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The knight throws back his head with a groan, “Not that blasted cheese again.”

As if summoned, Lord Forlentia walks from the building a few seconds later. In his mid-sixties, he has slender limbs and an ample belly, vaguely resembling an upright frog. He lost most of his hair years ago, and what remains circles his bald head like a gray nest.

He walks right past me and then stops rather comically, taking several steps backward to check to see if his eyes have deceived him.

“Clover!” he exclaims, looking both delighted and confused. “What are you doing here?”

“Hello, Uncle George,” I say with a laugh, realizing Henrik never mentioned whom the cheese was for. “I’ve come with the supply run. They needed my superior archery skills.”

“Did they now?” He pauses, looking perplexed. “Does your father know you’re here?”

I grin at my great uncle. “He should by now.”

He shakes his head, wearing an expression that’s both chastising and indulgent.

“So the cheese is for you?” I ask, glancing at the last wagon in the line. “I thought it smelled familiar.”

“Did Harriet send some for me?” he asks, looking genuinely delighted. “Where is it?”

“In the last wagon. Aunt Harriet’s packed it in a basket. But I think it’s gone off during the trip—it smells something horrid.”

“That’s normal,” he reassures me, hurrying to fetch the cheese.

Henrik watches him, but he says nothing even though everyone else who’s attempted to take something out of order has been reprimanded. The soldier is likely as appalled as the rest of us that someone would consider the cheese food.

I wrinkle my nose when Uncle George rejoins me and lifts the corner of the tea towel.

“It’s molding…” I say.

“You just cut that part off.”

In the heat of the early part of the trip, it seems the cheese partially melted. Instead of a tidy round wheel, it’s now a soft disk that’s eased into the contours of the basket.

I’m fairly certain he’ll die if he eats it, but I suppose he would know better than me.

“Shall we go inside and find some bread?” Uncle George asks me, holding out the basket. “I’ll share.”

“That’s all right,” I say quickly, taking a step back. “I’d like to wait for Henrik.”

He glances at the soldier and then nods. “Suit yourself.”

Eager to sample the rotting cheese, he disappears into the building. I wander to Henrik’s side, not precisely sure where I belong. It doesn’t seem like many noblewomen visit the guard post.

“It’s cold,” Henrik says when I step up to him, pausing from his list to frown at me. “You should go inside.”

I glance toward the doors, unsure. Though I wouldn’t say I’m a hesitant person, I’m used to court—not guard posts in the middle of the woods.

“I’ll wait,” I say.

“I might be a while.”

“I’ll escort you inside, Lady Clover,” Simon says, appearing at my side. He gives me a wide smile, dramatically offering his arm. “Every man in the post will envy my good fortune of having you on my arm.”

Henrik barely looks up from his list to nod me along with Simon—dismissing me.

Well then.

Accepting Simon’s offer, we enter the post.