Walter was worried about losing the contents of his burlap sack in the corner of some inn where he could only rent a spot in a giant bed, so he stayed in Norbury Lake during the night, camping out by the forested area that was separated from the royal territories with a large fence to which he tied the reins of his horse. When the sun hit his face, he found himself cradling the large sack like a beloved, his feet crossed over top of it and his arms in an embrace. He was beginning to grow hungry, and worried about the next few days in particular.

When he left, he had made a plan: he would travel back to Gartham, where he had spent his life up until his late adolescence, and rejoin his parents. His time as footman, and even more so, as a royal favourite, he would look back upon as a massive mistake that he had learned from and would vow never to do again. Whatever glittering status offered to him, he would kindly reject.

Gartham was far, nearly by the Hailstone Stronghold where one could cross the narrowest bit of sea to Otterdon Island. And not only was it far, the further north one went, the worse the roads got, and the fewer towns one would find on their path. With the less-developed land came a relatively higher amount of highwaymen and other scoundrels that would threaten his safety, especially if they had any reason to suspect the contents of his sack being what they were. He looked rather well-kept even after a week on house arrest. Any weathered criminal would recognise him as a duke’s son, or a high-up official. A young, naive man with more money on him than he could have feasibly spent on his way to wherever he was going.

He stopped by a cook shop on his way for a pastry and ate it on horseback. He remembered the nights he would go out within these very same city walls with Henry, and just the picture of Henry’s face in his mind made him deeply regretful.

It was hard for him, at least at first, to feel any amount of hatred for Katherine, but when the first showers began once he was firmly out of the city, he began to feel it. He was irritated knowing that the queen and her retinue were likely enjoying a peaceful game inside while his horse and him were trudging through the mud on a trip that would take days, after which his only reward would be to return to his life as a Gartham-based serf. There was no positive spin he could give it. He was cornered.

Part of him wondered whether they were looking for him, whether he should disguise himself or make more of an effort not to take main roads where he eventually started crossing carriages. However, when he was in Norbury Lake, nobody seemed to be on high alert, and the guardsmen did not even stop him at the edge of town. Perhaps simply nobody cared.

He was thoroughly soaked through when he arrived in the next town, which was more of a hamlet than anything else. There were a few cabins, a small alehouse, and a church, and the square in the center of these half a dozen buildings was but a muddy pitch with evidence of there having once been market stalls. Walter looked down at himself. The silk of his breeches had warped and discoloured with the rain. He cursed the weather briefly and scrambled off of his horse, only taking off the heavy sack when he had tied the reins to one of the beams that marked the porch of the alehouse.

With the sack draped over his right shoulder, he stumbled into the alehouse were a few villagers were drinking, and all of the eyes were suddenly on him. He was even unsure of what he wanted: Walter had gone in to sit down and rest from his uncomfortable posture on the horse, to give said horse a rest himself too.

‘Good day,’ he said uncomfortably, laying the sack down by an unoccupied chair and then walking forward to the large pot of ale where the villagers sat closeby.

It was a corpulent young woman that stood stirring the pot. ‘Young lad,’ she said. ‘What can I do for you?’

Walter narrowed his eyes. ‘Ale, please?’ he asked.

She chuckled softly. ‘Aye…’

‘And… I was wondering if there was perhaps an inn nearby? I didn’t see it while entering town. I’m somewhat passing through.’

‘Where will you go?’ she asked, handing him a ceramic cup full of watery ale.

Walter took it gratefully and took his first sip of the diluted, but comfortingly spiced cup. ‘Gartham,’ he said. ‘Where I’m from.’

‘Never heard of it,’ she said. ‘Is it far?’

‘I’m no longer so sure,’ he said. ‘I was hoping you’d know. I am just a day away now, and I am starting already to feel disoriented. I came from Norbury Lake.’

‘That explains the posh outfit,’ she said. ‘A Norbury Lake laddie. It’s been a while since we’ve had one of your kind in here.’

He snickered uncomfortably. ‘Is there an inn nearby?’

‘You’ll want to go up to Stansby or Hambledon for an inn,’ she said, stirring. ‘Here, there’s little more than the hospitality of the people. No inns, nothing. Just a lonely alehouse here.’

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It was decidedly not what he wanted to hear. ‘Have you heard of the escaped prisoner?’ he asked.

Her eyes turned big as saucers. ‘Escaped prisoner?’ she asked, her accent getting thicker each word she spoke. ‘No, what of him?’

Walter pursed his lips. ‘I am the escaped prisoner,’ he said. ‘I hurt a knight by accident and now I’m on the run. I was wondering if a herald had warned you of me. Luckily, at least that much has not been done.’

She extended a mead-stained hand. ‘In a way, that makes us acquaintances,’ she said. ‘I am Eliza. Elizabeth to the church. You owe me my name for that bit of honesty you’ve just bestowed upon me… unless you may lie. Then, who is to say my name truly is Eliza?’

‘Eliza!!’ hollered an ancient woman as she sauntered into the alehouse.

