"The lumber camp is almost here. This is about the only stretch where we can still ride." The old steward rode ahead on a manor workhorse, glancing back now and then to keep an eye on the group.
Dividing his attention had earned him a birch branch across the forehead. A stranger's spiderweb, heavy with dew and carrying two curled, dead leaves, had draped itself across his face.
"Ah!" He ducked his head and shook off the droplets before they could soak into his clothes, then brushed away the web. "People don't usually ride here, so no one bothers clearing this stuff. Watch your heads back there!"
"Clang!"
No sooner had he spoken than a metallic clang rang through the group, followed by the crack of a branch and the patter of falling leaves. The sounds were quickly swallowed by the horses' hooves. Someone's helmet had smashed straight through a branch stretching across the path.
Martin had just been about to warn them when a spray of leaves slapped against his helmet, splattering his face with droplets.
Riding in to save time had been a poor choice. This path was probably just a narrow track worn down by lumberjacks making the same journey year after year. Anything above an adult's head had been left to grow wild.
Unlike the relatively "neat" forests of the north, Westminster's woodlands shared the elaborate, intricate style of its local nobles and architecture. The spaces between the trees were packed with thickets, tall grass, and low branches draped in curtains of vines. The cleared path was more like a narrow tunnel through a sea of leaves.
In theory, their route should have followed the river, but they could only catch occasional glimpses of dark water beneath the canopy where the trees grew less densely. Fallen