Ranulf Ombrier. It had been easy enough to identify him, once they had pulled his unconscious form into the firelight and examined his bloodied clothing. He did little enough to announce his identity in his dress, but the heraldry was there. The black field and repeated cross-and-starburst design on his scabbard proclaimed him the lord of Morency. She may well have guessed at who he was by appearance alone. Too finely dressed to be anything but noble, he was as handsome as any man she’d seen. More handsome, perhaps, and the jagged scar that interrupted the thick line of his left eyebrow marked him beyond doubt as the notorious lord of Morency, the English king’s favorite murderer.

She’d had whole days of watching him as he thrashed on the pallet, or slept sweetly as a child, or stared at her as though she were a vision out of Hell. By now she had memorized the eyes so blue as to be almost black, the lines of his face slowly obscured over the days by the rough growth of beard, hair dark as sable where it curled at his temple. His looks bespoke his courtly life and his dark past at once.

No, there could be no mistaking who he was.

Even had he been no one of importance, she would have done all in her power to help him. It was the fault of her own guard, rash and clumsy in the dusk when they came upon him unexpectedly, that the earl now lay wounded. Morency had no business being there, on Welsh soil, that was true. Still, it was no reason to draw arms against him. Her Welsh cousins seemed to find any excuse to bring down a Norman, seeing them all as the enemy these days. She wondered, sometimes, if they ever remembered that she too had Norman blood.

Madog came down the slope behind her. “Gwenllian, Pennaeth Du,” he began, crashing through the brush. Pennaeth Du, black chief – the title they saw fit to bestow upon her, even when her dark hair was concealed by veil and makeshift wimple.

“Madog.” She didn’t turn to him, only gripped the small knife more firmly and cut the leaves from the plant. “I gather sweet violet leaves. Have you come to help me search? We’ll need much.”

She heard his impatience before he spoke. “My lady, why do you heal him? Is no duty of yours.”

She willed her fingers not to crush the leaves she held. He was permitted to question her, she reminded herself. As her counselor and kinsman, he was wont to speak to her familiarly.

“Nor is it my duty to watch him die, Madog. Just as it was not your duty to slice open his breast.” She straightened and moved on, finding another of the plants, determined not to be drawn into debate over a decision made days ago.