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The stables are on fire. The words thudded dizzyingly in Léof’s mind. The stables are on fire.
Æthel.
He had not a thought for the other horses, not a thought for Javan, not a thought for the rest of his possessions, not a thought for the cause of the fire. His horse was in those stables.
He bolted from the table, scarcely begun meal forgotten. Fear granted wings to his feet; he flew through the Great Hall, across the courtyard, into the stables. How many times had he told Javan not to run in the stable? Irrelevant.
Already smoke billowed; the fire could not have started but minutes ago but already fighting the fire seemed to be a hopeless cause. The stable would go down; it was only a question of how many horses could be saved in the meantime.
He ran straight to Æthel’s stall, where the flames were thickest. He could hear her frantic screams and the thudding of her hooves against the wall boards. He flung open the door; her neck and flanks were lathered and he could see the whites of her eyes. “Easy there, easy,” he crooned, trying to keep the panic from his own voice. He reached up for her halter, but she flung up her head beyond his reach. Wary of her hooves, he laid his hands on her neck, trying to calm her by his touch but ever conscious of the time this was wasting.
If only he had something to cover her vision with! He cast about for something, but he was woefully unprepared for this situation; his shirt would have to do. Without a second thought he pulled it over his head and lifted it over Æthel’s head. Now at least he was able to catch hold of her halter and pull her forward, however reluctant she was to move. As quickly as he could, he led her outside and into the paddock.
Now finally he took thought to the other horses. He fleetingly thanked his luck that half of the horses were still outside since he and Javan had moved them out here at noon. Before the thought was over, however, he was already running back into the stables to retrieve the next horse.
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