Nightstorm and the Grand Slam (10 page)

“He is fine until he decides that he has done enough for one day, and then he explodes,” Francoise summed
up. She was forced to admit that she still didn't know what to do about it.

Adding further to their training issues, Francoise seemed to have succumbed to the flu. It was only one week to the horse trials now, but Francoise felt so ill that she had to stay in bed, leaving Issie to school Nightstorm on her own.

One day the session without Francoise was particularly disastrous. Things started out OK. In fact, Nightstorm was totally brilliant for the first fifteen minutes. But when Issie attempted to run through the dressage test, it all came unstuck. When Nightstorm began to fuss over doing the flying changes across the arena, Issie became insistent, and that was when the stallion's temper flared. Nightstorm dumped her on the sand surface of the arena not once, but twice! In the end, they finished the schooling session with Issie in tears of rage, and Nightstorm resembling a dragon more than a horse, red-eyed with nostrils wide and ears flat back in anger.

Issie and the stallion weren't on speaking terms as she led him back to his stable. This was a nightmare! She had always imagined that she had a special relationship with Storm. She had been through so much with this
horse to get this far. She had travelled to the other side of the world to win him back in a Spanish street race. She had put herself through the rigours of learning the
haute école
from El Caballo Danza Magnifico to win their approval and take him home. Under her care, the colt had grown and blossomed into an incredible horse. And yet, even though Storm adored her, he still fought against her. She knew that he had the talent to win at Burghley. So why was it that instead of bringing the best out in her horse in the dressage arena, she always seemed to lock horns with him? She felt like it was her fault that they kept fighting but she had no idea how to stop the stallion's temper tantrums.

Back at the stables, still in a black mood, she unsaddled Storm and went to put away his tack. By the time she came back to the box Stella was there, brushing the stallion down.

“I've got his feed ready,” Stella said. “I'll just rug him up and…” Then she saw the tears in Issie's eyes, and the miserable expression on her best friend's face.

“Issie? What's wrong?”

“He bucked me off again,” Issie admitted. “Twice.”

“Oh.” Stella put down the brushes. “Are you OK?”

Issie brushed the tears away angrily with her hand. She was a professional rider – it was stupid to be crying about this! But with only a week to go she was feeling totally desperate and she had run out of ideas and excuses.

“There was no reason for it,” Issie shook her head. “He was perfect when we were warming up. And then about twenty minutes into the ride he just threw a fit and I ended up on the ground.”

Issie looked at Storm. “He hates the dressage arena – and sometimes I think he hates me for making him go in there.”

“Well, he doesn't totally hate it,” Stella said. “He likes the first fifteen minutes. It's a shame that you're not riding a warm-up at Burghley – then he'd be fantastic!”

“Ohmygod!” Issie froze.

“What?” Stella said. “Is something wrong?”

“No!” Issie squealed. “You're totally right! That's it! That's the solution. Ohmygod! Stella, you are a total genius!”

“I am?” Stella looked even more confused. “Uhhh, are you going to tell me why?”

“Come on!” Issie could barely contain her excitement.
“Give Storm his feed and then we'll go and find Tom and Francoise – they need to hear this!”

Stella had just given Issie the answer she had been looking for. Suddenly, she knew exactly what to do to get the best performance out of her stallion in the dressage arena at Burghley. With just one week to go until the three-day event began, she finally had a plan.

In the final week of the lead-up to Burghley, preparations were intense.

There was so much to organise. The tack and equipment had to be prepped and packed in the truck by Wednesday ready for the trip to Lincolnshire. With so many details to organise, Avery called a planning meeting in the kitchen on Sunday morning and that was when Stella dropped her bombshell.

“I think you should hire another groom,” she told them.

Issie couldn't believe it. “You're quitting?”

“No!” Stella rolled her eyes. “Of course not! But I don't think I can handle two different horses on the
day. I know you're the one who's actually riding, but there's so much to organise behind the scenes and I don't want to make a mistake. I feel like I'll be spreading myself too thin if I look after Storm and now Victory as well. We need a second back-up groom to take over one of your mounts.”

“Well, it's a bit late to think of it now!” Avery pointed out. “We've got less than a week before Burghley begins – all the best grooms in the UK will already be locked in with other stables. How are we possibly going to get someone we can trust to do the job at such short notice?”

