Three days you bumble along with the wagon train until your buttocks are tenderized like continental cutlets from the constant jolting of the wheels. For variety, you spend an aromatic hour draped on your belly over a sack of onions. It is more comfortable than you might have expected, but you give up the experiment after the third time His Grace's soldiers stop the wagoners to check if you've keeled over dead in the provender.
Please, you think sourly, sitting back on your bottom. After a childhood surviving encounters with deadly plants, it'll take more than a few onions to do you in.
Onward