He was standing, leaning up against the great wooden post that supported the small thatching above, blue roan standing aside, head peered around the post to watch the goings on, mirroring its master though the horse appeared to be more curious or contemptuous to all the noise -- if a horse could express some form of contempt. Perhaps it's just stroppy that it hasn't got it's fair share of the master's pear.
There is a great crowd separating Belcaw and the two woman joined by the third, a great multitude of gawkers and labourers watching the goings on, a change of scenery to their usual run of the mill day. They are too for the man to have any inclination of what they are arguing about, and can only presume the cloaked woman is claiming the one-armed seamstress has stolen something. The horse seems to be picking up most of the conversation train, ears swivelling in little flicks, though to the rouncey it is but the strange natterings Men often make among themselves.
"She'd make for a terrible pickpocket with that stump," the sellsword comments idly, perhaps thinking out loud. Though he can't ascertain what the brigand-woman's stake is in all this. As far as he's concerned, it's not his business unless something happens to make it his business, since the highwaywoman is money. He hands over the core of the pear towards the stallion, who breaks away from the gawking so popular among the masses, taking a whuff of the discarded fruit. It simply nickers, turning its head aside and upwards to glance back towards the three women.
"Worse than a bleeding wife, you are," Serrus grumbles to the animal, then takes a careful aim, and lobs the damn thing straight toward the back of Gloria's stupid head and skirts. To the three, it would very likely appear to have come from somewhere among the gathering crowd.
"That should break up them bitchin' bloody cats," the sellsword remarks, leaning back against the post. "Like tossin' in a pail o' water."