Morning | Morven's room, The Red Lion Inn:
Morven jerked awake to Marcus's loud, once again, far too loud for any civilised hour.
He fixed his apprentice with a murderous glare.
"Again? Can't you let me sleep one single morning in peace?"
Marcus was sweating, breathing hard, eyes wide.
Morven sat up, instantly alert.
"What is it, Marcus?"
Marcus swallowed.
"I… I went out to buy some fruit for the road, but…"
"But what? Speak!"
Marcus lowered his gaze.
"You have to come, Master… they found a farmer's body. I heard it from the crowd that had gathered…"
Morven's eyes widened for a fraction of a second. He whispered under his breath,
"So… it really was him."
Marcus blinked.
"Did you say something, Master?"
Morven closed his eyes calmly.
"Nothing."
He rose from the bed without another word.
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Minutes later | Main street, Barnet:
A fierce wind whipped through the town. Morven's long coat billowed behind him; with his left hand he clamped his top hat firmly in place, while the right gripped the innocent-looking sword cane.
Side by side with Marcus, he walked toward the place Marcus had described. Neither spoke.
A sudden stronger gust sent a storm of autumn leaves spiralling into the air. Morven lifted the brim of his hat with two fingers, tilting it just enough to watch the golden and orange leaves dance against the grey sky.
He sighed, placed a hand on Marcus's shoulder, and said quietly,
"Marcus…"
Marcus turned.
Morven gave a crooked smirk.
"I already know who the killer is."
Marcus's face lit up.
"Perfect! Then let's go arrest him!"
Morven's dark red eyes glinted beneath the shadow of his hat.
"No."
Marcus faltered.
"B-but… why not!?"
Morven's smirk deepened.
"Because the man who murdered that farmer… and I have a private appointment."
He turned his head slightly.
Far down the street, a tall figure in a long brown coat and flowing black hair was walking unhurriedly toward the northern gate.
Morven's voice dropped to a murmur.
"William… William Fenwick."
He looked back at Marcus.
"Now that you know the killer and I have personal business, it's best we leave the farmer's death alone."
Marcus exhaled in defeat.
"…Yes, Master."
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10:00 a.m., autumn | Northern gate of Barnet – continuing the Great North Road toward Hertfordshire:
They retrieved their horses and rode out beneath the archway.
Just beyond the gate, Morven pulled his mount to a halt. Marcus stopped beside him.
"Something wrong, Master?"
Morven sighed.
"Before you came down and the horses were readied, I asked the innkeeper a question…"
Marcus tilted his head.
"What question?"
Morven stared straight down the long road ahead.
"I asked the full name of the person who booked and paid for our room in advance."
A pause.
"The innkeeper told me: William Fenwick."
Marcus's jaw dropped.
"You have a third loyal servant I don't know about—besides Edward Whitmore and William Waverly!?"
Morven smiled faintly.
"No. William Fenwick is almost certainly the farmer's killer… and the very man with whom I have an appointment."
Marcus gaped.
"What kind of appointment do you have with a murderer!?"
Morven glanced sideways.
"I told him that if I see him again in any town along my route… I will kill him.
Apparently he's looking forward to it."
Marcus slapped his own forehead.
"Master… the journey was supposed to take fourteen or fifteen days by carriage. On horseback we cut it to nine or ten.
Now, with this personal vendetta of yours, I have the feeling you're going to stretch it to twenty!"
Morven's smile turned almost gentle.
"No problem at all. Why worry? What's wrong with taking twenty days to reach Edinburgh instead of nine or fourteen?"
Marcus slumped forward, resting his head against his horse's neck.
"This is exactly why I hate travelling with you…"
Morven gave a low chuckle.
"You're stuck with me for now. Stop talking and ride."
He nudged his horse forward gently, then a little harder to pick up speed. Marcus mimicked the motion and followed.
Morven glanced back.
"We need to reach the town of Hertfordshire by evening."
Marcus groaned loudly.
"You plan to cover that entire distance by evening!?"
Morven placed a hand over his eyes and shook his head in mock despair.
"Fine, fine… by nightfall at the latest. And try to complain less."
Marcus muttered,
"I'm not complaining, I'm stating facts!"
Morven rolled his eyes dramatically.
"Blah blah blah blah…"
Marcus grumbled,
"Don't mock me!"
Morven continued cheerfully,
"Blah blah blah!"
Marcus finally surrendered with a defeated sigh.
"…Fine."
Morven turned, flashed a quick, genuine smile, kicked his horse into a gallop, and thundered down the road. Marcus spurred after him.
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10:30 a.m. | Great North Road, Barnet → Hertfordshire:
They were riding at breakneck speed when Morven gradually slowed, then stopped entirely.
Marcus pulled up beside him.
"Master?"
Morven looked up at the heavy, bruised sky.
"The sky has declared war on us today."
Marcus gave a nervous laugh.
"Since when does the sky hold grudges against people?"
Morven sighed.
"It's a figure of speech, idiot. The clouds are thick—rain is coming any minute."
Marcus looked stricken.
"We… didn't bring umbrellas!"
Morven smiled wickedly.
"Then we'll just have to die of cold."
Marcus closed his eyes and took a deep, suffering breath.
"I knew you'd find a way to blame me…"
Morven shook his head, amused, and gazed down the long road.
"It's at least half an hour, maybe a full hour, to South Mimms."
Marcus perked up.
"We could still make it to South Mimms before the rain starts!"
Morven glanced at him, considered, then nodded once.
"Possibly."
He urged his horse forward again—first a trot, then a full gallop. Marcus raced after him.
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Minutes later | The road to Hertfordshire:
They flew along the muddying track when the first cold drop struck Morven's glove.
A deafening crack of thunder rolled across the sky.
Then the clouds burst.
Morven glanced sideways at Marcus with a faint, almost exhilarated smile. Marcus met his eyes, equally soaked in an instant later.
Without a word, both leaned lower over their horses' necks and spurred them even faster.
The wind howled. Rain lashed sideways. Autumn leaves—gold, crimson, amber—whirled around them like a storm of fire.
The road ahead turned to slick mud, but the two riders only laughed into the tempest and rode harder, two dark figures swallowed by the roaring autumn storm.