“He will,” she confirmed. The way he had looked at her face came back to her, the feel of his hand so certain on hers, guiding the knife to his heart. “Now he is awake, is better I hide my face from him. Let him think I am a fever dream. You will tend him.”

Her cousin’s feelings on that were plain in the sour twist of his mouth. “Yes, Pennaeth Du.”

“Make this men’s business now, no place for a woman in it. A woman complicates things, and Normans like a simple tale.” She could sense the resistance from Madog, but also the acquiescence. He would do it, as she asked.

She watched him spy a plant and pull it up by the roots. She snorted. “Madog, gatherer of sweet violets.”

He shook the dirt from the roots, giving her a look. “Gwenllian, mistress of flower gathering,” he returned.

They exchanged wry smiles. Their camaraderie was re-established that quickly, her role and his confirmed. It had always been thus – hold fast to intention, never relinquish authority, and her word was not questioned; stare long enough at a man in challenge, and he backed down, looked away. Unless he was Ranulf Ombrier, the lord of Morency.

Ranulf decided to take pride in the fact that he’d managed to pull himself upright without losing consciousness. It was an improvement over his previous failed attempts, and it seemed a cruel joke that his only reward was a fuller view of the dim hut he’d been lying in for – how long? And how much of it had been a dream?

The woman may have been real, he thought, though he wasn’t sure he wanted her to be. Before that, he only remembered searching for the abbey, walking in the wild woodlands of the Marches. The journey was a discovery to him, this exotic fringe of Edward’s domain, so near to the kingdom of Wales. Though if Edward would have his way, all of it was England now and the land known as Wales was a mere principality. From what little Ranulf had seen and heard of the border country, he thought it unlikely the Welsh would be brought to heel as peacefully as Edward wished.

He put a hand to his head, sliding his fingers back to feel the source of his pain. The lump seemed too small to have caused the never-ending pounding. A cloth covered his forearm from wrist to elbow. It wasn’t an accidental fall that had brought him here. But trying to solve the mystery of his injuries only caused the ache in his head to grow, so he turned his thoughts to his current predicament. Much as he disliked the sickbed, it gave him the best excuse yet to avoid the royal summons.