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Chapter Text

October 1785

To experience a storm on Thisby is to understand, intimately, the depth of your faith. 

Faith in the roof over your head, faith in whatever god you pray to, and faith that the ocean won’t swallow the ground from beneath your feet. On this night, as the wind whipped violently around the walls of the great stone barn and rattled the shuttered windows of each stall, George was doing his best to keep the horses from breaking themselves apart. He should have been tucked securely into his bed, and he had been, about an hour before, but on the wind before sleep could claim him came the familiar haunting cry of a capall uisce. 

And the night descended into madness.

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February 1778

In the late hours of evening, the little boy crept into the parlor, blanket in hand and sniffling back tears. His father looked up from his chair by the fire and set aside the book he’d been reading. “Ah, mo leanbh, come here, what is it?” He said reaching for the young child and, upon placing him on his lap, draped the boy's blanket around him. “Was it a nightmare?” 

The boy nodded into his chest.

“Ah, I see. Pray now, what was it about?” The little boy sniffled and buried his face into his father's chest. “Mo laochain, the only way to conquer your fears is to face them.” With a sigh disproportionately large to his little body, the boy said, “The sea was singing, and I was lost.”

“Well, that does sound familiar. I, too, have had the same dream.”

“You have?”

“Indeed, I have. In fact, I may have an answer to lay rest your worries.” The man shifted his son in his arms to better carry him and stood. “Come, let me tell you the tale of the island and the sea.” He said as they ascended the stairs. Once secured snuggly beneath a heavy quilt, the boy waited patiently for his father to make sure that the bedroom window was closed tightly against the steady rain and that the fire in the hearth was stoked enough to keep its’ warmth, before sitting down on the edge of his bed to begin the story thusly: 

“There once was a vast kingdom ruled by a powerful man. Some called him a king, others called him a god, but his sons called him Llyr. This kingdom was unlike any other, you see, for it was entirely underwater, save for one small island, far, far away from any civilized shore. And upon this island lived a woman. Some called her a queen, others called her a goddess, but her daughters called her Epona.”

One day, Epona was standing watch over her family upon the cliffs, when she noticed, far down below her, an intruder on her shores. Standing in the shallows, looking up at her, was a mighty red stallion. Epona descended the cliff path to meet this stranger. When he stepped from the water at her beckoning, his hooves turned to feet and hands, his mane into red hair, and his body into a man's. He introduced himself as Uisce and expressed his desire to court her hand in marriage.

Epona was amused and allowed him this bold remark, though, as a test of his loyalty she asked him to bring her the sea so she may have a piece of it for herself to hold. In turn she would grant him a wish. Uisce transformed himself back into a horse and disappeared into the sea for three days and three nights. On the dawn of the fourth day, he found Epona in the valley, watching over her herd and presented to her a pure white shell. When she pressed it to her ear the ocean whispered “Shhhhhh, shhhhhh.” 

True to her word, Epona granted him his wish, and in the spring, they welcomed a son.”

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“Shhhhhh, shhhhhh.” George whispers like the ocean as he ties silver bells to halters and weaves red ribbons in strands of threes and sevens into sleek manes, using different spells he knows will work best on each horse accordingly to quiet them. He can still hear the panic of the thoroughbreds on the far side of the stables as the roaring of both the rain and that rogue uisce continued relentlessly. 

Working fast, he grabbed a simple leather halter off the hook beside Arkady’s stall door and slipped inside while the stallion’s attention was preoccupied staring intently at the shuttered window of his stall wall. He could feel more than hear the low clucking in Arkady’s throat as he ran a hag stone up the line of his neck under the ridge of muscle from shoulder to ear, hoping the sound of the sea it holds will distract him from noticing the halter as George slipped it over his muzzle and fastened the buckle behind his ears before pocketing the stone. Arkady shook his mane vigorously before realizing he was free of the temporary spell and, the moment he noticed the door was wide open, he charged out into the aisle. George was doing his level best not to be dragged along but nearly powerless to stop him at any rate. What he was doing was foolish, but the threat outside must be dealt with before any semblance of order could be restored here.

Boy and beast scramble around the corner and barreled toward the huge doors at the end of the main aisle. Hollin, the groomsman, saw him coming and shouted a warning to the other stable hands to make way. Up ahead, young Digby was poised to open the door for them, and at a nod of George's head, the stable boy heaved to pull the straining bolt free of its slot, and staggered backward as the doors blew violently open. 

In the span of a heartbeat, George was drowning.

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“The boy was loved by all. He was his father's pride, his mother's love, and the adoration of all his sisters. Together they found happiness on the island, and it lasted for years.

But one day, Llyr realized he was missing a child, and upon finding out he had left the kingdom for another's domain, all the world knew his wrath for Llyr was a jealous god. He conjured a storm so violent upon the island that there was little difference between the sea and the sky. But like the island, the home Epona and Uisce had built for themselves held fast. Epona had faith they could weather this together, but Uisce could hear a song she could not. It called and called and called to him and his unhappiness grew. His son heard it too, but it did not have the same pull on him, and he tried to convince his father to hold fast. But the song of the sea grew too heavy on his heart, and he could not bear it. 

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There was no end between sea and sky and the island seemed as though it had disappeared in water. The only anchor he had left was Arkady. 

Which wasn’t much of an anchor to be relied upon as the animal he clung to was already becoming more sea creature than horse, with his lips pulled back into a ghastly grin no land animal had ever worn upon their face. George keened to him, attempting to prompt Arkady to rise to the challenge of the intruding capaill uisce , but the stallion was too consumed with the call of the nearly November Sea to pay heed to the boy's efforts. Instead, he picked up into a canter he could not keep up with. In a desperate attempt to regain footing of a situation he was quickly losing control over, George grasped his mane and swung himself onto the stallions back with the deftness of a maneuver executed hundreds of times from a life lived upon horseback. 

Instantaneously, without the barrier of saddle leather, he could feel the deadly magic of the capaill uisce clinging to his skin, the feeling of standing barefoot in the surf at high tide, sand sucking around ankles as the water rushes back out into the vast unknown. Resisting the urge to give over all control, George leaned as far forward on the horse's neck as he could, grabbing an ear and again keening directly into it. Arkady stopped in his tracks and flung his head back, snorting violently, but George didn’t let up. He could feel the low thrum building in the stallion's sides before he lifted his head to wind to bellow his challenge through the rain, except - 

The challenger was silent. He had been so focused on his mission to stop the threat to his father's horses he hadn’t noticed when the wild capall had gone. Arkady’s scream split the night and suddenly, he was running flat out through the storm, directly toward the eastern cliffs. 

