Now they were hitched again to the wagons, and the little troupe was prepared to leave again, for as Molly had said, there was little they could do to help, and she had no desire to be embroiled in an inquiry by the shire-reeve or, worse, by the knights who had been sent for from the nearest stronghold of the Sieur de Meschines, in whose demesne the inn lay.Molly had thrown a hooded cloak of the Scottish blue-gray wool about her shoulders, fastened it with her best ring-and-pin brooch, and gone in to pay her respects to what remained of Osbert and his family. She had come out with a grim and stony face and dry eyes. She went into the large wagon.Hob’s own eyes were red with last night’s tears. “She is more angry than doleful,” he remarked to Nemain, who had stayed close by his side all day.“A queen does not weep,” said Nemain, who had not wept either. Hob was unsure of what she meant, but, gripped by a weary sorrow, did not care enough to ask.In a moment Molly swung back down from the wagon.
