“Gladly,” said Romilly, “I must go out and see to my horse, in any case.”
“You have a horse?” A look almost of greed lighted Rory’s face. “I have always wanted a horse; but they are not for the likes of me! You must indeed have been brought up in a Great House.”
Romilly went outside, flinging her cloak over her shoulders, and unfastened the heavy saddlebags lying across the heavy-boned stag-like chervine Rory had ridden. She took the sack of coarse grain into the byre, and brought the saddlebags into the cottage, dumping them on the floor near the fire.
Rory was bending over his grandmother, talking in low tones; she was sure he had not heard her, so she slipped out again into the byre, went into her own bags and fed her horse one or two cakes of the dog-bread, stroking its muzzle and talking to it. There was an old-fashioned outhouse inside the byre, and she went into it; as she was readjusting her clothing, she paused, dismayed, at the bloodstains lining her underwear; because of the storm she had lost track of the days. When I thought to pass myself off as a man, she said to herself wryly, / had forgotten certain very important points which I must remember. She had never thought it would be simple, to remember to pitch her voice at its deepest level and to remember to move with the free stride for which Luciella and her governess had always reproved her, but she had forgotten the inexorable rhythms of female biology which could have betrayed her more than any of this.
As she was tearing up one of the old petticoats in her pack – she could wash it privately by night, perhaps – she took stock of what she should do now. The old woman had promised that Rory would set her on her road to Nevarsin. Would it be ungracious, she wondered, to insist that she must leave at once? She should have invented someone who was waiting for her in that city and would come to look for her if she did not appear at the appointed time. She made certain that there were no telltale bulges in her clothing, fed the horse and led Rory’s stag-pony inside, spreading fresh straw and fodder for it – she did not like the looks of that heavy-set young roughneck, but the riding-animal was certainly not to blame and should not suffer for her dislike of his master’s face.
Then she stepped back through the door-and paused, hearing the old woman’s voice.
“The youngster was kind to me, Rory. This is an evil thing you do, and a breach of hospitality, which the Gods hate.”
Rory’s voice was sullen. “You know how long I have wished for a horse, and while I dwell here at the world’s end, I shall never have a better chance. If this is a runaway bastard from somewhere, he’ll never be missed. Why, did you see his cloak – in all my years I have never even had a chance at such a cloak, and the brooch in it alone would pay a healer to come all the way from Nevarsin to cure your joint-aches! As for your debt to him, well, he had lodging and fire the night – it was not all kindliness on his part. And I can cut his throat quick as a puff of wind, and he’ll never have the time to be afeared.”
Romilly caught, terrified, at her throat. He meant to kill her! Never had she for a moment thought, even in the poverty of the hut, that her horse and cloak, let alone the copper brooch in its fastening and the money in her small purse, might endanger her very life. She would have turned, noiselessly, to flee; but without cloak or horse, without food, she would die quickly in the bitter cold! She gripped her fingers on the dagger in its sheath at her side. At least, he would find no unaware or easy victim; she would sell her life as dearly as she could. But she must not allow them to know that she knew of their plans, but pretend to suspect nothing till she had her cloak and her pack, and could make a run for the horse. She turned quietly about and went noiselessly back to the byre, where she put her saddle on her horse, and turned him about, ready to flee. Now she must have her cloak, or she would freeze in the hills.