Page 122

"I used to race my father across this bridge," I said.

Guy glanced toward it. "Did you win?"

"Sometimes."

"Did he let you?"

"Absolutely not. He was a terrible loser. He'd accuse me of starting too early and make us race again."

Guy smiled.

I kept my eyes on the road as the fields came into view.

They were in terrible condition.

I'd prepared myself to see the burned wing of the house and strangers keeping their horses in my father's stables. What I hadn't expected was how badly the land had been neglected.

Thistles covered the western pasture. Two sections of fencing had collapsed into the grass, and nobody had bothered repairing them. The drainage ditches my father had dug alongside his tenants were clogged with silt, leaving the bottom acre covered in rushes and standing water.

It must've been years since anyone had properly maintained them.

My father had doubled the estate's harvests and reduced his tenants' rents in the same season. He'd spent years improving that land, working alongside the men who farmed it.

Now the fields were full of weeds because the man who'd taken everything from him apparently couldn't be bothered to look after any of it.

"Robin."

"I'm all right."

Guy didn't argue.

He brought his horse closer until our knees brushed and continued riding beside me. Through our bond, I could feel his concern, although he was doing his best not to make a fuss.

I would've resented that from anyone else.

"I never thought I'd come back here," I admitted.

"I know."

"I thought it would feel different."

"How does it feel?"

I looked toward the overgrown pasture. "Like I should've stayed away."

He reached across and took my hand.

Holding hands on horseback was awkward, especially with both of us trying to manage the reins, but neither of us let go immediately.

"Then we'll make certain you have a reason to be glad you came."

We reached the hazel-covered ridge above the chapel shortly afterward.

I counted twenty-three soldiers. Six were digging among the graves, while another four cleared brambles from the oldest row with billhooks. A clerk in an expensive coat stood near the middle of the burial ground, holding a parchment against a wooden board.

A measuring line stretched between two headstones, and he kept calling out figures for another man to record.

Two guards stood outside the chapel.