Chapter 5 5: noble horsemanship

------------------------- If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know. Leave a comment; support is always appreciated. I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see. ------------------------------- Father didn't return until several months later.He came back after what seemed to be a successful campaign to cleanse the forests. He brought with him new trophies, more dead beasts, and an air of victory in every step. But I never knew exactly what happened out there. Obviously, no one discussed real matters in my presence. I had too many things to do. Most of the day I had to spend watching the training of the men-at-arms. They sat me near the field so I would listen to the shouting, the clashing swords, the orders, the footsteps, the insults. All so that, according to them, I would start becoming familiar with the sounds of war. Then I had to go to Sigmar's chapel, where the daily lessons continued. They weren't of much use anymore. Since I had completely mastered Reikspiel, the only remotely useful part was observing the writing sessions when the priest drafted letters. Sometimes he spoke aloud while doing it, which allowed me to learn the formal structure of imperial missives—the greetings, the titles, the seals, the tone. The rest was repetition. And finally, the day ended in a room of the castle where several children my age were gathered. They were the sons of father's knights and of the most distinguished men-at-arms.It was supposed to be a time for "playing", of course. But the real purpose was to build loyalty bonds from childhood. To force friendships that would later become alliances or influence networks. It wasn't hard to notice how some fathers who were present as guards made gestures to their children so they would approach me. Sometimes they simply took them by the hand and left them in front of me, with an awkward smile, as if that was enough to forge a connection. The games were the typical ones for small children: wooden pieces, little carved soldiers, toy swords, crude dice. But for me... it was unbearable.Having to pretend I was having fun. Enduring so many loud and clumsy children around me.Acting like this was natural, when it wasn't.It was like having to watch cheap theater every day... and being forced to perform in it. That was the routine for several months. Time passed relatively quickly. Maybe because there were more things to do than simply staring at the ceiling of the room. My daily schedule kept revolving around fake education, passive training, and forced social games. The only real interruptions to that monotony were the religious festivals, celebrated every now and then in the village. There weren't many, but when they came, everything stopped. But beyond that, nothing distracted me too much from the usual. Weeks became months. And the months passed just the same as always: training that wasn't really training, classes that no longer taught me anything, pretend games with children who could barely form a sentence without drooling. And so, my fourth birthday arrived—approximately, if what father said about my birth was accurate. As I had already become used to, no one celebrated my birthday.It wasn't strange. In these lands, birthdays weren't something to celebrate, unless you were rich enough to afford a banquet, hire musicians, or hand out bread to the peasants. My father wasn't in a position to spend on that, not now, not with his pockets tight from the heavy investments in the Grey Mountains mines. Extraction of ore had already begun in some areas, and every coin went to tools, workers, sentries, protection. Celebrating the birthday of a four-year-old wasn't on the list of priorities. But I did receive a gift.One very different from what any other child would expect. And of course, it was also a test. One of the things our fief produced was warhorses, since apparently there was a herd in some village, and ever since my family took control of Reinsfeld four generations ago, they had been producing good horses sold among the local nobility. My father took me to the training yard and, without saying a word, pointed to the corral. There she was: a young mare, light brown coat, nervous, with twitching ears. You could still tell she had been weaned recently. Small, but strong. "She's yours now," he said, without looking at me. "Your steed. You'll learn to ride her. And more importantly, to care for her."He gave me no further explanation. From that day on, the mare became entirely my responsibility. It wasn't enough to climb on her back. I had to learn how to feed her, clean her, keep her calm, understand when she was nervous and why. A stableboy explained the basics to me, but didn't help much. They saw it as part of my education, a necessary step.Another task. I had no intention of climbing on her right away. I knew very well that falling off a horse, even a young one, could be more than just a bump. One wrong move and you'd fall badly... and break your neck. Or a rib. I think there are a lot of historical references about important people who died from falling off horses. The mare wasn't trained. She barely tolerated anyone approaching. She wasn't aggressive, but neither was she trusting. She moved her head nervously and stomped the ground with one of her hooves if someone stared at her for too long. So I started the proper way. I went to see her every day, before and after my other duties. I brought food—grains of wheat, carrots when I could find them, slices of apple. I stood in front of her without getting too close, left the food on the ground, crouched, and waited. Sometimes she ignored me. Sometimes she looked at me with those dark eyes that say everything without saying anything. But she didn't run. With time, I began talking to her. No nonsense. I told her about what I saw, the absurd classes, the training