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Uisce dashed out into the storm and his loving wife tried to follow. As deeply as it broke his heart, he could not stay. The rain washed away his human form and as he reached the edge of the surf his father rose from the waves and pulled him back under the water. Epona stood upon the shore and cried until she could cry no longer. Once the storm faded away with the last of her tears, her daughters ushered her back home where her son vowed to find his father and bring him back to them. To do this was to anger a god far more powerful than herself and she begged him not to, for she could not bear it. 

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Magic coursed through George's body, and he could barely move his hands to gain a better purchase on Arkady’s mane. Desperately he fished the hag stone from his pocket and began to weave it into a short three strand plait as close to the horse's ears as he could manage. Over low stone walls the stallion hurled himself at breakneck speed. George finished tying the knot at the end of the plait and soon enough, Arkady began to slow his pace, tossing his head in irritation but it was enough of a distraction for him to get the horse's attention. Drenched to the bone and breathing in what felt like more rain than air, he stroked Arkady’s shoulder in praise and listened for any sign of the challenger. 

Their sprint had brought them to the cliffs where George and his father had dredged up a few of the stables capaill, including the one beneath him. Hesitantly, he pressed his boot heels into the horse's side to urge him a bit further, he was certain he could see a figure ahead, or… no it was certainly two figures, but they were men, not the horse he had been looking for. George couldn’t quite make sense of it, the taller one was most certainly his father, proud shoulders squared, and chin lifted, a horseman on the ground as ever he was in the saddle, he was sure of it. Though he knew his father should be with the horses, not out here on the cliffs. Only an hour before, the last he’d seen of him as they’d ran out of the house together had been an encouraging wink and nod thrown his way before he parted ways for the brood mares' barn.

Before George could call out, there was a flash of something silver and, without warning, a massive wall of sea spray ascended into the sky, turning everything in his line of sight a foamy white against the bleak sky. From the face of this great wave, he had just a moment to make out the figure of a pearl white capaill uisce , mouth wide, teeth flashing as the lean, narrow head snaked out and tore away one of the men from his precarious position. Red painted a gruesome smile through the air and, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the wave carried both man and monster into the depths of the Scorpio Sea.  

Arkady threw his head up, skittering back with a squall. Scrambling not to lose his precarious seat, he held on like a leech and whispered soothing words to the stallion, working hard to calm him by turning in left hand circles. There wasn’t a moment to process what he had just witnessed. Once he’d settled, George realized the other man had approached and now stood at as safe a distance as he could. The sallow face that now looked up at him was one that shouldn’t be out here in the midst of this chaos. He was holding a knife.

“Cousin?” He asked. “Are you alright?”

“Young mister Baird, what are you doing here?” the older man asked in a curious tone that implied George was the one out of place.

“Looking for the capaill that was driving the horses mad -” he stopped and whipped his head around to scan the horizon near the cliffs, suddenly remembering.

“That wasn’t, it couldn’t have been -” panic began to rise in his throat. Arkady could sense it and began to paw the ground.

“What wasn't, dear boy?”

 He turned to Ambrose, desperation making his voice crack. “Where is my father?”

Ambrose looked at him levelly, the weight of his vulturous stare like ice driving into his heart. 

“I’m afraid, young man, that your father had the same intentions as you. I tried to talk sense into him before coming out here, that he would need more help than just this pitiful knife,” he said, examining the blade in his hand. "But desperation drives men to rash decisions. I’m afraid that white devil he so loved was the culprit. What was her name? Something to do with lotus flowers…” George was shaking his head, the rain washing his tears away as they fell. He could not bear it.

“Oh, that's right.” Ambrose said, nodding to himself. “Lien.”

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“Every year the capaill would return to the island, but to prevent losing any more of his children they were cursed to a monstrous form. Even their now blood thirsty nature could not sever the love the boy held for his father nor sway his efforts to find him, not even when he had grown to have sons and grandsons of his own. It is said that on the last day of his life, a red stallion came for him and carried him home to the sea.”

The little boy, on the verge of sleep, pondered his father's tale before asking. “Is that why I hear it sometimes?”

“Hear what?”

“The song.” The father stared at his son with undisguised adoration. “Yes, yes George, I do believe it is. There are many today who wave this tale aside as simply a story, but those of us who ride, those who pay tribute each November… I do believe our souls remember even if our minds do their best to conjure a reasonable answer for a modern age.” He stroked the boy's hair. “Do you feel better now that you know your soul?” 

The boy nodded. 

“There’s a good lad. Goodnight, mo loachain.”

The boy’s father gently kissed his head as he drifted off to dream of the sea.

Chapter Text

September 1801 

The hull of Reliant split the black waters of the Scorpio Sea steadily as it carried its passengers toward its destination, a small spit of an island, hours and days away from any semblance of society on the mainland. William Laurence, third son of Lord Allendale of Wollaton Hall, stood on the bow of the ship, watching as the soaring white cliffs of Thisby came into view. He stroked the folded edge of the envelope in his pocket with his thumb and could practically see his father’s script in his mind's eye, detailing his instructions. This was to be his home for the next several weeks, his task: to observe, test, and purchase a promising new breed of sport horse to introduce to his father's stock. 

Word had reached Lord Allendale's ear by way of Sir Edward Smith-Stanley, Earl of Derby, earlier that spring, of a breeder in the north who had managed to successfully introduce capaill uisce into his bloodlines, turning out colts and fillies with the most impressive endurance. Laurence knew very little about the creatures, with their presence in mainland lochs gone nearly extinct due to a mass effort to exterminate them, and their only safe harbour now being the infamous island populated by men mad enough to make a spectacle of racing them for tourists, if they didn’t die horribly in the process of making it to the starting line. 

