“You’re tired,” said Red to me. “My mother’s women will find you somewhere to sleep. It’s been a long day.” He got awkwardly to his feet again.

“Your leg,” said his mother, noticing for the first time that he had some sort of injury. “What happened to your leg?”

“Oh, it’s nothing much,” said Red predictably. “A small cut. Not worth worrying about.” He glanced at me and saw my expression, and I caught, fleetingly, that slight quirk at the corner of his mouth that might, in some other man, have been a well-suppressed smile. His mother was watching us both, and her frown deepened.

“Megan!” she called. A young maidservant with a head of unruly brown curls came forward, bobbing a curtsy of sorts.

“Find a suitable chamber for—for—our visitor, Megan,” said the lady of the house, and I felt she had to force the words out. “Water for washing, something simple to eat. Show her where to find us in the morning.”

“Yes, my lady,” said Megan, bobbing again, and her eyes were demurely downcast. But as we left the hall, I in her wake, and the gray dog trotting after me like a small shadow, her glance was full of a lively curiosity, touched with fear.

“Don’t forget this,” said Red as I passed, and he slid my small pack from the top of his own and put it in my hands. I nodded thanks, and left. Behind me, I heard his mother speaking again, and I think I was glad I couldn’t hear what she was saying.

I suspect somebody chose for me a bedchamber deemed suitable for a barbarian: small, remote, sparsely furnished, located very close to the servants’ quarters and in earshot of the clatter and bustle of the busy kitchens. If they thought to insult me thus, they miscalculated. For I loved, instantly, the tiny, square room with its stone walls and its hard pallet on a wooden frame, with its heavy oak door that opened straight out into a neglected corner of garden full of tangled herb bushes shot to seed. As soon as it was light, I would go out and see if starwort grew there. An old rose clambered up the wall just outside the door, and a tiny, blue-flowered creeper carpeted the stone steps. There was a mossy pathway choked over with weeds. Through the single round window, set high in the wall, the moon would look down on my slumber. There was a wooden chest, and a pitcher and a bowl. Megan brought me warm water, and another girl, furtive-eyed, brought a platter with bread and cheese and dried fruits and then scurried out of the room. I put my bag on the end of the bed, and waited for Megan to go. The dog checked all corners of the room with care, snuffling quietly; at last, satisfied, she gathered her strength and made a heroic, scrambling leap onto the pallet, where she settled, nose on forepaws.

“Where are your bags?” asked Megan awkwardly. “Your nightrobe, your other things?” I shook my head, indicating my little pack.