Out in the country like this, living alone, and never going out for company, the troll didn't bother to groom itself or get dressed. It was simmering in a particularly foul mood for this whole year past, and that had made it rather savage for a troll. However this troll wasn't stupid, though most trolls aren't unfortunately, but this troll was extremely clever in an unusual, human-sort of way. Most trolls are just clever in a mean way, and not contemplating philosophy, in spite of their immeasurable lifetimes, were usually impatient to do everybody some wrong. Your average troll could dress itself up, maybe going so far as to devise a wig, that from afar disguised its hideousness. Doing this, most trolls don't care if a piece of meat sees them first, because once you are close enough to notice the troll's three-meters-tall frame, or its disproportionately large jaw and canine teeth, you probably can't out-run it anymore. Thankfully, with trolls you can always expect a chance to bargain.

Say you are alone and happen on a troll. It's best not to make it chase you, have it work up an appetite, and you should be as humble and friendly as possible with it. Sometimes just a few coins will do, sometimes the troll takes a fancy to a bit of jewelry you have, and sometimes it sends you off naked. Even the poor have a chance to escape being eaten, because above getting wealthy, trolls enjoy humiliating others. Some impoverished pilgrims have played servant to more than one troll. It has been erroneously claimed that trolls mutilate any traveler who cannot pay their troll-toll, but almost universally, trolls would rather have you clean out their den and listen to you beg and snivel than watch you bleed and listen to your wailing. Call a troll "thief" to its face however, and it's more likely to bite a piece of yours off.

Don't think that trolls don't eat people, because they have good days and bad, like anybody. Take this troll for instance. He has been in a bad mood for several years now, and it's a rather complex personal matter, the many ins and outs have made for months of sour contemplation. He's an exceptionally clever troll, so maybe you ought to know its name, since dealing with it like any other troll, if you happen to cross this troll's bit of highway, could end badly for you. You fools who haven't the wits to take the measure of a troll's personality to save your life should greet any troll kindly, no matter how surprised you are, and listen to what it calls itself.

The troll was given its birth name by the squelching of a wet morass of mud and clay, which was its mother. This belly of churning clay made a sound when this troll was expelled from its depths, which the troll pronounces, "Skchyblchfplpk." Few trolls tell their birth names, not just because no one else can pronounce them, but because this sound is often their only keepsake, their sole memory of their departed mothers, for puddles no matter how deep, eventually dry in the sun. They remember these stagnant wombs fondly, as anyone would their mother, and hate to see their mothers' names butchered by clean lips.

This troll also had a human name, given to it out of fondness, and a desire to know the troll better, rather than the usual appellation given to trolls by men, given to trolls to warn other men off. It's highway-name is "Buzzards-Eyes," but once among men it was known as "Mellard," or "Mel." So fools, if you are so unlucky as on a lonely stretch of highway, to be hailed by "Mel," do not laugh or think yourself more lucky not to have encountered "Bone-Gatherer," or "Finger-Ransom," or "John-Devourer" the troll. Mel has been called "Buzzards-Eyes" for he knows the approach of any man within a hundred leagues of his hole. He has all the time it takes for you to cross that hundred leagues, to sit and watch you. He makes note of all your valuables, for he will want every bit of precious metal you have, down to a scrap of tin. Furthermore he thinks and thinks, not about how to humiliate you, but how much he absolutely loathes you. Trolls bargain longer and more forcefully than the slyest salesmen because that is a quick way to humiliate smaller creatures. Mel is so wrapped up in his own thoughts and takes so little pleasure from humiliating others, that he does not bargain. For him, exacting a humiliation is formality. If you are not careful, if you seem to treat him disrespectfully, he may kill you right there as an afterthought.

A drop of water clings to the troll's finger, and he lets it drip into the bowl. It seems Mel knows the ways of looking through water, as if it were a mirror, having two sides, but where the other side shows not the reflected world, but somewhere of his choosing. They say that a magician, to work this rather elementary sorcery, first gathers water from the calm pool through which he wishes to see, and must whisper an enchantment while he is removing it. Therefore, if you are a lady that places a fishbowl near your toilet, be wary of anyone you meet unexpectedly leaving your bower, whispering under his breath as he goes away. Of this magic furthermore I know, that when the sorcerer uncovers his basin of stolen liquid, it is possible to see him through the same puddle that he is seeing through. Some good this will be against Mel if you are too busy looking at ditch water to notice creeping up on you, a troll that can turn itself black and run without touching the ground!