Lord Allendale had turned his nose up at the idea of “pagan nonsense” until he saw firsthand the incredible twelve length win by Laetificat in the Derby at Epsom Downs in June. By the end of July his father had already been corresponding with Lord Ambrose Kensington of Strathbaird Yard to arrange a meeting for a potential business partnership. In August, Laurence was informed he was to be the ambassador for Wollaton’s Stables and secure a steady partnership should these horses prove to be a promising improvement worthy of a royal showing or determine if Laetificat’s prowess had only been a lucky roll of the genetic dice.

It was no secret why Laurence had been chosen for this mission, aside from the fact his eldest brother was busy preparing to make his step as the next Lord of the manor; Laurence and his father had never been on the best of terms and distance was the only balm on their rocky relationship. The catalyst of this rift steadily building between father and son had been Laurence’s attempt to run away to the Navy at the age of twelve. He hadn’t gotten as far as hoped before being intercepted by the estates steward, Mr. Jacobs, and brought marching back to Wollaton to face his punishment. They were simply too much alike to admit either of them were wrong in their convictions, and thus never reached an understanding.

Laurence  never meant to disappoint his father, but there was a restlessness inside him constantly insisting he find… something more . Following his second eldest brother's footsteps and going into the church was out of the question, the Navy was no longer an option, the next best thing he could hope for to offer a wife any sort of prospect for a respectable household, was continuing with family tradition and uphold Wollaton’s success as one of the nation's most respectable horse yards. Breeding stock for anything less than worthy of royalty was to fail and at this point in his life, that was not an option. If there was one last shred of trust his father had left in him, it was his natural, if not somewhat remarkable, inclination of horsemanship. The lush fields of Newmarket and Cheltenham were already spoken for by noble families of higher esteem and so, Thisby it was. 

As the ship made berth in the small harbour, Laurence could make out the figure of a slight man, with curly blonde hair, and the bearing of a nobleman standing in wait beside a gleaming black carriage pulled by two beautifully conformed chestnut coloured horses.  Laurence stepped down from his perch by the railing and was greeted by the captain. 

“I hope the last leg of your journey was to your satisfaction, Mr. Laurence.”

“Far more comfortable than the overland route, Captain. It was a pleasure.”

“The pleasure was all mine. Enjoy your stay and I will see you in a few weeks time. If you have any further request to make of me prior to your journey home, you may send instruction here.” Captain Riley handed him a business card with a forwarding address in Thurso. “I’m afraid my route around the isles only brings me by Skarmouth once a month.”

“Very kind, Captain, I’ll be sure to keep in touch. Any correspondence of mine can be forwarded to Strathbaird Yard.”

Captain Riley extended a hand in farewell and instructed a few of his men to bear Laurence’s luggage to the waiting carriage. Laurence made his way down the gangplank where he was greeted by the young man he spotted earlier.

“Mister William Laurence, I presume.” 

“You have the advantage of me.”

“Jeremy Rankin,” he said, holding out a hand. “Son of Lord Kensington.” Laurence accepted the hand, noting callouses of an equestrian built up on his palm which belied the initial impression of the monied heir he looked to be.  “Forgive me, I wasn’t aware Lord Kensington had a son at home.”

“I’ve only recently moved back to the island, having just graduated from Cambridge.”

“Ah! I was a student there myself.”

“An impressive establishment, isn’t it? I’d be happy to hear more from a fellow alumnus, though preferably out of this charming autumn drizzle.” As indeed the looming grey clouds above them had ceased to hold back the moisture they’d been accumulating throughout the day. Jeremy tapped the roof of the carriage with the handle of his walking stick - a beautifully fashioned horse head of metal - and with a snap of the reins and gentle word from the driver, the horses began a steady pace up the cobbled road and they picked up conversation where they had left off. 

The town of Skarmouth was not unlovely for a fishing village, Laurence observed. Each building along the main road was good friends with its neighbour but their facades all bore traces of individuality in the different coloured doors and carvings of horses, or fish, or boars, or unnamable creatures above porticoes and protruding gutter spouts, the smell of wood smoke from a stove or the whiff of freshly baked bread would occasionally cut through the sea smells of the harbour. Charming, but not a draw for any sort of society, not so far away from the mainland.

“Coming back to Thisby must be an adjustment.” Laurence said as he settled himself into the velvet seat of the carriage and the buildings began to grow further apart before giving way entirely to wide sea views out his righthand window, and sprawling greenery to his left.

“I do suppose I miss the mainland society but now having my inheritance secured, it is time I learn how to build my empire.” He gestured grandly to the rolling fields lined in stone walled fences to the series of barns and outbuildings along the road leading to the grand structure Laurence could just make out in the distant valley. Far on the horizon, the sky had that wide, expansive quality that suggested the abrupt end of a land mass and Laurence frowned, conjuring up the map of Thisby in his mind.

“Surely, if I remember correctly, Skarmouth isn’t the only town on the island.”

“Oh no, though Hastaway on the western shore is dubious at best, and Tholla… well, I’m not actually sure if Tholla counts as anything other than a gateway to the Farrows.”

“Lord, we truly are a long way from anywhere.”

“Indeed. This forsaken speck exists on spite alone.”

Laurence laughed at that, and his host shared an amused chuckle. His gaze landed back on the head of the walking stick resting between them.

“That is a fine bit of craftsmanship for, forgive me, is it carved of iron?” Jeremy lifted the walking stick up to observe in the fickle light of the late afternoon sun. “Indeed, it is. It makes it a very useful multipurpose tool on the Yard.”

Amused, Laurence asked. “Multipurpose?”

“For the horses.” He explained, nonsensically. Laurence could feel himself being drawn into a line of questioning he was afraid may make him look the fool. He raised an eyebrow to the man at his side. “I’m afraid I’m not quite following this line of logic.”

Rankins knowing smile was exactly what Laurence had expected and felt himself slightly rankled at being put in a position where he had the lower hand, but nevertheless carefully schooled his temper, a gentleman as always. 

“The capaill uisce, you see, do not follow the natural laws of equine nature. I know this is less than appealing an ideal to the Christian man, but the pagan population of this island had a method to their madness and no other means of handling the creatures has been nearly as effective.”

Ah, there it was. The witchcraft and superstition his father warned him about prior to the start of his journey. He had been dubious about the advice and confessed himself very surprised indeed to hear a fellow scholarly gentleman talk about it so candidly. His initial reaction was to wave off this remark as nonsense, but a small (very small) part of him was thrilled at this information. There was talking about it, by the hearth in the stateroom at Wollaton with a shared glass of brandy and a cigar well out of earshot of his mother, and then there was the reality of this… tool presented before him. 

