But it was the looks on the faces of the spectators that Gwenllian could not bear to see. None looked shocked. They had expected this. He was proving himself to be the monster they had always believed him, with this mad onslaught. She felt it pierce her heart, that they would look at him so. She watched him strike a blow to the man’s head with the pommel of his sword, but she could only see the terrible inhuman look on his face.

Whatever demon held him in its grasp, she could not bear to abandon him to it.

Gwenllian did not think before she moved. Instinct propelled her, the world narrowed to only him. She felt rather than saw when he sensed her approach and shifted his focus to her. Though she could not imagine how he had maneuvered so awkwardly, somehow he had twisted, disarming his opponent once more and knocking the man to the ground, and turned to face her – all in an instant, just as she reached him. Less than a blink, and he was driving toward her, the blade swinging with deadly accuracy.

She moved, a quick motion to the left and down, pivoting on her heel to evade the arc of the blade. But faster than she would have thought possible, he brought the weapon back to slice the air near her face as she faded back to avoid it once more. She heard the onlookers gasp, and spared a curse for the veil that hindered her sight.

As his arm came up again, she reached down and pulled the hampering fabric of her gown away from her knees. Instead of throwing her weight back, away from the oncoming blow, she stepped forward. One hand striking his sword-arm away, head lowered, she thrust her shoulder into his chest and her leg hooked around his knee to throw him off balance. He stumbled but did not fall, recovered more quickly than she did – and then the sword was there, at her neck. Her chin thrust up to avoid the edge of it. His hand came up to hold her at the shoulder, as though to hold her firm as he cut her throat.

But then he stopped. Everything stopped. They stood motionless, facing each other, his blade at her throat. There was a suspended moment, his look uncomprehending across the flashing steel of the sword at her neck.

“Ranulf,” she breathed. And awareness came into his face.

She watched him register first that she was no enemy, then who she was. It was a terrible thing to see, grief and desolation flashing in the blue depths of his eyes. Still he did not move, his gaze fixed on hers as the moment spun out too long.