Margaretha wanted to urge her horse into a gallop, but she held back and kept her at a fast walk. Once they were more than a hundred yards from the house, Colin nudged his gelding into a canter, then an all-out gallop, and Margaretha followed suit. Soon her hair was whipping across her face. She found herself smiling, the wind drying her teeth.
They slowed their pace, not wanting to exhaust the horses. By then she’d decided: it was a long journey to Marienberg, and Colin had not wanted to bring her at all. She would only speak to him if she was forced to. He would see that she was not annoying. Somehow, she would prove that she could stay quiet, and he would be sorry he tried to get rid of her.
It was getting dark. They’d been riding for hours, and Colin still needed to find food.
He had planned to travel off the road, but as the sides of the road were so thickly forested, they had stayed on it to make better time. If they had been walking or riding in a slow-moving, donkey-drawn cart, it might have been different. But they were riding fast horses, and should be relatively safe, or at least able to outrun anyone who came after them. He hoped so, anyway.
After not seeing anyone for several miles, they began to see a few people on the road, so they must be close to a village. He certainly would not send Margaretha to get food again, but if he went alone, he’d have to leave her alone. No, it was probably best to go together.
They rode slowly through the village. He found the bakery, and they bought enough bread for two days. They found pork at the butcher’s shop, some cheese and eggs, and bought some blankets and an iron pan, since they’d had to leave their pot behind. They carried their provisions until they were out of sight of the village. Then Colin tied everything to the back of their horses behind their saddles. They mounted and set off again.
When it got so dark they could barely see the road, Colin found a place for them to stop and sleep for the night. It was in the edge of a barley field, at the border of some trees, far enough away from the road that no one could see or hear them. They tied their horses to a tree and fed them some oats they had bought from the villagers. The stream that meandered near the road provided water.
Margaretha rubbed the horses and talked softly to them while he built a fire and fixed a meal of fried pork and eggs and bread. They ate in silence. Was Margaretha too tired to talk? She’d talked to the horses. But now that he thought about it, she’d spoken hardly a word since they left Anne’s house.
He put away their provisions after dousing their fire with water and dirt, then wrapped everything in a rough woolen tarp and tied it with a bit of twine. He then handed her one of the blankets. She took it and turned away from him without a word.
He sighed. “Margaretha.” He touched her shoulder and she stilled. “Why are you not talking to me? Are you angry?”
She turned partially around. “What was the true reason you wanted me to stay at Anne’s and not come with you? Was it because I talk too much and you knew I would annoy you?”
He stood only a foot away from her. The moon was surprisingly bright. He moved in front of her so they were standing face to face.
“I told you why, and it was not because you talk too much.” He said the words softly and shook his head. “I told you, I wanted to keep you safe. I let my friend John be killed by Claybrook’s men. I let Philippa be murdered by Claybrook. And when you were attacked . . . You could have been killed by that ruffian who tried to steal your purse. If something bad happened to you, I don’t think I could bear it.”
She looked him in the eye. “Those deaths were not your fault.”
This time he looked away. “John’s death was.” He sighed. He should not tell her what happened, but he found himself saying, “I had put my cloak on John only a few minutes before Claybrook’s men found us. They had been told to kill the man with the red cloak.” He clenched his fist around the pommel of his saddle and closed his eyes as shame crowded his chest.
“I am so sorry, Colin.” She placed her gentle hand over his, and he loosened his grip. “You are not to blame. That was not your fault, and I thank God you were not also killed.”
She squeezed his hand, and he felt the shame melt away a bit.
“Thank you for being concerned for me,” she said. “No one could accuse you of not caring about your friends, of not being willing to help others. It wasn’t your fault John was killed. The blame lies with Claybrook and his men, not you.”
A lump formed in his throat. Her skin looked as soft as velvet in the moonlight. He thought of reaching out and brushing his fingers across her cheek. “And you are not annoying.” He leaned closer as he realized the truth of what he was about to say. “Life is more cheerful when you talk to me.”
“Oh.” Her mouth hung open. “Truly?”
“Truly.” A warning, like a voice of caution, whispered to his spirit. It warred with the other voice that said how sweet she looked, her face upturned toward his.