Loveheart Heath was a charming little village made up of cobble-stoned lanes and fields of various shades of green, separated by neat hedges. As the crow flies, as it often does, the land below appeared as a large patchwork quilt all shades of emerald green, full of fat cows and happy sheep. Dotted hither and thither were thatched-roofed farmhouses and smaller dwellings for townsfolk. But the most impressive thing about this little village was that it stood closest to the royal castle. And that was a privilege indeed.
        Often the royal parade rode through the township on magnificent horses. They rode four abreast in a line so long you could never see both ends at the same time. A trumpeter, always leading the royal procession, announced their impending arrival with much fanfare and pomp. And as a result, farmers stopped working and children stopped playing in anticipation of seeing royalty, even before the sound of clattering hooves struck upon the ground.
        Franny, a young girl with wild red hair and dirt smeared upon her face, squeezed her father’s hand as she watched the horses go by. The royal colours of gold and silver sparkled on the rider’s cloaks under the early morning sun. Franny found herself smiling.
        ‘What a lucky girl,’ she said, as a young princess no older than Franny rode past on her pony.
        The pony was the colour of summer clouds, and both princess and pony had sky blue ribbons in their hair, streaming out behind them in the light breeze. She rode gracefully upon a side-saddle, as was considered proper for all maidens and ladies.
        Franny and the princess caught eyes. Like me, you might have expected the young princess to be pleased to see a child a similar age as she. But when Franny smiled, exposing a wobbly front tooth, the princess stuck out her tongue, turned away with her nose held high in the air, and muttered something not quite becoming for a princess. She then gave a hefty kick upon her pony’s side, who instead of going faster, simply grunted and swished her tail in response.
        ‘Her poor pony isn’t very happy,’ said Franny to her father.
        And Franny should know, for although she had no pony of her own (being the daughter of a farm labourer with no land and little money), she spent almost every free moment she had looking after workhorses on local farms.
        Now those farm horses were nothing like the sleek, elegant royal horses parading past Franny’s eyes. They were robust beasts with stocky shoulders and strong rumps, used for pulling ploughs and carts full of harvest. But still, Franny could not help feeling sorry for the beautiful royal pony, and considered her workload was even harder. But after a little time, the royal parade disappeared into the distance, along with any mischievous thoughts Franny had about the spoilt princess… [end of sample]