‘How can he sit on that?’

The grey stallion was putting on a rodeo display, head between its knees, twisting around in gravity-defying leaps, dodges and lunges while the mare flicked her back legs at him in a short, bad-tempered barrage.

Like a centaur fused with his equine half, Luca followed each stomach-churning rotation, moving with the furious horse. Beck was up on his hind legs again now, almost vertical, then spinning and bronco-ing again, a blur of twisting tonnage, seemingly determined to shake off both his female assailant and his rider, head snaking out, his teeth sinking deep into the mare’s red neck.

Squealing in outrage, Petra’s mare backed away.

The stallion charged at her, his course only diverted by his rider’s seemingly superhuman strength, turning his head like a stunt horse.

Now, instead of sitting passively, Luca kicked him forwards, starting to circle in bounds and leaps at first, urging him onwards, fingers moving like a pianist on the reins, his hands speaking to the horse’s mouth, telling him to listen, to get busy, to get to work, his body so perfectly weighted that the stallion had no choice but to stay beneath this light-seated counterbalance of a man who knew exactly where they were going. There was ten metres at most between the lines of trees, but after three jagged loops, his circle started to look symmetrical, the horse’s head coming down, his ears flicking back and forth, and within a few more dizzying rounds his black-eyed concentration matched his black-coated rider’s, only a letter box of handsome face visible between hat and collar.

‘Bloody hell.’ Mo panted up to Gill and Bridge, leading Craic. ‘You’ll not see the likes of that every day.’

‘You will on YouTube from now on.’ Bridge was videoing it excitedly on her phone. ‘This is so going viral. What a fecking brilliant rider.’

‘Never seen a mare attacking like that,’ Mo clarified. ‘Look at Ronnie’s face!’

Standing up in her stirrups with Lawrence of Arabia eyes, she was shouting at Petra to ‘bloody well catch that bloody mad mare!’

‘She’s nuts, that one,’ Bridge agreed.

‘She’s got the hots for him,’ Gill said drily.

‘Are we talking about Ronnie here?’ queried Mo.

‘The horse of course! Classic wild instinct.’

‘That was flirting? Talk about treat ’em mean.’

‘I used to flick boys I fancied in class with my ruler,’ sighed Mo.

‘Do you think she was telling him off for getting her up the duff?’ suggested Bridge.

‘Breaking the news, maybe,’ Gill conceded. ‘She’s a very strong-willed mare.’

‘It’s like Jeremy Kyle,’ chuckled Mo.

Looking grudgingly impressed, the chestnut was trotting back towards her friends with Petra in hot pursuit. Behind them Ronnie dropped her reins and clapped as Luca rode back to her, her big blue eyes bright as speedwells. The Bags distinctly heard her purr, ‘Let’s get out of here.’

Swinging his head to watch his redheaded attacker retreat, the stallion stopped four square and bellowed before the Horsemaker turned him quickly away.