They rode hard through the day, making for the holdfast direct. Acwellen did not seem interested in retracing the circuitous route of their patrol, although Padric privately thought a second look at the places where people were known to live was worth taking. But he said nothing. He learned quickly that his opinion was neither valued nor welcomed in this company.

They made a rough camp that night amongst a pitiful copse of trees. The men went about their preparations with the belligerent ease of old campaigners. As always, Padric was ignored and left to tend his horse with no offer of aid or advice. He brushed the beast down after removing the saddle as Kederic had taught him and watered and fed her. He did not rush for he was in no hurry to join the others around the fire, but nor did he tarry overlong lest his extended absence be mistaken for incompetence. Avoiding as long as he could, Padric left the horses and trudged the short distance to the camp.

“Fine night,” Seon said as Padric passed him in the dark.

“Fine,” Padric agreed without pausing. Seon was the most pleasant of the bunch, but Padric knew he mocked along with the rest when they suspected he was out of ear-shot. Padric would be spared his fake smile this evening as the man had drawn horse watch. It was a small mercy.

The stew pot was already steaming by the time he walked into the firelight. Acwellen sat talking in hushed tones with Aglaeca while Drefan and Big Cunny pretended to laugh at something Poncey Swan said. Fat Donall stirred the pot and just outside the ring of light, Banan stood with his back turned, staring out into the night. Padric never thought he would yearn for the nights when he and Rosheen had camped out in the dark during their journey to Hog’s Wallow, but looking at these men he wished for nothing more than to be with his best friend and away from them.

He sat himself down as far from Poncey Swan’s mewling voice as he could manage and pretended to look busy oiling his sword. It was a borrowed blade, given to him by the Thegn the morning Padric left the fort. Wearing three feet of solid iron was strange and uncomfortable. Acwellen’s men had gotten a good laugh on the first day when Padric dismounted and the scabbard became entangled in his stirrup strap. He had never wielded the weapon, so sharpening it was pointless, but he made sure he kept it well cleaned, making a nightly ritual of the task, drawing ridicule from his companions, but he paid no heed. He would not return a rusty sword.