“That sounds like me.”

“He told me I was beautiful, in bad French.”

Edgar had the grace to blush. “I apologize for my insolence. And for my French.” Then he grinned. “But not for my taste.”

“Did I reply? I don’t remember.”

“You spoke to me in quite good Anglo-Saxon.”

“What did I say?”

“You told me I was charming.”

“Ah, yes! Then you said you were going to marry someone like me.”

“I don’t know how I could have been so disrespectful.”

“I didn’t mind, really. But I think I may have decided the joke had gone far enough.”

“Yes, indeed. You told me to go back to England before I got into real trouble.” He stood up, perhaps thinking that he was teetering on the edge of impertinence, as he had five years earlier. “Would you like some warm ale?”

“I’d love it.”

Edgar got a cup of ale from the woman called Leaf. Using his sleeve as a glove he picked up his knife from the fire and plunged the blade into the cup. The liquid fizzed and foamed. He stirred it then handed it to her. “I don’t think it will be too hot,” he said.

She touched the cup to her lips and took a sip. “Perfect,” she said, and drank a long swallow. It warmed her belly.

She was feeling more cheerful.

“I should leave you,” Edgar said. “I expect my master wants to talk to you.”

“Oh, no, please,” Ragna said hastily. “I can’t bear him. Stay here. Sit down. Talk.”

He drew up a stool, thought for a moment, then said: “It must be difficult to start a new life in a strange country.”

You have no idea, she thought. But she did not want to appear glum. “It’s an adventure,” she said brightly.

“But everything is different. I felt bewildered that day in Cherbourg: a different language, strange clothes, even buildings that looked queer. And I was only there for a day.”

“It’s a challenge,” she admitted.

“I’ve noticed that people aren’t always kind to foreigners. When I lived at Combe we saw a lot of strangers. Some of the townspeople enjoyed laughing at the mistakes made by French or Flemish visitors.”

Ragna nodded. “An ignorant man thinks foreigners are stupid—not realizing that he himself would appear just as foolish if he went abroad.”

“It must be hard to bear. I admire your courage.”

He was the first English person to sympathize with what she was going through. Ironically, his compassion undermined her facade of determined stoicism. To her own dismay she began to cry.

“I’m so sorry!” he said. “What have I done?”

“You’ve been kind,” she managed to say. “No one else has, not since I landed in this country.”

He was embarrassed again. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s not you, really.” She did not want to complain about how awful England was. She fastened on the outlaw. “I lost something precious today.”

“I’m sorry. What was it?”