The North Road ran straight as a lance-rest between wind scoured barley fields, its ruts frozen iron-hard by the last moon's frost. Griffith rode ahead of the carriage at first, cloak snapping, but the gelding's breath came in white flags and the small voice behind the velvet curtain had not spoken since the second toll-gate. He drew rein, swung down, and stepped into the rocking compartment without asking leave. The carriage dipped under his weight; the lantern swung, painting the interior in s...