"A wet or lonely road isn't one I like to tread,
Though on the road you'll get some sun,
There's travelers and friends,
With whom to talk, and with to walk,
Oh I'm likely to go your way..."

Well that's the big one, the stupid one. There's a little one too, he's with the woman. They don't look very clean, the fellow hasn't washed the mud off his shins for at least a few days. Still, I fancy eating one of them, that song is so awful. She's got a white apron, would be a handsome tablecloth. There's a round flat stone a hundred feet away. Make a good table, that. Remember to bring my knife, I hate blood under the nails.

Stop that song. Oh, I see that they don't like it either. He has a funny face, be a shame to eat it. Let's see, there's the two ponies, I knew about those. Three bags on each one, two bags each traveler. I'll do the highwayman thing, they'll empty out all the bags on the ground. I'll rip them up myself, ought to scare the piss out of them. Now she has a purse I know, it's on her belt, I see. Nice bunch of rings too, carpentry pays well in Kempe-Field, obviously. Don't look like the kind of rich folk that hide too much of their money. The big tramp has a few bits of gold hidden, I'm sure. Shyster's face. Doesn't matter, gold I can smell it out.

Enjoy looking at their faces, get a good look at their backs when they go by, but faces get gnashed if I please. I like to remember what they look like, unafraid. The big fellow, his name's Robart, wasn't hard to overhear, he gives it to everyone he meets. The married ones are Anthony and Katryne. I like his face. It's innocent, lines around the brow, not the lips, that I think they get from frowning all the time, funny things. This one though, nice face, not too many lines, makes it bright. I might let him keep enough coins to get drunk on. Her, she looks more like a Mabell than a Katryne. She's worn burgundy-red every time I look, must be a favorite color. Cheap dye on what she's wearing though, I can tell its losing color where it's frayed.

Get my best look at them now they're at the puddle. They don't even look down, they must not know too much to be so careless in my neck of the woods. The woman walks right over my puddle, without the common decency of having under-garments on, and that tramping husband of hers puts his careless foot in the middle of my puddle. Explains the mud on his ankle. Awful careless stupid, careless and stupid, I think I will eat one of them after all for that.

I know exactly where they are, I get myself ready quickly. That woman makes me want to puke. Women I don't understand, why male-humans think they're so great, they're a financial burden for them, and this one's not even ladylike to stay out of sight. I stoop to the fireplace, touch my hands to the big smooth hot stone for luck, and grab two handfuls of soot to paint myself. I need to take my big knives and a fork to eat. I love my fork as much as a pile of gold. It's giant sharp tines and finger-bones on the handle, scares the piss out of people. Actually had some dirty troll used to be my friend, he made it for me. Put it in my little bag, I'll tie it to my back.

I'm angry, ready to gnash some bloody bones up, got to put the lights out before I go. Big silver brazier has some sentimental value, nice thing, I smother the coals with my hand and like the bit of pain. Notice I'm breathing heavy now, really don't like it when people dress improperly. That blighted song's still in my head, I'm pulling myself up to the tree. I feel like having the exercise, these little kebabs have made me so furious. I'm thinking of biting off just their noses, I can get real close like this in the thick trees, swinging, creeping and leaping.

It goes very well. They are more afraid of me than I have seen in a long time. The mere sight of me as I drop out of the trees a few paces away makes the funny one faint away. The feeling this gives me is invigorating. I have never felt much like a troll, and at moments like this I don't. I am greater, I am something like an ancient hoplite. I have a great helm that makes me look ten feet tall, my arms are like shields, there are greaves on my legs, and spears may break on my breast as it were iron. There are devices and artistry on every armor, and rather than a great beaked nose there's a great crest atop my helmet, and a mane of combed black hair. My reach is great not because my arms hang to my knees, but because I wield an elegant sword whose cruel reach suits me. I see a smooth bit of flesh and imagine drawing a sword across it, laying open flesh. The smell of blood does not offend me.

Robart the singing scumbag tries to run, infuriates me. Killing him will make things harder, but I feel at the front of the charge. I have three enemies, and there are tears in their eyes! Sulphur fires upwind of the enemy cover our charge. Ahh, they turn away, he barely sees me charging out of the cloud, sword raised. I land an easy blow on his neck, he hits the ground unconscious. Small and slow, I don't feel that awesome. I struck him, not too unusual for a troll to do, but a minute ago I thought it was a sword I held, not my own hand. I feel the sharp fingernails and my great big hands, attached to my arms again. The battle of Thermopylae is not engraved on my chest, there's just a few stray blonde hairs covering it, and a smeared handprint of ash. Hardly a warrior, but at least I look scary. There's one left to bargain with, but she seems reasonable.