“Pray what, exactly, does it do?”

“Oh, it is simply that they do not like the feel of it, for whatever reason. You lay iron against their skin and depending on the beast, they either begin to shiver as though they’re desperately trying to rid themselves of a swarm of flies or shy as though they’d been bitten. I once had a stallion lunge at me, and shoving the end of this stick against his chest had the same effect as a hot poker. Call it superstition if you like, but it can, and will save your skin at some point this month.” He handed it to Laurence. “Here, I have more where that came from.”

“Oh, goodness, I couldn’t possibly -”

“There is a church in town to absolve you of this "pagan nonsense" on Sundays if you wish, but, and I don’t say this lightly: you will need to accept the old ways here quickly, or it is your life. Which would be preferable, considering you’re the best conversationalist I’ve had the pleasure of speaking with in a while.” Laurence bowed his head and accepted the cane. “My gratitude.”

“Think nothing of it.” Jeremy said with an answering smile.

The carriage rolled to a stop in the courtyard. The footman opened his door and stood aside to let Laurence out. The house was a grand old thing, its ivy-covered stone facade and towering spires on all four corners were reminiscent of a time long past. Lord Kensington stood at the top of the stairs in front of the heavy oak doors and waited for them to ascend. He was older than Laurence had expected, and age had been kinder to older men than he. While dressed respectably in green and grey evening attire, it made him look drawn and sallow, which, along with his receding hairline and watery eyes, did not help to add to the impression he had possibly wandered directly out of a mire. 

“Welcome to Strathbaird House Mister Laurence.” 

“Your lordship.” Laurence said with a small bow. “I thank you for your invitation and give you my father's regards.” 

“It is my pleasure to host. I will have my staff bring your belongings to your rooms and tea will be ready within the hour. May I interest you in a glass of scotch in the meantime?”

“Thank you, however if it is all the same to you, I’d quite welcome the opportunity to stretch my legs after such a voyage.”

“Of course. Jeremy, I believe there is enough time to give Mister Laurence a tour of the main stables. I will meet you both in the dining hall at half past five.” Laurence and Rankin made their departure with a small bow and started across the courtyard. 

“Tell me more about these,” Laurence paused and carefully pronounced “capail ish-ka.” with a question implied at the word. Rankin laughed lightly and corrected him. “A common error, but as with any word of Celtic origin nothing seems quite straight forward about the language. The pronunciation you’re looking for is Oosh-ka. The plural and singular forms of capaill only change on paper with the addition of the “i” to indicate more than one, other than that both versions are pronounced “Cap-all”. 

“Ah, I appreciate the clarification.”

“Of course.”

They reached the entrance of the stable and Rankin gestured with an amiable “After you.” and to Laurence's confusion, found the heavy iron knob of the elaborately carved door only turned counterclockwise. He raised an eyebrow at his companion.

“Pagan nonsense?” 

“Pagan nonsense.” Rankin nodded, and then he ushered Laurence inside to behold a wondrous work of architecture more befitting the religious fervour of a cathedral than that of a stable for sport horses. Rankin allowed him a moment to gather his wits before leading him down the main aisle. Wonderingly, he took in the carved stone pillars that held up the vaulted ceiling, observing the elaborate carvings of men standing on the shoulders of other men gradually turning into horses up to the joint of the transverse ribs, where bronze celtic knots adorned each vault at its centre. Various paintings and sculptures of men with hooves for hands, women coughing up horses, and equine-like creatures with tentacles for manes and tails stood like the effigies of saints between each stall. If one omitted the comforting smells of hay, saddle leather, and horse sweat, this building could very well be considered a place of worship and he said so aloud.

“At one point it very likely was. As you can see, most of these stalls have been converted into more practical sizes.” Rankin pointed out the wood and steel dividers that had been installed at a later point in time from their original construction. The original stalls were nearly twice the size with thick stone walls between them and all reinforced with iron bars, elaborately carved sigils, and door handles that also only turned counterclockwise and swung inward instead of out. The occupants of these stalls were all immaculately groomed thoroughbreds, most of them curious enough of the newcomer to stick their heads over their stall doors in greeting. A particularly beautiful bay with a white blaze running down the length of her face gently whickered at him and Laurence smiled as he stroked the soft muzzle and gave her a scratch behind her ears. She wiggled her upper lip with pleasure and leaned into his attentions. 

“Who is this?” 

“This is Sauvignon.” Rankin said, reaching up to tousle her other ear. “She has quite a bit of potential or, so I’ve been informed. What say you Tharkay? Is she soon for the gallops?”

Laurence, surprised as he had not heard anyone approach, turned to find himself face to face with a striking and unexpectedly foreign man. His black hair was pulled back tightly into a knot so there was no mistaking the long, sharp features prominent under his teakwood skin and neatly trimmed beard were of eastern origin. The slightly hooked bridge of nose and dark brow being the only notable western features about him and his eyes - Laurence was rooted to the spot. The man's expression was inscrutable as he observed him slowly head to toe, before saying in clear, King's English. 

“I would say she may be fit for a first showing in time for the Auction, sir.” Laurence felt shame begin to prickle at him as the man, Tharkay, narrowed his dark eyes slightly in his direction as the mistake of his assumption must have shown plainly on his face.

“Forgive me,” Rankin said, breaking into the awkwardness of the moment. “I have been rude to not make introductions. This is our Head Trainer, Tharkay.” He said with a flippant gesture of his hand in the man's direction. “Tharkay, this our honoured guest Mister William Laurence of Wollaton Hall, Nottinghamshire. He is here as a business partner and is to be shown every courtesy. While I’m aware your duty is first and foremost to the livestock, I trust that hospitality is also up to your suit?”

“Of course, sir.” said Tharkay coolly. Laurence stood uncomfortably between the two men, having been prepared to offer his hand in greeting and now unsure if he should. Before anymore could be said however, a low roar thrummed through the stone around them before building to a crescendoing wail unlike anything he had heard before. The noise faded into a series of low clicks and whistles. Poor Sauvignon stood to attention, shivering in her skin and looking like she could break at any moment. 

