Matthew made a trip to the chamberpot room and in obedience to the lady of the manor went out through the cottage’s back door, passed the woodpile and a little toolshed and ventured a distance into the forest before cleaning the thing out with snow. Elizabeth was the next to go out, and Julian waited for her at the back door in spite of her assurance that trying to run away was not on her agenda. Firebaugh was next, and he refused to clean his pot out so Julian took care of both his own and the doctor’s but not without the grim lip that said Firebaugh would pay for the indignity. Coats and hats went up on hooks and it was time to fill bellies.

In the small but well-kept and clean kitchen where another hearth blazed, everyone gathered around a sturdy oak table to partake of the chicken soup and the thick black bread that Matthew reckoned came from a Prussian recipe. Before any eating could commence there was a short period of haggling between Julian and Oliver over the price of their stay, Autrey saying they had never had anyone stop over for a single hour in their whole eight years of working the inn and he didn’t know how to set the charges. Four shillings was agreed upon. As the soup and the bread were going down into hungry gullets and followed by strong hot tea, Greta pulled up a chair beside Firebaugh. From a little green jar she applied a white ointment that smelled of ginger to his wounds. He cried out with renewed anguish but she assured him the ginger root paste would do wonders at healing him up … unless, she added with a quick wink at her husband, he suffered any further accidents on the way to Wales.

“It is up to the prisoner to behave,” said Julian as he got down to the last of his soup and dipped a hunk of bread into it to chew on. “Matthew and I thank you for your hospitality, but it’s past time for us to go.”

“The team won’t be ready,” Oliver said. “Those steeds are strong, but you can drive ’em ’til they’re ruined.”

“They can take it. They’ll have to. Out of pity for this gentleman before you,” and here Julian motioned with his bit of bread down the table at Firebaugh, “do you have a pair of woolen stockings we can buy? It seems he says his legs are cold.”

“I have two pair but none I can sell,” came the reply. “My woolens are hard to come by and expensive to boot.”

Matthew had a thought and realized he should’ve come up with it sooner. “The baggage compartment in the coach,” he said to Julian. “My … um … escort must’ve been carrying a bag or two for the trip. There might be some woolen leggings in there.”