All scenes are written from the named character POV, but I find trying to write for this character really hard, not least trying to inflect with a rural sensibility that doesn't distract from the narrative.
This version is probably still a little rough - I've not dedicated editing time to it yet - but see if it works better than the first draft:
21. COLOURS OF SPRING
Ulric
His body was heavy as old logs and swayed dully with each movement of the horse. Ulric would’ve felt sleepy but his bones were all bruised and stiff, and his crotch rubbed raw in the saddle.
Not long after they’d left the knights they’d stopped at the spring they’d drunk from earlier. This time both him and Dalathos found quiet spots away from each other. Ulric had taken off his new boots and trousers and small clothes, and washed the soiling from his skin with both hands. Now he cursed dressing when still wet. He would need to find dock leaves or plantain to calm his skin.
This black horse was a lot taller and more powerful than Sirath’s little mules. He could see more, but he had further to fall if he weren’t careful. He could not forget he sat in someone else’s saddle.
He tried to remember what had happened before, but it was all a blur: a terror like nothing else he’d ever felt; the smell of metal and stink of gutting; screaming from men and horses like he never wanted to hear again. There weren’t anything more but a feeling of shame that weighted his chest. Dried blood and grass and mud streaked his breastplate, but he couldn’t recall how it’d got there.
The day faded to twilight. Bats flitted about the bushes and along the road.
They were still far from the city. And a thunderhead filled the sky, clouds boiling black around it. His auntie said roads were used by robbers and Jerith had warned that riding in the dark could cause a fall.
“Dal? We need to stop and make camp while we can.”
Dalathos tried to rub some life into his face. “We should find a farmstead. We’re Emperors Guard. We deserve good hospitality.”
Ulric feared to meet anyone in case they could see through him and what he’d done. And after the past few days in the city he needed to stay outside, under the roof of the sky. He hoped the spirit of this land would wash over and forgive and refresh him, and touched a loop of leather and feather for it. “We need to make camp while we still have some light,” Ulric said stubbornly.
Dalathos shrugged. “It’s up to Lieutenant Domus. He’s the officer.”
Ulric kicked his horse like he would the mule, and it snorted back angrily at him before trotting forward.
Domus sat slumped in his saddle, holding a hand to the side of his head where his hair was slashed and his face was bloodied.
“We need to stop,” Ulric told him. “Now. I can set our camp.”
Domus winced. “Shh ... my head hurts.”
Ulric offered him a strip of willow from his kitbag, but the officer refused with a wave of his hand.
Ulric was too tired to argue, and he weren’t going to be lead somewhere he didn’t want to be anymore. He saw a copse of grandfather beech on a small rise just ahead. The trees would provide some shelter from the coming rain, and the ground should be safe against flooding.
“Over there,” he said, and trotted off towards it. Dry orange leaves crackled under the hooves. Ulric wanted Dalathos to follow, but just didn’t care anymore if he didn’t. He needed to rest his head and hoped he’d feel better after sleep.
Dismounting, his legs almost gave way. His trousers rubbed more sore than ever. He eyed the shape of the land for shade and damp where he might find the plants he needed.
The clomping of hooves sounded behind. Ulric turned to see Dalathos leading Domus’s horse. He was glad they’d joined him so he set to making camp straight away.
He took a trowel from his kitbag and dug a pit for a fire, piling the dark earth around the edge. He pulled together dry leaves and kindling. Dalathos handed him his new tinderbox, and the flints were sharp and the steel shiny in the remaining light. Sparks came fast and fire took easily.
Ulric needed to range for logs to keep the heat going. He hobbled away like a cripple to stop his trousers chafing so painfully. He was glad when he got out of sight of the others.
A small ravine ran close by, and despite the dying light of day it was filled with the colours of spring. Ulric found some Dove’s Foot, crushed a handful of stalks, and rubbed it about his thighs and buttocks with his trousers at his ankles.
... [Scene continues]
This version is probably still a little rough - I've not dedicated editing time to it yet - but see if it works better than the first draft:
21. COLOURS OF SPRING
Ulric
His body was heavy as old logs and swayed dully with each movement of the horse. Ulric would’ve felt sleepy but his bones were all bruised and stiff, and his crotch rubbed raw in the saddle.
Not long after they’d left the knights they’d stopped at the spring they’d drunk from earlier. This time both him and Dalathos found quiet spots away from each other. Ulric had taken off his new boots and trousers and small clothes, and washed the soiling from his skin with both hands. Now he cursed dressing when still wet. He would need to find dock leaves or plantain to calm his skin.
This black horse was a lot taller and more powerful than Sirath’s little mules. He could see more, but he had further to fall if he weren’t careful. He could not forget he sat in someone else’s saddle.
He tried to remember what had happened before, but it was all a blur: a terror like nothing else he’d ever felt; the smell of metal and stink of gutting; screaming from men and horses like he never wanted to hear again. There weren’t anything more but a feeling of shame that weighted his chest. Dried blood and grass and mud streaked his breastplate, but he couldn’t recall how it’d got there.
The day faded to twilight. Bats flitted about the bushes and along the road.
They were still far from the city. And a thunderhead filled the sky, clouds boiling black around it. His auntie said roads were used by robbers and Jerith had warned that riding in the dark could cause a fall.
“Dal? We need to stop and make camp while we can.”
Dalathos tried to rub some life into his face. “We should find a farmstead. We’re Emperors Guard. We deserve good hospitality.”
Ulric feared to meet anyone in case they could see through him and what he’d done. And after the past few days in the city he needed to stay outside, under the roof of the sky. He hoped the spirit of this land would wash over and forgive and refresh him, and touched a loop of leather and feather for it. “We need to make camp while we still have some light,” Ulric said stubbornly.
Dalathos shrugged. “It’s up to Lieutenant Domus. He’s the officer.”
Ulric kicked his horse like he would the mule, and it snorted back angrily at him before trotting forward.
Domus sat slumped in his saddle, holding a hand to the side of his head where his hair was slashed and his face was bloodied.
“We need to stop,” Ulric told him. “Now. I can set our camp.”
Domus winced. “Shh ... my head hurts.”
Ulric offered him a strip of willow from his kitbag, but the officer refused with a wave of his hand.
Ulric was too tired to argue, and he weren’t going to be lead somewhere he didn’t want to be anymore. He saw a copse of grandfather beech on a small rise just ahead. The trees would provide some shelter from the coming rain, and the ground should be safe against flooding.
“Over there,” he said, and trotted off towards it. Dry orange leaves crackled under the hooves. Ulric wanted Dalathos to follow, but just didn’t care anymore if he didn’t. He needed to rest his head and hoped he’d feel better after sleep.
Dismounting, his legs almost gave way. His trousers rubbed more sore than ever. He eyed the shape of the land for shade and damp where he might find the plants he needed.
The clomping of hooves sounded behind. Ulric turned to see Dalathos leading Domus’s horse. He was glad they’d joined him so he set to making camp straight away.
He took a trowel from his kitbag and dug a pit for a fire, piling the dark earth around the edge. He pulled together dry leaves and kindling. Dalathos handed him his new tinderbox, and the flints were sharp and the steel shiny in the remaining light. Sparks came fast and fire took easily.
Ulric needed to range for logs to keep the heat going. He hobbled away like a cripple to stop his trousers chafing so painfully. He was glad when he got out of sight of the others.
A small ravine ran close by, and despite the dying light of day it was filled with the colours of spring. Ulric found some Dove’s Foot, crushed a handful of stalks, and rubbed it about his thighs and buttocks with his trousers at his ankles.
... [Scene continues]
