"But you cannot walk, dearest. It is many days to High March."
"I shall ride."
"What will you ride, goose?"
"A forest pony, of course."
"Will you go as you are--like a boy, Isoult?"
Alice was aghast at the possibility; but Isoult, who had many reasons
for it apart from her own safety (forgotten in the sight of
Prosper's), was clear that she would. Prosper she knew was the guest
of the Countess Isabel, a vaguely great and crowned lady; probably he
was one of many guests. "And how shall I, a poor girl, come at him in
the midst of such a company?" she asked herself. But if she went with
a tale of being his page Roy he might admit her to some service, to
hand his cup, or just to lie at his door of a night. The real Roy had
done more than this; he would never refuse her so much. So she thought
at least; and at the worst she would have space to tell her message.
At noon, the forest pony captured and haltered with a rope, she
started. Alice was tearful, but Isoult, high in affairs, had no time
to consider Alice. She gave her a kiss, stooping from the saddle,
thanked her for what she had done on Prosper's account, and flew. She
never looked back to wave a hand or watch a hand-waving; she was in a
fever for action. Going, she calculated profoundly. There was a choice
of ways. The great road from Wanmouth to High March skirted Marbery
Down (where she had watched the stars and heard the sheep-bells many a
still night), and then ran east by the forest edge to Worple. It only
took in Worple by a wide divagation; after that it curved back to the
forest, ran fairly clean to Market Basing, thence over ridges and
coombs, but climbing mostly, it fetched up at High March. It was a
military road. Well, she might follow Maulfry on this road till within
a couple of days of the castle; it would ensure safety for her, and a
good footing for her beast. On the other hand, if she rode due north
over everything (as she knew she could), she would steal at least one
more day. And could she afford to lose a clear day with Prosper? Ah,
and it would give a margin against miscarriage of the news by any
adverse fate on either of them. Before she framed the question she
knew it answered. Her road then was to be dead north across the edge
of Spurnt Heath (where her father's cottage was), past Martle Brush,
stained with the black blood of Galors, then on to the parting of the
ways, and by the right-hand road to High March. Thinking it over, she
put her journey at three, and Maulfry's at four days. Maulfry's was
actually rather less, as will appear.