"Oh my God. Is that a giant? It's hands and arms could knock a driver off his seat, standing behind even the longest carriage. The giant strikes the scumbag down, rolls him over, and picks him up by the shirt. The giant, it's black as ashes, and it must be ten feet tall! Do they really come for us when it's time, she wonders? I remember a song about giants, Momma knew it, it's about the Fates who live at the cornerstones of the Earth, spinning the thread of life. Three sisters, who have long fingers to help spin the thread, and the third one cuts the thread! The giant turns around to face me, it's not smiling, it's not laughing, it's looking right at me. The thing is more than ten feet tall! Its eyelids are crusty, the shoulders are smeared black, and instead of a navel, it has a toothless little mouth set into its belly. Powers that be! It couldn't be one of the Fates, it's not a girl."

Katryne throws up. She can barely get to her knees from retching so hard. A muscle cramps as she stumbles up, thinking for just moment that maybe she can get away, "No, the jerk tried to, and it's looking right at me, it will do worse to me than that." The ashy giant starts toward her, and she tries to remember a good prayer, because it looks like it's going to rip her in half.

The proud and noble meet death standing. One can't decide one's fate for oneself, but may choose whether to stand or kneel just before dying anyway. To Katryne, even that seems bound up by fate, for did the Fates not take note, of the quality of her thread, as they spun it out? They already knew whether she would stand or not, but she thought she was made of the better stuff, and would try to stand.

She grabs ahold of a saddlebag, leaning against a frightened pony, trying to steady herself. Under her fingers, the cloth she notices, is hemp. That touch of vertigo she felt when the troll first appeared returns to her in spades. She can feel every little fiber in the stitch. It seems to her as if she is dwindling, and the hemp-fibers dwarf her, she is so insignificant. There's a curious lack of sensation, except that she feels incredibly small, and surrounded by a great big darkness, over which a few stars, the color of a burgundy wine, twinkle. "I will die being eviscerated, I am sure of it," she thinks to herself, having to squint to bring her murderer into focus.

The creature, which she still supposes is some nastier sort of giant, has a bitter nasty sarcastic growl, which sounded like someone forcing air through the voice-box of several corpses. It thinks very little of the encounter, other than being impatient to get off with its haul. "Rawr, give me all your money," it says.

It's breath is incredibly foul, which Katryne did not expect from a giant. She thinks how bad her own breath must be after losing lunch and breakfast like that. "I'm not dead," she thinks. The world is coming back into focus, the stars above her head recede, and she notices the grass is very green. She imagines kissing Anthony awake, the sense of relief and happiness is so good, but then Katryne remembers why she has just tossed up in the road.

The creature tosses the scum-bag free-loader away, and shakes its finger at her to emphasize what it says. "Empty out the bags, I want every last scrap of valuable metal you've got, and jewels too. If you hold back a lousy bit of rhinestone from me, I'll string your eyes around my neck like cheap pearls."

You should realize that Katryne comes from a very fatalistic noble family, and it should be clear to the reader already, that she was very clear about the existence of fate, and was sure as to how she would meet it. If a giant came to claim her, for it is said that the Gods, who share-out the dead, are grand-children of the best, oldest giants, she would recognize it from its stature. However she had not ever seen a giant in the flesh, and was unprepared for the insignificant smallness she felt before Mellard the Troll. She had determined as a girl that she would go to death in her own way, for she had watched many creaking old persons smile when it was their time, and decided that she would look down her nose at whatever god or giant decided to claim her. She had decided that she would care not a whit if a good place at some heavenly hearth was prepared for her, and she would look down her nose at any god, no matter how weary she might get, because she would always hate dying. She thought, "That's it?" and fell back to her knees, laughing.

The troll grimaced. If the woman would not recover her dignity he would have to clomp her over the head and dig through all their baggage himself. She was stumbling about laughing, and gasping for air in deep breaths. Evidently she felt great relief, but she could pass out like that. He growled to get her attention, then picks the singing fool up by the neck and bites the tip of his nose off. She squints at him while the fool Robart moans, shocked out of unconsciousness. He starts screaming when he tastes the blood running down his own face.