“Good God, what the devil was that?” Laurence said, shaken. Rankin was giving him a knowing look that bordered on smugness, his silence an answer in itself. “Surely not - that couldn’t possibly be one of those monsters?”

“I’m afraid so. Tharkay if you would be so kind as to put an end to that noise. I can’t risk panic in this barn.”

“Not to worry, sir. I was just getting ready to take Arkady out for his exercise.” The trainer made to leave with a small nod of his head.

“Arkady?” Laurence asked, the name odd in his mouth. Tharkay paused and looked at him. 

“That monster.” And something in the way Tharkay calmly parroted his own words back to him made Laurence feel ashamed down to his bones. He straightened his back and nodded in conclusion to their conversation. Tharkay ducked into the tack room to fling a brightly polished saddle over his shoulder and a bridle with iron fittings before silently retreating down a branching aisleway. In the scant five minutes he had known the man, he’d managed to offend his most important contact not once, but twice.

This endeavour was off to a wonderful start. 

Chapter Text

18 August 1801

William, 

I pray this letter finds you well and at great haste. News reached me in Town that word has begun to circle around the Jockey Club regarding Lord Kensington’s confirmed success in introducing more capaill uisce blood into his breeding stock by way of advertisements posted of an auction he is holding at his estate this Autumn. To make matters more urgent, this news has apparently reached Lord Weatherby’s inner circles. Whether he is sending a representative to Thisby or not is to be determined but I am assured Mister Lenton of Roylott Stables will be present and that is concerning enough news as it is. 

It is on this note I leave to you your new instructions. You are to make all haste to Thisby. I have been in contact with Lord Kensington in regard to your lodging arrangements at Strathbaird Yard where you are to remain until his annual livestock auction on the 21st of October. It is imperative that you determine the best broodmares first, of which you will now acquire four, and the top colts, of which you shall select no less than five, and a sixth if there is one of particular quality that stands out to you. If there is anything I’m in full confidence of it is your judgment of a horse's performance both as an observer from the rail and under saddle. Do not tarry these next weeks, I expect a report back immediately following the auction so that I may have adequate support to await you on the mainland in order to ensure the livestock do not return to Wollaton lame. You have an allowance of 150 guineas per mare, and no limit in regard to the colts. I do not want to risk them being snatched out from under you. Manage this arrangement successfully and we may resume conversation about your desire to take over the mantle of Wollaton’s Stable Master upon your return.

Lord Allendale,

Wollaton Hall

Laurence read and reread the letter by the candlelight, the words leaping with each play of the flame flickering over the page in the subtle drought of the window. The instructions were brief and left no room for failure on his part. It was much too early for his hosts to be awake but Laurence, full of restless energy, could not convince himself to climb back under the covers. Instead, he rose from his desk and dressed in his warmest layers to weather the harsh cold of the predawn hours. Shrugging into his great coat, he quietly slipped out into the hall and made his way to the nearest exit. His rooms were in a secluded section on the second floor to allow him the comfort of his own suite, complete with access to a private stairwell that allowed him to come and go as he pleased without needing to trespass through the main hall. 

Immediately the chill of the morning tried to seep into all the crevices where cloth met exposed skin, and his breath hung visible in stark, white puffs in the air. He started down a path toward the stone fenced pastures as the low hanging sheets of clouds reluctantly allowed the morning light to seep through, dawning a sleet gray that cast the late autumn fields into a highly contrasting patchwork of green and brown extending all the way to cliffs. There was a calm in the air, an anticipatory breath being held so palpable it was a distraction to Laurence’s anxieties, and he found himself paying rapt attention to his surroundings more so than his father's voice in the back of his mind. Thisby wasn’t visually special by any standard, just another rock of many that were scattered around the northern mainland, so what was it that drew the capaill here more so than any other island? Moreover, why would the locals insist on settling here if the capaill were such a problem? If a problem they could even be considered, he’d yet to observe one for himself outside of a distant glimpse at Arkady on the gallops with Tharkay yesterday.

Tharkay.

Now there was a problem.  Laurence inwardly cowed at the memory of that level stare, not that he’d been completely undeserving of in his ignorance, but it rankled, nonetheless. Not the most auspicious of first meetings with the one man he would need to be on better terms with if he were to be successful. He knew how much pride Wollaton’s head trainer, Jones, took in his livestock and under no means would tolerate any casual insult to his life's work. He must make amends, and soon.

Cresting the last rise in the path, Laurence removed his top hat to let the sea breeze cool his brow against the perspiration of his excursion. And then the island abruptly ended, and Laurence understood. The sun had managed to pierce the clouds and bright shafts of God-rays cast golden ripples across the black surface of the sea, seagulls and cormorants danced on the currents, their cries carrying over the rushing of the waves breaking upon the rocky shore near a hundred feet below. He followed the progress of one brilliantly white bellied osprey as it dove toward the water, claws extended for an unsuspecting fish, but before it made contact it abruptly tried to divert its course as something large breached the waves in its path.

Laurence’s breath left all in a rush as a capall uisce broke the surface of the water, its jaws snapping tight around the bird of prey. A spray of blood marred the otherwise perfect iridescence of its pearl white coat before it dove, its sinewy spine and tail being the last he saw of the creature before it disappeared beneath the waves. There had been no indication, no discernable shape in the water before it launched its deadly attack with the precision of an apex predator. In all his experience with the horses he had grown up around and their docile demeanors, it was hard to reconcile the image of this equine creature behaving in the same manner he would akin to a shark. He stared at the place it had disappeared with a horrified fascination, before descending back down the path toward the estate.

____

Breakfast was a simple affair, and a meal that, despite his early rising, Laurence was nearly late for. He swept into the dining hall as coffee and toast was being served and Lord Kensington looked up from over his newspaper, The Courier, Laurence glimpsed from the uppermost edge. Idly he wondered how up to date the postal service was this far offshore. Shrugging off his coat and handing it to the valet at the door, he said, “My apologies, Lord Kensington. I found myself wandering farther afield than I intended while taking the air this morning.”

“Oh no, not at all,” said Kensington with a flippant gesture of his hand, turning his attention back to the paper for a brief moment before folding it and setting it aside. “We don’t stand too much on ceremony for the breakfast hour here. Did you enjoy your self-guided tour?”

