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The horses needed to rest. And Haydn had to speak to his wife.

“We stop there,” he said, “before we climb the ridge.” Navigating his mount from the road, still watching the approaching party, he waited. “Take the others to the stream,” he said to Holt.

“You are not scouting them alone,” his brother replied, riding up to him.

“They are but pilgrims,” he said, more confident as they approached that there would be no trouble.

“Isaac.” Holt nodded to Phillipa. His man understood and began to lead her off the path. His wife looked at him, and then the approaching riding party, before following Isaac. She said nothing, but he could tell Phillipa worried. Likely would do so many times before they reached their destination. But there would be no attack today. No one would be hurt. He said as much to alleviate their fear. “We stay simply to speak to them, to receive word from other travellers. They are holy men,” he said.

“Then why do you have Isaac lead me away?”

The wife he’d first met would not have asked the question, and Haydn was glad for it. “Because I am an overly cautious man.”

She smiled at him, Haydn returning the gesture, and then rode away with Isaac. Hamon remained, and when Haydn turned back to him and Holt, the two of them were staring at him.

“What is it?” he asked.

Neither answered. But Holt did shake his head.

As the riding party approached, their wagon making slow progress in the mud, he waited for his man to answer.

“You smile as often as your brother today,” Hamon said.

“Perhaps he is finally having an influence on me,” he quipped.

“Or perhaps it is your wife?” Holt greeted the men first as they passed. “Good day, Father,” he said to the priest at the front of the pack. “How goes your journey?”

While the others in his party continued on—stopping to speak to each and every person on the road did not lend itself to arriving at one’s destination in a timely manner—the leader walked toward them. Travelling to London on foot was something Haydn didn’t envy.

“Well enough, and yours, Lord. . . ?”

“Waryn. And my brother, Sir Holt, and our man, Sir Hamon.”

“Greetings, sirs,” the priest said. “A warning, of sorts. There is a band of freemen, mercenaries I believe, wreaking havoc as they travel south.”

Haydn stopped him. “We encountered their party three days ago.”

The priest blinked. Waited. “They were intent on misdeeds,” he said, seeming to understand.

“Aye, they were,” Haydn agreed. “They attacked us, quite unprovoked. We buried three of them.”

The priest crossed himself, said something under his breath that sounded like “God take their souls.” Haydn was not sure if those men would be welcomed in heaven, but he kept that thought to himself.

“Any other news from the road?” he asked, aware the man needed to catch up with the others.

“Aye,” he said, “although you’ve likely heard. At Jedburg Abbey word circulated that William Wallace has resurfaced. At first we thought it nothing but a rumor, but the abbot claims to have seen the man himself.”

He and Holt exchanged a glance. “You are from the borders, then?” Holt asked.

“We are.”

“Did you speak to the abbot yourself?”

“Aye, and he claimed Wallace passed through there for the night with four men. Any news from the south?”

Since the priest was from the border, Haydn could be more candid than he would otherwise. “Other than that the king still licks his wounds and prepares for his next offensive? Nay.” He pointed on the path they came from. “Do you know the Fox and Hound?”

“Aye, we stopped briefly yesterday.”