The ankle made them cautious.
Not much. Enough.
The rider wrapped it tight and stayed mounted, keeping weight off one stirrup. No one complained. No one suggested turning back. They adjusted pace and continued on.
It should not have mattered.
By midday, the road dipped toward a shallow basin where rainwater gathered and lingered longer than it should have. The escort chose a line through it without comment.
Halfway across, one of the wagons lurched.
The wheel sank deeper than expected, the axle groaning as mud swallowed the lower rim. The horses strained, hooves slipping.
"Easy," someone called.
They pushed. The wagon shifted, then came free with a wet sound. Mud clung thick to the spokes.
No one swore.
No one laughed.
They moved on.
An hour later, the same wheel cracked.
It split cleanly through the rim, the wood already softened where it should have been sound. The wagon pitched and settled crookedly at the roadside.
The driver stared at it for a long moment. "That shouldn't have happened."
One of the escorts dismounted and knelt beside the wheel. He pressed his thumb into the wood. It sank slightly.
Rot.
Fresh.
He looked up, frowning. "This was fine this morning."
They unloaded the wagon and redistributed the weight. The delay cost them time, but nothing more.
Nothing anyone could point to.