Beckwith stables

What the devil? Jarreau regarded the carrot with undisguised suspicion. If this was some kind of joke... But the man seemed instead, by his mannerisms, to be indicating one of the horses.

"For the grey?" Jarreau asked, pointing with the vegetable towards the pregnant mare.

Gree? "Grey, aye, that's her. DAISY. To eat." He gestured to his own mouth, but then thought the better of it and waved his hand at the man. "Not for YOU to eat. For the horse."

So it was for the horse? Or no, for him now? What the devil did he want with a carrot? Muttering under his breath about les maudits Anglais and where they could stick their maudits carottes, he wandered a few paces away to hang over the door of the grey mare's stall. At first she ignored him, but the sound of the carrot being broken into smaller pieces quickly got her attention.

Whuffling softly into the palm of his hand, she lipped up the treat, inhaling it in a few crunching mouthfuls. It was a familiar, reassuring sound and Jarreau actually smiled. "There's a good girl. "

At least the damn Frog liked horses, so he had one redeeming quality in him. Grainger took a few healthy swigs from his bottle and then handed it to the other man. "Here, mate. It's beer."

"Bière?" Jarreau repeated, accepting the bottle. He sniffed it; whatever it was, the contents smelled like alcohol, which was all that really mattered. He took a sip, then a longer pull, then handed it back to the Englishman. It wasn't wine, but hell.

Grainger nodded and took another swig. "Aye, tis right good beer. Me wife's brother brews it. Ah, hell, you don't know what I'm saying, so what's the use. Damn crapo." He returned the bottle to his coat pocket and retrieved his shovel.

Jarreau followed his example, reaching for the other shovel and setting to work. It was a relief to do physical labor and he fairly attacked the pile, months of pent up frustration finally finding an outlet.

There was a clopping of hooves as a rider approached, probably one of the officer guards arriving for duty. Grainger cast an anxious glance at his newfound assistant. "Here, mate, you better stay outta sight. You ain't really supposed to be workin' in here." He gestured with his hand to the Frenchman to keep himself hidden while he attended the man's horse.

Jarreau looked up, alerted as much by the tone of the man's voice as the approaching hoof beats. It was clear enough what the Englishman wanted him to do, but Jarreau did not move immediately to comply. He stood where he was, his hands tightening around the haft of his shovel. He was spoiling for a confrontation, any confrontation, but sense finally got the better of him and he withdrew into the deeper shadows of the barn.

The officer on horseback exchanged few words with the stable hand. He dismounted and headed straight to the house, leaving the horse in Grainger's hands. When he was gone, Grainger was able to breathe easier. "All right, he's gone," he muttered to the Frenchman as he led the horse into the bay. "You'se lucky. That were the master o' the prison, Mister Breckenridge hisself."

Breckenridge? Jarreau scowled, glancing in the direction the officer had gone. He knew that name. "Espèce de connard," he muttered, then leaned his shovel against a nearby stall and wandered over to where the Englishman was unsaddling the horse, watching with undisguised envy. It was a beautiful animal. "Bastards have all the luck," he grumbled, reaching up to stroke its neck. Then, on impulse, he slipped the bridle over its ears.

Chevenier wandered up the path towards the stables. He had been before, and relished the ability to be with horses, even if he wasn't riding them. So much of his life had been spent around the animals that it did not seem right to be entirely away from the sound and smell of the stable.

"What, anuvver one?" Grainger exclaimed in surprise as a second French prisoner approached. "S'it frogs-in-the-stables day or sommat? Wait now, f--- it all, put his halter on if you're gonna take that'n off, mate. His halter, right there on the wall, see?"

"Where is his halter?" Jarreau, who up until this point had been doing his best to ignore the Englishman's chatter, demanded. "Des licols," he added, holding up the bridle, but the man was already pointing towards the wall behind him on which were hanging several of the objects in question. Oh.

Taking down one of the halters, Jarreau hung the bridle in its place, and it was not until he turned back to the horse that he noticed the new arrival. He checked abruptly, but the newcomer was one of the prisoners, and recognizing Chevenier, he relaxed -- marginally -- and nodded a curt greeting.

"That ain't where it bloody goes - oh never mind, ye daft bastard. What do you want?" This last was directed at the newcomer, though he doubted the man would understand him. "Can't a body get some peace an' quiet 'round here? Can't get no work done with all these interruptions. Here, dammit, you might as well brush him down. Lessee if you know how." He kicked the box of brushes towards Jarreau.

"My apologies, m'sieur," Chevenier said in English, sketching a light ironic bow towards Grainger. "I was merely hoping to spend some time with these fine animals."

He grinned at Jarreau. "I had not expected to see you in a stable. Bit more work than your normal habits, isn't it?"

Jarreau scowled. Somehow he always got the impression that the cavalryman was laughing at him. "Better than hanging about doing nothing." Or worse. Reading; talking; crafting... God knows what, but just the thought of the painstaking, delicate work some of the men did made his skin crawl.

Grainger started, taken aback by the newcomer's English. But still, the man was no master of the language yet. "They's called horses," he replied haughtily. Damn Frogs.

Jarreau had more than half a mind to kick the box of brushes right back at the Englishman. The only thing stopping him was the inconvenient fact that he wanted to keep working. Even if it meant taking orders from this fellow. Still, he wrestled with his pride for another moment before stooping and, with exceptionally ill grace, snatching up one of the brushes and setting to work.

Before Grainger could issue any more incomprehensible orders, another horse was heard arriving, this one led by as pretty a young lady as one could hope for in Northumberland.

"Grainger, could you take a look at Philly's hoof? Oh hello!" She smiled when she noticed the other two men present. "I mean, bon jour!"

"Bonjour, m'amselle," Chevenier said with a light bow. He smiled, and added: "Do excuse us. My friend and I were admiring your fine horses."

He nudged Jarreau lightly with his elbow, hoping the other man would follow his lead and be friendly. If the young lady became alarmed by their presence, things would likely not go well for the two French officers.

The young lady graced him with a glowing smile and a nod. "Oh that's all right! Go right ahead!"

Sullen Grainger interrupted her before she could continue. "Scuse me, Miss Breckenridge, but I don't reckon your father would like you to be talkin' with these, uh, gentlemen."

Jarreau rolled his eyes at Chevenier's gallantry and returned his attention to brushing the horse.

"We will do our best to not be in your way," Chevenier said, picking up a second brush and moving to the other side of the horse Jarreau was grooming. Diversion or not, there was a great deal of relief to the familiarity of caring for a horse. Chevenier found himself smiling for real at the smell of barn and hay and horses.

The young lady looked a trifle chagrined, and so she resumed her quiet conversation with the stable hand before bidding them good day.