The wagon-train is still being loaded when you arrive, your small trunk in tow.
"Think you can find a spot for this one?" you ask a pair of laborers, tired of standing and waiting for them to come to you.
They roll their eyes at you and toss it into the cart with the horses' feed. "S'pose you want a spot for yourself too," one of them sniffs, as if this is the height of presumption.
You're pleasantly surprised as they lead you to a wide cart that's scarcely half-full with elegant victuals, like cheese wheels, salt fish and the finest pickings of His Grace's orchards. The aroma is as complex and mouth-watering as a good wine.
Assuming they don't stuff it tight around you, you'll actually have some room to stretch out; maybe even lie down with a spice bag for a pillow and doze the journey away….
Onward