Issie and Stella looked at each other and smiled. They both had exactly the same idea.

“The best grooms in the UK might have jobs already,” Issie replied, “but there's one in New Zealand who might be available.”

It was nine in the evening in Chevalier Point when the phone rang at Kate Knight's house. She assumed the call would be one of her pony-club kids calling to ask about the rally tomorrow. The last thing she'd been
expecting was a job offer from an old friend on the other side of the world.

“Kate,” Issie said, “I know it's, like, super-short notice and everything, but I somehow ended up with another horse to ride at Burghley and Stella can't cope and…”

“Hey! Issie!” Kate interrupted her friend in mid-babble. “You don't have to explain. If you need me then I'm totally there. Just tell me what flight to catch and I'll start packing my bags.”

It was a typical Kate reaction and Issie realised just how much they needed her. Always the calm, collected one – Kate was the best possible person to have on your team when the pressure was on.

Issie remembered so clearly that day at Pony Club when she had met Kate for the first time. Kate had a horse called Toby, a full-sized hack that towered over Stella and Issie's ponies. Kate towered over them too – she was a year older than Stella and Issie and had a leggy physique and Nordic blonde hair.

The three girls were so different physically. Alongside cool, blonde Kate there was no way that Stella with her out-of-control red curls and Issie with her long, dark hair could ever have been mistaken for sisters. But they
certainly felt like a family. As Issie's mum had often pointed out, deep down they were all cut from the same cloth – totally horse-mad.

Years had passed and distance had separated the girls but their mutual love of horses had never faded. When Issie and Stella had moved to England to focus on riding the international eventing circuit, Kate had chosen to stay in Chevalier Point where she had taken over Avery's old job as the head instructor at the Pony Club, while studying full-time to become a vet.

Kate had never been to The Laurels before now. But from the moment she arrived, jet-lagged, off the flight from New Zealand, it was as if she had been a part of the team there forever.

There was little time for emotional reunions and the girls got straight down to business. It was already Tuesday. The horse truck was pre-loaded with their kit and the girls and Avery planned to rise at five and depart by six the next morning for Burghley.

“You're being assigned Victory and I'll take care of Storm,” Stella told Kate. “Come down to the stables and I'll explain the feeding schedules and his tack. We'll work together to prepare both the horses for competition.
The first trot-up is early on Thursday morning – the day after tomorrow. Then the dressage begins on Friday…”

“Wow,” Kate took a deep breath. “Thrown straight in at the deep end! I haven't groomed for anyone in years, you do realise?”

“You'll be fine!” Issie insisted. “Stella is totally organised and she'll show you the ropes.”

“We're glad to have you aboard,” Avery confirmed. “It will be good to have a vet on the team.”

“Hey!” Kate said. “I'm only in my second year! I'm not a qualified vet yet!”

“Come on,” Stella told her, “I'll take you down to the stables now and you can meet Victory.”

At 5.45 the next morning the girls loaded the two horses into their individual bays in the back of the horse truck and then they piled into the cabin in the mid-section ready to depart for Lincolnshire.

“Where's Avery?” Stella said looking at her watch anxiously.

“He's saying goodbye to Francoise,” Issie said.

There was too much going on at The Laurels for the Frenchwoman to abandon the farm and come along too. It was foaling season, and they were expecting a very special new addition to the stables at The Laurels as part of their new sporthorse breeding programme. A year ago Francoise had purchased a stunning broodmare, a pretty chestnut called Mirabelle. The mare was now heavily in foal to a famous warmblood stallion called Miracle Maker and she was expected to give birth that week.

Plus there were three up-and-coming young eventers who were currently in work being prepared for a novice competition next month. And Francoise was still under the weather. Her flu appeared to be lingering and she was frequently feeling queasy in the mornings.

Issie was reluctant to leave Francoise behind, but the dressage trainer had dismissed her fears. “When you told me your plan for handling Nightstorm at Burghley I knew that you understood this horse better than anyone,” Francoise told Issie. “You are ready to do this on your own.”

“No! I need you there!” Issie insisted.

The French trainer shook her head. “Isadora, I have
taught you everything that I know. When dressage day comes at Burghley it is you and you alone who will take the horses into that arena. I cannot go in there with you. In the end, it will be up to you.”

