The next morning the entire camp was packed up into saddlebags, before I even had my wardrobe sorted out to pick a suitable outfit to travel in. 

Admittedly, the stiffness in my limbs and the pain in my side from the beating yesterday did not aid my swiftness. Still, the complete efficiency of the seven men left me in awe. And half-naked under their impatient gazes. 

Where I had started getting dressed in the tent we had slept in, I was now standing in a slightly flattened piece of forest clearing in my undergarments. And I hadn’t even re-done my braid.

“Whoa Viv, you okay?” Gareth exclaimed as his eyes roved over my colourful torso.

“Ah, pacifist as I am, I am not inclined to get into manifold a scuffle, yet I can manage a couple of bruises. After all, I am sure you’ve all experienced worse.” I dismissed his concern.

In truth I had a strong urge to tell them exactly how much it all hurt, to expel the pain through tears and make everyone pamper me until I felt better.

But these men were not Edmund, and I was not on tour anymore. I was stranded in the wilderness in pursuit of my beloved. And these soldiers had not only saved my life, but were also offering to escort me to where I would be reunited with my Elijah, and even helping me deal with whatever plight he was in. It would not do to trouble these men with my personal bothers any further.

“Whatever you say, tough guy.” Gareth smiled. “Perhaps there is some truth in that song about your dad after all.”

“My mom gave me some ointment when I bruised my ribs a couple of months ago” Gideon said. “You can have it. It helps.”

He stuck out his hand and offered me jar half-filled with a severely foul-smelling ointment. It made me ponder for a second exactly how much pain relief and healing properties this salve would need to have to make up for the stench.

It would have to provide magical instant healing and then it would still be a draw.

I turned to Gideon to politely refuse his offer, but the look on his face made me swallow my dismissal. He was looking at me like a street kitten that has just been gifted a morsel of meat.

“Thank you, Gideon.” I spoke instead, half expecting the man to start purring. He did not. However, the beaming smile I received in return had almost the same effect.  

So, after I awkwardly delayed them for the time it took to apply the wretched ointment, a ton of perfume to cover up the stench, and hurriedly get dressed, the eight of us set out towards Crimsonville on horseback.

We would not pass through any towns on our way there. Just three consecutive days or travelling through a forest, cooking over open fire, and sleeping in that big tent.

Though continuously being surrounded by nature had its wonders, it would be an understatement to say that it was not exactly my preferred way of life.

No. I’d rather not find withered leaves, pine needles and resin in my hair and my clothes. I’d rather not hear my meal screaming as it gets shot and skinned, only to have it look back at me from the flames it’s roasting in with an accusatory dead gaze. And I’d also rather not sleep in a musty tent packed tight with seven other unwashed men, at least four of whom snore, and one holds entire conversations in his sleep.

Then again, it could be so much worse. I could be freezing in a ditch because it’s October and I am without any portable shelter. Nor do I have the skill to make a fire when all the wood I could possibly find is either still part of a living tree, or moist and covered in fungi. I could be dying of thirst because I have no idea how to find drinkable water. Dying of hunger because I have no idea which roots and mushrooms are edible, let alone the technique and perseverance necessary to pull off hunting. Or perishing in a thousand other horrendous ways without witness but the gods and the cruel wilderness.

I had always thought myself quite a survivor, for I had singly overcome my share of hardships in the many years between the death of my mother and the start of my liaison with Edmund. Yet in light of recent experience, I was forced to conclude that I was indeed, as Joseph so eloquently put it: a city boy.

They didn’t hold it against me. Even if they did tease me a lot, and I was sure either Joseph or Derrick had at some point put slugs in my bedroll. It didn’t matter who, since they were clearly in cahoots. Which was apparent from the fact that they were the only ones laughing instead of drawing their swords when I emerged screaming like a little girl.

It didn’t matter though. I can acknowledge a good gibe, even if I’m the brunt of it. And, when my state of complete and utter revulsion had subsided, I had to admit that, yes, that high-pitched shriek had retrospectively earned me my feminine nickname.

I did put a toad in Joseph’s bedroll the next evening, as retribution. But he either didn’t mind sleeping with a toad, or it had fled his covers before the tall man got to bed. Which was rather anti-climactic after the extreme physical as well as mental efforts I had gone through to procure said amphibian.

My revenge on Derrick was more successful, but a rather cheap shot, since he was the one that habitually had whole conversations with his mother in his sleep. I didn’t take as much pride in getting him to apologise for occasionally wearing her underwear, as I would have had getting Josie to scream.

