She nodded, all pretensions at hospitality falling away. “Our finest, my lord. You are welcome at the high board, and freely may you roam so far as your guard is with you. All guest-rights are yours, save that you may not bear arms, nor ride beyond the wall. In a week’s time, no more, you shall be returned to your king.” She raised her brows. “If that is what you wish.”

“How now, the lady seeks to know my wishes,” he said dryly. It would gain him nothing to say that a return to Edward’s court was no more welcome than a forced stay in Ruardean. “Pray do not speak of my wishes, my lady. Your kindness smothers me. I’ll take my leave of you now and find what amusement I can in this great pile of stones.”

Again she nodded. “As you will. Most of the household speak English and French, though some know no more than Welsh,” she instructed him. His face must have betrayed some confusion, for she added, “Is not uncommon in the marchlands. I am Welsh by birth, though my lord husband is Norman, and our households have mingled with no disharmony. I have asked them to show you every courtesy. You have only to ask, and the servants will attend you. I would hear it if they do not.”

He paused in his turn toward the door, forgetting anger in favor of an answer to the mystery that plagued him still. “Tell me this. The party that took me...” He looked at her again, her features so reminiscent of that fever dream. “Who were they to you?”

She looked startled by his curiosity. “They were my Welsh kin.”

“And the woman who tended me? She had the look of you, about the eyes.”

The Lady Eluned was evidently amused that he would ask. But there was more in her response, an uneasiness in the humor. He sought to allay both, saying, “I understand that I owe her my life, though more may weep for her compassion than laud it. Is she your own daughter?” he asked gruffly, unused to owing so great a debt, much less insisting on speaking that thanks so frequently in search of the woman.

She did not answer, turning her head at a sound from the window, stepping closer to observe whatever disruption it was. Ranulf stayed where he was, but he could hear the cry rise into the air. Every man, woman and child in the yard seemed to be shouting to raise the portcullis. There was no alarm in it. It sounded almost like drunken jubilation – a celebration of so simple an act.

“Is a tradition,” Lady Eluned explained over the noise. “When a party – when certain parties return, our people all demand that the gate be raised. We welcome those we love with glad heart and open hand.”