don’t understand what you are asking me to do!”

“You see how she tells you her thoughts?” Santi says when Bree does this. “She is not being naughty, she is talking to you. You must always be clear so she understands what you are asking. It is about developing a language between you. In this way, we school the horse.”

Haya’s own schooling is looming. The new term at Badminton is about to begin.

“I don’t want to go,” she tells Zayn.

They are grooming Bree together, and the words tumble out of Haya’s mouth before she can stop them.

“Then don’t go,” Zayn says. “Stay here. Come to my school. You would like it.”

Haya sighs. “It’s not that simple. My father went to school in England and my Mama too. It has been arranged and I must respect tradition – it is my duty.”

She reaches out her hand to stroke Bree’s muzzle. The idea of leaving her horse is unbearable.

“Do you wish sometimes that you weren’t bound by duty?” Zayn asks.

“What do you mean?”

“You know, do you wish that you were not a Princess?”

Zayn’s question takes Haya by surprise. “No!” She shakes her head. “My family are my great strength. My father and mother both taught me what it means to have true love and devotion to my country and its people. Horses are not my escape – I do not need to run away. Horses are my expression. When I am on a horse, I am truly myself. It’s my soul in the clear light of day.”

Zayn is staring at her now and Haya looks down at her toes, suddenly embarrassed. “I am talking too much. Hand me the pitchfork and I will help you to muck out the boxes.”

Bree does not know that Haya is leaving. How could she possibly know? And yet the filly seems to sense that there is something wrong. Each day, when Haya arrives at her loose box, Bree whinnies for her and there is an edge of longing to the cries, as if she knows that each time she sees Haya may be the last.

“I am going away to England tomorrow,” Haya tells Zayn, “and I need you to do something for me.”

“Of course, Princess Haya. What is it?”

“I need you to look after Bree. I want you to be the one to ride her while I am gone. I want you to be her groom and feed her and care for her and write to me and tell me how she is.”

“I’ll take good care of her.”

“I mean it! This is serious, Zayn, you have to promise me.” Haya bites her lip to fight back the tears. “Promise me that you will look after her as if she were your own horse. If anything happens to her …”

“It won’t,” Zayn says. “I’ll keep her safe and care for her until you return, Princess Haya. You have my word.”

*

Haya adjusts the stiff collar on her blouse, and wrestles with the knot of her school tie. She is not used to wearing a uniform and the tie feels like it is about to choke her. She reaches down and yanks at her knee socks, which keep slipping and sagging at her ankles.

On the lawn, the girls in their blazers and straw boaters gather in groups, stare and whisper and then act aloof and pretend that they haven’t noticed the arrival of the new girl. But how can you fail to see the two giant black limousines with black tinted windows, flying the Union Jack and the royal flag of Jordan?

“Are you ready, Your Royal Highness?” The man sitting beside her in a dark navy suit prepares to open the door while Haya self-consciously fiddles with her tie.

Haya nods nervously and he speaks into his walkie-talkie, communicating to the car in front. “We’re going in.”

The car door opens and Haya emerges, flanked by two bodyguards; already a third bodyguard is halfway up the footpath waiting for them. Haya walks up the path and tries to smile and to ignore the way the girls stare at her. It was bad enough having her old bodyguard constantly shadowing her at the palace, but now that she is in England the British Government has assigned not one but three agents on rotating security detail to watch over her. So much for fitting in and being a regular girl.