Simon the Coldheart by Georgette Heyer

They plodded valiantly on, over fields and through woods, and to help their tired feet onward, they sang a little, cheerily, Ranaud in a deep bass which seemed to come from a bottomless cavern within him, Margaret in a full contralto, and Jeanne in a small, weary soprano, which made itself heard spasmodically. They eschewed high roads, for they were in Raoul's land, and the fame of his infamy had spread far and wide. Two days since they had left Turincel, but they went slower now, and sometimes Ranaud carried Jeanne in his great arms. The spring had gone out of Margaret's step, and her feet were blistered and raw. Yet she made no complaint, but bit her lips when they walked over rough ground, so that her companions should not suspect. They visited no inns, but had furnished themselves with provisions at Turincel. The first night they had sheltered in a disused hut, but the second night had found them sleeping out in the open, wrapped about in their cloaks, and thanking God for the milder weather. Stiff and sore had the two girls been in the morning, but Ranaud showed no signs of fatigue or discomfort. Now they were tramping steadily eastward, hoping to leave Raoul the Terrible's land behind them by nightfall.

"Bad land," Ranaud remarked presently, breaking off in the middle of his song. "Drunken roysterers. Like master, like man. All goes to ruin while Raoul feeds his pleasure. Pah!"