Dansbury the Younger

They rode in a wagon. Yea. A wagon. Not a traveling carriage as before, but a wagon that was little more than a cart with an old donkey that looked like he’d been put to pasture some ten years prior. And some blankets. And possibly a basket with day old bread for a meal…Hopefully with some cheese and ale to wash it down. Beatryce hadn’t bothered to check its contents.

Oh, and their small armory from the rented carriage filled the back. Dansbury had covered most of it up with some of their new moth-worn blankets that reeked of cows and other things she’d rather not name.

A traveling carriage, even one as rundown as the one they’d arrived in, would have been preferable. But alas, beggars do not have the luxury of being choosy. And they were pretending to be little more than beggars. Hence, the cart.

They’d awoken even earlier than on their previous days. Before the rooster outside had even thought about crowing. Dansbury had shaken her awake without a word more than “Let’s go.” No innuendoes. No smile of greeting. Not even a scowl as was his usual manner in her presence. Just fierce determination with a sharp edge of impatience.

She had no idea where he’d spent the night. All she remembered was him picking the lock to their room. The thought had made her smile. Then, he walked straight through and out the window. She’d laughed out loud when he was gone and then wondered if one would have to get used to such behavior in order to live with a man like Dansbury. She didn’t think about that for long…drove that thought right out of her mind lest she spend another night without a wink of sleep to show for it.

Beatryce presumed this, the cart, was arranged by him, and she knew by his demeanor that now was not the time to question him on it. So she went along with it. For now. She knew their position was precarious what with the idea of a traitor or two and deadly assassins trailing them.

La, it sounded like something out of a poorly-written gothic novel.

Oh, and she was driving the cart.

Dansbury was in the back prepping their small armory. Ensuring everything was dry and ready should they need it. She wished she could be back there with him. Helping. But all he had said to her since he woke her was, “You’re driving,” as he helped her up into her seat. Then he walked away and climbed onto the back.

And someone had to drive the cart. She supposed she should be pleased that he didn’t question her capabilities.

But that was hours ago, and it was impossible to converse with him when she was up front driving while he was in the back playing spy. She was going to start conversing with the donkey soon. She’d already named him Dansbury the Younger.

“Oh, Dansbury, you are a fine ass,” she whispered to the ass…er, donkey. Loudly.

La, she was losing her mind.

“Did you say something?” yelled a masculine voice from behind.

“Wasn’t talking to you,” she threw back. With a secret smile she didn’t dare reveal.