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Authors: Stacy Gregg
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the top half of the Dutch door on the first stall, slid the bolt and swung it open. There was a soft nicker from the stall and Marius appeared, craning his neck over the door to greet them.
“You know Marius, of course,” Francoise said, reaching her hand up to stroke the nose of the grey stallion. Issie looked at Marius. Even though this horse was a fully grown stallion and Storm was still a colt, Issie could already see striking similarities between father and son. If she had ever had any doubts that Marius was Storm’s sire, taking one look at the stallion made her absolutely certain that they shared the same blood. It was evident in the classical topline, the strong neck, shoulders and haunches. Marius was big for a Lipizzaner, almost sixteen-three hands high. Would Storm grow as big as his mighty sire? Would he look like this when he grew up?
Issie felt a shiver run through her. If she didn’t find out who had stolen Storm, she might not have the chance to see him grow up at all.
Francoise grabbed a bridle off the hook behind her. “We only have Spanish saddles here, I hope that is OK?They are quite different from the English ones, so I will show you how to tack up…”
Issie was confused. “We’re going riding? I thought we were just taking a tour of El Caballo.”
“We are!” Francoise responded brightly. “Did you think I was just showing you around the stables? I meant a tour of the land itself. And for that…” she said as she walked over to the next loose box, “…you will need a horse.”
Francoise stood in front of the loose box and made a clucking sound with her tongue. “Come on, Angel,” she said, softly coaxing. “It’s OK, boy, it’s me. I’ve brought someone to meet you.” At the sound of Francoise’s voice, the horse at the back of the stall gave a nicker and stepped forward into the light, thrusting his magnificent head out over the Dutch door.
He was a stallion, almost as big as Marius, and so handsome! Issie stared up at him. His face had the elegance of a classical Andalusian, with wide-set, soulful eyes and a dark, sooty muzzle. Unlike Marius, who still had grey dapples, this stallion’s coat was absolutely white, as pure as parchment. His mane tumbled over his neck and shoulders, lustrous and pearly, like the foaming white crest of a wave.
The great beauty of this horse made it all the moreupsetting for Issie when she saw the scars. On the bridge of the stallion’s nose, just where the noseband would normally sit, was a series of jagged gashes that had healed to form ugly scar tissue. The scars must have been caused by deep cuts into the stallion’s flesh. The wounds were so profound they had left these heartbreaking marks as a legacy, destroying the stallion’s otherwise perfect beauty.
Issie reached out a hand and touched the stallion’s muzzle. He gave a soft nicker as she gently stroked his noble face, her hand running over the bumps and lumps, as if she were reading them like Braille beneath her fingers.
“How did he get these?” Issie asked Francoise.
“They were part of his training,” Francoise said quietly. Issie was shocked.
“No, no,” Francoise shook her head. “Not here. Please understand, Isadora, we did not do this to Angel. It was a rival stable. The hacienda of Miguel Vega. Vega is a great horseman—but a cruel one too. In Spain, there is a special noseband called a
serreta
. The
serreta
has sharp metal teeth that dig into the bridge of the horse’s nose until he submits. It is very cruel. Throughout Spain, the
serreta
is considered an instrument of torture and is now banned. However, some horsemen, including Vega, continue to use them, even though it causes the horses unbelievable pain.”
Issie ran her hand over Angel’s scars once more. “So the
serreta
did this to Angel?”
“Miguel Vega did it to him,” Francoise said angrily. “Angel once belonged to him. Vega put the
serreta
on him when he was less than a year old—to
“You know Marius, of course,” Francoise said, reaching her hand up to stroke the nose of the grey stallion. Issie looked at Marius. Even though this horse was a fully grown stallion and Storm was still a colt, Issie could already see striking similarities between father and son. If she had ever had any doubts that Marius was Storm’s sire, taking one look at the stallion made her absolutely certain that they shared the same blood. It was evident in the classical topline, the strong neck, shoulders and haunches. Marius was big for a Lipizzaner, almost sixteen-three hands high. Would Storm grow as big as his mighty sire? Would he look like this when he grew up?
Issie felt a shiver run through her. If she didn’t find out who had stolen Storm, she might not have the chance to see him grow up at all.
Francoise grabbed a bridle off the hook behind her. “We only have Spanish saddles here, I hope that is OK?They are quite different from the English ones, so I will show you how to tack up…”
Issie was confused. “We’re going riding? I thought we were just taking a tour of El Caballo.”
“We are!” Francoise responded brightly. “Did you think I was just showing you around the stables? I meant a tour of the land itself. And for that…” she said as she walked over to the next loose box, “…you will need a horse.”
Francoise stood in front of the loose box and made a clucking sound with her tongue. “Come on, Angel,” she said, softly coaxing. “It’s OK, boy, it’s me. I’ve brought someone to meet you.” At the sound of Francoise’s voice, the horse at the back of the stall gave a nicker and stepped forward into the light, thrusting his magnificent head out over the Dutch door.
He was a stallion, almost as big as Marius, and so handsome! Issie stared up at him. His face had the elegance of a classical Andalusian, with wide-set, soulful eyes and a dark, sooty muzzle. Unlike Marius, who still had grey dapples, this stallion’s coat was absolutely white, as pure as parchment. His mane tumbled over his neck and shoulders, lustrous and pearly, like the foaming white crest of a wave.
The great beauty of this horse made it all the moreupsetting for Issie when she saw the scars. On the bridge of the stallion’s nose, just where the noseband would normally sit, was a series of jagged gashes that had healed to form ugly scar tissue. The scars must have been caused by deep cuts into the stallion’s flesh. The wounds were so profound they had left these heartbreaking marks as a legacy, destroying the stallion’s otherwise perfect beauty.
Issie reached out a hand and touched the stallion’s muzzle. He gave a soft nicker as she gently stroked his noble face, her hand running over the bumps and lumps, as if she were reading them like Braille beneath her fingers.
“How did he get these?” Issie asked Francoise.
“They were part of his training,” Francoise said quietly. Issie was shocked.
“No, no,” Francoise shook her head. “Not here. Please understand, Isadora, we did not do this to Angel. It was a rival stable. The hacienda of Miguel Vega. Vega is a great horseman—but a cruel one too. In Spain, there is a special noseband called a
serreta
. The
serreta
has sharp metal teeth that dig into the bridge of the horse’s nose until he submits. It is very cruel. Throughout Spain, the
serreta
is considered an instrument of torture and is now banned. However, some horsemen, including Vega, continue to use them, even though it causes the horses unbelievable pain.”
Issie ran her hand over Angel’s scars once more. “So the
serreta
did this to Angel?”
“Miguel Vega did it to him,” Francoise said angrily. “Angel once belonged to him. Vega put the
serreta
on him when he was less than a year old—to
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