Chapter 334: The North Road

Morgana stood at the foot of the steps in the plain grey wool Thorne had told her to take, with her hair in a tight braid and her saddlebags at her feet, and tried not to look as though she was shaking.

"It’s only a little," said Agnes.

She was holding out a bundle. It was wrapped in a clean white cloth and tied with string, and it was roughly the size of a small dog.

"Agnes."

"Bread. Cheese. A cold chicken. Some of the plum cake. Apples." Agnes’s face did not move. "It is a little."

"It’s enough for a regiment."

"You will be on the road all day."

"We’ll reach Ashford by dusk."

"And you will want something to eat when you do." The old woman pushed the bundle into her arms. "Roads are hungry places. I have never known a lady to come back from one fat."

Morgana laughed. It came out thin and shaky in the cold. She tucked the bundle under her arm, and Agnes, who had never in all the time Morgana had known her done anything of the kind, stepped forward and kissed her once, briskly, on the cheek.

"Come home safe," she said. "I have a good deal of bread to bake."

"I will."

"See that you do." She stepped back and was Mistress Agnes again, silver-streaked and starched and entirely composed. "My lords. Take care of her."

"With our lives," said Draeven.

"I would prefer a bit more than that," said Agnes. "Lives are cheap. Return her in one piece."

Kaelen coughed into his fist.

"Yes, Mistress Agnes," said the first king, gravely.

Something touched Morgana’s elbow.

"My turn," said Rowan.

She had been waiting behind Agnes with her arms crossed and her chin up, in her grey maid’s dress and a shawl that was clearly someone else’s. Her nose was red. Her eyes were shiny. She was doing a very poor job of looking as if she hadn’t been crying.

"I’m not going to say anything," said Rowan.

"All right."

"I’m only going to say one thing."

"All right."

"If you get hurt, I will never forgive you."

"I won’t get hurt."

"You always say that, and then you end up in chains." Rowan sniffed. "I mean it. I’ve aged ten years. I’ve got a grey hair."

"You do not."

"I found one yesterday." She flung her arms around Morgana’s neck and held on, hard, with her face pressed into her shoulder. "Go and see your Ma. Hug her for me. Tell her I’m eating properly."

"I will."

"And Morgana."

"Yes?"

"My father." Her voice went very small. "Will you go and see him? Tell him I’m well. And that I’m sorry I haven’t written. I’ve been very busy."

"I’ll tell him."

"Tell him I’ve got a very good position."

"I’ll tell him you’re running the palace."

"I nearly am."

They both laughed. Rowan wiped her face with the back of her hand, furiously, and stepped back.

"Go on, then," she said. "Before I start again."

Morgana turned.

She heard hoofbeats.

They came across the courtyard slowly, a heavy, unhurried clip on the frozen stones, and a great dark shape detached itself from the shadow of the stables and came into the lantern light. It was a black stallion with a white blaze like a thumbprint on his nose. He moved with the careful, arrogant grace of a creature who knows exactly how beautiful he is. And at his head, holding a rein in one big hand and looking as though he had not slept in two days, walked a tall grey-haired man in a stained leather apron.

"Garrick," said Morgana.

"Girl."

"You didn’t have to...."

"He’s been at the gate since midnight." The stable master did not look at her. He looked at the horse. "Standing there like a stone. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t let the lads near. I went out at three to see what the matter was, and he looked at me, and I knew." He sighed. "I know when I’ve been told."

Shadowmere lowered his head.

He pressed his forehead against her chest, gently, the way he had in the stall. Morgana’s throat tightened. She put her hand on his nose, and felt his breath warm and slow against her wrist.

"Hello," she whispered.

"I’ve put the good saddle on him," said Garrick. "Not the old one. He deserves it." He cleared his throat. "He’ll not run off with you. I’ve had a word."

"You’ve had a word."

"Aye."

"With the horse."

"We’ve an understanding." Garrick’s mouth twitched. "He knows if he throws a lady of the realm into a ditch, I’ll personally see that he never has another apple."

Kaelen made a choked noise somewhere behind her.

"Thank you," said Morgana. She meant for more than the saddle. She thought Garrick knew it. He looked at her, at last, with those creased brown eyes, and his craggy face did the thing it had done in the office, shifted and softened and went suddenly very young.

"Come back and tell me about the goat," he said.

"I will."

"Both of you," he added, over her shoulder, to the kings. "Mind her."

"We will," said Draeven.

"I’ve been minding that girl a good while," said Garrick, "and I’d take it very ill if a king undid my work."

Kaelen coughed again, louder.

Morgana swung up.

It was easier this time. She found the stirrup without looking. Her weight settled into the saddle, and the horse shifted under her, a long smooth roll of muscle, and she felt it again, that strange warm rightness, as though a piece of her had been waiting all her life to be put in its place. She gathered the reins.

"Ready?" said Draeven.

He was already mounted.

He sat a tall bay gelding in the lantern light, dressed in a plain brown riding coat with a hood pulled loosely back. He wore no crown. He carried no sword that anyone could see. He looked, in the half dark, like a prosperous wool merchant, if a prosperous wool merchant had the bearing of an emperor and the eyes of a hunting hawk.

Beside him, Kaelen sat a rangy chestnut, in a worn leather jacket and a scarf, with his pale hair covered by a cap he kept tugging at. He looked like a very handsome stable boy. He caught her eye and grinned.

"Do I pass?"

"You’re staring at me like a lord."

"Am I?"

"Constantly."

"Hell." He pulled the cap lower. "I’ll stop."