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rising in pitch, “is Solomon. Aren’t you, boy?”
    By way of reply, the draughthorse dropped his large head, raised it, and then dropped it again.
    â€œYou mean Solomon’s a horse?” said Nest.
    â€œWhat a clever girl!” said the stablemaster. “Isn’t she? Isn’t she, boy?”
    Emrys heard the way in which, this time, the stablemaster’s voice lowered in pitch.
    â€œIsn’t she, boy?” the stablemaster repeated, and Solomon obliged by swinging his broad head from side to side.
    The pilgrims laughed, all except Emrys, who was standing on his own well apart from the other pilgrims. He put his hands around his mouth, and neighed like a mare.
    At once Solomon lumbered towards him, and Emrys patted his nose. “You know what’s what,” he said with a rising pitch, “don’t you, boy?”And, sure enough, the draughthorse responded to Emrys’s rising pitch, and gave a cumbersome nod.
    After this, the stablemaster, now in altogether better humor, asked Emrys to help him lead twenty horses, ponies, and mules out of their stables so the pilgrims could inspect them.
    â€œCome and help us, girl,” Emrys told Gatty. “You’ve got good horse sense.”
    â€œYes, Gatty, you have,” Lady Gwyneth said warmly.
    And for the first time that morning, Gatty’s heart lightened. She sighed in relief, and then she smiled.
    From the moment she saw the Welsh cob, Gatty knew she was the one for her.
    What was it? The way she arched her neck? Her silken feathering? Her foursquare, slightly bloodshot gaze? Or was it that she reminded Gatty so strongly of Pip, Arthur’s cob? Her bright bay coat. Her white stockings.
    Gatty stepped towards the mountain pony, and the pony held her ground. She inclined her head to her muzzle and picked up her breath: slightly sweet, like new grass; delicate, like violets.
    Sayer walked up and slapped the cob’s withers. “Lovely, isn’t she?”
    Gatty nodded, wide-eyed.
    â€œShe’ll be a good friend,” the stablemaster told her.
    â€œA friend is what I need,” Gatty replied.
    â€œAnd she’s tough. She’ll go day and night.”
    â€œWhat’s her name?” asked Gatty.
    â€œSyndod.”
    â€œWelsh!” Lady Gwyneth called out. “Wonder! Marvel! Show her to Emrys.”
    Lady Gwyneth made a fine choice too: a beautiful Arab, a grey with gentle, wide-apart eyes and a silken mane.
    â€œThe best horse I’ve had in years,” the stablemaster said. He combed the Arab’s mane with his fingers. “Jerusalem,” he said. “Arabia. Those parts. That’s where he comes from.”
    Emrys approved of Lady Gwyneth’s choice. “He’ll have a temper on him,” he warned her. “Arabs do.”
    â€œBut his eyes!” said Lady Gwyneth.
    â€œI know,” said Emrys. “He’ll have a temper but he’s gentle, he is.”
    One by one, as the lemon sun swung up into the sky, Emrys helped each pilgrim to choose a horse or a pony. Austin was the last to decide, and he picked a fine white Andalusian horse.
    â€œSaviour,” the priest announced. His eyes were like knife points. “Saviour!”
    Lady Gwyneth clapped her hands.
    â€œIs that everyone?” asked Emrys. And by the time he and Sayer had sorted out sweat-pads, saddles, bridles, bits, and all the other tack, and checked that each animal was well-shod, it was already noon.
    The pilgrims walked their mounts round the yard, getting to know them a little, getting the feel of being up in the saddle, and Nakin pulled coin after coin out of the stiff leather pouch stitched to his belt, and gave them to the stablemaster.
    â€œAll right, then,” Sayer said. “You can sell these horses, any of them, to the livery stable at Treviso. Or you can leave them there while you sail to Jerusalem, and collect them on your way back home without further