Though the Corsican was short, he still insisted on riding a tall horse. Climbing into the saddle looked rather difficult for him, yet he did not ask a soldier to help him and mounted on his own.
His posture was hideous, like a thief scrambling onto a grain cart. There was nothing elegant about it, much less the dignity of a king. The male soldiers were accustomed to it, as though it were only natural.
Georgiana had thoughtfully chosen a pony for herself. These horses had plenty of flesh on them and were far more comfortable to ride than the skin-and-bones Thestrals.
With a saddle and stirrups, it was much more convenient than a Thestral with no tack at all. She was glad Napoleon wore riding boots rather than the high heels Louis XIV had worn. Men in high heels always struck her as absurd, even harder to accept than short legs. Besides, his legs had rather nice lines—very straight, without even a hint of bowlegs.
"What are you looking at?" he asked with a smug grin.
She ignored him and flicked her whip, sending the pony into a run.
She did not truly want to race. She simply could no longer bear the kind of life she had lived during the day. Besides the Corsican, the Imperial Guard was galloping nearby as well. The heavy hoofbeats sounded like muffled thunder, accompanied by the horses' labored breathing, and that made her feel much better. Once the pony had finished warming up, she loosened the reins.
A horse's speed was controlled not only by constantly lashing it with a whip, but also by the reins. Loosen the tightened reins a little, and the horse would run according to its own nature.
The rising and falling of the horse's back brought some