“I must see the foundation is set and ready for these planks,” she said crisply, watching Morency as she spoke to her squire. “Davydd, you will notch the wood as he fixes the rope. Mind you do your job well. We sacrifice no more time to your negligence.”

The boy nodded, murmuring his contrition and dropping the rope he held. Gwenllian added in Welsh, “And watch him. Nor will he get far, does he try to escape, lest you fail to cry out quickly.”

She turned toward her other men further along the bank, intending to join them. But her blood itched with the wrongness of the scene at her back. Morency, the great swordsman, left with a boy of fifteen. He had a rope, and the boy had a knife. Even a fool could make mischief with such advantage. And Morency was no fool.

Knowing that she might goad him into it despite herself, she turned to them again. Davydd knelt, gouging the wood. Morency stood above him with the rope. She considered giving her dagger to the boy, long and sharp and wicked, well-suited to defense. But she knew it could too easily be turned against him, and was more dangerous than his small knife. The boy was good, else he would not have been suffered to come on such a mission as this one. But Gwenllian knew without a doubt that Morency was better. She remembered how he moved with a weapon in hand, a calculating brute strength and a skill that intimidated and thrilled her. Like his mouth on hers.

Her cheeks flamed with the memory of humiliation. She would not fall prey again to him, now that she knew. She stopped herself from drawing her sword, content that he would find the meaning in her firm grip on the hilt as she approached.

“And do you think to overcome my squire and quit this company,” she said quietly, making sure that Davydd could not understand the quickly spoken French, “know that I shall find you. You will taste my steel again, if the wolves do not taste of you first.”

He made no reaction, watching as Davydd hacked away at the wood. She waited a moment, but he gave no sign he had heard her. “You understand me, my lord?”

“Aye,” he answered, just as quietly. His hands moved lightly over the rope he held as he gave her a sideways look. His eyes found her mouth, a lascivious look of heated memory that melted her confidence like snow under summer sun.

He smiled, lazy and knowing. “I understand you.”

She walked back to her men, consciously seeking balance in her step as her lips burned in the aftermath of his look, his words. She did not dare to go back to see their progress, nor even turn her eyes in his direction.

And so it was her own fault when, an hour later, her men cried out that Morency had escaped.