Besides the pranks and jests, I did get along nicely with all seven of my travelling companions. However, I spent most time chatting with either Gideon or my self-dictated biggest fan Gareth. The both of them seemed to have an endless reservoir of stories. Gareth’s mostly slightly exaggerated recantations of the adventures of his past and present, Gideon’s tales of blushing maidens and handsome lordlings. Both were equally entertaining.

Conversations with Joseph were of a higher intellectual level, but rarely lasted longer than ten minutes before they turned into an elaborate ruse to get either one of us to make a fool out of ourselves. I definitely cannot claim I’m blameless in that aspect, for I actually enjoy challenges like that, and I think Josie could tell.  

Derrick and Lionel talked mostly about women, but were also prone to banter and boast about their skills, especially when it concerned activities on horseback. During our trip they held various hunting challenges, one of which was a provocation to shoot a squirl whilst riding backwards in the saddle. To everyone’s dismay, Joseph won and did not stop rubbing their faces in it for the rest of the day.

Twain though, was mostly silent throughout the journey. I had to put in actual effort to strike up a conversation with him. And even with my people skills it was a difficult endeavour. He didn’t talk much with the others either, preferring to take the role of listener. But I could tell he was even more bashful when I approached him. His voice soft, his eyes never keeping eye contact for long, his answers to my questions always short and with a slight delay.

One could have assumed he didn’t like my company. But I pride myself on my ability to read people, and unless I am completely mistaken, this was not the case. It made me wonder if Twain may be one of those people that is uncomfortable with everyone they aren’t well acquainted with.

The captain wasn’t a man prone to idle chatter nor socially dictated polite conversation. But I found that, when you broached a subject near to his heart, he’d tell you all about it. The issue he was most passionate about was a political one: Sandor believed all men are created equal and thus no one should claim supremacy over another by birthright. To put it mildly, he had serious reservations about the feudal system and was not afraid to voice them. Which was interesting, considering some of his convictions could be classified as challenging the monarchy in some regions, and outright treason in others.

It wasn’t as if the man was preaching regicide or revolution though. He just felt that, in his words: ‘the King can go wipe his own ass’. Meaning he didn’t feel the need to adhere to any royal decree if it wasn’t in the best interest of the people. He said he’d seen enough wartime atrocities to know that power hungry tyrants never had the interest of the common people at heart.

This certainly explained the whole desertion thing. Wait, wasn’t that a capital offense as well?

Traitor or not, I did agree with Sandor’s sentiments, even if I had never really given thought to these kind of things before. However, I wasn’t sure if I could ever find the bravery to say so in public. I was rather bent on keeping my head attached to my body, and I wouldn’t be the first bard in history to be executed for lesè majesté.

It gave me plenty to ponder as we rode miles and miles through the thick of the forest. The air full of fragrances I was used to only encounter in soaps and scented candles. 

It wasn’t the first time I had yourneyed through a forest. Although I confess I have never ventured quite as deep into one. But along the forest roads I travelled, I had usually been in de company of a caravan, which brings a whole array of smells all by itself. Most of them overpowering the forest-aroma altogether.

Now there were the scents of the forest, the horses and us. Leather, dust, musty tent and our own human stench. I’d like to say I got used to it over the days, and I did. I have no trouble adjusting to the reek of unwashed men. Yet when it came to smelling myself… That, I couldn’t get used to. 

At first, it was predominantly the horrendous ointment Gideon had given me. Which was bad in itself, but somehow even that stench was something one gets used to. It could be the fact that it actually seemed to help a lot. That, or I had thusfar undiscovered healing abilities. But I was betting on the miracle salve.

No, what was infinitely worse was that, even with the foul smelling medicine applied to my skin, at some point I started noticing another scent: mine. ANd not fresh sweat that still exudes pheromones and reminds you of the vigorous activity you've just performed. No. It was old sweat, dried and reformed, then dried and reformed again. It was completely nauseating.

I tried to spray on more perfume, which the others thought was hilariously ridiculous. It was, for it didn’t help. No matter how much fragrant oils I applied to my hair and skin, I could still discern the fact I hadn’t had a decent bath in days. Not that I reeked much worse than the others, mind you. But somehow, it feels different when it’s you that's stinking. Or maybe it’s just the idea of being unclean that settled into my mind like a jitterbug.

The last time I hadn’t properly washed myself for days in a row I was still living on the streets… And even then I seriously doubt that I have ever been as filthy. Probably, but I may have repressed that particular memory.