‘Alright…’ said Eliza, ‘You may be certain that this is my name.’

‘I also do not lie,’ said Walter. ‘I am an innocent man charged with harm that was done unintentionally. I was once a favourite of the queen. My name is Walter.’

He had imagined that mentioning his first name alone would be enough to set her off, but instead of a wide-eyed recognition, Eliza poured the regular a cup of ale and smiled at Walter thereafter. ‘I thought Her Majesty only had eyes for that Massouric prince.’

‘Yes,’ Walter said, choosing to talk along rather than deny anything she had said. Royal life was so far removed from them that it was almost comforting to him. For Eliza, there was no Sir Henry, no failed engagement to King Henri, no crime that he had done, and she could not have possibly heard of William Lennard. For Eliza, there was likely only her alehouse and its regulars.

‘Well, Walter… you’re kind of in the way,’ she said. ‘You came on a horse, correct?’

He nodded meekly.

‘Then it shouldn’t be hard to reach Stansby by nightfall,’ she said. ‘Follow the path north. Stansby should have an inn called Ferdinand the Unfaithful — after the fairytale, of course. The innkeeper is called Ferdinand as well. Mention Ale Eliza and you’ll be sure not to be turned away.’

‘That is very generous,’ said Walter and drank his ale.

Only when he sat back down did it dawn on him that mentioning that he was the fugitive could bite him down the line. He had thought nothing of it when he had said it, for he had been taught to be earnest and for his thoughts to be on his tongue, but instead of his warrant not having been made, it could also be that the warrant just travelled ever so slightly slower than he did, and that a veritable caravan was making their way across the country as he rested, publicising the details of the escaped man.

He gulped and promised himself to finish his ale quickly. Mention Ale Eliza, he thought. Ferdinand the Unfaithful.

----------------------------------------

He would have stayed longer due to the showers still going, and he would have preferred a quiet place to change, but instead, he just draped his cloak over his wet silks and mounted his horse again. He found the path north and resumed his trek through his country, from one nameless village with a nameless alehouse to the royal duchy of Stansby.

For a misguided moment, he worried that House Stansby would currently be occupied by a Courtenay. Duchess of Stansby was Katherine’s title, but nonetheless, many of the houses would sit unoccupied many days out of the year if she did allow her relatives to live there. Either way, it was likely better informed than these nameless hamlets were.

His horse valiantly carried him over the increasingly hilly landscapes where he saw few men, and where he clutched the dagger that the mysterious short-haired lady had thought to include in his sack in case of highwaymen.

Stansby was a sight. It was built on a hill and looked over a wild valley through which a roaring river ran. On the top of the hill was House Stansby, which was an especially beautiful royal estate that reminded him of the portrayals of castles in illustrated manuscripts. It was ancient but well-maintained, with many turrets boasting Courtenay flags, and many buildings within its bailey. In fact, most of Stansby was still within that bailey of limestone. Despite his back that was killing him, and his nerves only a little behind, he found it charming.

He rode into Stansby and upon entering, indeed was not asked to identify himself nor halted at all when he made it to the bailey. Perhaps he was a free man after all. Perhaps he could be calm, knowing that, while the royal sun no longer shone upon him, at least he was not at risk of being randomly arrested.

When he smelled the delightful scents of the cookshops and taverns, and saw the content townspeople walking with their pastries to the tavern or their ales to the cookshop to finish their meal, he felt like he could have stayed here if he could. Before entering the inn, he walked around after walking his horse to a trough that belonged to Ferdinand the Unfaithful.

The first place he went was to the river. Though it bore no resemblance to the lazy river of Norbury Castle’s gardens, there was still a strange sense of belonging that he felt in Stansby. The rain had ceased, and Walter squeezed the water out of his doublet before putting on another that had been packed for him.

It did not match his breeches like the original one did, and for a moment, it bothered him. Katherine would have found it unbecoming, a waste of his slender waist not to accentuate it with the shine of satin or the charming effect obtained with matching the doublet to his breeches. Starting with that fateful archery lesson, however, what Katherine thought had become irrelevant to him. She had purchased these clothes for him, but he was free from her judgement on their combination.

The water was too rapid to see his reflection in. Beyond it, there was only forest, and not another church tower or peak of a castle in sight. From towns that were a few hours apart, he worried that the next inn beyond Stansby could be two or three days away. Perhaps he could seek refuge in a monastery, but he wondered if he would even cross one of those as he had no knowledge of their location.

How he wished that he could just seek lodging in Stansby House, where the men and women slept that he now associated with, but alas: a lowly inn, now far below his new station, would have to do.

He sauntered back to the bailey on foot, his sack draped over his shoulders, and sought the inn that had been recommended to him. It would be a long night, sleeping in a likely lice-infested bed with a dozen strangers that had all paid for just a spot, where he would likely not catch a wink of sleep in the snoring, wheezing and coughing of the commoners who shared his sorry fate.

He vowed to barter some of his prestigious, if precious and sentimental, items against a map or a compass.