He heard her words echoing in his ears and thought of his father and brothers, and of the way their lives had likely ended. He thought of his people, of what might have happened in Aderinyth since the defeat of Wales five years ago. The fear and the sorrow of it rose in a lump to his throat.

This time, for the first time, he did not push the thought away. He let it sit in his mind until the visions were too terrible to bear, and then he turned his attention to his supper as best he could.

Chapter Six

––––––––

Nan paused before the little house, and leaned forward until her forehead touched the doorpost. She needed a moment to gather herself. Just a moment. She could feel him behind her, heat all along her back, like he was fire and not flesh. He stood well away, but she could feel him.

The Welshman distracted her. So much so that she could not think of him by his name. Him. He. The Welshman. She had tied his life to hers by feeding him, traveling with him. She bound them further by giving him her story. It felt right, all of it. But it did not feel right to call him by his name. Not when her skin would not forget the brush of his hand.

It did not matter. What was behind her mattered less than what was before her, waiting beyond this door. She put a hand to the rough wood, trying to forget the Welshman, trying to prepare herself for this long awaited moment. The village priest had directed her here, sniffing in disapproval despite the paper that bore the seal of Morency. Nan had handed it to him, hearing Lady Gwenllian’s voice in her memory, reading it out to her before it was sealed so she would know what it said.

Take her to her Aunt Mary, it said. And that was the power of a great name like Morency, that though the priest looked at her like she was naught but a whore who traveled alone with a man she did not call husband, still he did as the paper told him.

The Welshman did not like the contempt in the priest, but he had not shown anything more than displeasure. She was waiting every minute for his anger to burst forth. It would. It was the only thing missing. For days she had expected it, tensed at each spark of temper that appeared and then vanished, amazed at his lack of rage. Her own fury still pressed under her breast, dulled with time but always beating. It is a rare anger in you, Nan, her lady had said, and it was true. But that was years ago and she had since learned how to pour the hot anger into steel, to hone the edge of it and confine its damage to the path her blade traveled.