Her memories of Beck from that time were vaguer. Bred in the purple from one of the Fuchs’ many prolific showjumping sires, he’d been amongst countless stratospheric home-grown talents with huge price tags, far beyond her own and Henk’s wheeler-dealing pockets. Hothoused onto the international circuit by seven, Beck had been sold with an Olympics qualification for megabucks, only to be branded lame before the opening ceremony had even taken place, returning to Germany in disgrace. His grand prix career over – and Fuchs’ good name under fire – Beck’s retirement to stud was equally quickly mired by a reputation for being unpredictable and tricky. That was when he’d first registered on Ronnie’s radar.

Still as a statue, the horse continued staring at Luca, nervous energy radiating from him like static.

She moved beside Luca. ‘Still eleven out of ten, isn’t he?’

‘He’s been through the mill, has he not?’

‘Ground down to flour. I want you to make the cornfield again, Luca.’

The smile strobed on and off. Then he tilted his head to look at the stallion again, sucking his lower lip doubtfully.

‘You’re here to help find out if he’s still got what it takes,’ she said, secretly wondering whether Luca still had it in him either. He looked like he’d blown in from three months’ jungle survival, and yet, as he approached, Beck, rather than slamming his teeth against the bars as usual, watched him intently, lowered his muzzle to sniff at Luca’s hand and then curled up his lip. It reminded Ronnie of Luca’s uniqueness, of how unrushed he was, of that stillness he carried deep within.

‘He recognises you,’ she said softly, amazed.

The Horsemaker rested his open palm against Beck’s forehead now, a gesture the horse would have never tolerated from her or Lester.

‘Where d’you find him?’

‘Long story.’ She moved closer.

‘He retired injured.’ Luca’s hand ran the length of Beck’s face.

‘He’s sound now.’

‘Fuchs is a bastard!’ The harshness in his voice startled her, as it did Beck, who let out a warning roar, his whole chest shuddering, his lip curling again. The stallion snaked to the back of his stall and glared at the Horsemaker with white-rimmed eyes.

Ronnie felt her pride tested, conscious that the first Compton horse he’d met was its controversial new mutineer, her nemesis. Beck was dark-flanked with stable stains, his bedding a mess because he box-walked. His ‘toys’ – snack balls, licks and mirrors lovingly provided by his previous owner – were battered and tooth-marked. Ronnie had rarely encountered a horse more indignant and disorientated, but she knew also that he was exactly the sort of challenge Luca relished.

He said nothing, cheek muscles taut above the beard. He looked wretched.

She needed Luca to see what she did in Beck, however dismal a picture he made in his stable, tucked up and tail whipping.

She glanced at her watch: past twelve. ‘Let’s get him in the lunge pen before lunch and you’ll see he’s no more lame than I am. The hunt’ll be long gone by now.’