Tristan glowered at the shapely young blonde, as she sat with her feet in the cool brook.
“I can’t go any farther,” she said. “My feet hurt.”
Tristan watched the running water as it made swirls around her ankles, and wished he had never agreed to escort her to Hilliam. It had seemed such an easy assignment, far better than staying to defend the keep. Now, however, he regretted his choice more than ever.
“Princess, we really do need to move on. This is not a safe place to be,” he urged.
“If you say so, Sir Tristan,” she said plaintively. “But my feet are even getting blisters. Actual blisters, but you wouldn’t know how much that hurts, would you,” she added accusingly.
“No, Your Highness,” he said through gritted teeth as rose from his knees, and was forced to cling to his side, where dark blood was once again seeping from the spot the arrow had pierced him earlier that morning as he defended his royal charge.
Princess Katrina seemed blind to his discomfort. After all, she had blisters to contend with.
“Well can we at least travel slower?” she asked matter-of-factly. “I just can’t believe you have made me get blisters.”
“Yes Highness, slowly it will be.”
Glower– to look or stare with sullen dislike, discontent, or anger: a look of sullen dislike, discontent, or anger
Plaintive– expressing sorrow or melancholy; mournful