Ranulf slowly lowered the tunic, eyeing the odorous paste. He could either stand before his captors smelling of dung or scratching himself like a vulgar youth. “By all means, anoint me,” he instructed the healer. It was only fitting that he offend the finer senses of whoever held him against his will.

“I would find her, and thank her for her care of me,” he said as the paste was spread thickly on his skin, “if she dwells here.”

“I will give her your thanks, when next I see her.”

Ranulf tried to hide it, but the exasperation crept into his voice. “Truly, my reputation must be worse than I knew, if you think me incapable of offering simple thanks. Are you her cousin as well, and stand as her protection against me?”

Apparently, this was deeply amusing. The healer paused in his work to laugh too himself, almost gleefully. “I, offer her protection? There is no lady I can think of who needs less of it.”

“Then why can I not speak to her myself?”

The old man made quelling motions with his hands, setting the bowl of paste aside. “Is only healing I am to offer you, as I said, but a man of your reputation cannot wonder that we shield our most beloved daughters from you.”

That was enough to silence him. Smeared with the remedy and dressed in borrowed clothes, he followed the other man, ducking beneath the doorway and twisting himself sideways to ascend the narrow stairs. The older man guided the way with no such discomfort, and the guard followed. The castles of Wales, if that’s where he was, were at least the same as Norman keeps in this one regard: they were not built for the comfort of tall men. Of all the men he knew, only Edward himself might be more crowded by the low ceilings.

They at last came to rich apartments draped in tapestries, a great window open to the afternoon air. The room was outfitted to manifest power and wealth; as well the lady was, turning to him as he entered. She was dressed in deep blue, the gold of her under-tunic matching the silk net that bound her dark hair. For a jarring moment, he thought it was her again, the wide-set eyes and full mouth causing him to look more closely. But no – her brown hair was threaded through with silver, deep furrows marked her brow, lips pinched like she’d drunk sour wine.