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“They don’t need wrapping now that the swelling’s gone,” she answered. “Best you use your muscles. Mind you don’t exert yourself, but take deep breaths. It will keep fever from settling in your lungs.”

Pen put a hand to his left side. He’d seen the scars as he undressed by candlelight in this broad, shadowed room.

What kind of life had he lived? The endless ache in his rib and shoulder felt familiar, and Gwen, drat her temperate eyes, wouldn’t give him rum.

Instead she made him drink willow bark tea.

He’d never admit to her that it helped, and left him without a thick head later.

“Now to work with you,” Gwen said briskly. “You’re ready to help with chores.”

“I’m emptying my own chamber pot,” Pen said. “I’m quite sure I’ve never done that in my life, either. What more do you want from me, woman?”

He followed her through the storerooms to the kitchen, where the black-clad widow was singing over a stove while the crone sat in a straight back chair, mending what Pen recognized as his own silk stockings.

The simple boy sat at the table, lining up asparagus stems by size after a young girl, who looked to be Dovey’s daughter, snipped off the ends.

And there was the blind boy and the goat on its rope lead, moving its mouth in chewing motions, staring at Pen with its slitted eyes.

He was taken aback by the warm, bustling atmosphere of the place, the friendly conversation going back and forth.

“I want any number of things from you,” Gwen said in answer to his question.

He gave her the best lascivious look he could affect.

It was wasted as she turned to pick up a wooden bowl and dumped a clump of boiled oats into it.

“This morn, I want you to help Ifor take the goats to the south pasture. We’re not to stray into the churchyard today.

Then you might help Tomos fetch the water and walk him over to St. Woolos, where the vicar has some tasks for him.

You might ask Mr. Stanley if you can help as well.

It was he who sent the boy to fetch me when he found you in the stable yard of the King’s Head the other day.

You might still be lying there if not for him, so you owe him thanks. ”

“You’re sending me off with a blind boy and the idiot?” Pen looked at them in turn, not hiding his horror.

“And then you might help Evans set up the fence around the poison garden so the goats don’t get in,” Gwen said.

“Yes, I imagine he could use an extra hand,” Pen said acidly. “What’s a poison garden?” He picked up a spoon and poked at the brown lumpy mass in his bowl. When he ate it, he found raisins and a trace of wild honey. Delicious. Food tasted good to him again, which was a surprise.

“The herbs that are poisonous if not used correctly. We fence them off so others don’t take them unknowing.”

“Wouldn’t everyone here know better?” He spooned up his oatmeal quickly. He’d prefer to wash it down with grog but knew better than to ask.

“Our gardens, especially our vegetable beds, are open to anyone in town who wants to come harvest from them.” Gwen scooped oats into a bowl for herself. She’d served him first, Pen noted. “There are too many who don’t have enough to eat, so we share what we can.”

They didn’t have much, Pen thought, looking around. And yet, to keep the doors open to anyone in need? Astonishing that they hadn’t all been killed in their beds some dark night.

“Ready to head out, your worship?” the goat boy said cheerfully, putting his bowl in the scullery sink and picking up his crooked staff. “Gafr wants a stretch.”

“Why are you calling me your worship?” Pen said, rising from the bench. “I’m not a judge.” He didn’t think. Dispensing justice and settling disputes did not strike him as work he had an affinity for.

“You’ve a lordly air about you, you have,” said the boy. “Like you’re better’n all of us.”

Gwen suddenly grew busy with the dishes, clanging spoons and bowls together. “Off with you! His worship needs to earn his keep, just like the rest of us.”

“What I need is to get my memory back,” Pen muttered, and set off to follow the goat boy into his next circle of hell.

He was rubbish at everything, Pen learned. Had he not learned a single skill in his life? Or had it all been knocked out of him with that clunk in the crown office?

He was no good as goatherd. The goats wouldn’t mind him no matter how much he shouted.

He shredded his breeches chasing the kid through a patch of stinging nettles.

The nanny butted him in the rear when he bent to right the bucket of mash she’d upended.

And when he stood too long once, daydreaming about Gwen and whether he would have any reason to cross paths with her once he returned to his real life, he looked down to find the big goat, Gafr, chewing on his leather boot.

