"Easy, easy," said Tobias. "Hold the reigns more gently, like this." 

"The horse is too nervous." Alice argued.

"She's nervous because you are. Relax." And he handed the reigns back to her. 

Tobias and his newly wedded wife were sitting on a cart drawn by a single horse on a sandy road in the middle of the moors. The past days had been challenging. Alice knew nothing about farm life, and Tobias had to teach her the very basics, like how to milk a cow, and how to drive a cart. And those were the least of their troubles. 

This time, the cart moved gently along the road.

"Alright, now gently pull, that's right, a little firmer." The cart stopped.

Stupid horse.

Stupid weather.

Stupid country.

Diego's day had started poorly (he was now down to one good pair of socks and they hadn't dried properly overnight), had quickly gotten worse (it was cold, mice had gotten into his breakfast), and now it had managed to get even worse.

English horses were fucking useless.

His backside and normal-side were caked with mud from where the damn nervous nag had thrown him, and God only knew where the gelding had run off to after.  At least useless English saddles (and his own 'innocent man' act) meant he'd only lost the horse and saddle, no guns, no bedroll, nothing that really mattered much.  The worst thing was that he was left to trudge across the moor in the direction he'd come from, a pleasant day in the saddle turned into a depressing slog.

The only saving grace was the sight of a cart in the distance.  Hurrying forward he lifted an arm and shouted to hopefully gain the driver's attention before they left him once again alone (and wet, and muddy).  "Ay, sir!  Excuse me!  Are you heading back to town?"

Tobias looked up when he heard the stranger. The accent sounded entirely unfamiliar to him, and his looks seemed to suggest he had traveled far indeed, and on foot by the looks of it. There was a good deal of mud on his clothes, and yet, judging by what he was wearing, he wasn't a complete pauper either.

"No sir," he said, trying to soften his thick Yorkshire accent, in case the stranger did not understand. "But if ye're headed for Castleton, we can drop ye off there if ye need a ride."

He sat there on a cart with all the confidence of a man who was independent and owned what he worked with. His clothes were plain, but in a good state. He wore an auburn beard and mustache - showing that he did not care much for the latest fashion - and a bowler hat - showing that he was not altogether outside of society either. The blue dress of his wife, next to him, was also in a good state, and more adapted to fashion (although a huge checked shawl wrapped around it ruined the effect, as did the shawl that covered her red hair), but she did not carry herself with the same confidence. She was very young. Her round face was pale, gaunt, almost, and as she looked at the stranger, she seemed anxious at the mere sight of him.