He wanted to correct him, to tell him to name him Morency, but it said much that he was called by his old family name and not by title. The woman, if his mind did not deceive him, had called him Ranulf. No – Sir Ranulf, as though he were a wandering knight without claim to estate. It was either ignorance of Norman ways, or insult. But it was no matter. They knew his name. Of course they knew his name, and with it, the whole of his life. It was always the way.

He gently clasped his hand around his bandaged forearm, returning the man’s stare. “But I am one of theirs already, am I not?” he mocked. “Though if it be a choice between the wolves or a woman’s tender arms, I cannot say I regret your cousin’s kindness.”

Madog’s hand dropped to his belt, curling around the dagger hilt there as though eager for a reason to use it. “There is still time for regret, I think.”

A sharp sound came from the table. She held the stone, as large as a man’s fist, pounding it against the board and grinding it on the surface, her back still to them. It broke the moment, cut off the rising tension with a percussive echo. Madog took the noise as his cue and went to her side once again, where he was handed a handful of cloth strips and a bowl. He looked ready to balk at what was plainly the woman’s unspoken command, but he took them and came toward Ranulf, less menace in his step.

“We’ll change the poultice,” he said tightly, kneeling next to Ranulf. The bowl was filled with a steaming green water. “Think you that you can sit a horse? We leave tomorrow, at first light.”

Ranulf looked at the man – tall and hard, likely the same age as himself or older. Yet he obeyed a woman like an obedient dog. The dagger at his belt would not be drawn, not in the woman’s presence, not unless she willed it. How he knew it, he could not say, but somehow the woman held sway here. He had heard it said that Welsh law, debated and denied in Edward’s endless contention with the Welsh princes, gave more rights to the woman than the man. It was a claim he had paid no heed, dismissing it as unlikely, until now. Then again, it could only be that she held what seemed to be a small boulder and did not seem hesitant to use it.

Reassured that the blade would not be drawn on him, Ranulf began to peel the flannel bandages from his arm, noting at once that the wound was not so deep nor nearly so inflamed as he had expected.