The Prince was glad to find a trail, being tired of fields, forest and ferns. A biting chill with little sun, at least not since the bright morning.
His clothes and pack soaked through. His muscles ached; he had never walked so far, with such weight. He could not stop yet though. The tall holly hedges obscured a hut which came into view round the corner. A small opening with stables, a wooden shack and a grain silo.
The Prince stood outside the shack. The buildings were maintained to a high standard. A neatly painted door opened and an old man in a leather apron looked at The Prince.
“Greetings.” The Prince declared, as a Knight would.
“Look at you, what a mess.” the old man replied informally. “You'd better come inside.” and left the door open as invitation. The Prince entered. A small room, bare wooden walls with a long trestle bench along the facing wall. The man had gone through another door to his left, which was open. The old man came back with an arm full of a folded robe, rough towels and underclothes.
“Were you chasing a bolted horse all night?” the old man dryly questioned, “through a stinking marsh?”, snorting a laugh. The Prince flinched to respond, thinking fast to adapt his excuse, but the old man cut him off; “No! Don't explain, I don't want to know. If I wanted to know things I wouldn't have gotten myself stationed at this outpost.”
After putting the bundle of clothes on the bench, he noticed the open front door which he closed, giving The Prince an accusing glare. Seeing the pathetic soaked knight, the old man shook his head and patted The Prince on the shoulder: “Get yourself dry young man, can't have a knight looking sorry for himself.” and left through the other door, closing it behind him.
The Prince squatted to rest the weight of his pack on the bench. Easing the straps off each shoulder. The release of weight was immense relief. Now only the weight of his plate armour, helmet and the sodden robes, he felt as light as a feather. He sat next to his pack and relaxed.
“People close doors after them.” he thought to himself, cursing quietly, “What else do I need to know?”
He removed his helmet and pulled his gauntlets off. Wrinkled, numb fingers awkwardly tried to unbuckle the straps on his greaves, and then each of the other, numerous, straps, clasps and buckles.
With his armour removed, towel in hand, he was dry. Now he understood the towel was an important piece of equipment. He had not packed any towels.
The new clothes were mostly the same as his previous, since they were all standard knight issue. But the new overrobe had an older variation of the royal insignia; old, from his grandfathers reign. He wondered how many years it had been in storage.
His previous clothes were in a puddle-pile on the floor. He stared at them, thinking they would be cleaned and dried, and then put into storage. His backpack, still soaked, a reluctant burden. He would get used to the weight. With his helmet on, and visor closed, he was almost ready to return to the trail. Just gather some more strength first.
“Are you asleep?”; The Prince awoke to see the close up face of the old man; peering into his visor. “I was.”, he replied, falling back on honesty in his waking daze. The old man walked off laughing. The Prince felt refreshed. “I had better move myself on,” he thought, “Before I fall asleep again.”.
“I will continue on my journey now.” he called out to the old man, standing up, more slowly than intended. As he stood he regained his persona as a knight, readjusting his helmet so it was straight.
“Good.” replied the old man, shouting through the open doorway. “Nothing personal,” he added, poking his head through the doorway, “I like you as much as I like anyone, and I don't like anyone.”, he explained, wiping his hands with a cloth.
“I very much appreciate your assistance.” The Prince said formally, then, looking in the old man's eyes, added: “Thank you.”; his sincerity ruining the formality.
The old man was pleased with this. “Go on, off you go.”, he shooed The Knight out of the main door, “You might be less annoying than most, but you're still annoying.”
Walking along a rough path, a field on one side, a short stone wall the other, The Prince could barely keep his eyes open. He had been walking for a short time.
The wall stopped at a grove. On one side the field continued, the other: a thick meadow seemed to go on forever. A fallen tree invited him to sit down, promising a comfortable seat. He had not seen anyone else since leaving the old man's hut, and he was too fatigued to care about being recognised. He took his helmet off, resting it against one of the fallen tree's branches.
Working his pack off his back, he sat on the fallen tree and almost instantly fell asleep.
When The Prince woke the wind had picked up, the branches whistled. Clouds had gathered, it looked like a storm might be coming. This was exciting, a chance to use his equipment. But more than that, he felt that his life on the road was beginning.
With his gauntlets off, he pried the pack's buckles open. The canvas backpack was soaked through, the straps were difficult to work free.
Unbuckled, he pulled out his large, tarred canvas sheet. It would make his tent. Unwieldy in the wind, the large sheet flapped wildly. The first peg driven quickly into the ground with a stomp. He fastened the other corner of the sheet to the edge of his makeshift seat. It was a crude bivouac, but it should suffice. Some more driven pegs and The Prince thought he had built enough of a shelter to withstand the weather.
Inside the makeshift shelter, shielded from the wind, he nestled down and listened to his internal chatter. It fed him concerns which he dismissed; the isolation giving him safety. Wind outside barraged unsuccessfully, whipping aggressively. But the pegs, the rope and the canvas won decisively. With each victory The Prince fell deeper and deeper into sleep.
