Instead, he found himself boiling over with exasperation, and knew getting drunk with pretty girls wasn’t the solution. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could rein in his temper with the reckless young prince, though certainly longer than Bechstein.

Having worked with the stallion since he was an unbacked three-year-old, Luca knew the key to riding him was lightness, those pianist’s fingers leggerissimamente on the reins, seat-bones tucked beneath like coat-tails, the weight in the stirrups equally balanced between soft and sustain. But Prince Mishaal – who saw Luca as tuner and page-turner, hired to keep the sound sweet for the big concerto – only knew how to play ‘Chopsticks’ whilst bouncing on the piano stool like Elton John.

The young prince’s relationship with Bechstein had been on a collision course from the start, Luca’s role conflicted as he was forced to watch horse and rider in discord – one as arrogant, unbalanced and hard-handed as the other was instinctive and knife-edge brilliant.

‘The two of them looked great to start with,’ Signe pointed out. ‘What’s gone wrong?’

‘The same thing as most relationships – they got to know one another better.’

It was true that the stallion’s exuberance had thrilled the handsome young prince at first, throwing his new superhorse over fences fearlessly, accustomed to forgiving schoolmasters who made no more effort than necessary to clear them. It was kamikaze stuff, but they had won two Grand Prix classes in their first outings, the home press going wild as they predicted an Arab gold in London. Bechstein, who didn’t know how to lose, had never had a fence down in his life, no matter that he was being galloped at them like a jouster’s charger at an opponent’s lance.

But the stallion had been confused and in shock from the start, relying on the Horsemaker to pick him up and put him right again each time. He was a strong, excitable horse and the more he was jabbed in the mouth and spurred in the sides, the hotter-headed he became.

Away from the public eye, the wheels were quick to come off. At home, he was soon refusing to stand still for the boy to mount, then napping, rearing, twisting himself inside out to be rid of the devil on his back. Every day, Luca had to ride him in longer to settle him. And with each passing day, Luca had seen the horse pick up more of his rider’s aggressive tension. Jab, jab, jab went the reins, Bechstein now trussed in all manner of harsh tack like a BDSM gimp, his sides raw with spur marks, eyes blank with pain. As falls followed failure, Mishaal’s fear and anger had escalated, humiliation curdling spitefully. The prince’s new horse had gone from plaything to broken toy and it was inevitable that Bechstein would eventually throw a tantrum at a competition, as he had last week. The team line was that the horse had been stung by a bee just before his round, but Luca feared for next time. He didn’t doubt there would be a next time.