It was a pleasant day for a ride. Frey, having rested well, seemed bouncy with energy. I’d checked his feet to make sure that his hooves were okay. The days of travel didn’t even show: no hoof cracks or swellings. The path through the woods and here by the stream held soft dirt, and I didn’t weigh much for a stallion of his size, so I lay my worry over needing to have him shod aside. His legs, also, appeared sound, and his muscled body looked strong and healthy. Travel, actually, seemed to agree with him.
I did wish I’d grabbed his brush before I left the house. Although I’d used a fat leaf from one of the water plants, elk clover, I think, it didn’t do much for brushing out the dirt on Frey’s flanks. Of course, one of the joys of being a horse was the freedom to roll in the dirt, and Frey had taken advantage of that. It left his light gray coat dull. He looked exactly like a horse who’d been pastured instead of stabled. Maybe that was a good thing, because should we meet another on the road, Frey’s dull and dirty coat might not draw the traveler’s avaricious eyes.
The brook we were following was flowing southeast, which was fine with me. I had no destination in mind, only riding far away from the place where I’d almost been stoned. Whether I came to a town or not would be fine with me. I had few coins to spend, and I wasn’t yet ready to seek employment. I wanted to put more miles between the village and my final stop.
Frey and I paused several times to harvest thick strands of cattails. The rhizomes were starchy and needed to be scraped or sucked. I saved those for later and feasted on the flower stocks.