“There are no ghosts here.” She adopted her most rational tone, learned from Master Edmund long ago. “Aymer of Morency is dead, but for what part of him you allow to live.”

She slid the empty bottle back in her pocket, then brushed the dirt off her gown where she had knelt on it, her hem bedraggled from where she had torn it. They should go to the hall. She should have the willow tonic fetched, to treat his hand. Ranulf stood now, his back to the empty bedchamber as he watched her movements.

“The men await you in the hall, my lord. I will go first to see those who were injured today, and then go to you there.”

He came to her, stood next to her, reached down and took her hand in his. It was strength and comfort, their hands joined. It troubled her, that her own balance now depended wholly on his nearness.

She felt his lips press against her veil at her temple, a brief touch before they walked away from that place, together.

CHAPTER 17

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When the letter arrived, her life came clear once again.

She had spent weeks in uncertainty, struggling to swim in this unfamiliar sea where other women floated along so effortlessly. When a mound of wool, left untouched from the summer’s shearing, was discovered and Gwenllian must decide what should be done with it, she hesitated while the other ladies discussed the many options. They offered to card and spin it themselves, to set the weavers to making an untold number of garments. They examined a handful of it and speculated on its quality and worth should it be sold or used for trade, which dyes it might best take. Then they looked at her with deferential curiosity, wondering what decision she might make on it.

She had thought no further than how she might make use of this great pile of wool by hiding herself under it at moments like these, when the messenger was brought in. She watched his eyes go immediately to the fairest woman there. Adela, sister to the great bearded knight whose ribs had been badly bruised by Ranulf’s unyielding wrath, was newly come to act as attendant to the Lady of Morency and serve as a reminder of all the things a woman should be. Gwenllian had never met anyone so different to herself: golden-haired, lighthearted, delicate, and demure. Men were helplessly drawn to her.

It took the barest instant for the messenger to remember himself, whereupon he turned his attention to Gwenllian, bending his knee to the ground and giving greeting.