Free Valentine by Heather Grothaus Page A

hurry?”
    “Valentine?”
    “Yes?” he asked, giving her a sideways look. He appeared to be no more than a dark-skinned field worker—even his posture seemed different.
    Then she looked to their mounts again. Where once two sleek brown beasts stood, there were now a pair of tired, grayish nags. “What did you do to the horses?”
    “Are they different? Good,” he said with satisfaction. “It is much harder to tell when you are close, and if you apply too much, it will only come off in a cloud as we ride. No so effective. Come and I will show you.”
    She reached his side and he held forth two small bags, the gaping neck of one revealing long chunks of black charcoal, the other white ash.
    Mary looked up at him in surprise. “You painted the horses?”
    “A bit, yes. Do you see?” He ran his hand over the side of Mary’s horse, indicating as he explained. “The dark—the charcoal—between the bones here and here, between the ribs and at her hips, creates depth. This horse, she is bony. She is hungry. There has been no food for her.” He stuck out his lower lip and pulled a sad face. “And the white—the ash—lessens the gloss, but still reflects the light. This poor, poor horse—she is old and tired and should be someone’s stew.”
    “That’s amazing,” Mary said.
    He bowed, the strings of his lappets nearly grazing the ground. “Thank you. But we should be going; the horses do no much like this and at the first opportunity they will seek to roll it off.”
    Valentine took her folded gown and returned it to her satchel, and then he drew a thin, roughly woven linen sack over the leather of the saddlebag and cinched it closed with hairy twine. Now it appeared to be nothing more than the bag of a peasant. She saw that all of Valentine’s own bags were already disguised in the same manner.
    Mary was impressed.
    Valentine helped her into her saddle and then mounted his own horse. He pulled it around in a circle and then nodded toward the road.
    “You should precede me. Even though your gown is no much to look at, it is still a little bit finer than my garb at the moment. You shall be my lady and I your servant. A very poor lady,” he added. “Impoverished.”
    “I’m not certain if I should be pleased that I am to play your better or offended that you insulted my clothes,” she said as she urged her horse past him and onto the road.
    He only gave her one of his charming smiles, made even more so by his simple costume, and sank into a mockingly deferential seated bow.
    “You have not mentioned the very reason why we are on this journey together,” Mary called over her shoulder once they had gained the road and were again heading north.
    “That we are married?” he answered. She turned around in time to see his casual shrug.
    “Yes,” she said. “Weren’t you surprised?”
    “No really,” he said. “I assume you were?”
    Mary laughed at his indifferent attitude. “Well, yes, quite. It’s not every day one discovers she was promised in marriage as a baby.”
    “It does happen, though. Quite a lot where I come from. I suppose that is why I was no so very surprised. I had forgotten all about it.”
    “You knew?” She slowed her horse now, too rapt by their conversation to care who should see them. They hadn’t passed anyone since altering their appearances, any matter.
    He was at her side when he answered. “Yes, of course. I believe I was to collect you when I was . . . twenty and three? Five?” He seemed to think upon it, and then gave one of his shrugs that Mary was beginning to understand were part of the way he communicated. “That was some time ago, of course. Ten years or more.”
    “Why didn’t you . . . collect me , as you put it?”
    He grinned at her. “Do you regret that I did no?”
    “Well, no!” she said, and felt the tips of her ears burning. “What I mean to say is that, had you—had we—” she pressed her lips together and took a quick, deep breath. “I