The familiar figure of her grandmother shrinks away, and the countryside passes by. The horses break into a controlled canter, carrying her faster away. A rumbling cry resounds through the air, like a thunder clash and belling hound and an eagle’s mew warped together – Sampson was calling fairwell.<br/><br/>The scenery melted from known fields, still Grimsword land but rented out and worked, to less known lands to parts she had rarely seen. For all of their fine blood, the Grimswords were not courtly. A rumour had it they refused to step foot in the capital for an old offence that they were not allowed to bring to justice, but no amount of listening at keyholes or flattering the older members of staff had ever led to the reasons for that.<br/><br/>There were highwaymen along the way, but the footmen with rifles were enough of a deterrent when they let off a round in warning. Through the windows, she saw silhouettes on the hillcrest as they retreated back to wait for easier prey. If it had been winter and not the harvest months, they would not have retreated so readily.<br/><br/>A few hours into the journey, they turned in to a great, bustling stable yard. “Fresh carriage and riding horses for the heir of Grimsword!” bellowed one of the footmen over the chatter and calls from the stablehands. They were a deft lot – several strong lads came up to unhitch the carriage and another pair came to take the lathered and sweating mounts from the footmen. The door was opened and one of the footmen said, “If you’d like to get down, Sir, and stretch your legs? They also have an inn to the side where refreshments are to be had, they will have replaced the horses by then.”<br/>