Free Hornet’s Sting by Derek Robinson Page B

reins. “Should you come upon a reputable
épicene,”
Lacey said, “the mess is in need of a good Dijon mustard.” Brazier slapped the animal’s rump and it set off at a sedate trot that kicked up clods of snow like broken plates.
    The name on the bridle was Daisy. It didn’t suit. The horse was entirely black, and as broad as a sofa; Dash’s knees were far apart. Because one eye was milky, the horse led with the other eye, and this caused it to trot obliquely, aiming to the left while moving to the right. Daisy was a gun-carriage horse. It disliked the saddle and it disliked Dash. After half a mile it locked its front legs and tossed him as easily as a farmhand tossing a sheaf of wheat.
    He landed in a snowdrift. Daisy trotted on. By the time Dash got his breath back, cleared the snow from his ears and found his hat, Daisy was a small black shape, growing steadily smaller. He chasedhard. Daisy would not stop for him. He ran alongside and managed to vault into the saddle. His breeches were slippery with snow. Daisy threw him twice more in the next hundred yards. The second time, there was something hard in the drift: ice or stone or wood; and he crawled out bruised and cursing, ready to quit; but an oncoming ration wagon had seen his trouble and a soldier had jumped off and captured the brute.
    They waited for him to limp up to them.
    â€œBit frisky, is she, sir?” said the sergeant in charge.
    â€œJust a trifle.”
    â€œYour nose is bleedin’, sir. Rub some snow on it.”
    Dash tried to laugh. “That’s all I’ve been doing since I set out, sergeant. This isn’t a horse, it’s a catapult.”
    â€œToo frisky, sir. Give ‘er a good gallop, make ‘er blow a bit. Once she’s fucked she won’t be so fuckin’ frisky, pardon my French. Women are all the fuckin’ same.”
    Dash remounted and banged his heels against the ribs. Daisy went off at a slow canter and nothing changed that. He wished he had worn spurs. He disliked spurs but he loathed Daisy. The horse seemed to be developing a jolting, sideways prance. This did his bruised backside no good at all. On the other hand he was still in the saddle when they reached a crossroads. Beauquesne was to the right. Daisy had already decided to go left.
    â€œCome right, you bitch!” Dash shouted. He doubled the reins in his fists and dragged hard. His feet were braced against the stirrups. It was like trying to turn one of the lions in Trafalgar Square. Snow was falling, and he felt the flakes melting on his sweating face. The horse was winning. Dash had come all the way to France to fight for his country, and now he was being beaten by a bloody nag. “You lousy whore!” he screamed. Another ration wagon was approaching. He didn’t care. He kept the reins in one hand and unbuttoned his holster with the other and took out his service revolver and cocked it and fired a thunderous shot past Daisy’s left ear. The horse shied. He fired again, a blast of noise that flung the head to the right. He whacked with his heels. Daisy broke into a gallop. Dash fired at the sky and whooped. Faintly, he heard the ration party cheer.
    * * *
    Chlöe Legge-Barrington slid back the bolts and heaved on the door of the nunnery of Sainte Croix. “Goodness,” she said. “You look like Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow.”
    Dash stood in the night, layered with snow, too tired to shrug it off. Behind him the horse raised its great head, black capped with white, and looked at the young woman; then it let its head droop.
    â€œIs this First Aid Nursing Yeomanry?” Dash said. “Because I’m looking for Sarah Beverley.”
    â€œThis is F.A.N.Y., but Sarah’s in England. Would you like some supper? Lancashire hotpot with apple crumble to follow.”
    â€œThat’s frightfully decent of you.”
    â€œWell, frightful decency is something we have