Lysander knew that Icarus was a very good horse. He'd loved horses once, been entirely mad for them, in fact. He remembered that feeling. To be more precise, he remembered that he'd once had such a feeling. Feelings themselves had become a bit distant to him now. He was a man groping in the dark when trying to reach for his emotions of the past.

With the ease of great practice he allowed his mind to slide sideways, away from consideration of the changes that the war had wrought in him. That was the best thing about riding alone for days. With no members of his raucous, beloved, unbearable family around him he could pretend for a few miles at a time that he was just a man on a horse riding down a road.

Occasionally, however, the road became too heavily traveled for Lysander's comfort. It must be market day, for he was beginning to pass more laden carts and wagons full of expectant families. One cart driver kept pace with Lysander for half a mile, telling Lysander more than anyone ever needed to know about his success growing early greens and the high price he planned to ask for them.

When a fork to the right came along, Lysander took it immediately. The instant relief was so great that he made it a practice whenever the road became too full of people and voices and questions and greetings. As long as he continued to travel north, he would arrive in Scotland eventually. Just to ensure he was not putting himself too far behind schedule, he took to running Icarus at a gallop on every long stretch of empty road. Icarus was all for it, for the great thoroughbred loved nothing better than to run as fast as possible.

This worked reasonably well for most of the morning until Icarus threw a shoe. Lysander dismounted immediately and checking the gleaming black hooves of his mount, discovered that Icarus was unharmed. Lysander pocketed the shoe, for surely there would be a blacksmith somewhere ahead.

There was no point in regret. After all, when one has made such vast and monumental mistakes as Lysander had in the past, running his mount out of a shoe seemed rather minor. Finding a proper smithy would be good, but with the undamaged horseshoe in his pocket Lysander thought he might be able to make do with a barn and some tools. It was his own fault, but speaking to people and possibly asking them for help would be a heavy penance.

He followed the road he was on, the peaceful country lane snaking its way through a verdant valley following the banks of a picturesque river. Looking about him, Lysander noticed for the first time that he had reached the Yorkshire Dales proper. He'd never been there before and he found the quiet walk next to the cheerfully burbling river to be extremely soothing. One never found silence like this in London.