"Right…" the boy grumbled, holding his head. He turned to see his master striding away, long boots covered in fresh horse muck. One wouldn't think it, seeing how they interacted these days, but the boy rather like his master, tough though he was. He was a man of great station, despite his lowly birth. Lord Blackwell's Master of Horse, and hounds too, and hawks, whenever the Lord had an interest in them. Now, though, it was difficult to tell what he was. Master of Horse for Ernest, perhaps? He wasn't a peasant, like the boy himself, he was Serving Class, but he had served in the stables in the same way the stable boy had, and he told the boy, during his more positive moments, that he had a knack for them.
As he led the next horse in – a very easily irritated young mare called Ginger – the stable boy tried to remember those positive comments.
