First Horseback Riding Lesson
The horse had turned ten years old. On the usual training ground where I always practiced, a single horse stood there today. And unlike usual, at the edge of the ground, an old servant with graying hair whom I'd occasionally seen around the manor was standing watch.
—Prurrrng!
It was my first time seeing a horse this close up. Far bigger than I'd imagined, it was a little intimidating. Sir Roland Ashford, gripping the reins beside it, looked almost small atop it—but this must be the young one they'd brought for my lesson today.
"Today, you'll learn to ride on this fellow! He's a Steel Foot warhorse breed, but unfortunately not purebred. A cross with a packhorse."
Sir Roland rattled off the breed's traits and characteristics without pause, saliva flying as he spoke. Flustered by how different he was from his usual self, I chalked it up to something like those car obsessives from my past life. Knights were always mounted, after all, and horses were smart enough companions for real emotional bonds with humans—it wasn't weird for him to be this enthusiastic.
Anyway, summing up the lecture:
Half-Steel Foot. Pure Steel Foot horses boasted massive builds with matching power, inexhaustible stamina, brave and fearless temperaments. But this half-breed had inherited only half the physique, and who knew what personality it'd end up with. Bottom-tier warhorse, top-tier packhorse. Still only four years old, not fully grown. Around six, it'd hit full size for adult riders; in about ten years when I became a knight, it'd have enough experience to peak; five years after that, aging would set in, making combat or heavy loads tough.
Then it'd pull carts of moderate weight, shift to breeding or farm work around twenty-five, struggle to move by thirty, and mostly die off past thirty-five.
Shorter lifespan than I'd thought—but compared to dogs or cats dying at fifteen to twenty, it seemed decently long. With its peak lining up perfectly with my knighting, it felt deliberately matched to my age. This one would be my partner for years to come.
A wool blanket covered its back, topped by a flat cushion stuffed with linen and padding, then a wooden-framed leather saddle. A broad leather strap looped around its chest to secure the saddle tight. The saddle sat farther forward than I'd expected—not at the waist, but just behind the front legs, right over the scapula like the spot under a person's shoulders when prone. The horse's forelegs bore most of the weight.
Never realized, since I'd never looked this closely.
Thick leather straps buckled to metal rings on either side of the saddle ended in D-shaped stirrups. You'd adjust the buckles to fit your leg length.
I glanced up and met the horse's eyes. Those big, sparkling eyes looked oddly cute. Watching it eased my initial fear a bit.
"Alright, first up: holding the reins and leading."
I took the reins from Sir Roland. At his direction, I walked slowly, tugging gently—the colt started following. Its stride was longer than mine, so no need to slow down.
After four laps or so, Sir Roland called it good and stopped the circuit. On to the next part.
"With a new saddle, first adjust the stirrups to your leg length. Eventually, young master, you'll have your own custom-fitted one."
The straps weren't set for me yet—dangerous—so Sir Roland hoisted me right up onto the saddle. My view of the ground shot up. Higher than I'd figured.
Whoaaa...
Nothing to lean on, body wobbling unstable. Legs straight down, my feet barely grazed the stirrups. You'd set them so your feet fit with knees bent like sitting in a chair.
Once adjusted, relief washed over my stabilized body with a sigh. I lifted my butt slightly, pressing my legs to its sides. My back straightened naturally, core and thighs tensing. The saddle creaked faintly with every shift.
"Good! Now the aids—signals—for handling the horse. Start with go and whoa. Lightly squeeze both legs and say 'Let's go' in a low voice to start. Shift weight back, gently pull both reins, say 'Whoa—' to stop. Give it a go!"
"L-Let's go."
Awkward with the reins in hand, I squeezed my legs. Shockingly, it responded right away. Slow step one, two, three.
Oooh...!
But as it started moving, my balance crumbled forward. Jerking my legs to correct it spooked the horse. And suddenly—
Speed!
"Whoa, hold on, hold—!"
The horse bolted along the edge of the ground. Insane velocity! Wind whipping my hair, body jolting up and down, brain blank—I desperately recalled: Stop, how to stop?! Weight back! Gentle reins!
I shoved against the stirrups to throw my butt rearward. Pulled the reins lightly at the same time.
—Prurrrng!
Luckily, it reacted; speed tapered off. But it kept walking? Wasn't that the stop? Oh right.
"Whoa—."
Finally, it halted.
"Huuu—."
Just moments, but I was drenched in cold sweat.
"Hahaha! First time and you did great! Stick to the aids without panicking, and it'll be easy!"
Sir Roland approached laughing, stroking the horse's neck. I let out a breath of relief.
This guy was way more sensitive than expected.
The rest stuck easily with practice. Summary:
Start: light leg squeeze + "Let's go."
Accelerate: strong leg squeeze + weight forward
Maintain speed: leg squeeze hold + weight centered
Decelerate: weight back + gentle rein tug and release
Stop: gentle both reins + "Whoa—."
Reverse: light leg squeeze + gentle both reins
Left turn: light left rein + weight left
Right turn: light right rein + weight right
For the rest of the time, I maneuvered it every which way under Sir Roland's watch. Wild how simple cues made this massive beast obey my will.
Then suddenly, it stopped listening.
"Haha! Practice got boring, huh? As you see, it has likes and dislikes like people. Young ones tire quick of everything. Calming it then? That's skill."
Horses really were living creatures.
I dismounted carefully.
"That's it for today! Time left, but no listening. Last: lead it to the stable yourself."
Sir Roland left for other duties. Only the old servant who'd watched silently remained.
"...Hello?"
"Heh heh, speak easy, young master. I'm Max, the stable master."
I led the horse with Max toward the stables. Despite his aged face, his body rippled with muscle—looked incredibly fit. En route, we chatted; turns out he was eighty-two this year.
My jaw dropped.
Once a squire under my late grandfather—a true family elder, now just a servant.
Following his lead, we exited the manor grounds. Down the village path, opposite the temple route, a bit further—a massive building loomed.
I'd pictured a small wooden shed for a few horses. This was warehouse-sized.
Up close, haystacks towered under the long eaves at the entrance, beside a wooden-fenced pasture wider than the training ground. More ranch than stable.
I followed Max, leading inside.
"Wow. The stable's huge."
"Over twenty horses—needs the space."
"...Most out, then."
Empty inside. Four total, including mine. Father must've taken the rest.
Since I was there, I asked Max about care and curiosities.
"Hay three times a day with water—morning, noon, evening. Give meal-time rest after each, like humans. Too much, and tummy trouble."
"How much work daily?"
"Half a day while sun's up, usually. Half a bell's work means graze-break like tea time."
Max answered smoothly. Way more to horse care than expected: grains, salt, hoof trimming...
One thing clear: if you never traveled beyond village or town, owning horses was plain stupid.