“I have exercised my lady’s mount, too, my lord,” Davydd dutifully reported. Unsure what to do with the boy, he had given him a mix of duties to keep him occupied. Now they must decide his role. He said so, and Davydd looked thoughtful.

“I never thought to serve any but... but Ruardean, and my lady,” say Davydd cautiously.

“You wish to return to Ruardean?”

“Nay, my lord.” He shook his head. “Nay. Only I knew then what it was, to serve in that way. It is different here, and I am a stranger to these men.”

It was plain by the look on his face that the boy wanted what was gone: the other men, the wilds of the Marcher lands, Gwenllian to lead them. Ranulf could well remember the comfortable talk of her men around the fire, the easy companionship among them he had so envied. How remarkable it was that she had held them all, bound by her secret and their loyalty to her.

“You were happy, to serve your mistress.”

“Ever was she just, and sharp-witted. And my lord knows her great skill.”

He did. He was not like to forget it. But he wondered suddenly, how easy she had felt among them, how happy she had truly been.

“Aye, but did she never laugh?”

Davydd looked startled at the question. “I know not. Never did I see it. My lady is not frivolous. She does not laugh, nor does she ever cry.”

Ranulf looked down at his hands, remembering her face in them, her tears filling them and running through his fingers. He felt a quiver in his belly that ran up his spine, another new fear that he could not name, sharp as anything that might haunt his dreams.

“You will join the men in their sparring,” he said, taking refuge in a commanding tone. “I judge your skill, then will we decide where best you may serve. If you wish to serve Morency.”

Davydd’s face lit up. “You will join the sparring, my lord?”

As before, the thought of it worried him, the nameless dread warning him that it was ill-omened. Dimly, he could sense that he wanted it too much. It was an outsized appetite that was better left unsatisfied entirely, rather than to grant it free reign here at Morency where he prowled like a caged beast and, apparently, dreamed of demons.

But these were mad fancies, and he was acutely aware that he had not trained in weeks, that baseless fears must be conquered – and that the boy had only seen him lose in combat.

His pride won out.

“I will, and you keep my weapon at the ready.”

He was rewarded with Davydd’s eager smile, and a promise that all would be made ready on the appointed day.

Three days later, when all was arranged, he stood in the yard and refused his sword until he had watched the men fight each other.