It was a long, slow, and incredibly boring walk back. Jacopo said little. He didn’t trust himself. He half expected Tristan to run off as soon as they reached an area which had to be recognisable to him, but to his surprise the young prince plodded along beside him rather than forging ahead. Possibly he was still weakened by the events of the last twenty-four hours – certainly he couldn’t be hungry or thirsty, since Jacopo had given him his own waterskins and dried food. Maybe he was curious about a kidnapper with a change of heart. More likely, from their direction he would realise that he wasn’t being led astray, and probably just couldn’t be bothered to run ahead.
The guards, already combing the surrounding area, found them before they made it to the castle. All of them seemed to assume Jacopo was a gallant rescuer, rather than a filthy scoundrel. Their claps on the back and warm praises were almost too much to bear.
“Did you find the guilty man?” One of them asked, grinning in a most inappropriate manner.
The silence that befell the group immediately after was so long that smiles began to slip off the men’s faces. Tristan said nothing, and was watching him with an unreadable expression.
“Yeah,” he replied in a heavy tone, and held out his hands, wrists up, to be cuffed.
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