The boundary wall wasn't a simple pasture fence. It was an old medieval remnant built from massive, uneven blocks of gray fieldstone. It stretched across the moor like a jagged spine. It was easily 5 and 1/2 ft high, completely solid, and covered in a treacherous layer of frozen dead moss.
There was no forgiving top rail to knock down if a horse clipped it. If a horse hit that wall, bone would shatter. Henry pulled his bay to a halt about 50 yd from the stonework. Basia fought Ruin down to a heavy stamping walk beside him.
"There it is." Henry said softly. He wasn't looking at Basia. He was staring at the gray stones, his eyes hard and distant. "The edge of Ashbourne land." "It's massive." Basia admitted, evaluating the approach.
The ground leading up to it was slightly uphill, adding to the difficulty. "Who builds a wall that high on a moor?" "My grandfather." Henry said bitterly. "He had a dispute with the neighboring earl. He built it high enough that a man on horseback couldn't even see over it.
He wanted to make a point. Henry shifted in his saddle. The leather creaked. I tried to jump it when I was 22.
Henry continued, his voice dropping stripped of its usual aristocratic polish. I was full of pride and cheap gin. I had a hunter I thought could fly. I pointed him at it and at the last second I hesitated.
I pulled the reins. Just a fraction of an inch. Basia went still letting Ruin chew the bit. She listened.