“I did, thank you.” Laurence said as he poured his coffee and added cream and sugar to his tastes. “I found myself at the cliffs come sunrise, and I must say I can understand the appeal of this place, to an extent.”

“And to what extent might that be?” Rankin asked as he came into the room, barely stifling a yawn. Laurence took a sip of his coffee and ventured. “I had the pleasure of witnessing the hunting techniques of a capall.” Both men paused in their actions, Kensington with a spoon full of marmalade poised to spread on his toast, and Rankin part way to taking his seat. Laurence slowly set his cup back on its saucer and eyed Rankin wearily. 

“Is there something the matter?” he asked.

Rankin took his seat and reached for the butter. “Not necessarily but it is quite odd for you to have seen one so near to shore this early in the season, especially before the first week of October. Pray, how close was it?” He asked with more curiosity. 

“Perhaps forty or fifty yards from the base of the cliffs I’d wager. It was close enough to make out most detail when it snatched an osprey from the air. Pearl white, pink skin… is it possible for them to be albino? I’m afraid it wasn’t close enough to confirm by its eye color.” This statement only seemed to make matters worse. Father and son exchanged a glance and something about it made Laurence feel he was missing a vital piece of a puzzle. Kensington was the first to break the weighted silence.

“Like any creature, albinism is rare but can happen, even among the capaill uisce. However, the main difference between land horses with the mutation and the capaill is while horses have blue eyes, capaill present as most albino fauna do, with red eyes. The creature you saw today is a particular menace and has earned a reputation on this island. In fact, she is responsible for the death of my cousin.”

“I am sorry for your loss.” Laurence said with a bow of his head.

“Thank you for the kind sentiment,” Kensington responded, inexplicably adding a heaping teaspoon of butter into his teacup and topping it with a few dashes of salt. Laurence did his level best to school his reaction to what seemed a grievous crime on behalf of the tea as his host continued. “But my cousin, despite a lifetime of working with the beasts, made a dire error that cost him his life. A pity to be sure, considering he had not secured a future for the estate to pass onto after having put so much effort into his legacy. Which is where Jeremy here comes into the picture.”

“Just as well.” Rankin put in. “He was by far a better horseman than a businessman.” He passed the tray of condiments across the table to Laurence. “In any case, it may be best to keep your ventures further inland now that the sea is beginning to deposit the horses onto the shore again.”

“Beg pardon, but do they not come ashore at any other time of the year?”

“Not often, Thisby is more of a wintering ground for them as they migrate on the tides. October and November are particularly dangerous because they’re fresh from the sea, territorial, and hungry. The locals may have more superstitious notions but once again. Nonsense.” Rankin punctuated with a bite of his toast. They continued their meal in silence as Laurence mulled over this information. Lord Kensington dabbed at his thin mouth before folding his napkin and summoning a servant to fetch a pen and paper. 

“Given your sighting this morning, Laurence, I’m afraid we will need to delay business with Mister Tharkay. Feel free to take your time to settle in and familiarize yourself with the island. Though, I would strongly recommend staying away from the cliffs until I can have my men scout the area and determine where the capaill uisce are surfacing.” He finished his note and handed it back to the servant, requesting he deliver it to Tharkay with due haste. “We’ll reconvene around, say four o’clock this afternoon.”  

“Very good, sir. I had been meaning to venture into town.” Laurence said, rising as his hosts did and departing with a slight bow. Rankin followed him into the entry hall. “One more thing my father forgot to mention. When it comes to the horses this time of year, it is unlikely you will encounter any freshly surfaced capall near Skarmouth but it’s not unheard of to come across one along the high road. If you do have the misfortune of being sighted, it is imperative you do not run. The beasts love the chase almost as much as they love the feast.” Laurence raised an eyebrow as he shrugged his coat back on. Rankin picked up the iron horse topped cane and handed it to him. “I would offer to accompany you, but I’m afraid I must help my father with preparations.”

Laurence accepted the cane and raised it in acknowledgement of the advice. 

“I hope to avoid such an encounter, if possible, but nevertheless, I’ll be sure to utilize any means necessary.”

“God speed.” Rankin said with a dip of head and held the door for Laurence’s departure.

________

Laurence declined the carriage offered to him, opting to set out for town on foot. He had several hours to himself before his meeting and from what he had seen of the village yesterday, it wouldn’t take long to familiarize himself with his temporary residence. The weather remained cool and windy, carrying all the smells of the autumn sea inland to beckon him closer as he crested the top of the hill. Thisby came into view below him, the little town nestled into the crook of the harbor and built up into the cliffs surrounding it, small fishing vessels moored along the quay bobbing on the calm afternoon tide. He paused to admire its quaint charm before he caught the sound of hoofbeats over the lapping waves and calls of sea birds. Looking over the edge of the cliff he could just make out the form of a rider below him. The horse's color was brilliantly red, a shade he could more easily reconcile with freshly polished jasper than fathom on a flesh and blood animal. In an instant, the pair were off like a shot down the wide swath of sand to the south. Laurence was badly impressed.

Abandoning his journey into town, he instead allowed his curiosity to lead him down the steep cliff path in hopes of catching a better glimpse of the breathlessly fast chestnut. The final few yards to the sand were tricky to navigate where the tide had deposited its collection of stones and driftwood. Laurence swung his leg over a low-lying driftwood log and stumbled, the slick sole of his boot losing traction on the rocky terrain. Inelegantly righting his balance, arms akimbo he cursed as he felt a small twinge in his ankle. He made a grab for a wayward branch jutting up from the log, the broken end of it slicing deep into his palm, and he cursed. After a moment's deliberation with his hand clutched to his chest and regaining his composure, he decided to press onward. Rounding the side of a small grassy dune, his eyes trailed the hoofprints in the sand to the far end of the beach, where he could barely make out the speck of horse and rider against the chalk cliff that curved out to sea. 

Laurence worked his jaw, annoyed by the warm pulse in his joint warring with his desire to explore his temporary home and the knowledge that he will already have trouble making the long walk back to Strathbaird Yard if he didn’t tend to his injury sooner than later. In bitter disappointment, leaning on his cane, Laurence turned around.

And froze.

