TWENTY-THREE
Jane
SPRING 966 MC
Gerald brought his horse to a halt. The rain started late in the afternoon as a drizzle, but now, as dusk approached, it cascaded down, threatening to completely wash away the road. Not that there was much of a road to begin with, for the feet of hundreds of marching men had all but obliterated any sign of it, aside from the mud, of course.
Sir Preston reined in beside him. "It's getting worse, Your Grace."
"I know," the marshal replied, "and stop calling me 'Your Grace'. You make me sound like some ancient relic. If you must use a title, then just say 'sir' and be done with it."
"Yes, sir."
"I must apologize, Sir Preston. I'm not in the best of moods."
"I can well understand. This weather could dampen the most ardent of souls."
"It's not the weathe
