Jon Hale reached out with his left hand, closed his five ringed fingers around the bay gelding’s leather bridle two inches above the iron cheek-ring, and held the horse in place.
“You do not ride for the Crown today,” Jon said.
The bay gelding tossed its head once against the firm, familiar check of the innkeeper’s hand, then settled its hooves into the straw, recognizing the man who measured its oats every morning. Tobin, however, stiffened from boot-heel to shoulder. The easy deference of a sixteen-year-old yard lodger vanished, replaced instantly by the taut, defensive crouch of a border conscript’s son who knew that a hand on a royal bridle on the open road meant highway robbery or treason.
“Take your hand off the leather, Master Jon,” Tobin said, his right hand dropping to the horn grip of the short courier blade at his belt while his left thumb hooked protectively over the strap of his dispatch pouch. “I like you well enough, and Mistress Elin has been kinder to me with hot soup on wet nights than my own aunt ever was, but this horse is under royal post warrant. Laying a hand on a King’s bridle while the packet is strapped is five years in the quarry irons.”