Gwen and the others had laughed merrily when he stomped into the refectory that night for the evening meal, complaining about bone-headed goats.

The simple boy was worse. He made Pen nervous.

Trying to march him out to the well in the mornings to draw the day’s water was irritating enough, when the simpleton wandered at a snail’s pace and pointed to everything, muttering words Pen didn’t understand.

But it was excruciating to accompany him on afternoon excursions to the neighboring St. Woolos when he went in the same meandering, lackadaisical fashion.

The child wanted to stop and smell every sodding flower, then stand for a long time admiring the tall square Norman tower and the stained glass window of the nave.

He was a man of direction, Pen discovered.

He liked to get things done, not dally along enjoying the scenery.

He must be a man of discipline and focus in his real life.

Perhaps he was a soldier? Or held a profession of some sort?

Soldiering would explain the nightmares that continued to plague him.

Terrifying dreams he nightly found chased away by a cool hand on his sweating brow, a musical voice murmuring calmly to him in Welsh or singing him scraps of old ballads.

A soothing tea held to his lips, and the sweet smell of bluebells lingering in the air as she sat next to his bed, embroidering or mending or knitting something until he fell asleep.

Gwen, mistress of St. Stodgy’s, might play the harridan with him in daylight hours, but at night, when the dreams came, she was an angel of mercy.

As he’d done before, the vicar gave the simple boy a polishing cloth and set him to dusting the artifacts in one of the chapels.

Pen stood examining the Romanesque carvings above the portal that led to the rest of the church.

He was surprised to find anything so stately or refined here in Wales, a land of thatched huts and muddy sheep.

“You’re not from Newport, are you, lad? I gather you’re English.”

The vicar had not approached Pen since the day he’d helped haul him home from the King’s Head.

Now he spoke as he would address the simple boy, friendly, straightforward, without condescension.

Kinder than the hilarity and teasing Pen had encountered at the tavern all those days ago when he’d admitted he didn’t know his family, his history, his occupation, or his name.

It was all still a frustrating blank, locked in a part of his brain he couldn’t access, memories wafting beyond his grip like gauzy curtains in the breeze.

“I wish I knew where I’m from,” Pen said. “I wish I could remember anything.”

“I’m sure someone’s looking for you,” the vicar said. He was a soothing presence, soft-spoken but direct, without guile or hidden motives. Pen liked that about him.

“What if they’re not?” Stanley’s kind manner struck a nerve. He couldn’t recall details, but he could recall feelings. And Pen had an awful fear that no one in his life would much care if he tumbled off the edge of the world.

His shoulder burned, and he rubbed it for relief. “What if I’m stuck here, friendless, alone, never knowing my name? Useless and castaway in St. Sow’s Sty for the rest of my life.”

With Gwen. At least he would be near Gwen.

Stanley merely stood next to him, linked his fingers, and regarded the set of carved arches. To Pen the thick stone triangles looked like teeth. They might close on a man if he dared step through.

“An interesting history to this church,” the vicar remarked.

“Gwynllyw, a wealthy and respected Welsh prince, retired here sometime in the fifth or sixth century and took up the life of a hermit, building his cell here on Stow Hill.

His wife, Gwladys, set up her own hermitage not far away.

After his death they say a timber church was built here, and it became a place of pilgrimage.

“After it burned down—sacked, I would guess, by the Northmen, or Vikings as they are called—it was rebuilt in stone by an Anglo-Saxon king who had converted to Christianity. Then the Normans came and built their new port and castle and gave the church its tower. At some point it became Woolos—I suppose the Saxons couldn’t pronounce Gwynllyw. ”

Pen didn’t say anything. He couldn’t pronounce these Welsh words either.

“Then in the uprising of Owain Glynd?r, St. Woolos was destroyed again. And rebuilt again. And now it is what you see today.”

Pen couldn’t see that it was anything impressive, with its single tower sticking out of the hill like a sore thumb, brambles growing nearly to the door, the stained glass letting in a muddy light, and half the gravestones tipping over in the churchyard.

But he waited until the vicar came to his point.

“It was destroyed many times, and rebuilt each time. Each time was a chance to make it better.”