The man knew the roads wouldn't be friendly the moment his wagon passed the south-gate of Bree, and he saw the ash-colored clouds brooding in the east. The air was too still and heavy. He would be lucky to reach the next village before the heavens opened. Still, there was nothing to do but flick the reins a little harder and hurry the old gelding along. "Walk on, Burt," he called out, and the horse lumbered forward while the Bree guards gave a friendly wave.
"Best hurry," said one guard, frowning at the sky. "Gonna be dark soon, and a storm's coming in."
"Aye," replied the man.
As the green wall of the Chetwood drew closer, and the town shrank steadily behind, the man heard the first rumble of thunder overhead. A cloak sat on the seat beside him, and he tugged it hastily up over his shoulders in preparation. Burt plodded faithfully along, his heavy hooves loud in the still evening air. The man could not hurry the horse any faster, for the wagon's bed was filled with various crates and boxes that he dared not risk jostling about.
A drop of something cool and wet struck the man's brow. He grunted and reached back to pull the cloak's hood forward over his balding scalp.
The solitary drop repeated itself, moistening a tiny spot on his knee. Then another, and another. A quiet, gentle patter began. The drops were fat and round as they began to dot the man, his horse, his wagon, and the earth around them. The evening grew dim and grey beneath the clouds.
Ahead, he spied a figure beside the road. The increasing rain made it all the more difficult to see in the falling gloom, but the long, dark shape of a dress told him that it was a woman. He was immediately struck at how odd it was that she wasn’t hurrying to get out of the rain. She wasn’t hurrying at all. She wasn’t even moving.
As the wagon drew near, and she heard its rickety clatter over the sound of the gentle downpour, she looked up and over her shoulder. The man could see now that she was leaning on some sort of staff or cane. Concerned, he pulled the horse to a halt.
“Everything all right, miss?” he called out, his eyes puckered beneath the hood.
The woman turned to him. Her black hair was drenched, along with her dress. “Please, sir,” she said, and he was alarmed to hear that her voice was broken and cracked as if she’d been weeping. “C-could you drive me on to Knotwood village? I don’t have any money, but…” She lowered her eyes, looking herself over as if trying to think of something she might give him as payment for this favor. Her words faded into a low sobbing.
The man’s concern flared sharply. Without another thought, he hurriedly climbed down from the seat. “O’ course, miss, o’ course.” In his haste, his foot slipped in the mud, and he caught himself roughly on the back of the wagon. He took her elbow gently, then looked again at the cane she was clutching. “Can ya climb up, miss?”
The woman lifted her face to look at the wooden seat sitting above the large, spoked wheel. Her body shifted forward clumsily. He could see that she meant to give it an effort, but he could feel her arm quivering like a leaf beneath his hand, and with the slimy mud beneath their feet, and the rain making everything slippery as ice, he decided that he would not allow it. “Nay, miss, hold on just a moment,” he murmured gently.
A peal of thunder rolled overhead, sharp and irritable, trembling the air around their ears. Burt snorted and pinned his ears back against his slick fur. The man reached for the woman’s cane, looking at her face carefully to see if she would allow it, rather than simply snatch it from her hand. At such close proximity, he could see that one side of her face was a gut-wrenching shade of blackish-purple. Her eyes remained downturned, avoiding his gaze. Her fingers gave up the cane without a struggle, and he set it carefully under the driving seat, while his insides twisted with worrisome questions.
“All right now,” he said, moving to stand behind her. “Begging your pardon, miss, but there’s nothing else for it.” With these words, he took her by the waist, bent his knees, gave a loud grunt, and hoisted her up into the air. He heard her gasp a little, but she grabbed onto the wagon and swung a foot up, while the other fumbled and didn’t seem to want to cooperate. His hands went up and stayed there, ready to catch her if she fell backwards, but the strength in her arms was rather impressive, and she hauled herself into the seat without any further trouble.
The man lingered a moment to ensure her dress was clear of the wheel, then hurried round to the other side and clambered up beside her. “Walk on, Burt!” he barked, his voice carrying through the rain, which was falling straight and hard and steady onto their heads. The wagon lurched forward.
“Oi, half a moment,” said the man, glancing at his new companion and realizing all at once that she was still uncovered from the weather. He fumbled his cloak from his shoulders and awkwardly draped it around hers.
“Thank you,” she said, and her voice was thin and pitiful; no more than a mousy squeak.
The man stared ahead as the road wound into the thick trees of the wood, and the rain’s assault was lessened a little. It fell on them now in scattered sprinkles and rivulets from the leaves above. “I beg your pardon, miss,” he said again. “...But do you need a doctor?”
“Nay,” she answered at once. Her hands pulled the cloak close around her cheeks, ducking her head down.
“I don’t mean to pry, miss,” said the man, looking at her sidelong. “But I see your face there. It looks rather nasty bruised to me.”
The woman said nothing in reply.
“It just doesn’t seem that a woman would be out walking alone at nightfall. Away from town. Using a cane and all. And...with bruises on her face.” His words came in little bursts as he tried to think of what to say and how to say it. “Unless she were trying to get away from something, or someone.”
Her hand moved to her face and seemed to be brushing over her eyes. Though, if she was weeping again, it was impossible to tell with the rain.
“Do you have somewhere to go, miss?” the man inquired more gently. “Someone in Knotwood, maybe? A friend or family?”
“Maybe,” she answered, sniffing a little.
“Maybe don’t sound very reassuring, if you don’t mind me saying. I know there’s a new doctor out that way. Been hearing folk talk about it. You ought to have someone take a look at that face. I don’t have much copper on me, but if he’s a good sort of doctor, he might - “
“Nay,” the woman interrupted, though her voice was soft. “Nay. Thank you.”
The man fell into a thoughtful silence. His brows furrowed. His lips were drawn tight as he sucked on his teeth.
“Well, I can’t just dump you on the side of the road, miss,” he finally muttered. “I can’t do that. You show me a place where you can go and be safe and dry tonight, or I’ll...well, we’ll think of something else.”
A deep sigh was heard from within the huddled cloak. “I only thought to go there because of a friend who said I could stay at his home if I ever needed somewhere to go.”
“It’s a man, then?” The question held a taint of concern.
The woman’s reluctant reply came a few seconds later. “...aye.”
The man wiped his own hand over his face, whisking away the pesky, persistent droplets from above. His clothes felt sticky and heavy against his skin. “Well. May not be my place to say, miss. But doesn’t seem a young woman ought to hole up in a man’s house, less he’s family or...or her husband.”
Her response was faint, her voice empty and resigned. “I know.”
He gave her another look from the corner of his eye, crushing his weathered lips together as he mulled further over her predicament. The wagon rattled on, the wheels creaking against the muddy ruts in the road. Burt flicked his wet, stringy tail, faithfully carrying on without a complaint.
After a long pause, the man sat up a little, squaring his shoulders. “I might have an idea, miss.”
