Hadrian smirked. “That might be,” he replied, struggling to cut chunks of dry brine-encrusted pork into bite-sized cubes, “but I guarantee this meal will put them all to shame.”
Arista removed the pearl-handled hairbrush from a pouch that hung at her side, and she tried in vain to untangle her hair. Eventually giving up, she sat and watched Hadrian drop wretched-looking meat into the bubbling pot. Ash and bits of twigs thrown up by the crackling fire landed in the mix.
“Master chef, debris is getting in your pot.”
Hadrian grinned. “Always happens. Can’t help it. Just be careful not to bite down too hard on anything or you might crack a tooth.”
“Wonderful,” she told him, then turned her attention to Royce, who was busy checking the horses’ hooves. “We’ve come a long way today, haven’t we? I don’t think I’ve ever traveled so far so quickly. You keep a cruel pace.”
“That first part was over rough ground,” Royce mentioned. “We’ll cover a lot more miles after we eat.”
“After we eat?” Arista felt her heart sink. “We aren’t stopping for the day?”
Royce glanced up at the sky. “It’s hours until nightfall.”
They mean for me to get back into the saddle?
She did not know if she could stand, much less ride. Virtually every muscle in her body was in pain. They could entertain any thoughts they wished, but she would not travel any farther that day. There was no reason to move this fast, or over such rough ground. Why Royce was taking such a difficult course, she did not understand.
She watched as Hadrian dished the disgusting soup he had concocted into a tin cup and held it out to her. There was an oily film across the top, through which green meat bobbed, everything seasoned with bits of dirt and tree bark. Most assuredly, it was the worst thing anyone had ever presented her to eat. Arista held the hot cup between her hands, grimacing and wishing she had eaten more of the meat pie back at Sheridan.
“Is this a … stew?” she asked.
Royce laughed quietly. “He likes to call it that.”
“It’s a dish I learned from Thrace,” Hadrian explained with a reminiscent look on his face. “She’s a much better cook than I am. She did this thing with the meat that—Well, anyway, no, it’s not stew. It’s really just boiled salt pork and vegetables. You don’t get a broth, but it takes away the rancid taste of the salt and softens the meat. And it’s hot. Trust me, you’re going to love it.”
Arista closed her eyes and lifted the cup to her lips. The steamy smell was wonderful. Before she realized it, she had devoured the entire thing, eating so quickly she burned her tongue. A moment later, she was scraping the bottom with a bit of hard bread. She looked for more and was disappointed to see Hadrian already cleaning the pot. Lying in the grass, she let out a sigh as the warmth of the meal coursed through her body.
“So much for ice sculptures.” Hadrian chuckled.
Despite her earlier reluctance, she found new strength after eating. The next leg of the trip was over level ground, along the relative ease of a deer trail. Royce drove them as fast as the terrain allowed, never pausing or consulting a map.
After many hours, Arista had no idea where they were, nor did she care. The food faded into memory and she found herself once more near collapse. She rode bent over, resting on the horse’s neck and drifting in and out of sleep. She could not discern between dream and reality and would wake in a panic, certain she was falling. Finally, they stopped.
Everything was dark and cold. The ground was wet and she stood shivering once more. Her guides went back into their silent actions. This time, to Arista’s immense disappointment, no fire was made, and instead of a hot meal, they handed her strips of smoked meat, raw carrots, an onion quarter, and a triangle of hard, dry bread. She sat on the wet grass, feeling the moisture soak into her skirt and dampen her legs as she devoured the meal without a thought.
“Shouldn’t we get a shelter up?” she asked hopefully.
Royce looked up at the stars. “It looks clear.”
“But …” She was shocked when he spread out a cloth on the grass.
They mean to sleep right here—on the ground without even a tent!
Arista had three handmaids who dressed and undressed her daily. They bathed her and brushed her hair. Servants fluffed pillows and brought warm milk at bedtime. They tended the fireplace in shifts, quietly adding logs throughout the night. Sleeping in her carriage had been a hardship, sleeping on that ghastly cot in the dorm a torment—this was insane. Even peasants had hovels.
She wrapped her cloak tight against the night’s chill.
Will I even get a blanket?