‘Why don’t I know about this?’ Petra was agog.

But the Bags were distracted by Mo letting out an excited squawk as, in the far distance, two riders crossed the track, heading towards the woods on the hill’s brow.

‘That’s him!’ Gill pointed out a flash of blond beard that looked fittingly Royalist.

‘Be still my beating heart,’ Petra breathed.

Bridge had to admit there was a certain nobility about the Horsemaker’s upright stature and the way he remained so still while his horse, a magnificently wild-looking grey, bounded along on springs. Riding three lengths behind, neat as a jump jockey, Ronnie’s distinctive petite frame was crouched low over a wiry bay.

‘They’re using Sansom Estate headland to cut across to Poacher’s Woods,’ said Gill. ‘That can’t be Ronnie’s warmblood stallion he’s riding, can it?’

‘We can go up to the ridge, loop around and meet them on circular track.’ Mo had her blood up. ‘That’s no stallion, Gill love.’

‘I am a vet.’

‘Bet you two shepherd’s pies and a game casserole.’

‘Raise you a vaccination and a box of bute.’

‘You’re on!’

Off they cantered, hammering along the deep tyre ruts, splashing through puddles and kicking up stones, the view spreading out in all directions the higher they climbed.

‘Isn’t this a bit sad act, hunting the poor man down like stalkers?’ Bridge shouted at Petra as they set off after Gill’s ground-eating gelding, Mo falling behind already.

‘You know Gill loves the thrill of the chase,’ Petra called back.

At that moment, Craic took exception to something in the hedge and kinked sideways, cannoning off Petra’s mare and stumbling down on his knees. Pitched forwards, Bridge was then smacked firmly on the chin as he scrambled up, her lip caught in her teeth. She could taste blood.

‘Great.’ She wiped it with the back of her hand. ‘Just what I need before an interview.’ Lisping at Mrs Bullock through red foam.

‘You have a job interview?’ Petra demanded.

Bridge tried to close the question down with a non-committal hum, grateful for Mo reappearing between them on her cob, less so when she shrieked, ‘Oh my good lord, what happened? There’s blood!’

‘It’s just a nick.’ Bridge felt her lip with her fingertips, and realised it was bleeding quite a lot.

The three riders set off again, Craic pogoing fretfully from rut to rut, impossible to get back into a canter.

‘Try lowering your hands and softening your contact, Bridge,’ Petra suggested kindly. ‘What job interview?’

Bridge, who found being told how to ride by Petra only slightly less irritating than being quizzed by Petra about her employment status, sucked her sore lip, which already felt the size of a wrasse’s, glowering at Craic’s grey ears. ‘It’s just a fecking job, okay?’

Mo tutted. ‘You want to watch your lip, Bridge.’

‘I’ll fecking swear if I want to!’

‘Your sore lip.’ She smiled kindly. ‘It’s going ever so swollen.’

Bridge reached up and touched it in alarm. Still bleeding, it did feel very odd.