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W alking at Nan’s side with the mule between them was far less distracting, but he did miss the view of her golden braid trailing down her back. He had thought she would speak more now that the silence between them had been broken, but three more wordless days proved him a fool to expect it.

Well, the days were not entirely wordless.

“Which bit should I give her?” she had asked yesterday, beaming at the falcon from afar, one hunter admiring the skill of another as she cleaned the small heron that Tiffin had brought down.

Nan bade him good night every evening, and good morning too, almost like those few words were a duty she had neglected.

And of course when the dog made too much noise she hissed his name in admonishment. Fuss.

No more words than that did she ever speak, nor did she need to.

When he offered her coin for serving as guide to Lincoln, she only looked at his outstretched hand, shook her head, and stayed silent.

Her expression said that though she was not offended at the offer, she had no interest in his payment.

It said that she let him travel with her because she wanted to, and no other reason.

This morning when she turned the mule eastward, he asked why – and her answering look said as plainly as any words that they went this way because it would lead to their destination.

The paths they had traveled ran parallel to the wide north road and now that they turned east, they must cross over it.

As she did so often, she sent the dog ahead before them.

When it came trotting back from the road with an expectant look, her obvious relief told him without words that she was no more eager than he to encounter other travelers.

They emerged at a crossroads. Lincoln was to the north, and Gryff had opened his mouth to ask her which villages lay to the east and west when he saw the gibbet. It was empty, and looked as if no criminal had rotted there in recent memory.

Sometimes he dreamt he was hung on one just like this, burning in a desert sun, bored.

He would ask passing travelers who had put him here and why, and the answers were always different: the sheriff because he was a thief; the king because he was a traitor; his father for no reason at all.

When he woke, it always took too long to remember that it was only a dream.

Gryff did not realize he had stopped to stare at the gibbet until something at his feet drew his attention away from the grim sight. It was little Bran. “Fuss,” he said, trying out the name.

He followed the dog to where Nan waited on the far side of the road, and they walked into the trees together. It was true forest here, and on the narrow way he must walk behind her. But this place made him uneasy, and he could take no pleasure in the sight of her now.

As if to confirm his fears well-founded, the dog began to bark at something ahead of them. It was a frantic noise, and caused Gryff to grip the only thing he had that could serve as weapon: an eating knife he had bought in the same market where he had sold the hawk.

It was nothing. He knew it was nothing even before he saw her quick movement, a flash of something in the underbrush and then stillness. He could see it was nothing by how unconcerned she was, how she only tried to quiet the excited dog, how no one and nothing came at them through the trees.

It was nothing, but he could not convince his body of it.

He stood tensed, not thinking about how Brother Clement had begged for his life among trees just like these. He was not thinking of it. He would not think of it ever again.

Nan was suddenly before him. She had stepped closer, only inches from him now. She put a hand to his wrist, a soft touch against the tight muscle above where he gripped his knife.

“Gruffydd,” she said, and waited until he met her eyes. “There is naught to fear.” She held up a lifeless hare, and he understood this was what had startled the dog. “I will make it a stew, and your falcon may rest from the hunt for a day.”

For the space of a heartbeat, he did not see her beauty.

She was only an ordinary person, calm and sensible, who soothed him even as she startled him by saying his full name.

It was the first time in years he had heard it, and pronounced perfectly.

It brought him back to himself. He blinked, and she was unbearably lovely again, the forest was just a forest, the dog was still making too much noise.

The look she gave Gryff was piercing, bright blue eyes assessing him keenly until she turned away and silenced the dog with a scornful, “Fuss!”

It was only a moment – a strange moment, but easily forgotten. Or so he thought.

They walked on in silence and at midday they came upon a stream where they rested and let the mule drink. Gryff shut everything out of his mind except for the sound of the birdsong in the trees, a joyful riot. Then her voice came, as it always did, unexpected and startling.

“Is a mistake, to hide from the memory, whatever it is.” She did not look at him as she tied the newly filled flask of water to the mule’s pack. “You only give it strength.”

It made his breath speed up, the quiet confidence in her. She spoke as if she answered a question he had not asked. After a long pause to think how he should respond, he said, “You confound me.”

He only meant he was baffled that she spoke now to say this, when she had withheld her speech so carefully.

“I see you. You try to make yourself forget.” She looked at him, held him in her frank gaze. “You won’t. You make it worse.”

It was how she spoke, so bold and yet in the accents of a servant, that gave an edge to the anger that sparked in him. He bit his tongue against asking how she dared speak to him so. After all these years, it seemed he was still capable of haughty disapproval.

It must have shown in his face, for she lowered her eyes even as he unclenched his jaw enough to scoff, “What do you know of it?”

Her answer was to fall back into silence, and this time he was grateful for it. They resumed the journey, with only birdsong echoing in their ears.

W hen they stopped for the day, he watched her as she prepared the hare with practiced, efficient movements. He had tried to help by cleaning the game, but she had taken it from his hands. Whether this was from habit or because she was particular about the cooking, he did not know.

In truth, he knew nothing about her, or about her life.

This was what he had been thinking as they walked all afternoon, after she had spoken so bold.

She was servant to Morency, clearly lowborn, but like no servant he’d ever known.

She inexplicably spoke perfect Welsh, and gutted rabbits and men with equal skill.

She never spoke idle words, and he was a fool to have dismissed anything she said only because some remnant of pride still lived in his breast.

“What do you know of it?” he asked, and this time without scorn. She looked up from cutting the meat. “What see you, when you look at me? How am I so mistaken?”

It was a long time her steady eyes held his, her hands stilled. It meant something, that look, but he did not know what. Eventually she turned to her work again, carefully placing the bits of meat into the pot on the fire.

“I’ll tell you a story,” she said over the sizzle of the meat.

“I had a husband once. Oliver was his name, and he worked in the stables. We were very young. Nor did I want a husband, but I thought it would be my protection from a great lord who lusted after me.” She reached for the wooden spoon beside her and peered into the pot.

“This was long before I came to Morency. I worked in kitchens, and for a time served ale in the hall of the king himself.”

His heart reacted to this news, a thump of alarm in his chest as he wondered if she had ever served him on his visits to court. But he knew that was impossible. He would have remembered her. He could never forget such a face, even on a serving girl.

“There were many there who chased me, as men will always do when there is too much drink and not enough maidens. But this lord made sport of me, and I feared him. So I married Oliver as my protection, but still the great lord chased me. He commanded me to his bed, and before the night I was to go to him, Oliver tried to kill him.” She gave a little shake of her head, rueful.

“It were not in Oliver’s nature, murder, and he was caught when he tried it. ”

She stirred the sizzling meat, only looking up to glance to where the dog sat.

He was meant to be keeping guard, but kept looking back at the smell of the meat.

She paused to wash her hands before pouring water into the pot.

Then she pulled out the sacks of spices she kept, carefully measuring handfuls and pinches, methodically sifting them into the pot as she spoke.

“Well then, the lord thought it were a plot by a rival to have him murdered. He sent his men to drag me from the kitchen because he knew I had served a lord he suspected. He bade me tell him all I knew of this rival and this plot. I knew naught but said whatever would please him – anything at all, for he held a knife to Oliver’s throat.

” Her spoon stirred, scraping along the bottom, a hollow sound.

“But naught pleased him, and he killed Oliver. Right there before my eyes.”

The words were very calm. She pulled an onion and two turnips from the sack. The knife sliced into the onion first, peeling off the outer layer. Her hands were perfectly steady.