Reynardine, Chapter 1

⁠​​​‌​​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌⁠The big gray hunter caracoled under him, and with a vicious twitch of curb and snaffle Morgan brought him to stand. He smacked the croup and touched the gelding's fore thigh with the toe of his riding boot until the great hunter stood like a horse in an illustration. Then Morgan turned around.

About him was the cold gray of an Irish morning in November. Woolly, dull, frost on the roads and a touch