6:05 a.m., 24 November 1797 | The last hill before Hertfordshire:
Morven and Marcus rode in silence, the only sound the steady rhythm of hooves on packed earth.
They crested the final hill. A cooler breeze stirred the air.
Below stretched flat plains and fields of harvested wheat, golden stubble glinting faintly in the pre-dawn gloom.
Morven pulled gently on the reins and brought his horse to a halt.
Marcus, already slowing, stopped beside him.
Morven dismounted without a word and began walking forward with measured steps.
Marcus watched in quiet curiosity as his master continued toward the gentle downward slope.
At the crest Morven paused, gazing out over the stubble-covered wheat fields and the broad plain beyond.
In the far distance, clusters of villages and the larger town lay nestled—Hertfordshire. From this slight elevation the view was clear and commanding.
The sun had not yet risen. Occasionally a single autumn leaf drifted to the ground; the faint calls of waking birds carried on the breeze.
Morven slipped his pocket watch from an inner coat pocket, studied the face for a moment, then returned it.
A small, enigmatic smile touched his lips—one whose reason remained his own.
The harvested fields and green meadows of Hertfordshire were visible, though still shrouded in twilight gloom without the sun's light.
Morven exhaled—perhaps from fatigue, perhaps from quiet boredom.
He glanced at the cane in his right hand.
A sudden cool gust swept across the hilltop, rolling loose straw across the ground, swaying the tall grasses and rustling the trees.
His hair shifted slightly in the wind.
Morven lifted his cane and tapped it once against the earth.
"Hertfordshire…"
At last the first rays of sunrise spilled over the plain.
The stubble fields caught the golden light, revealing their true warm hues; the green meadows brightened; the road ahead looked smoother and more inviting.
In that dawn glow, Morven's dark red eyes seemed to shine with an even deeper beauty.
He drew a long, steady breath, turned back toward Marcus, tapped his cane firmly once more, and offered a faint smile.
Marcus couldn't guess the reason for these quiet smiles, but he had no complaint when his master was a little kinder.
The gentle breeze pushed Morven's hair forward across his forehead. He raised his left hand, brushed it back, exhaled softly, and said,
"Let's move."
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Minutes later | The level road toward Hertfordshire:
Both riders had eased their pace now that the way was smooth and the sun had risen.
They were late, but at last they had reached the towns and villages of the Hertfordshire region.
There was still some distance to the main town. Morven had secured his sword cane beneath the saddle as always.
Marcus spotted the toll gate and small toll house ahead. He gritted his teeth.
"I hate these damned tolls…"
Morven turned sharply.
"You knew we'd have to pay!?"
Marcus forced an awkward laugh.
"I'm not that stupid…"
Morven faced forward again and urged his horse a little faster, eager to pass the gate quickly.
But when they reached it, a closer look revealed no one in attendance.
Morven gave a quiet, sardonic smirk.
"Well… at least I've protected my own money."
Marcus glanced at him, a grin spreading.
"So you'll raise my wages this month!"
Morven turned with complete seriousness.
"No."
Marcus feigned disappointment.
Morven repeated firmly,
"As I said—no."
They both dismounted, lifted the gate bar themselves, remounted, and rode through—hoping not to encounter the toll keeper farther along the road.
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6:20 a.m., 24 November 1797 | Hertfordshire:
After a few more minutes they entered a reasonably large town.
Marcus looked to Morven.
"Is this the town of Hertfordshire?"
Morven frowned.
"No, idiot. Hertfordshire is a county, not a single town."
Marcus blinked.
"Then… what's this place called?"
Morven dismounted gracefully.
"This is St Albans. A good town."
Marcus swung down as well and, once Morven finished speaking, asked,
"So after this town we leave Hertfordshire?"
Morven placed a hand to his forehead, shook his head slightly, and lowered it.
"No. Next comes Hatfield, then Stevenage, and then the northern parts of Hertfordshire—or rather, we stay on the Great North Road the whole way."
Marcus nodded slowly.
Morven handed both sets of reins to Marcus as usual.
"The inn here has the same name as in South Mimms—The White Hart."
Marcus, already walking ahead with the horses, turned his head.
"I hate repeated names…"
Morven raised both hands in a mild shrug.
"Quite natural. I'm not overly fond of them either."
Marcus said nothing more and continued on.
Morven paused for a moment, watching the early traffic of townsfolk coming and going. He murmured,
"I don't have a good feeling about this town… By the way, William said he'd instruct his men to leave two fresh horses for us at the northern edge of every major town…"
He raised his right hand to chest level and studied the black leather glove he wore.
After a moment he lowered it.
He glanced ahead—Marcus was far in front now.
Morven scanned the street once more, then raised his hand again and tugged the brim of his top hat a fraction lower with two fingers.
He whispered,
"I feel like I'm being watched…"
Quickening his pace, he wove through the growing crowd, keeping one hand lightly on his hat brim in case someone brushed too close.
Soon he caught up and, with his left hand, gave Marcus a firm tap on the lower back.
Marcus started to turn and speak—
But Morven leaned in and murmured, low enough for only Marcus to hear,
"I feel we're being watched… I sensed heavy stares on me."
Marcus fell silent—perhaps because of the sharp tap, or perhaps because he, too, had begun to feel those unseen eyes.