There was a horse, or, what he perceived to be a horse, standing beside the driftwood log he had stumbled over, sea dark with kelp tangled in its mane and tail. Except, it was all wrong. For one, its sheer height rivaled the largest of shire horses he had ever seen, including a particularly large gelding bred by his fathers friend Thomas Cleaver. Logically a creature of this size should have a conformance more akin to a draft breed than thoroughbred. Even more intriguing than its sleek athleticism, its ears were long and thin, as were its nostrils, which were blown wide as it sniffed along the branch still gleaming red with Laurences bloody handprint.

And then it began to lick away his blood with the same fervor as a wolf to its dinner.

Laurence backed away, horrified, a move he regretted instantly, his stomach sinking when the capall uisce snaked its head in his direction and hissed, lips pulled back in a gruesome snarl. A jolt of adrenaline unlike anything he’d felt before jittered down his legs as he bolted into a run, ankle be damned. Laurence was fast, he had always been fast, but no man could ever outrun a beast with four legs. The pounding of blood in his ears couldn’t drown out the four beat rhythm of his death bearing down on him.

In an instant his breath was driven from his lungs and there was sand all around him, gritty against his cheek and bitter in his mouth, an immense weight pinning him in place, the cane sprawling from his grip. From the eye that wasn’t pressed to the earth, he could see with perfect clarity the hoof next him and wondered at it. There were two extra toes on either side of its pastern with a membrane, like a fin, spread between them.

Uisce.

Water.

He felt suspended in a moment, buoyed as though he were afloat in the ocean, a great unknown world yawning in the darkness below. 

There was sharp tugging on the material of his great coat. A ripping sound. The bite of teeth.

Laurence closed his eyes to the noise of a distant roar.

He was suddenly weightless, and there was a terrible screaming all around him. A banshee's wail he thought and shook his head to clear it of inane nonsense when he realized he could move and was, in fact, not going to be eaten alive on the beach today. Fighting hard against the sluggishness in his limbs, he crawled away from the havoc as fast as he could manage to a safe distance, snatching up the iron cane before turning around to see the man and blood red horse locked in a vicious fight with the sea-mad creature. Between volleys of hooves exchanged between the horses, the man slashed at the lone capall with an iron tipped riding crop, and the monster wailed with each blow. Within a few moments of relentless onslaught, the capall uisce surrendered back into the sea, the vague smell of burnt hair and seaweed lingered on wind left in its wake.

Laurence stared at the point in the water where it had made its dive, breathing hard and unable to look away even at the rider's approach. Laurence glanced over at him, and then flinched, scrambling further back when he realized the beast he rode was even larger and more terrible up close. The dapples on her red hide standing out on her shoulders and haunches, her teeth barred and long, thin ears pricked toward him. Her eyes, a terrible glossy amber, fixated on him.

“Easy there Iskierka.” He said in a Northerners drawl, and dismounted as his beast snorted, sounding like she’d breathe fire if she were able. Drawing a semi-circle in front of the capall, he dropped her reins and approached, hand extended in offer. Laurence accepted the help and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, registering that the rider was already quite tall but appreciating his height more so when Laurence still had to tip his head back in order to make eye contact with his rescuer.

“I owe you a considerable debt of gratitude for my life, good sir. I was certain I was done for.” The rider raised his eyebrow, then cast his gaze skyward for a moment. 

“T’would be as fine a day as any to meet ones maker I suppose, but no need to add to the queue at St. Peter's gate just yet.”

Laurence eyed the fellow, unsure of what to make of the answer, before nodding his head once in agreement. “I suppose not. In either case, I would be pleased to formally make your acquaintance.” He offered his hand in greeting this time. The rider took it with a hearty grip.

“John Granby”

“William Laurence.”

 John let go of his hand to withdraw a flat cap from his pocket and, tipping the brim as he placed it on his head, said,

“Welcome to Thisby, Mister Laurence.”

Chapter Text

The hearth was ablaze with a steady flame, sending the flickering light dancing across the hard wood floors and sturdy bar of The Black Eyed Girl, the polished glasses behind the counter winking amber in the light. Laurence, sequestered away in the leather upholstered booth nearest the fireplace with his foot propped up on the bench across from him, graciously accepted the pint of beer Granby placed before him.  Rich with hints of coffee and molasses, the stout brew was a welcome remedy to steady his battered nerves.

“Mm, that brings life to man.”

“To right,” Granby said, raising his glass in salute before taking a drink himself.

“Did Iskierka settle well?” Granby laughed.

“No of course not, but I thank you for your concern. Hell would freeze over thrice before that mare would ever calm enough to be considered “settled”. She’ll be kept distracted by her meal for a while yet, don’t you worry.”

“Very kind of your friend to take her in for you.”

“Little is well used to her antics by now, as is his own capall, Immortalis. He was with me when I caught her, you know.”

Laurence took another long draw from his pint before asking, “How did you come by such a remarkable beast?”

“Hadn’t intended too really. It was a hot day, late August I believe. Little, I, and a few of the lads had gotten a late start on the smack and were paying for it dearly what with the sun beating down on us and having only made our first cast just prior to noon. Within a few hours and worse luck, we decided to call it a day when there was suddenly an almighty tug on the net. We started hauling and to our great surprise there was a whitetip shark entangled in the net who had been making a meal of our hearing! And then of course, on the other end making a meal of the shark was Iskierka.”

“Good Lord,” Laurence said, both parts aghast and sharing in Granby's mirth.

“Either by fortune, or misfortune, I haven’t decided which yet, I had packed my iron threaded catchpole and I've been stuck with her nigh on three years now. Though granted she won me a pretty penny last November crossing the finish line hand over fist ahead of the race favorite with her low odds. Fairly certain most of the island thought she’d spend too long fighting the pack to make any sort of progress.”

“I congratulate you most heartily.”

“Thank you.” And with a toast, they drained their glasses.

“May I buy another round?” a quiet voice chimed in. Laurence looked up at the newcomer, an attractive young man with tousled brown curls and a gentle face, in stark contrast to his traveling companion, a gruff, stout shouldered man with mousy hair graying at the temples. 

