Giles lifted his dripping body upright.
‘Well,’ he muttered, ‘for good or bad, that means its work is done.’
A bell tinkled softly from the convent on the hill. Barbara, perhaps, ringing to be let in.
He looked again at Midnight. Dared he push on yet? Brave Midnight! She seemed somewhat less droopy, and her breathing calmer. A light breeze came whispering down the river, very chilly to wet skins. Suddenly the mare raised her head and pawed the water as though she would be glad to be out of this.
Taking her by a long bridle, Giles set off towards the shore. Going ahead very, very carefully he felt out every yard of the way with his feet, on guard for hidden holes or sudden drops. And though the depths kept changing—sometimes breast-high, sometimes no more than a few inches—he finally crossed the whole distance to the land without mishap.
Directly he was clear of the mud and reeds along the water’s edge, he swung himself into the saddle and patted Midnight on the neck.
‘Now, old friend,’ he whispered, gathering the reins in his hands, ‘you’ve shown a brave spirit. But your trickiest work still lies ahead. We’ve got to get to the top of that hill, to the main gate of the convent, as fast as it can possibly be done. And it’s very little help that I can give you. Get to it now and warm yourself up.’
The mare, as though she understood his words and knew the great importance of her help, never showed her sure-footed cleverness better than she did that night. Her rider barely once drew the bit against her mouth. In a moment, as if by magic, she had found a trail. It might have been an old disused tow-path or something of the kind. And, while it had plenty of breaks and wash-outs along it, it led in the right direction, inland. Midnight turned her back to the sea and followed it. There were stretches where trees and high alders, overhanging the way, shut out even the poor light of stars and waning moon. But not even the pitch-dark seemed to hinder her greatly. She covered the ground in short, quick rushes. Every once in a while she would pull up sharp, sniffing, snorting and pawing—as though by some unknown sense, she knew that here a bad place lay, some hidden danger or a bend in the trail. Then in a moment, full of comfortable confidence, she would rattle along again—over gravel, turf or rock—a man could only tell the nature of the going by the sound.
Giles had often said that his beloved mare could see in the dark. Certainly anyone who had watched her then must have admitted that for this sort of work she had no equal. The King never gave a finer gift than this queen among horses—nor named one better, Midnight.