Written by Anissa Roy-Joos and Lois Joos-Roy

 

The snow skirled through the air lightly, landing on the horse’s coats and the children’s hats.  Arianne Sandrago and her best friend Cyrille Bertrand – who had conceived this project and put it into motion – were handing out hot chocolate or cider to the kids as they boarded the wagon for a carriage ride around the hospital.  A sleigh would’ve been even better, but not enough snow was sticking for that to work.

The clop of hooves announced the approach of the outrider; they didn’t really need someone to follow the wagon in these careful circumstances, but Alexandre de Bautiste wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to ride the city streets on his favorite horse Majeste.  The descendant of an old noble family, he was sometimes called le Duc for his formal manner, and he valued old traditions like being a good horseman.  He came to a stop beside them, watching the children, and said thoughtfully, “This was a good idea, Cyrille.  I think we ought to do it every year.”

“With Professor Laurent’s daughter breaking her arm during All Saints’ Week, it made me think of all the kids who have to spend the holiday in the hospital,” Cyrille replied with a shrug.  “Just about every kid likes horses, and since I know a guy who has horses, it seemed like an obvious connection.”

“I am glad to share my love of horses, then,” Xandre replied, petting Majeste’s neck.

All of the children were bundled up against the cold, but their eyes shone with joy at the prospect of a carriage ride.  Xandre’s two Bourbonnais driving horses were decked out with bright bows and jingling bells, as was Majeste.  The big black hunter shifted his weight with a faint chiming sound as his rider watched the last child boarding the erstwhile hay wagon, also decorated for the season with evergreen boughs and bright red ribbons.

Every child had one parent in attendance, and they filled the wagon.  Paolo, Xandre’s head trainer, had been pressed into service to drive – not that it had been difficult to convince him.  He’d been an enthusiastic supporter of the project from the first moment Cyrille suggested it.  Now he saw the last child seated, and called out, “Are we ready, everyone?”

An affirmative chorus answered him, and he whistled to the pair of gray draft horses pulling the wagon.  Majeste lifted his head too, his ears pricked, and Xandre picked up his reins.  “I’ll make sure the corner is clear,” he said, turning Majeste to trot off.

Ari couldn’t help smiling as she watched him ride away.  He hadn’t worn a hat, and the snowflakes were catching in his dark hair.  There was a gentleness in his even darker eyes that she wasn’t used to seeing directed at anyone outside his immediate circle, but apparently he had a soft spot for children.

“You’ve got it bad,” Cyrille commented, elbowing her.  “Remember, he’s your dad’s age.”

That made her look up at him with a snarky expression, hating that she wasn’t really good at hiding her emotions.  Thank the Gods, she was keeping the extent of things where le Duc was concerned under wraps.  “I really hope you’re not trying to judge me on that, Cyrille Bertrand.” 

“Me?  No,” he laughed.  “You know if I was single and he swung that way, I’d be set for life.  Ah well, his loss.”

He could afford to speak so casually.  Cyrille knew Ari was a witch, but he thought that just meant she liked candles and crystals a little more than the average girl.  He had no idea that her gift of empathy could tell her just how many parents were putting on a brave face for their kids.  Or how much Paolo was enjoying himself.

What it couldn’t tell her was anything about Xandre himself.  He was more tightly shielded than anyone Ari had ever met.  Not a witch, like her – the coven was sure of that much.  But he was something, and if Cyrille had known that, he might’ve been less amused by the prospect.

But those thoughts were for another night.  Her mind moving back to the current discussion, she made a brief face at him.  “Really?  Does Mathieu know that you’re still aware of the gravitas of our noble patron?”  Her word choice made the fact that she was twitting him obvious, eyes dancing as she spoke.

Cyrille just smirked at her as he set up to make more hot chocolate for the next batch of children.  “Mathieu’s not worried about a straight man.  He just thinks it’s funny.  You’re the one we need to worry about.”

…

They stayed busy, getting three groups of children bundled onto the wagon for gentle rides and Christmas carols.  As the last group rounded the corner, Cyrille pulled a cup of cider for himself and heaved a sigh.  “This was more work than I thought.  But I’m glad we did it.”

Xandre reined in beside them both, and Ari passed him a cup of cider.  “I am, as well.  You’ve done well, Cyrille.”

