"Hold on tight," he reminds Gilles. Gilles, five years old and already class-conscious, barely acknowledges him; but he white-knuckles the saddle's horn with both hands just the same, the reins just barely dangling from his fingertips.

He takes the horse's bridle in one hand and leads it slowly around the courtyard, Gilles' tiny body swaying from side to side in the saddle, so far above his head. They make a single circuit around the stone-tiled courtyard, and his head is filled with the sound of it, metal shoes clopping sharply on cobblestones, the rustle of Gilles' silk knickers rubbing against the leather of the saddle, the horse snorting and tossing its head, Gilles' younger brother gurgling and hooting from his nurse's arms, the rustle of Gilles' silk knickers becoming a long, slow, sliding sound--

Quicker than thought he drops the horse's bridle and spins around and dives simultaneously, catching Gilles as the terrified boy slides sideways off the saddle. Together they fall to the ground and his hip and elbow crack painfully against the cobblestones, his wide eyes filling with tears as the pain strikes up his arm and down his leg, but Gilles is safe, squeezed tight against his chest and suspended just an inch or so above the stones.

For a moment they stare at each other, eyes wide, then Gilles' face collapses in on itself and he wails, a pure cheated howl of outrage. "Let me go, you're hurting me, I can't breathe, let me go!" Gilles' tiny leather boots kick furiously at his shins as the child struggles away, throwing himself upright. Gilles aims a kick at the horse's leg--and misses, praise every god he's ever known, even the bloodless gutless breastless cockless excuse for a god of this country--and then runs off, not so much wailing as screaming with the unfairness of it all, that such a little thing as his near-death should have made the ride stop so soon.

He takes a deep breath and stands up, cradling his injured elbow in his other hand. It's broken. He knows these things.

Twenty years later, he will stand over a coffin on a day just as nice as this one, and he will cup that elbow in his hand again, the deep aching twinge of the old break letting him know that rain is coming. And he will feel like screaming with the unfairness of it, as Gilles might have done, were Gilles able.