And so it was that the team who departed that morning was the same team that Issie remembered from her days back home at Chevalier Point. With Avery at the wheel of the truck and her two best and oldest friends beside her, Issie set off on the journey towards Lincolnshire, on her way to the three-day event that would define her riding career forever.

In the sport of three-day eventing there were only six events in the whole world that classified for the highest challenge level – the four-star event.

Competitors would often debate which of the four-stars was the greatest of them all. The top two were without a doubt the Badminton Horse Trials and the Burghley Horse Trials, held in the grand grounds of the Burghley Estate, with its glorious gardens and elegant Elizabethan palace.

“Back in my day,” Avery said as he drove the truck through the gates of Burghley, “there was no debate. Without question, Badminton was considered the tougher test. The fences were more complex, the competition was stiffer…”

Avery parked the truck under an enormous spreading oak tree and turned to Issie. “But these days I would rate Burghley as its equal – the pinnacle of competition. The very best riders come here to compete and the cross-country course is arguably tougher than even Badminton – with more undulating terrain and a tight fifteen-minute time limit.”

Avery looked out the window of the truck. “And certainly there is no more beautiful place in all of Britain to ride,” he said. “Although, when you're bent down at a flat gallop against the clock and coming in to attack an enormous rough-sawn elephant trap I very much doubt you'll be taking time to look at the scenic wonders!”

Avery was right. All the same, as Issie took her first glimpse of the estate on her cross-country course walk that Wednesday evening, she marvelled at the beauty of the place, the pretty groves of trees and the wonderful
swards of green pasture that she would be galloping along in just a few days' time. Right now the fields were still being grazed by sheep, but on Saturday morning there would be thousands of spectators here, standing behind the rope barriers and watching the great and the good as they tackled the cross-country course.

Even with Kentucky and Badminton under her belt, Issie was still in total awe of the list of competitors that she would be up against. The names were all so familiar to her – many of them had been her heroes ever since she was a pony-club kid. There was the incredible Oliver Townend, who had risen from humble Huddersfield beginnings to conquer the eventing world. There was Andrew Nicholson, a New Zealander whose ability to stay onboard a horse no matter what had earnt him the nickname ‘Mr Stickability'. There was the immeasurably posh William Fox-Pitt, who rode his horses with a feline grace, the rock-solid Mary King who always kept her horse in perfect control and the feisty, super-talented Polly Stockton who charged fences fearlessly and had the nine lives of a cat.

Naturally, when she saw the photographers crowding
around a rider at the media tent on the Thursday morning before the trotting-up, Issie assumed it was for one of the many mega-stars competing. Then she caught a glimpse of the pouting blonde in purple jodhpurs striking a pose for the cameras with a moon-faced thug sulking alongside her.

Yes, Natasha Tucker was here at Burghley! Despite the fact that she wasn't even riding, and that her last two competitions had ended in elimination, the paparazzi still followed her every move!

“I don't understand it!” Kate shook her head in disbelief. “There's all these famous riders here, why do they want a photograph of Stuck-up Tucker? She's not even riding! And who is that posing with her? I don't recognise him.”

“He's not a rider, he's a footballer,” Stella groaned. “That's Lance Emmanuel.”

In a way, Issie was relieved that the media storm was focused on the ‘famous' Natasha Tucker. Issie was already under so much pressure that the last thing she needed was more attention and…

“Issie!” Natasha Tucker waved at her across the room and raced over to join her with the photographers
following in her wake and Lance Emmanuel looking sullen and out of place as he walked behind her.

Natasha flung herself at Issie and gave her an over-the-top air-kiss on both cheeks as the photographers started snapping wildly.

“I was just telling these lovely media gentlemen that there's no longer a rivalry between us,” Natasha smiled.

“There isn't?” Issie was bewildered. “Was there ever one?”

“Oh, Issie!” Natasha shrieked with fake laughter. “You're so funny. Anyway, I was telling the boys that you and I are actually such good friends that you've offered to model a pair of my new Natty T jodhpurs today when you lead your horses in the trotting-up.”

Issie had already chosen her trotting-up outfit– a pair of plain cream jods and a chic black shirt. Now, with the barrels of a dozen cameras trained on her, she felt herself turning queasy at the sight of Natasha's latest addition to her clothing line – a pair of bright purple jods with a floral pattern on the sticky bum and the giant initials N and T smack in the middle of the rider's backside.