14
Gwin had been an avid rider her entire life. But, over the course of her life, her horses only ever strolled her around the castle. She rarely had occasion to gallop. Ladies weren’t meant to be jostled, said her mother. So, Gwin spent her life atop a horse moving at a trot.
The wild steed from Champagne ran at top speeds through the French countryside. The magical stallions which had come over from the Holy Lands centuries ago and settled in places of great ley energy easily reached one hundred miles per hour. The stallion that carried them, Meginhard the steed said his name was, flew beyond that.
The pins flew out of Gwin’s hair, leaving it streaming behind her like a blonde flag in the black night. She leaned forward, burying her hands and her nose in the steeds flowing curtain of
