The man accepted a hard cake of bread from another passing soldier, offering half to Ranulf as he answered. “As God wills it, so does the sun shine or hide in these hills.  More often, He wills it to rain.” Which neatly avoided the answer Ranulf had wished for: whether he was under the sky of England or Wales. He grew abruptly tired of wondering, and decided not to care anymore. Wales may be a world apart from what he knew, but it was Edward’s domain, and no matter how the Welsh felt about that, it would remain under Edward’s heel.

“You are Norman,” he observed, accepting the bread and a strip of dried meat the other man held out. Ranulf looked to where Madog ap Rhys stood apart, surveying the men who held watch at the perimeter. They were a disciplined unit, each going uncomplaining to his mundane duties. “How comes it that Ruardean so happily mixes English and Welsh and Norman men? I have seen nothing of discord among you, neither here nor at the keep. Your Lady Eluned said it was not uncommon, but it seems a rare thing to me.”

“Sit you down to eat, my lord,” said the other man, gesturing to a boulder that provided the only dry place. “As to your question, I can offer little answer. Is the habit of Ruardean to keep peace in the marches, from times of old. I grew to manhood there, and cannot say how it is in other places, but it is true you’ll hear of no strife between Norman and Welshman coming from my valley, or near none.”

Ranulf sat and sank his teeth into the meat, grateful for rest and plain talking. They had been forced to travel afoot because of the rains, and his body was slow to gain strength. For more days than he cared to admit, he was bone-weary, close to dropping even before the noon hour had passed, and only pride kept him upright. But now his health was near restored, and it wanted only a little rest to keep his spine straight and eye clear.

“Was always thus?” he asked his companion.

“All marcher lords have borne the burden of Welsh raiding,” he said, tearing the bread and breaking his own fast. “Nor was my lord of Ruardean saved from it, until he took the Lady Eluned to wife and her Welsh kin did swear to leave his cattle in peace. And so they have.”

Ranulf snorted at that. “I call it a poor trade.”

“How’s that, my lord?”

“The cattle live in peace while the keep suffers a harridan, and her Welsh kin o’errun the place.”