his red tunic bright above the chestnut’s glossy flanks.
He looked around to get his bearings. Every morning he inspected the men at reveille at first light before riding out from the barracks to exercise Maisie, taking a different route each time to put the young mare through her paces and school her to meet the unexpected with equanimity. Barking dogs, carts to squeeze past in narrow lanes, marshy ground that sucked at her fetlocks or streams with stones that shifted underfoot all triggered an instinct for flight from a nervous yearling, and patience, firmness and, above all, practice, were needed to build the reciprocity of trust that he required between horse and rider. They must be able to rely on each other completely. After all, she could one day carry him into battle.
Behind him lay the white, open fields through which he had followed the line of the river away from Weedon Royal and out to the west. To the left, the track curved away and narrowed, as though it was petering out; to the right a church tower was visible in the distance and Jack deduced that it belonged to the village of Newnham. He would ride that way and then on to the woods where he could attempt to cajole Maisie in amongst the trees and accustom her to the crack of wood underfoot and the sudden slide of snow from laden branches.
He took a deep breath of the biting air, feeling a sudden joy fill him that was born of the emptiness of the glittering scene, the creak of saddle leather and the feel of the reins, and the freedom to turn wherever he wished. He clicked his tongue to Maisie to walk on, encouraging her to a deliberate pace as she picked her way. Over the tops of the bare hedgerows, the fields spread in pristine white, save for the occasional deep tracks of fox or deer and the lighter patterns of bird prints.
He passed a fine farmhouse with dairy and grain loft, stable yard and carriage house, and a garden with a spreading cedar tree, and rode on past a field of sheep, a dun yellow against the snow. Beyond was a dense acreage of coppiced hazel trees, each nut tree with many thin trunks growing from the stump of last year’s cutting to form a bushy growth of dark, damp wood, the branches outlined in snow. Black and white, the scene epitomised the depth of dead winter; the slow and secret sap was frozen and all colour and life had shrunk back to the roots to hide deep below the surface of the earth.
In the stillness, Jack suddenly caught a glimpse of movement, someone bending, moving silently beneath the trees. He drew Maisie to a standstill and watched.
A young woman. A young woman wrapped in a thin dress and a shawl the colour of a wood pigeon’s breast. Stooping to gather something from the ground and place it in the shallow basket at her feet, she came out into the light as if born from the shadows. Intent on her task she drew towards him and he sat motionless, watching the soft contours of her body as she moved among the stark, stick-like trees. Looking more closely he saw that snowdrops grew in clumps around the trees, their green leaves choked with snow but their white and drooping heads pushing through. It was these that the girl was gathering, clearing away the snow with her hands to pick each stem delicately until she had a posy and then laying them in the basket and packing the stems with snow. As she drew nearer, the light caught her profile; her face was inclined to the ground, and the curve of her cheek and its delicate colour struck him, the flush of blood strangely moving, speaking to him of Life in the barren scene as strongly as did the snowdrops. He held his breath. Here was life in adverse circumstances, beauty in a wasteland. A gift.
Maisie’s flanks quivered beneath him as she shivered. He had kept her standing too long. Automatically he moved her forward and her hooves struck on the track.
Effie looked up and saw a soldier passing, his red coat as bold as the haws in the hedgerows, his dark horse shiny as polish
He looked around to get his bearings. Every morning he inspected the men at reveille at first light before riding out from the barracks to exercise Maisie, taking a different route each time to put the young mare through her paces and school her to meet the unexpected with equanimity. Barking dogs, carts to squeeze past in narrow lanes, marshy ground that sucked at her fetlocks or streams with stones that shifted underfoot all triggered an instinct for flight from a nervous yearling, and patience, firmness and, above all, practice, were needed to build the reciprocity of trust that he required between horse and rider. They must be able to rely on each other completely. After all, she could one day carry him into battle.
Behind him lay the white, open fields through which he had followed the line of the river away from Weedon Royal and out to the west. To the left, the track curved away and narrowed, as though it was petering out; to the right a church tower was visible in the distance and Jack deduced that it belonged to the village of Newnham. He would ride that way and then on to the woods where he could attempt to cajole Maisie in amongst the trees and accustom her to the crack of wood underfoot and the sudden slide of snow from laden branches.
He took a deep breath of the biting air, feeling a sudden joy fill him that was born of the emptiness of the glittering scene, the creak of saddle leather and the feel of the reins, and the freedom to turn wherever he wished. He clicked his tongue to Maisie to walk on, encouraging her to a deliberate pace as she picked her way. Over the tops of the bare hedgerows, the fields spread in pristine white, save for the occasional deep tracks of fox or deer and the lighter patterns of bird prints.
He passed a fine farmhouse with dairy and grain loft, stable yard and carriage house, and a garden with a spreading cedar tree, and rode on past a field of sheep, a dun yellow against the snow. Beyond was a dense acreage of coppiced hazel trees, each nut tree with many thin trunks growing from the stump of last year’s cutting to form a bushy growth of dark, damp wood, the branches outlined in snow. Black and white, the scene epitomised the depth of dead winter; the slow and secret sap was frozen and all colour and life had shrunk back to the roots to hide deep below the surface of the earth.
In the stillness, Jack suddenly caught a glimpse of movement, someone bending, moving silently beneath the trees. He drew Maisie to a standstill and watched.
A young woman. A young woman wrapped in a thin dress and a shawl the colour of a wood pigeon’s breast. Stooping to gather something from the ground and place it in the shallow basket at her feet, she came out into the light as if born from the shadows. Intent on her task she drew towards him and he sat motionless, watching the soft contours of her body as she moved among the stark, stick-like trees. Looking more closely he saw that snowdrops grew in clumps around the trees, their green leaves choked with snow but their white and drooping heads pushing through. It was these that the girl was gathering, clearing away the snow with her hands to pick each stem delicately until she had a posy and then laying them in the basket and packing the stems with snow. As she drew nearer, the light caught her profile; her face was inclined to the ground, and the curve of her cheek and its delicate colour struck him, the flush of blood strangely moving, speaking to him of Life in the barren scene as strongly as did the snowdrops. He held his breath. Here was life in adverse circumstances, beauty in a wasteland. A gift.
Maisie’s flanks quivered beneath him as she shivered. He had kept her standing too long. Automatically he moved her forward and her hooves struck on the track.
Effie looked up and saw a soldier passing, his red coat as bold as the haws in the hedgerows, his dark horse shiny as polish
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