For a moment Gryff thought he meant the falcon. He glanced down at the cage he held, but then saw the man was looking at Nan. She had moved a little closer now, finished with her selling and examining the leather goods.

A part of him wanted to urge the man to try it and see what happened. But the irrational fear was creeping over him again, turning his limbs cold. The way the scarred man looked at her was too like Cuddy, the one of Baudry’s men who had to be held back from raping every woman who crossed his path.

He told himself that nothing like that would happen here, in a crowded town square. Even if it did, she could more than defend herself from this man. Just as she could defend herself from a different man who now stepped too close to her side. It was one of the merchants who leaned in to speak to her, and she leaned away.

Now the scarred man beside him was saying she was a small bit of flesh but enough for the both of them. He was expecting Gryff to join in the leering and when he did not, he could sense the shift in the other man.

It was the swift calculation of how best to take advantage of someone weaker, the look of the well-practiced villain. How easy it was to recognize, after weeks of living surrounded by such men. How it filled him with this frozen panic.

Gryff kept his eyes on Nan. Even as the man beside her pulled the kerchief from her hair and reached for her, she appeared untroubled. Somehow she evaded the outstretched arm, the groping hand. There was no knife in her hand, only one of the long nails she carried in a pouch on her belt. Likely she could kill with it as easily as with a blade, and all while Gryff stood here useless, watching.

Then he felt a tug at his hand. The scarred man was trying to pull the falcon’s cage from him. His other hand was reaching for Gryff’s wrist.

One moment Gryff was wondering why her dog had appeared at his feet barking, and the next moment he was plowing into the man’s chest, pulling the cage from his hand and throwing him to the ground.

It happened too fast to think, and then it felt too good to stop. He did not need a sword. He did not reach for any weapon. He used his fists, as he had dreamed of doing countless times, and relished the crack of bone, the feel of flesh giving way beneath the impact. It felt glorious. When the man stayed on the ground, Gryff used his feet – once, twice, and the third time it came to him that the man did not shout in protest anymore. There was only a feeble groaning.