Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [21]
The king nodded sagely. “That is why my grays are not running,” he said. And then laughed. “Besides, I would not have it whispered behind hands for the rest of the year that my pair won only because the other horses were tired!”
All the men laughed at that. “And another good reason for Braith not to run,” agreed Hydd. “Whoever takes the prize will know he took it fairly, and those who lose will know they lost it fairly.”
The last four teams lined up, and the crowd fell silent. The four drivers leaned forward a little, knees loose, eyes on the turn at the far end of the course. Their teams had all been given a rest and been wiped down. And now it was not just the men who were gathered to watch the race; word had spread that this was the prize race, and the boys and young men had come from the contests, the older women from their cooking and talk, the maidens and the few maiden warriors from their dances and flirtations and contests of their own. They lined the side of the course nearest the camp, leaving the other free so that a team in trouble had a side to pull off to without endangering the spectators. The tension in the air made Gwen’s heart race, and her mouth felt as if it were full of dust.
The king solemnly stepped forward; with deliberation, he eyed each of the drivers in turn, then, looking at the sky so that he could not have been said to have cued a driver before time, waited until all was so still that only the distant metallic clatter of the rooks on the castle roof broke the silence, and then he shouted.
The teams shot off, showing no sign of being weary. Without Braith driving, without her father’s precious grays at risk, Gwen was able to simply watch them with the same excitement as everyone else.
The cheering started immediately, and did not abate; even if someone had not had a favorite before this race began, he’d picked a favorite by the time the horses were halfway to the grove.
The flags went up and the teams turned; it was a close race, so close that at this point anyone could win.
And then one of the two centermost teams stumbled.
The crowd gasped as one; for a moment the heads of the horses vanished under the dust, and Gwen’s heart stopped. Had they fallen? Had one of the horses, Epona forbid, broken a leg? That would be a terrible omen as well as a disaster—and worse still would be if the chariot had gone over, the driver thrown, to break a leg, an arm—a back—his head—
That had happened once a few years ago; she had been too little to be allowed near the course, but she remembered it, the wails of the women, the lamenting around the body, brought back to lie in solemn state on a swiftly cleared table. And that had been a horrible winter too—
But her heart leaped as the horses’ heads appeared again, far behind the others but not down—they moved slowly off the course, the off-side one limping, but that was the worst of it, pulled up lame.
She turned her attention back to the remaining teams, who thundered on, until with one tremendous effort, the team that had been farthest behind leaped forward, while the crowd screamed. Gwen shouted; the horses strained, and at the very last moment, they pulled a head-length in front of the team that had been winning.
The three teams pounded past as the drivers slowed them, turning them in a great circle to bring them back to the king and his men. The rest of the company swarmed around the winner as soon as it was safe; they gathered up the driver on their shoulders, and Gwen reckoned that if they could have gathered up the horses as well, they would have.
No one seemed to take thought for the poor loser leading his horses back to the picket line. Gwen’s eyes flicked between him and the winner for a moment. Then she ran