Birdsong woke him. He peered out of the tent; it was afternoon, the sky had cleared. He felt more awake.
The winter sunshine was on his face and he felt good. There was no storm earlier bringing relief of easier travelling, hampered only by a slight disappointment; it was not a true test.
The tarred sheet did not pack well. Methodically rolling it tight, there was a figure in the distance. He could not see much about them, except for their striking red robe. It was a good sign though, seeing someone travelling from the direction he was going. The trail did, at least, go somewhere.
By the time he had finished rolling the sheet, the figure was close enough to see, but too far away to speak with. It was a young woman, she lowered her red hood and waved cheerfully. He interrupted his two handed packing to respond with a quick knight's salute.
Once the taught, canvas bundle was crammed back into his backpack, and the straps pulled tight, he squatted to shoulder the straps, taking a breath before bearing the full weight.
“Hello.” the young woman interrupted.
“Greetings.”, he replied while shuffling the weight of his pack, adjusting the straps. Then, as fast as possible he grabbed his helmet off the fallen tree and put it on, covering his head. He left the visor open.
“Are you making a camp?” she asked.
“No, I've just packed everything up.”
She seemed disappointed. “Are you travelling north?” she asked hopefully.
“Yes.”, he offered, but she had been travelling in the opposite direction.
Before he could think what to say she quickly asked: “Would you join me? We could travel together.”
“I'm not sure if you're aware, you were travelling southwards. I'm going the way you came.”; he felt he had to say that.
“I've been lost for a while. I wanted to avoid the main roads, but it's hard to keep track of direction, ...I'm not on trails I'm familiar with.”
The Prince nodded in understanding, although he himself knew several ways to identify north. Not everyone had such training. “To accompany you would be a duty and an honour.” he responded earnestly.
She looked The Knight up and down, balancing her weight on one leg, the other crossed behind it on point. She held her hands behind her back. “That's what I thought.”, the conclusion carrying her satisfaction. “Are you a knight errant?”
“Yes.”, his disguise working, “I am.”
She seemed impressed. “I'm on an adventure myself, I need to get far north, and I can't use the main routes. I do what I want now.”
The Knight nodded along with her words, as if they made sense. He was exhilarated to have some travelling company; better cover for his escape.
“I'm Red,” she beamed a warm, welcoming smile, “I'm really pleased you'll join me.”
But not as pleased as The Knight, it was all going rather well. Their common goal: to travel far north and stay off the main trails.
As they walked together, along the way Red had come from, The Knight provided conversation: replaying his rehearsed lines, where he had come from, his knight's vows and how these may effect his behaviour. Red offered no doubt, she was delighted with all parts of his script.
Once he had finished his well rehearsed spiel, a comfortable silence settled. Red pointed ahead; “There's a beautiful spot on the edge of the meadow, a small stream next to a clearing. It's hidden by a bramble thicket. I'm surprised I found it.”
To The Knight this sounded ideal.
Red and The Knight sat by the stream. The fire was building strength; wet blankets, from The Knights pack, propped up with sticks to capture the warmth. The half empty pack itself, planted just beyond the fire's range, sat as a centre-piece to the evenly strewn contents; a tiny city of equipment. Two small tents, in parallel, looked ready; their entrance sheets open in identical fashion.
The midday sun felt good, and with the fire's warmth, The Knight started to feel like he could be warm again. Red had pulled her hood over her head and was humming a gentle melody. Listening, he heard contentment. It elevated the mood. The stream was interesting viewing. Too shallow for fishing, he will be cooking his standard issue rations tonight.
Red finished humming, the crackle of the fire taking main stage; popping a spark, it gently collapsed on itself. The Knight pushed himself off the ground and added three logs. A quick appraisal and he turned back to the stream, resuming his place next to Red.
There was no talking. The Knight took mental inventory, thinking through his groups of equipment: cooking, cleaning, engineering, repairing, fighting. Having set up camp, he was more aware that his items were now his home and his life.
Red hunched over a small, open papyrus codex. The feather end of her raven quill exaggerating the slow, careful swirling of the writing. The Knight noticed a tiny, elegant ink bottle tied to a cord around her neck. He himself had some ink, sealing wax and parchment, but it was for official knight's business only. Like his, her feather was a pinion; an optimum feather for a quill, he was somewhat impressed.
As the afternoon drew in, the blankets dried and the fire became a stove. They dined on a knight's banquet of dried meats, pickled vegetables and fruit preserves. Despite his earlier rest he began to feel fatigue catch him up. “I'll take an early rest. I'll be awake again in the early hours to take over the watch.”. Red understood and was fine with this arrangement. She placed two more small logs on the fire and slouched back, watching the fresh logs adapt to their new home.