Katryne remembers his merely so-so handsome face twisted up in a sick crooning smile to sing some idiotic song to her. As if her husband wasn't sleeping in the hay not six paces away, and as if she didn't already resent lodging beneath the standards of her family, sleeping in a hayloft. One good hard slap with her open palm that evening had not dampened his roguish good cheer the next morning. He made clever propositions like some roustabout university student, but had scarcely the intelligence for anything besides crude innuendo himself. Even Anthony, who had slept through the most boorish behavior, scarcely wanted to travel with him the next morning. The mere tone of Katryne sneezing had more nobility. His proximity offended her, lesser men ought to be content to bask in her glow, instead of making fools of themselves.

Mellard waited until the woman looked him in the eye. She was laughing through her fear, by the way her knees were shaking. Meanwhile the ponies had taken fright, and started off at a canter down the road. It would be easy to catch them, they had tiny legs compared to his. He didn't like the woman's attitude. He didn't chew on the bit of nose, only spat it into her face, forcefully. Katryne noticed the bloody spittle on her face, then saw Robart crawling about the road howling bloody murder, with a tiny bit of his nose gone, and then she broke down in morbid giggles.

The troll kicked Robart aside, and grabbed Katryne by her skirt. He yanked her purse off, snapping her belt at the same time, and sending her reeling away, still laughing. She toppled over into the grass, unable to rise for her fits of laughter. Through tears, she watched the troll round up the ponies, empty all their bags out on the grass, grab up most of the valuables, and consolidate them into one sack. Next, the troll searched Robart for all his coins, and knocked him out again. Then he was suddenly standing over her. He had forgotten something: he grabbed ahold of the apron he fancied would make a good tablecloth, and ripped it off of her.

Just having been assaulted, tossed back and forth, and reduced rags, she lost her hateful courage. The troll had courteously tethered the ponies, but Robart was a bloodied, bruised mess, and she wasn't sure that the troll didn't intend to do likewise to Anthony. A bag in one arm, the troll bundled Anthony up in her ripped white apron, and threw him over his shoulder. He didn't turn around, though Katryne was screaming murder. It seemed he was going to eat her husband. Mellard cared very little, he stalked away into the woods.

He couldn't rightly tell whose realm he was in, however. The things around him recalled the realm of men, especially the elaborate metal apparatus and glass beakers that would have belonged to an alchemist, although this sat on a table-top six feet above the ground. The ceiling was high, but he calculated that giants were taller than even that.

"Good evening," said the troll, with all politeness and grace, as if he weren't naked. The polite introduction came off a bit stale since the troll was quite hideous. He had cleaned the black off his skin, and it was harder for Anthony to sublimate the disgusting physical features which were mockeries of human ones. A very dirty troll, you can pay more attention to the mud than the body underneath, and hold your lunch down. Even draped with a few rags, Anthony could have focused on its out-of-proportion proportions, rather than the disgusting thing-in-itself. The joints of its fingers were not just knobby, they were stones that seemed to click together when it moved its hands. Its belly was not just an unattractive little pouch, it was a great distended sack with the outlines of old bones poking through the stomach. The nose however, was something to look at, Anthony thought. It looked Roman, it could have been Caesar Augustus's own nose.

The repartee between the man and the troll established that Mellard rather fancied eating Anthony, who was by his own turn rather interested in keeping himself alive. The troll seemed hesitant, not because he was fearful, but in order to torment Anthony more. Anthony was rather put-off to answer the troll whether or not he really was very keen to live, because it was difficult to answer without insulting the troll's intelligence. Mellard did not seem to mind the insult however. He was as apologetic as one can be, that you might swear he really really was, in spite of the absolutely stony expression and pricking tone of voice. The troll described a number of times he had eaten humans so miserable they wanted nothing better than a quick anonymous death, which troll-teeth could do for. In fact all those men had been balding, which Anthony was a rather advanced case of.

"That might be a generalization, but I'm not so awful that I wouldn't like to do a good deed every now and then," the troll sneered, revealing an asymmetric row of toothy knives and daggers.

Anthony had in fact bargained for his life before, with powers more terrible than Mellard. He had been forced to beg for shelter from a giant. Anthony convinced the giant to take him inside, and in a hurry before he froze. That had resulted in a whole other sort of mess which had to be escaped from, but a giant which squashes men in a moment of annoyance is altogether a more terrifying thing to banter with than a troll. So Anthony first wanted to refute what he took as an affront on his high status and achievements. The lady whom Mellard had so unceremoniously defrocked was in fact, Anthony's third wife, and if her bearing, family name and mettle were taken away, she would yet be a pretty good trophy wife. He went on at some lengths about the offices and titles which various members of Katryne's family held, as if they had all rubbed off on him. This family had no doubts, he emphasized to the troll, about giving the hand of their second daughter to a young-ish man twice a widower already. Anthony's station in life was a pretty good one, he had a grand home, more cows than one man could count in a day, and although he did not venture into battle himself, he had accompanied the armies of King Giles Half-Hand south, and was given three dozen gold rings merely for his good advice during the campaign. Such a man as himself just wanted to take a good long rest on his laurels.