"By all means! Augustine, Doctor Keynes, allow me to introduce our new friend Mister Laurence here.” Laurence made to stand but the older man gestured for him to stay seated as he sidled around Little and made way to trade places with Granby in the booth “Nope, no need for formality. Not after hearing about your excursion on the beach today.” He plopped a small medical bag on the table and unceremoniously began to prod at Laurence’s swollen ankle. “In any case, Little I’ll be having a pint as well, consider it sufficient payment for services rendered today.”

”Of course,” Little said, before extending a hand to Laurence anyway, “apologies for sticking the fellow on you without prior warning but better to have that seen too sooner than later.”

”Thank you, Mister Little. I do appreciate the gesture.” Little nodded and excused himself to the bar. 

“Right, not as bad as I had expected given the story I was told. Off with that boot now.” Laurence grimaced as he made to remove his boot, his ankle aching in protest. “Come now, no need to look so put out, this is a very small island and news of any sort makes its rounds quicker than a flea to a dog, especially when a fancy fellow such as yourself gets into a bit of a muddle. Let's see what we’re working with here, give me that leg.” With out ceremony, he propped Laurence’s foot upon his thigh.

“By all means, Keynes, help yourself.” Granby said with barely concealed amusement. “As you can see, Laurence, the good doctor's bedside manner leaves much to be desired.”

Keynes grunted in protest but offered no rebuke at as he began to apply a cold salve to Laurence’s wounded ankle, though it was his pride that might be suffering more at this point. He was indeed very put out, in fact quite mortified that news of his near-death experience was already known to perfect strangers, let alone perfect strangers so casually referring to his person as “ fancy fellow” being downright outrageous. Had he not felt so thoroughly upended he might have addressed the man to correct him at once but before he could get a word out -

“You know, Laurence, when I first lay eyes on you disembarking the Relient yesterday I had you pegged for a bit of a tosser like the rest of Kensington's lot, still did when I saw you hobbling away from that capaill on the beach-”

“I must object to hobble- ”

“But considering how well you conducted yourself aboard Iskierka despite nearly making an early departure from this mortal coil, I’m inclined to think I might be wrong about you.”

Laurence did not know what to say. He was, first and foremost, the son of a Lord and gentleman always and at the very least prided himself on always approaching whatever challenge life presented him with good grace. Accepting Granby’s hand-up into the saddle required his nerve but he was loath to show any amount of reservation that could be taken as cowardice in the presence of another rider or allow the creature he was mounting sense his trepidation, despite the terrifying encounter he had just suffered. 

He was rescued from having to respond to the candid remark by the arrival of the bartender, an older man of a mild manner and perpetual smile lines around his heavy-lidded eyes, who was introduced to him as Sutton by Little as the glasses of stout brew were placed on the table before them. 

"Here ya go lad, this ones on the house. Welcome to Thisby." Sutton said.

“Thank you most kindly, sir.” Laurence said with a nod as he raised the glass to his lips and caught Granby watching him closely over the rim of his pint, not yet having acknowledged his own glass as Sutton made his rounds to other patrons of his establishment. Laurence swallowed then leaned back against the dark leather padding of the booth. 

“If I may ask, gentlemen, given my… encounter this morning, why would one choose a capall as a mount, let alone suffer to race them together?”

Granby opened his mouth to answer before Keynes’s voice cut in. 

“Hubris,” Having finished wrapping the injury and seeming satisfied with his handiwork, he set Laurence’s foot aside on the bench and crossed his arms on the table “bloody minded determination to conquer the unconquerable. They keep me employed though, so I shan’t complain,” he tilted his head in contemplation, “much.”

Little frowned, “I’m not sure I’d paint our traditions in such a bleak light as that.”

“If your palette consists primarily of red, sure it is a bright enough color.” Keynes countered. Little ignored him and turned to Laurence. “As with any country, there are time honored rituals based on myths. In Thisby’s case, the relationship between man and capall long pre-dates the fifth century, when the celts still tended the isles before the establishment of Christianity in these parts.  I’m sure you’ve heard various retellings of this legend but to put it simply a son of the ocean god, Lyr, fell in love with the goddess of this island, Epona, going so far as to turn himself from a horse into a man to court her. They lived happily for a time and raised a son together. When Lyr discovered this, he raised a storm so violent it drove his son mad and he resumed his true form as a capaill uisce, abandoning his family for the sea. Lyr revoked his children's power to shapeshift in order to prevent them from leaving his domain, but it didn’t stop the capall's son from searching. Every year he would drag a horse from the sea in hopes of finding his father in order to ease his mother's heart break, but to no avail. Until one day he finally found him but was powerless to break the ocean's hold over him, and so, the son allowed himself to be guided to his own fate beneath the waves.

With that being said, the Races are our way of both paying tribute to Epona’s loss and appeasing Lyr. Those who are still Old Thisby may even say the races, as bloody a business as they are, stave off Death for the year by sacrificing willing riders.

“Is death a guarantee then?”

“Certainly, a promised-

“-That’s what the Riders Parade is for.” Little looked more than slightly annoyed at Granby’s remark, though whether it was for cutting him off mid word or saying something he wasn’t supposed to, Laurence couldn’t tell. The deafening silence and shifting glances between the men at the table and the sudden attentiveness in Suttons demeanor behind the bar had him leaning toward the latter.

“He’s here for the auction, the festival is two weeks prior to that event you don’t think he wouldn’t hear of it sooner than later?” Laurence was a-fire with curiosity.

“Gentlemen, if you would prefer not to speak of it you need not feel obliged for my sake.”

“No, no, nonsense.” Keynes said with a wave of his hand, “There’s no use sheltering it. If you’re to be staying here on this island at the most dangerous time of the year you had best be fully informed. Granby, on with it.”

Granby took a pull from his pint then ran his tongue along his upper lip pensively.

“The Riders Parade is a ritual, to be straight with you. Every rider, new and returning, must face Epona on the racing beach with the mount they intend to declare, where she will proceed to draw a spell in the sand before each horse as the tide comes in. Whichever horse's spell is washed away by the water will be called back into the sea, that is an absolute guarantee. They cannot resist it any more than you or I could resist a rip tide. It is the person whose capall breaks free who will be deemed The Man Who Will Not Ride. This is why the decision to race must never be taken lightly, because there is always the risk of being chosen and you must make peace with it.”

“Make peace with not racing?”

Granby held his gaze steady.

“Make peace with being sacrificed to Llyr at the altar.”