It was nothing, but he could not convince his body of it.

He stood tensed, not thinking about how Brother Clement had begged for his life among trees just like these. He was not thinking of it. He would not think of it ever again.

Nan was suddenly before him. She had stepped closer, only inches from him now. She put a hand to his wrist, a soft touch against the tight muscle above where he gripped his knife.

“Gruffydd,” she said, and waited until he met her eyes. “There is naught to fear.” She held up a lifeless hare, and he understood this was what had startled the dog. “I will make it a stew, and your falcon may rest from the hunt for a day.”

For the space of a heartbeat, he did not see her beauty. She was only an ordinary person, calm and sensible, who soothed him even as she startled him by saying his full name. It was the first time in years he had heard it, and pronounced perfectly. It brought him back to himself. He blinked, and she was unbearably lovely again, the forest was just a forest, the dog was still making too much noise.

The look she gave Gryff was piercing, bright blue eyes assessing him keenly until she turned away and silenced the dog with a scornful, “Fuss!”

It was only a moment – a strange moment, but easily forgotten. Or so he thought.

They walked on in silence and at midday they came upon a stream where they rested and let the mule drink. Gryff shut everything out of his mind except for the sound of the birdsong in the trees, a joyful riot. Then her voice came, as it always did, unexpected and startling.

“Is a mistake, to hide from the memory, whatever it is.” She did not look at him as she tied the newly filled flask of water to the mule’s pack. “You only give it strength.”

It made his breath speed up, the quiet confidence in her. She spoke as if she answered a question he had not asked. After a long pause to think how he should respond, he said, “You confound me.”

He only meant he was baffled that she spoke now to say this, when she had withheld her speech so carefully.

“I see you. You try to make yourself forget.” She looked at him, held him in her frank gaze. “You won’t. You make it worse.”

It was how she spoke, so bold and yet in the accents of a servant, that gave an edge to the anger that sparked in him. He bit his tongue against asking how she dared speak to him so. After all these years, it seemed he was still capable of haughty disapproval.

It must have shown in his face, for she lowered her eyes even as he unclenched his jaw enough to scoff, “What do you know of it?”