Page 23 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)
R achel wasn’t sure what she’d expected when Hugo thundered across the courtyard that morning, red beard wild, announcing his intention to make her “useful in ways beyond aught the kitchen might require.”
She certainly had not expected to find herself standing in the castle’s training yard, staring at what appeared to be a small mountain disguised as a horse.
“That,” she said, pointing at the beast in question, “is not a horse. That’s a four-legged death machine with anger management issues and a serious attitude problem.”
The destrier—because of course Hugo had selected the largest, most intimidating horse in the entire stable—stood seventeen hands of pure muscle and barely contained violence.
Its coat was black as midnight, its eyes held the cold intelligence of something that had probably trampled entire armies, and when it looked at her, she was fairly certain she could see her own demise reflected in those dark depths.
“This is Goliath,” Hugo said with the quiet pride of someone introducing a beloved nephew.
Despite his massive frame and collection of battle scars, his voice carried an unexpected gentleness when speaking of the horse.
“Finest warhorse in three counties. Strong as an ox, swift as the wind, and gentle as a lamb once you earn his respect.”
“Gentle as a lamb,” Rachel repeated faintly, watching Goliath paw the ground with hooves the size of dinner plates. “Right. And I suppose earning his respect involves some sort of ritualistic combat where only one of us survives?”
Hugo’s laughter boomed across the lists.
“Nay, mistress. Goliath and I have an understanding, don’t we, lad?
” He reached up to stroke the massive neck with hands that were surprisingly gentle despite their scars.
“He was Tristan’s mount in France, ere everything went to hell.
Saved my life at Tewkesbury when I was too drunk on glory to watch my back. ”
The casual mention of shared battles made her look at Hugo more carefully. There was something in his weathered face when he spoke of war—a shadow that suggested he’d seen things no one should have to witness.
“You fought together?” She asked, curiosity replacing her fear of the horse.
“Aye, since we were lads barely old enough to hold a sword properly,” he replied, his broken-toothed grin softening with memory.
“I was the second son of a minor lord, he was heir to Greystone. Should have made us enemies by all rights, but Tristan never gave a fig for such nonsense. Shared his bread when I had none, covered my back when I made stupid mistakes, listened to my tales of heartbreak without laughing too loudly.”
He patted Goliath’s neck with obvious affection. “This one threw me four times ere I learned his ways. Stubborn as a mule, proud as a peacock, but loyal unto death once you’ve proven yourself worthy of his trust. Rather like his master in that regard.”
The training yard smelled of dust and leather, horse sweat and metal, with undertones of something that was probably blood from various training mishaps over the years.
The morning sun beat down mercilessly on the packed earth, already promising another hot summer day that would leave everyone wilted and seeking shade.
Rachel wiped the sweat from her brow and tried to project an aura of confidence she absolutely did not feel.
“Okay. Horseback riding. How hard can it be? People have been doing this for centuries, right? It’s basically just... sitting. On something that moves. And has opinions about whether it wants you sitting on it.”
“’Tis a conversation,” Hugo said seriously, moving to adjust the stirrups with practiced efficiency. “The horse speaks with his body, his ears, the way he holds his head. You must learn to listen if you hope to be heard.”
His approach was methodical, patient in a way that spoke of someone who’d taught many young knights the basics of staying alive.
“Watch his ears, see? Forward means curious, back means annoyed. The key is to match his rhythm, not fight it. Fighting will only exhaust you both and likely result in your meeting the ground with considerable force.”
“Communication,” she said, eyeing Goliath’s impressive teeth. “Right. What language does he speak? Because my medieval is still pretty shaky, and I’m guessing horses don’t do Google Translate.”
“Body language, mostly,” Hugo replied, continuing his patient adjustments while speaking in the calm, reassuring tone of someone who’d coached terrified squires through their first encounters with warhorses.
“Show him you’re confident, and he’ll respect you.
Show fear, and he’ll sense it swift as lightning. ”
“And then trample me into paste?”
“Well,” Hugo said thoughtfully, checking the girth with practiced hands, “probably not paste. Goliath has excellent manners when he chooses to use them. More likely, he’ll simply deposit you gently in the dirt and look at you with disappointment.