sessions, what I thought about all this. It didn't matter if she didn't understand the words. The calm tone, the steady rhythm... that she did understand. Days went by. Then weeks. She now let me stroke her neck without moving or tensing. Later, she allowed me to touch her back, and eventually her muzzle—though I always did so cautiously at first. I breathed slowly, made no sudden movements, and always kept my voice low. I talked to her while doing it, as if that might soothe her, or at least get her used to my presence. When she no longer pulled away or turned her head suspiciously, I began brushing her coat. I used the old brushes from the stable, worn from use, but still good enough to remove dust and dirt. Sometimes I did it after training with the other children, before going to the chapel, or at the end of the day, when there was barely any light left in the sky. She no longer looked at me with distrust. She already recognized me each time she saw me approach. She would bring her muzzle closer, slightly shake her head, and remain still while I moved around her. I no longer had to talk to her as much. The bond was already formed. Fortunately, father didn't pressure me... too much. I saw him sometimes from the yard or from one of the high castle windows. Always silently watching. He said nothing, but it was clear he was observing every step, every bit of progress. I suppose seeing how I handled the mare convinced him he didn't need to push me. He knew I'd do it, but at my own pace. And so, when I felt it was reasonably safe, the time came. I put on the saddle they had given me weeks before. It was good quality, though clearly modified for training: no stirrups. A direct order from my father, according to what the stableboy explained to me. "Your lord says that if you don't learn to ride using only your legs, you'll become too dependent on the stirrups. So you'll have to learn without them," said the boy as he helped me up. The mare grew restless as soon as she felt the change in weight. She stepped sideways abruptly, tossed her head in discomfort, and for a moment I thought she might lose control. But she already knew me. I spoke to her as I always did, in a low, firm, steady tone. My hands touched her neck right where I knew it calmed her. She settled again. Nothing more was needed. The stableboy took the reins and began guiding her around the yard. A short route, slow, barely a controlled trot. I squeezed my legs as tightly as I could. I leaned slightly forward to match the rhythm. The movement was rough, uneven. I had to adjust my balance with every step. And that's how I spent most of the day.Riding. Squeezing my thighs hard. Correcting my balance with every step. Every minute was exhausting, and although I didn't show it, my legs trembled with every lap we took around the yard. Finally, the Sigmarite priest arrived. The stableboy helped me down, and I walked toward him with unsteady steps, my legs trembling as I walked. But before I could leave with him as I did every day, father stepped closer. "Blessings of Sigmar, priest of the warrior god. I would like to ask how everything is going with my son's education," said my father, with a respectful tone. More than I was used to hearing from him. "Blessings of Sigmar, honorable son of the Empire," replied the priest, slightly bowing his head. "Your son displays knowledge far beyond that of his peers. I do not err in saying Sigmar has a great future in store for him. He will not disappoint when the time comes to fight the evil that corrupts these lands. His reading skills have truly amazed me, and I've even taught him to write. This boy has managed to memorize large parts of the Life of Magnus the Pious." I saw father's chest swell with pride.Standing out had paid off. "Perfect... then I believe it would be ideal for him to stop attending the chapel," he said, now with a smile stretching across half his face. "He should focus on mastering skills that will serve him in the future. Now that he's begun riding, I think it's better for him to practice that instead of continuing to perfect something he's clearly already mastered." The priest frowned slightly. "I would advise against that. Your son has a gift. He could have a great future among the servants of Deus Sigmar, especially considering he is your second son, not your heir. To waste his talent simply to make him a replacement for his brother would be a great mistake. He could have a true destiny in divine service," he said with a serious voice. "I take your recommendation into account, priest. But the one who is my heir is not even worthy of carrying my name. All my hopes are in him." Father spoke with gravity. "I don't need another book lover in the family. I believe he already has the skill needed to manage his noble duties in the future. I thank you for your work, priest." Father paused briefly, then added, "I'll make sure your chapel receives a generous donation for your time. You've done a great job with him, but now it's time for him to begin preparing his body to serve Sigmar by protecting these lands and eliminating any abomination that dares set foot on them." The priest lowered his head slightly, saying nothing more. And with that, the matter was settled. The priest finally withdrew, and father looked at me intently. "Come, Albrecht. To the horse. You see, when I have to send you as a page to another house, you must already have mastered the skill of riding, or you'll disgrace me... like your brother." said father, nodding toward the mare. I nodded silently and walked toward the corral. The stableboy was already waiting for me, and with his help, I mounted again. ------------------------- If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know. Leave a comment; support is always appreciated. I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see. -------------------------------