Cyrille looked off in the distance, then shook his head.  “It’s the kind of thing my dad would be proud of my brother for doing – but he’s never proud of me for anything.  The whole being gay thing sort of ruins it.”

“Your father is a bigoted idiot,” Xandre said coldly.  “I am proud of you, for thinking of this and for carrying it through.  You are a better man than your father will ever be.”

Ari was about to add her own praises, but she saw that Cyrille was startled by Xandre’s vehemence.  “Thanks.  That means a lot, coming from you.”

Xandre leaned down in the saddle to clap him on the shoulder.  “I’m honored that you think so.  Now, let me cool out Majeste, and we’ll get ready to leave when the wagon returns.”

“Sure,” Cyrille said warmly.

“He’s right, you know,” Ari told him as Xandre rode off to the short lawn outside the hospital’s reception area.  “We’re all proud of you.  Your dad is an idiot.”

He shrugged.  “It hurts less the longer I’m out of the house.  And you know, le Duc there makes a decent surrogate dad, although he’d probably panic if I said so.”

Ari glanced over at Xandre, walking Majeste in slow circles.  She wondered if he already thought of Cyrille as a son of sorts; he had no children of his own, and he’d been downright paternal just now.  Her attention was caught by someone inside the glassed-in lobby: one more child, bundled up and in a wheelchair, watching the man and his horse avidly.  “Oh no, did we miss one?”

Cyrille followed her gaze and frowned.  “I hope not.  Maybe he can come out and meet the horses, at least, even if we’re on the last ride.”  He jogged toward the hospital entrance, and Xandre looked up to follow his progress.  Majeste continued weaving winding tracks through the light dusting of snow.  After exercise, he needed time to cool down slowly so his muscles wouldn’t cramp.

Ari walked toward the entrance, and for a little ways Xandre and Majeste kept pace with her.  “I hope the boy did not miss his chance,” Xandre said quietly.

Cyrille was inside by then, talking to the parents, and Ari didn’t need her empathy to know it wasn’t good news.  His shoulders slumped, he nodded, and then he pointed to le Duc and his horse outside the glass.  Xandre waved, and the young boy waved as well.  Then Cyrille was on his way back out to them.

“What is it?” Ari asked.

“Leukemia and a bad case of pneumonia,” Cyrille said.  “His doctors won’t let him come outside, even bundled up.  A chill could be fatal.  Unfortunately he’s got to watch from indoors.”

“Then I shall ride closer to the glass,” Xandre said, and walked Majeste right up to the bushes.

Cyrille huffed on his gloves, his eyes sad.  “I asked if they wanted to come outside just for a minute, but even that’s dangerous to him.  Poor kid.”

She made a quiet pained sound of agreement and shared misery, leaning against Cyrille’s shoulder.  He hugged her, and both of them watched le Duc parade Majeste around in front of the windows for the boy.  His rounds took him close to the outer set of double glass doors leading into the hospital, and Majeste tripped the sensor that opened them.  The big horse lifted his head and snorted, taking two prancing steps aside, but Xandre petted his neck and soothed him.

Now that Majeste had spooked, Ari wasn’t surprised to see Xandre make him walk back and forth next to the doors.  He’d do that until the swooshing sound no longer bothered the horse, proving to him that there was nothing to fear.  She’d seen his patient handling of other horses, though most of them were more dramatic in their shying than Majeste was.

“It’s a shame.  The boy really likes horses,” Cyrille sighed.

And then they both saw le Duc stop Majeste to dismount.  The boy was still watching avidly from the lobby as Xandre picked up his horse’s feet, checking for ice, and patted his neck.  The stallion was calm, barely even swishing his tail as his master checked him over.

Then Xandre took the reins, turned toward the hospital doors, and proceeded to walk right through with the horse.  “Oh no,” Ari whispered.  If Majeste spooked between the two sets of doors, he could kick through thousands of euros’ worth of glass in seconds.  Not to mention hurting himself or his rider.

Cyrille cursed beside her, and both of them headed toward the hospital doors, wondering just what the Hell Xandre was doing.

…

Hooves clopped on the carpet, the receptionist’s mouth dropped open, the boy’s parents gasped.  But Xandre had eyes only for the boy himself, whose face was so full of open delight it shone like a beacon.  He held out his arms from the wheelchair, and Xandre dropped the reins to let Majeste do as he would.

