No doubt the Almighty could manage such a thing, if He could be bothered. Would it be pressing his luck to ask that the death-angel not know his name? That it come soon, and while away some time in talk and pleasantries beneath his lemon tree, before delivering the prisoner to Hell? Surely he deserved at least that. He’d like to think so.

A cup was pressed to his lips insistently. He ignored it until a suspicion began to gather in him. Perhaps this was his cup of ale. Perhaps this was the angel of death he had requested.

He managed to croak out some words, asking about God and deliverance and angels. There was no answer, but the cup had worked its way between his lips. He refused it, clamping his lips tight around the rim, stopping the liquid from entering his mouth. The tension only added to the ache in his head. Dimly, through the pain, he thought he heard his name.

Sir Ranulf, he heard, and that was when he slowly forced his eyes to open. It was smoky and dim, but the firelight illuminated a face above his. He struggled to focus, to see God’s emissary clearly. It must be sent from God, this face, this woman, called there by his impious prayer. Though why an angel should want to drape her head with a veil like any ordinary woman failed him. He’d thought an angel would have a terrible beauty, but her features were common enough: a square, blunt chin and thin, aquiline nose. Her dark brows were set straight above her downcast eyes, and her mouth was overly wide. Not beautiful like the paintings, but harsh. Not glowing with otherworldly righteousness.

It couldn’t be the angel he’d asked for. She’d said his name, which was expressly against his wishes. He thought she’d said it. She was pressing the cup to his lips again, but he resisted it and forced himself to look at her, withstanding the pain of the light in his eyes to see what manner of creature cradled his head – death, or life? There was no indication in her face of what she was. Death would surely not look this patient and almost gentle, nor possess a mouth as lush and full as a pomegranate. Such an earthly, human mouth. Made for earthly, human things.

As if she knew the lustful turn of his thoughts, her heavy lashes lifted to reveal eyes of a startling clear gray, and whether she was mortal or not no longer mattered. Whatever she was, she was something holy, something sent to seek out the tattered bits of soul left in him. With a single look he knew it, and the recognition of it burned him like hot coals set on his skin. Her eyes saw through him, her hand held the cup, and he dared not disobey.