Mellard smirked at this, because the indignant outburst had given him much the same measure of the man which he had suspected, and also skirted around some things which the little fellow evidently thought he could keep hidden from the troll, as if he had an ace up his sleeve. Mellard laughed, for humans with a little bit of ken often thought they were wizards among sheep, especially when they were short balding little morsels like this one. Three dozen gold rings! Mellard knew enough about gold, fealty and sorcery to know that kings didn't give so many debts for any amount of good advice. Obviously, Anthony knew how to work a charm or two, probably read and write, and had certainly learned and traveled enough to be a little wise one. This stirred old memories for the troll, of days long gone, spent with humans now buried, memorizing verses of arcane knowledge. He taunts Anthony with this:

"I know thirty runes each,
In one line we teach them,
But in short lines send them,
And mixed up understand."

To which Anthony retorts:
"On stone with steel are graven,
On flesh with fire burned in,
Upon swords with hard gems,
On the outcast condemns,
Doesn't speak but is speaking,
Of wealth not stolen,
Of laws not broken,
Roads still trodden,
And great kings unforgotten.

This sort of knowledge was elementary, and Mellard was quite sure he could win this game of boasts given the remarkable stash underneath his scabby scalp. Unlike Anthony, the troll had dragged himself out from a deep, deep cesspool of mud in order to learn to read and write. He had "pulled himself up by his boot-straps," as some humans like to say over and over again. It was a feat which gave him resentment of the humans who went to school on the strength of their family names, with gold which they had not had to earn themselves. Mel's resentment was not something he showed off, but it was deeper the mud-hole he had climbed from. It was his turn now, and he thought of something which would leave an uninitiated dilettante stymied and scared:

"Much have I learned from Madness,
Much have I tried and tested him.
Suffring conniptions made me keener,
Beggary near to death makes me leaner,
Drinking eel's broth, laying low and dreaming,
And catching sight of Hell's machinery,
Much have I learned from Madness,
His is humility and greatness,
In one grasping."

Anthony was however familiar with the methods which Mel described, although he liked to think of that as a period in his life which although instructive, he could now safely forget. He wondered how many eels a troll would have to stew before nearly killing itself. If one goes mad, and there's no one to watch you, did you really go mad? The troll was clearly an enigma from the moment it stormed out of the forest painted black. At first Anthony assumed that it had been taught by a giant intent on causing trouble among men, but if the troll had actually gone the way of self-abasement, then its own hunger for knowledge must have been exceedingly hurtful to outweigh the hurt it would have had to inflict on itself. How did a troll, which leads an existence apart from others of its kind, find the company of madmen, for it was understood that the rituals of madness were intended to get knowledge of humanity's edges, as the verse of **** stated:

***** dueling verse
historical, connecting figures with
types of madness, and how that
was their greatness
*****

The troll decided that Anthony had backed down. His face seemed to contain a contemptuous kiss for someone not these, a humorous kiss goodbye for the loser, as if Anthony's conceding had caused him to retract the kiss half-way. It was accompanied by a subtle snort, or "harumph," under his breath, then the Troll turned away to check on the rabbit stew.

Anthony understood that their "duel" had ended quicker than it would have between true rivals; there was now some respect between the two of them. The troll had opened with a verse that was not just elementary, but pedestrian, and he wrapped it in sarcasm. It has been recorded on stones and left standing in the open fields, it was such common knowledge. Of course it had a hidden meaning, what seemed to be to laymen a clever riddle, was actually the first verse of a longer litany that educated men committed to memory, about the ways and means of writing, from instruments to the alphabet. Taken in itself the verse had a trivial sort of joviality since it both riddled about writing, and was commonly found written at the corners of pedestals, on field-stones, incised on chisels, or carved into bedposts. Anthony had replied with a much later verse from the same poem. The troll then made an incongruous leap to a different song, which was itself, a bit mad. Anthony had an entirely too gentle disposition, but most men of his education would have been tempted to strike out at the troll.

