The boy’s voice was a quiet lilt that sounded of her, of the place she had come from. The sound of it drifted down in him, finding the kernel of remorse that hid quietly under the fury that had driven him for days. The anger had driven him, but the regret was there. Until now it had only come forward in the night, when he could not help but think of Gwenllian, bare and sweet and strong. Now it pulsed all around him, a thing as great and living as his rage, alive here in this room and unescapable.

Of course she would not stay with him. Of course she would believe him vile. So well had he played at villainy for years.

Davydd, apparently unable to stop acting as squire for even a moment, retrieved a cup of ale from the servant who hovered outside the door, and brought it to Ranulf. He took it, but could not drink. He only stared into its depths, remembering a hut in the wilderness where an unearthly messenger of God had hovered over him and pressed a cup to his lips.

“Alack,” he said with a weak irony, “is there no mead to be had?”

To his surprise, Davydd replied, “It ferments, my lord. There will be but little, for my lady did not wish to use more honey than is needed for her medicines until more bees are kept. She commanded new hives built...”

Ranulf held up a hand to stop the words, each falling like a heavy blow. She had brewed mead, brought the flavor of her home to Morency. She had planned for future seasons here. And then she left.

“She does not mean to return.” He did not ask it. He knew the answer.

“I cannot say, my lord.”

“Certes, you can. Who knows her mind better than you?”

Even as he asked it, he knew the answer. Only Madog knew her mind as well or better. Doubtless he had known exactly the words to write, to persuade her to leave. A reticent Welshman and this nervous boy – two men who understood her better than her husband ever had.

“Nor do I believe it is her mind that rules her in this, my lord.” Davydd seemed to think this was solace.

Ranulf let out a rueful laugh. “Oh aye, so long as it is her heart that drives her from me and not her head, I am full soothed.”

He drank the ale down in harsh gulps, then studied the boy who had turned his face down, abashed. Her squire, ever at her service.

Ranulf leaned his shoulder to the wall, the new tapestry that hung there a soft cushion to remind him of her. He held out the empty cup, and Davydd with lowered head came to take it from him.

“She wore armor?” Ranulf asked softly.