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Léof had perked up considerably as the situation sunk in: he had won. He had actually beaten all those other horses, many of them probably more well-bred or better-trained. He was receiving a great deal more attention now than before the race; one man had actually offered to buy Æthel and had offered a sum that would have bought his father’s plow and maybe the two draft horses with it! Léof had politely declined, saying that Æthel was not for sale. The man had been persistent, then asking if Léof’s services as a rider were available. Léof had explained that he was an ostler, not a jockey; but not wanting to disappoint the man too much he had said that perhaps he could occasionally ride some races for the man.
But between that man and a passel of girls fairly fawning over him and making him quite uncomfortable, Léof had been quite relieved to find Gárwine approaching with a large grin on his face. Eodwine’s approach had been greeted with a little more trepidation, but now Léof grinned abashedly at the lord’s words.
“Thank you, lord,” he said, “but I might advise you against breaking my other foot – you’d be left with an ostler that couldn’t walk at all!”
“Not that you wouldn’t try,” inserted Gárwine.
“And probably get my neck wrung for my troubles!” laughed Léof. His spirits were too high to be dampened by such kidding, and he realized now that he had forgotten to be annoyed with Gárwine, nor could he find it in himself to do so now. Soon the jesting died down, and Léof recalled the tired horse at his side and, rubbing her nose, said, “In all seriousness, this girl deserves a rest and a hot mash, and I’d like to get her back to the stable.”
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