carried at Moreuil Wood. It’s a fine
bag to strap to the saddle of a fine horse to be ridden by a fine young man.
If you ride a horse with your heart and you believe you fight for what’s right, nothing can stop you.
Ride from the heart, Wolfie, always ride from the heart.
With all my love,
Pa
Eventually Wolfie passed the bag to Dodo, his voice breaking as he whispered, ‘Captain wore this at Moreuil Wood.’
‘I’ve something for you, Wolfie,’ said Hettie. ‘Come.’
She led him into the kitchen. On the table sat a saddle, the deep seat and skirt darkened and softened with years of oil, the cantle and knee roll in a lighter tan, the pommel polished as a
chestnut. To the side lay a bridle, ribboned with a grey and white bow at the side of the gleaming bit.
‘We were lucky – this old saddle of Father’s fits. Unless Hero grows much more, it’ll last a while.’
‘Is he ready – can I . . . ?’ Wolfie leaped to the window. Father Lamb joined him and they looked out at Hero and Scout, standing muzzle to muzzle. Scout whickered gently at
Hero, then resumed her nipping and grooming of him.
‘Two years old, Wolfie, and he’s already tall for you . . . He’s going to be a horse to be reckoned with . . . but at two years he can be saddled.’
Wolfie yelped for joy, flung open the casement and whistled.
The horse raised his head and cantered between the snowy thorns, leaf light quivering over his flanks like stippling on water.
‘Bring the saddle, Wolfie,’ said Hettie, taking two apples and chopping them. She slipped the pieces into Wolfie’s pocket and picked up the bridle.
Wolfie leaped towards the saddle, his heart spinning like a Catherine wheel. He picked it up, staggering under the weight of it, and soldiered out across the yard.
That day Hettie and Wolfie began to break in Hero.
They took him to the lane where green glimmered in the beech hedgerows, Dodo ahead with Scout, Wolfie leading the young grey horse, feeding him apple as he went. Day by day, they walked him
through the magical dappled green of spring, a little more weight on his back each day. Hero’s eyes blazed with outrage when the saddle was first placed on his back, but Scout was always at
his side, steady and calm at his flank, so Hero accepted it. Later, he was astonished by the bit, outraged at the indignity of the bridle, but Wolfie whispered to him, and he listened with a
willingness to cooperate born of the unqualified trust he had in the boy who’d slept at his side, who’d fed him honey on his fingers, drunk milk from the same bucket.
Later, free of the saddle, Hero would roll on the cool turf, watched tenderly by Scout. The games of his colthood, the fawn-like leaping and starting, were now outgrown, his movements grown
rounder, more considered, more graceful. His chest had broadened, there was elegance in his stance, seriousness in his eyes, a patrician depth to his face.
If ever he stepped away from Scout, she’d squeal and he’d answer, standing kingly and tall, with the deep valley below, the purple curve of the common beyond.
He was shod in early June, and grew fizzy and proud at the sound of his feet clipping on the cobbles. He’d been an easy horse to break, Hettie said, because the trust he had in Wolfie was
absolute.
Mounted for the first time on Hero, looking as accidental atop the tall horse as a piece of thistledown, pride shone, wide as sunlight, in Wolfie’s smile. Dodo and he rode together, she on
Scout, leading him on Hero. If she loosed the lead rope, Hero would sniff and skitter, dart sideways from leaves and breezes, leap to avoid water. His flickering ears would betray his ignorance,
suspicion or astonishment at everything but as the summer ripened, his understanding of the world grew and he stepped out with confidence and pride.
When they cantered, for the first time, through golden brown grass waist high, laughter sprang from the boy like water from a spring. Hearing the
bag to strap to the saddle of a fine horse to be ridden by a fine young man.
If you ride a horse with your heart and you believe you fight for what’s right, nothing can stop you.
Ride from the heart, Wolfie, always ride from the heart.
With all my love,
Pa
Eventually Wolfie passed the bag to Dodo, his voice breaking as he whispered, ‘Captain wore this at Moreuil Wood.’
‘I’ve something for you, Wolfie,’ said Hettie. ‘Come.’
She led him into the kitchen. On the table sat a saddle, the deep seat and skirt darkened and softened with years of oil, the cantle and knee roll in a lighter tan, the pommel polished as a
chestnut. To the side lay a bridle, ribboned with a grey and white bow at the side of the gleaming bit.
‘We were lucky – this old saddle of Father’s fits. Unless Hero grows much more, it’ll last a while.’
‘Is he ready – can I . . . ?’ Wolfie leaped to the window. Father Lamb joined him and they looked out at Hero and Scout, standing muzzle to muzzle. Scout whickered gently at
Hero, then resumed her nipping and grooming of him.
‘Two years old, Wolfie, and he’s already tall for you . . . He’s going to be a horse to be reckoned with . . . but at two years he can be saddled.’
Wolfie yelped for joy, flung open the casement and whistled.
The horse raised his head and cantered between the snowy thorns, leaf light quivering over his flanks like stippling on water.
‘Bring the saddle, Wolfie,’ said Hettie, taking two apples and chopping them. She slipped the pieces into Wolfie’s pocket and picked up the bridle.
Wolfie leaped towards the saddle, his heart spinning like a Catherine wheel. He picked it up, staggering under the weight of it, and soldiered out across the yard.
That day Hettie and Wolfie began to break in Hero.
They took him to the lane where green glimmered in the beech hedgerows, Dodo ahead with Scout, Wolfie leading the young grey horse, feeding him apple as he went. Day by day, they walked him
through the magical dappled green of spring, a little more weight on his back each day. Hero’s eyes blazed with outrage when the saddle was first placed on his back, but Scout was always at
his side, steady and calm at his flank, so Hero accepted it. Later, he was astonished by the bit, outraged at the indignity of the bridle, but Wolfie whispered to him, and he listened with a
willingness to cooperate born of the unqualified trust he had in the boy who’d slept at his side, who’d fed him honey on his fingers, drunk milk from the same bucket.
Later, free of the saddle, Hero would roll on the cool turf, watched tenderly by Scout. The games of his colthood, the fawn-like leaping and starting, were now outgrown, his movements grown
rounder, more considered, more graceful. His chest had broadened, there was elegance in his stance, seriousness in his eyes, a patrician depth to his face.
If ever he stepped away from Scout, she’d squeal and he’d answer, standing kingly and tall, with the deep valley below, the purple curve of the common beyond.
He was shod in early June, and grew fizzy and proud at the sound of his feet clipping on the cobbles. He’d been an easy horse to break, Hettie said, because the trust he had in Wolfie was
absolute.
Mounted for the first time on Hero, looking as accidental atop the tall horse as a piece of thistledown, pride shone, wide as sunlight, in Wolfie’s smile. Dodo and he rode together, she on
Scout, leading him on Hero. If she loosed the lead rope, Hero would sniff and skitter, dart sideways from leaves and breezes, leap to avoid water. His flickering ears would betray his ignorance,
suspicion or astonishment at everything but as the summer ripened, his understanding of the world grew and he stepped out with confidence and pride.
When they cantered, for the first time, through golden brown grass waist high, laughter sprang from the boy like water from a spring. Hearing the
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