The stallion had never been in a hospital reception area, of course.  He looked around him, moving the bit lightly in his mouth, then walked toward the boy in the wheelchair.  All of Xandre’s horses were accustomed to the children of their grooms and trainers, and Majeste was no exception.  He seemed unfazed by the stammering of the boy’s father or the tears of his mother or the wheelchair and its oxygen bottle.  The great black stallion simply walked up to the smiling boy and put his head right into those waiting arms.

The boy knew something of horses, by the way he caressed the stallion’s cheeks and pressed their foreheads together.  “You are beautiful,” he whispered.

Arianna and Cyrille came in just as the receptionist walked up to them.  “Sir…” she began, and then looked at the scene.  Majeste was still patiently letting himself be held by the head, and the boy was very quietly trying not to cry.

“Your pardon, mademoiselle,” Xandre said to the receptionist.  “A wise young man of my acquaintance recently introduced me to the adage, ‘It is better to ask forgiveness than permission,’ and I chose to follow his example.  It seemed unfair that this young man had to miss the ride.”

Cyrille, who was the source of that saying, coughed slightly.  Xandre continued, “He is wearing hoof boots instead of shoes, so he will not damage your floors.  And he does not foul his stall, so I doubt he will do anything else untoward in here.”

“Thank you,” the boy’s mother whispered.  “Adam was heartbroken when the doctors said he couldn’t go outside.”

“I see,” Xandre said.  He turned to the boy then, and dropped to one knee to be on his level.  “So you love horses like I do?”

“Y-yes,” said the youngster, finally lifting his face from Majeste’s.  He stroked the stallion’s nose in awe.  “He’s perfect.  What’s his name?  What breed is he?”

“His name is Majeste de Claviaux.  He is Selle Français by registry, though there is much Spanish blood in his ancestry,” Xandre answered.  “By DNA test he might show Arabian and Andalusian.”

“Aren’t Selle Français usually chestnut or bay?” Adam asked him curiously.

“Yes, and I have bays as well, but I breed for black coats,” Xandre told him.  He glanced up at the receptionist, who was still hovering nearby, and asked, “Do you have any peppermints, perhaps?  He likes candy.”

…

Ari could hardly believe what she was seeing.  Cyrille said, “I’ve got some mints,” and produced a bag from his pocket.

At the crinkle of the cellophane, Majeste looked around, and Xandre nudged his nose away as he took the boy’s hand.  “Hold your palm flat, like this,” he said, and shook some mints into it.  Majeste immediately nuzzled the boy’s hand, picking up the candies delicately and crunching them in his strong jaws.  Adam giggled as the stallion’s peppermint-scented breath washed over him.

Xandre looked up at the boy’s parents, and said quietly, “I will leave you my card.  In the spring, once he is recovered, bring him to my stable for riding lessons.  He will make a fine horseman.”

Adam paused in feeding Majeste, and said quite levelly, “The doctors don’t think I’m ever going to recover.”

“Don’t think like that, Adam,” his mother chided.  “You’ve been tolerating the chemo…”

“I hate the chemo,” Adam replied.  “And anyway, it’s true.  I’m probably going to die before spring.”  He sounded so dreadfully calm about it that Ari couldn’t help the tears welling up in her eyes.

Xandre looked at him, and did not argue.  He simply shook more candies into the boy’s hand, and said, “Then you must look for my horses in the afterlife.  My family have been raising horses like Majeste for centuries, and his own sire was just as magnificent as he is.  You have my permission to ride them there.”

Adam cocked his head curiously as he continued to feed Majeste.  “The priest says animals don’t go to heaven because they don’t have souls.”

Nodding, Xandre reached to stroke Majeste’s neck.  “I will not argue with your priest.  I do not share your faith, and I do not know its teachings.  I only believe this – if Heaven is supposed to be a place of perfect happiness, then it must have horses, for I could never be happy without them.”

That made Adam laugh, and he petted Majeste again.  The stallion nuzzled into his touch.  “I think you’re right,” Adam said conspiratorially.

“I often am,” Xandre replied in the same tone, and smiled warmly at the boy.

In that moment, Ari decided that whatever else he might be, Xandre was a good man.