He was trained by the finest horsemasters in Yorkshire, not some ham-fisted village farrier. ”
“Oh great,” she muttered, accepting the reins and happy to see her hands were barely trembling. “Disappointed horse judgment is definitely what I needed today.”
The leather reins felt strange in her hands, worn smooth by countless other hands that had probably known what they were doing. The smell of horse was overwhelming this close—not unpleasant, exactly, but reminded her she was definitely not in Kansas anymore.
“Now then,” he said, positioning himself beside her with the patient air of someone who’d taught countless squires the basics of staying alive in a medieval world.
“Left foot in the stirrup, hands on the pommel, and up you go. Swift and sure, like you belong there.”
“Swift and sure,” Rachel repeated, trying to psych herself up. “I can do swift and sure. I once parallel parked in downtown Chicago during rush hour. This is basically the same thing, right? Just with more potential for being thrown into the air and landing in a very undignified heap.”
She put her foot in the stirrup, grabbed what she hoped was the pommel, and attempted to hoist herself up with all the grace and athleticism of someone whose primary form of exercise was walking to the coffee shop.
What followed could generously be described as a learning experience.
Rachel made it approximately halfway up before Goliath decided he’d had quite enough of this particular experiment and took a decisive step sideways.
She dangled from the saddle like a very ungraceful ornament, one foot caught in the stirrup, the other windmilling frantically in the air, getting caught in her skirts, while Hugo provided steady encouragement that was actually helpful rather than condescending.
“Easy now,” he said calmly, moving to steady Goliath’s bridle while offering coaching that spoke of genuine teaching experience.
“Don’t let go, but don’t grip so tightly you strangle the poor beast. He’s testing you, seeing if you’ll panic or keep your wits.
Use your legs to push yourself up—the saddle can bear your weight. ”
“Use my legs for what?” She gasped, trying desperately to swing her free leg over the horse’s back while Goliath continued his sideways shuffle. “Flying? Because that seems to be my only option at this point!”
“For balance and strength,” Hugo replied with unshakeable patience, one massive hand steadying her ankle while the other calmed the horse with practiced strokes.
“Trust yourself, mistress. You’re stronger than you think—I’ve seen you haul water buckets that would challenge smaller men.
This is the same principle, merely... higher. ”
She managed to get her leg over, only to discover that medieval saddles were apparently designed by people who’d never heard of comfort, ergonomics, or basic human anatomy. The leather was hard as stone, the stirrups were the wrong length, and she was fairly certain she was sitting backward.
“Am I facing the right direction?” she asked, looking down at Hugo’s encouraging face.
“Well,” he said diplomatically, his eyes twinkling as a snort escaped, “you’re sitting on the horse.
’Tis a start, though mayhap we should adjust your position ere you attempt to ride backwards into battle.
Goliath is accomplished, but even he cannot manage to see where he’s going whilst traveling hindquarters-first.”
Twenty minutes, three near-disasters, and one moment where she was fairly certain she’d achieved actual flight later, Rachel had managed to orient herself correctly on Goliath’s back.
She felt like she’d climbed a mountain, run a marathon, and wrestled a bear, all while wearing clothes that were designed by someone who’d never seen a woman move.
“Excellent!” Hugo said with genuine pride, wiping sweat from his brow. “You’ve the makings of a proper horsewoman. I’ve seen knights with years of training show less grace in their first attempts.”
He patted her foot.
“Now, shall we try walking?”
“Walking,” Rachel said weakly, gripping the reins like they were the only things standing between her and certain doom. “Just walking. Nothing fancy. No galloping, no jumping, no... What’s the word... caracoling?”
“Caracoling is for show-offs and courtiers trying to impress ladies,” Hugo assured her with the authority of someone who’d witnessed many such displays.
“We’ll start with a gentle walk around the yard.
Just squeeze gently with your legs, and Goliath will respond.
He’s been trained to obey the slightest pressure—no need to kick him like some village plow horse. ”
Goliath, apparently tired of standing still while the humans discussed his participation in their educational endeavor, decided to take matters into his own hooves.
He lurched forward with the enthusiasm of a creature who’d been bred for charging into battle, not strolling gently around training yards with nervous beginners.