The old woman did just that, holding the embroidered fillet so close to her eyes that her lashes nearly brushed against it. She sighed over it again and again, admiring the intricate detail, while her niece looked torn between pride in her work and embarrassment at being praised lavishly for so small a thing.

And so it went until the day was done. Nan cooked and cleaned as though it were her own house, so obviously comfortable here and yet made uncomfortable by her aunt’s awe of her. Gryff would have left to find lodging for himself, afraid that Mary would ask him questions about his own life he was not prepared to answer, but both women seemed to expect him to stay. In any case, Nan kept him too busy. She bade him build a fire in the hearth and find mud to mix with straw so that he might repair a crumbled wall of the house.

It pleased him to do the work, which he would never have expected. It was evident Mary and her home had been neglected too long, and when the boy Edmer arrived it was just as evident that his mind was too feeble to be of much help to the old woman. He had brought a bit of cheese home, as promised, but lamented that he had forgotten to bring water and would have to go back to the well to fetch it – an almost nightly occurrence, it seemed. Gryff went with him, taking the mule and bringing back enough water and fuel to last days.

They ate the woodcocks and some porridge, a meal that Gryff thought modest but which they praised as bounteous beyond belief. When he curled on the floor in a corner to sleep, he found himself almost grateful for some of the hardships he had endured these last months. In his former life, he would have been appalled at all of this – the meager supper, the woodsmoke that stung his eyes, the hard earthen floor that served as his bed. But though he had never been inside a home so poor and squalid, he could see it now as a great blessing. It was far better, after all, than sleeping tied to a tree and wondering what villainy and brutality he would witness next.

He had not slept more than an hour when he woke gently – not from a bad dream this time, but from the sound of their voices murmuring low. He knew he should make it obvious he was awake and could hear them. But he didn’t because, as he had told Brother Clement countless times, he was neither saint nor monk.