It was most interesting to him that Mellard had chosen almost apologetically, a verse about madness, when truthfully there were more horrifying verses in the arcana. There were songs for instance which described in debauched detail, the innards of the body, the taking up of instruments such as knives, clips, needles and sinew thread, to cut into the body and correct ailments. He had done such things under duress, and although the less invasive rituals inured him to subsequent ones, he always felt afterwards as if his soul was a little more removed from his body. There was another describing at first, how to disguise oneself, meanwhile telling the story how the Mad God had ventured among giant women disguised as a beautiful girl. How he disguised himself had made Anthony pity his wives. From those women Madness became the only man to learn how women bewitched men, and Anthony knew of other verses which explicitly described his bewitching other men with the knowledge he got. These verses were both oblique, obscure and rarely taught, but Anthony knew them all.

Anthony's final verse was obscure, but it also drew from the epics of heroes and kings, giving very little wizardry away, so it did not escalate the duel. Fortunately he had ended it, and politely, as if the whole thing had been just a professional handshake. Anthony was still sitting on the battered sort of couch in which he had awoken. The weathered rectangular frame was of human size, with arms and a back of equal height, but deep so a person could lie down. Its seat was strung with crisscrossing sinews.

Mellard returned from the hearth with two bowls of rabbit stew, and giving Anthony the smaller one, commanded him to eat.

Tatters of the saddlebags hung off the pony's shanks. A few odds and ends of food were all that was salvageable from the mess of their belongings. Her apron had been ripped off, and her dress hung loose from the shoulders, the troll having snapped her belt. She did wear a second belt on which was an ornamented girdle-hanger, that fixed her keys and a few tools. She liked to conceal these when traveling, silencing their clinking by intertwining a long piece of sinew. They hung on the belt next to a long dagger. She removed these from where they were, between the burgundy surcoat and the linen dress underneath that, marveling at the iron dagger. It had belonged to her father, and she had stolen it from a strongbox for which she had pinched the key.

Some women to her knowledge, were allowed to own one dagger, a thing which wasn't for eating or butchering, but for sticking. Her mother was such a one, and hers was ornamented like piece of jewelry. Another was her eldest sister, who was given a shorter one with a simple silver hilt by her husband. She had recounted to her little sister how her husband had made a joke that the blade was for her to stick him with, if he ever left her to fend for herself. Her father did not laugh, and he himself held more than a dozen in this box, all were for practical use, each wrapped in cloths rubbed in oil to keep off rust. Not more than two or three of them had been made by the same craftsman, the uniqueness of each one was exciting to discover; there were different lengths, shapes, balance, and styles of wrought hilt. She had chosen the longest and most cruel of the lot to make a wedding present to herself.

She moved the belt onto the outside of the burgundy surcoat, a rather plain one without the apron over it. The dagger she wasn't sure what to do with. She did not want to appear common or rough when she arrived in town, as such a woman might be considered "loose," and dealt with crudely by the town's youth. She stopped to remove the bags from the pony, wrap them in a blanket which had survived, and contrive a tidy haversack for the donkey. Cutting a flat piece off one of the bags, she wrapped this around one leg, and strapped the dagger over it. The blade was almost as long as her thigh was, but well-concealed beneath her dress and obscured by her long, open sleeves. She resumed walking, as a faster pace than she usually used, and conscious of the black, iron dagger clinging to her thigh.

Now was the time to decide how she would present herself in town. A few weeks of marriage to Anthony had taught her that he could be expected to solve any difficulty, and find her out. She thought of this ruefully, since she had been pushed towards accepting his proposal. There was some sort of relationship between him and her father, but as a woman, she couldn't know more than that. Perhaps Anthony would find her before she arrived in town, and save her some difficulty. For a woman of consequence, and with a measure of youthful of beauty, it was difficult not to attract unsolicited, sanctimonious attention from strangers, and she was walking towards a rather large town. If the clod had not galloped off with half of her baggage, she would still have a large shroud that might have allowed her to pass as an invalid or madwoman. As it was, she would wait until dusk, and find a place to hole herself up, as quickly as possible. She could trade the girdle-hanger for that, then she would have to wait until Anthony appeared, or until word reached her father.

Pausing just for an instant, Katryne grasped her dress and surcoat, deftly pulling the hem up to her hip, and unsheathed the dagger in an instant. She had to drop forward on one knee in order to grab it properly. Considering the dagger in her hand, she also realized that she would have bared her leg and her bottom to anyone that had been standing there. She had managed not to cut herself or get entangled in her own sleeves, so there was that, at least.