A few hours have I been granted, to rest my body and mind before I must venture forth again. I have lost count of the days. I cannot tell how long I have been in Aldburg, nor when I departed from Snowbourn after hearing the grim news from Elfswith.
There is a rooster in the yard adjacent, with an insistent and grating crow. It is distracting.
I remember my father taking me along to Edoras when a plague of strangles struck the King’s stable. I must have been about twelve summers. He tried to prepare me for what I would see, but words can only do so much for a child’s inexperienced mind. I watched in horror as gasping, choking horses were pulled from their stalls and taken away to be isolated from each other. Some of their necks bulged outwards in grotesque ways. Bright yellow pus dripped from their nostrils. In one stall, a foal lay dead. I burst into tears, and earned a sharp slap from my father. He was not a violent man, and the shock worked. There was no room for hysterics, he told me. And he was right. I helped him as best I could, leading the horses to separate, lonely stalls in empty barns about the city to be quarantined. My eyes would grow hot from time to time, but the urgent pounding in my heart forced the emotion downward, into my gut. My grief was irrelevant. The horse’s lives were all that mattered. Only after we returned home a week later, and a dozen of the King’s horses were dead, and I thought the smell of pus and rot would never leave my nostrils, and I could not get the image of the little foal out of my mind, did I allow myself to weep again.
The horses of Aldburg will not be so decimated. The call came swiftly, and the animals have been separated from each other. It was not soon enough for three of them, however. My heart grieves to record here that they are dead. I could not bear the sound of the weeping of one man, who had raised his beloved friend from colthood, and had kept him nearly thirty years. A lifetime for some. His family drew the great beast on an open wagon, to be buried with as much honor as any son or daughter would receive. Something about the man’s weeping reminded me of Conrob, and I had to hasten away from the scene.
My days have been full of these dreadful sights, sounds, and smells. The swellings that become abscessed must be lanced and drained, unless they burst on their own. The horses wheeze and gasp in a manner that rends my heart to shreds. Yet I must ignore it and press on. Every stall, food bucket, and water trough must be emptied and cleaned, and no horse must share with another until the illness is gone from the city. There is little to offer in the way of comfort to these poor, noble beasts. Strangles must run its course. A warm poultice may be used on the worse of the abscesses, but mostly we must simply watch and wait.
There was a brief respite last evening, as I rode for Fenmarch to resupply my wares, having used up all that I had brought with me and all that I could beg from the good folk of Aldburg. There is a small crumble of ruins about halfway along. It has long since been made into a waystop for travelers, where one may find a warm fire and a fresh fill of water for both man and horse. I was surprised but gladdened to discover a familiar person there; none other than Duncadda. I doubt that I was much company for him, being frazzled with anxiety and exhausted from my work. And I am not one for much idle chatter, nor am I a woman with any particular charisma. I determined that Duncadda’s wounds had sufficiently healed since the last time I had seen him.
I mentioned the horses of Aldburg and their plight, but it did not seem to draw any concern or interest, and perhaps that is best. A mind should be permitted a respite from such things, even in the midst of them.
Once I had rested sufficiently, I decided to continue my ride towards Fenmarch.
I suppose spring and summer are those seasons which draw out our hearts and make us long for that which we see in the world around us. New life, vibrancy, hope, joy, companionship. But it is not so for me. I am more alone now than I have ever been. Friends have gone away or become attached to lovers. It is the way of life. Odd, to think that my own past love arrived in the dead of winter. I suppose I have never conformed to the way things “ought” to be done. Perhaps the older I get, the more peculiar I get. Perhaps I will be the strange, isolated, gossiped-about widow in my old age.
One last note, before it departs my mind! Just as I was about to leave the camp, Yllfa appeared. Our greeting was brief, but she asked if I would call upon her when I return to Aldburg. She is concerned about her mare, Wynn. Not an illness of the body, she thinks, but perhaps of the mind or spirit. I will hurry to visit her as soon as I am able.
