“I’m not. It’s the most human thing I’ve seen from you all day.” He tossed her an apple. “Toby!” he shouted.

Toby appeared, carrying the captain’s standard. He was still mounted, although the rest of them were on foot.

“Clean shirt,” the captain said. “And my towel. Give them to Lady Blanche.”

Toby didn’t ask questions. He reached behind his war saddle, to a very small leather trousseau. He extracted a linen shirt that smelled of lavender, and a slightly soiled damp towel.

“I used the towel to shave this morning,” the captain admitted.

Blanche caught the work on the shirt—mice teeth on the cuffs, embroidered coat of arms, beautiful fine stitching as good as her own or better. “What’s this for, then?” she asked. “My lord?”

“Tear the shirt up for swaddling,” he said. “The towel’s so you can wipe your hands clean before you eat the apple.” He smiled.

She did just that. Then she tossed it to him—as if they were peers. He caught it and threw it to Toby, who shied away.

“Afraid of a little baby poo?” the captain cried.

Toby blushed furiously. He rolled the towel very tightly and put it away behind his war saddle as if afraid of disease.

He smiled at her and rode off down the column.

By nightfall, Michael and Tom had begun to use the rougher sides of their tongues, and the captain was the calm, cheerful one. Bob Twill was found to have stayed on the ground at a halt. Bad Tom rode back, scared him almost to incontinence, and got him on his exhausted horse.

Cat Evil, never the best rider, complained of the pace and found himself docked a day’s pay.

“Mew mew mew!” Tom roared. “I don’t hear nowt from the babe but laughter, and you lot—old soldiers—cry like babies. A little fight an’ a few hours in the saddle—” He laughed. “We’ll shake the fat off you.”

Cat Evil, who was as thin as a young girl and had the long hair to match and a very nasty disposition, put a hand on his knife.

Tom laughed again. “If you ha’ the piss to face me,” he said, “then ye’re not e’en tired yet. Bottle it and keep riding.”

Most of the older men expected they’d halt at last light. Even Cully, who, as an officer and a trusted man, was careful not to vent his irritation at the pace, muttered that with no pursuit and no danger, it was cruel hard.

Ser Michael reined in. “Think it’s possible that the captain knows something you don’t know, Cully?”

Cully looked resentful, like a good hunting dog accused falsely of stealing food. But he kept his mouth shut, and didn’t rise to Cuddy’s open mutiny when they kept riding into the moonlight.