He did not answer, only suffering the pain in his shoulder and staring at her as she turned her head to Madog, who appeared silently. She spoke to him in Welsh, orders that he absorbed and turned to carry out.

Her eyes flicked down at Ranulf again. “I’ll not demand you to yield. I ask no more than you are beneath me, with legs spread.” The men laughed – her men, he realized with another dull shock – and she smiled broadly, displaying uneven teeth behind the full lips.

Defeated for the first time since he had gained manhood. Beaten by a wench. He looked at her again – beaten by an ugly wench. He felt ill, and it was not his shoulder that caused it.

She took the blade from his throat and limped away. A second later, one of the men appeared and offered a hand to Ranulf. He took it, letting himself be hauled to his feet as he held his injured arm close and avoided the eyes of the men now gathered around him. The atmosphere of hostility had evaporated, and to his amazement, the other men looked to him with as much respect as he would have expected had he won.

“There’s no shame in it,” said the man who had helped him stand, slapping his good shoulder. They all looked to be in the best humor he’d ever seen them. “Every man here has she defeated, and more.”

There was pride in the words. Pride taken in that hell-born bitch in armor, who had disappeared again. And it did little to comfort him.

CHAPTER 5

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Luck, Gwenllian thought as she tied the canvas to the highest branch she could reach. It infuriated and humiliated her. Only once did I succeed in gaining the attack, came the bitter thought as she played the last hour over in her mind. She pulled the tarp tight until it was spread, creating a barrier between herself and the rest of the camp.

She raised the hem of her muddied surcoat up from her knees to expose her injured thigh. Had she known she was to face him in battle, she would have armed herself with stockings of mail. But she had not known, and his blade had bitten through heavy wool easily, though thankfully not too deep.

Fool, she reprimanded herself as she pulled a clean strip of linen from her belt-bag. She did not need to look at Madog to know what he thought of her prideful challenge. The other men would see it as a fine show, and even now she could hear them laughing and giddy with it. But Madog would see it as she did: vanity and foul temper and a stupid risk. Likely he knew, as she did, that it was only undeserved good fortune that had dictated her triumph.

“Davydd.”  She called to her waiting squire, knowing he was only on the other side of the rigged-up canvas. “Does he come?”