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H e knew such joy could not last forever, but he never expected it to falter before nightfall, nor shatter within a day.

They did not journey far from Chesterfield, but found a place off the southern road long before night fell. At his request, she showed him how to throw his eating knife. He had asked mostly because he wanted to hear her voice more, and thought she must speak to instruct him. He was right.

“My wrist,” she said, as his hand moved slowly down her forearm. He stood behind her as she took aim at a tree only a few paces away. “It’s my wrist you’re to feel as I throw, not the rest of me.”

She was half-amused, half-exasperated. She took the study seriously and expected the same of him. He put his fingers lightly around her wrist and felt it as she threw – a sharp snap, very contained, that he thought would take a thousand hours of study to learn.

Three times she threw, instructing him to watch not the knife but her arm and how it moved. It was not a graceful movement, nor was it graceless. It was powerful and swift and smooth. It was as beautiful as she was.

When she brought the knife back from where it had landed in the tree, she gave it to him and stood behind him. She put her hand on his so she could guide it in its aim and stood on her toes, her breath against his ear.

“The feel of it as it leaves your hand – take note of it,” she said. “You’ll know if you’ve done right by how it feels.”

He threw. It didn’t feel like anything as it left his hand, but obviously he’d done it wrong.

It hit the tree far off center and fell to the ground.

She kissed the back of his neck lightly, causing a flare in his groin as she went to retrieve the knife.

He was suddenly far less interested in his aim.

She had just handed the knife to him, looking at him with invitation in her eyes when Fuss came bursting through the tall grass between the rocks that hid them from the main road.

The dog was barking frantically, but Nan did not seem alarmed.

She stood still, her own dagger drawn in reflex, looking slightly disbelieving while Fuss ran a circle around her and then bounded back through the grass, barking all the while.

“Nan?” he asked, gripping the knife.

When a tall youth strode into the clearing, Nan rushed at him.

The dagger fell to the ground as she jumped up to embrace him.

Her arms were around him, and he hugged her tight, swung her around as a smile brighter than any Gryff had ever seen lit up her face.

He blinked at it, adjusting to the plain fact that there was no danger here.

“What fortune is this?” cried the youth.

Not truly a boy, but only barely a man. He was tall and fair and full of joy.

He planted an exuberant kiss on her cheek, and then another and another.

Gryff waited for her to pull a blade and gut him, but she only kept hold of him and, incredibly, buried her face in his neck.

“Who journeys with you, Nan, or will I have to discover his name myself?”

His voice matched his clothes: wealthy and noble. He could have come straight from the king’s court, this handsome boy who was allowed to squeeze her tight in his arms and pick her up without warning. She did not shy from his touch, or stiffen, or require any careful approach.

Gryff felt his heart shrivel with envy. Then he heard her reply, a soft murmur against the stranger’s cheek.

“He’s my Welshman.”

She pulled back, and the boy put her down but did not let go. She turned to Gryff, smiling shyly now.

“This is Robin,” she said. “Robin Manton.”

G ryff thought most men would find it difficult to dislike Robin Manton. He was warm and courteous, never brash or boastful, and eager to please. Fuss adored him as much as Nan clearly did, which spoke well to his character and made Gryff exceptionally churlish.

Robin’s horse, a fat and docile rouncey, was brought behind the tall stones that hid them from the road.

Robin was coming from a tournament and had stopped in Chesterfield this afternoon, planning to carry on his journey after a good meal.

“But a man at the market did say the fairest maid he had ever seen paid for her supper with her knives, only yesterday.” He smiled broadly.

“In faith, I knew it must be you even before he told me you split a reed at forty paces.”

He had ridden south, reasoning she was headed for Morency and wondering why she was so far from Lincoln.

Fuss, who had been keeping guard over their hiding spot, saw Robin on the road below, ran to greet him, and now they must share their evening with this boy who sat so close to Nan that their knees touched.

Gryff attempted to glare his disapproval at the dog for this betrayal, but Fuss was too busy staring worshipfully at the newcomer.

“But wherefore do you wander so far from Lincoln?” Robin asked her, with a sidelong glance toward Gryff. “What of your travels to Wragby and your business there? And where is Sir Gerald?”

“Injured by knaves who attacked halfway to Lincoln, and I must leave him to heal at a priory.”

She said nothing about having met Gryff, nothing about her aunt or her sister, nothing about why she was here instead of on the road between Lincoln and Morency.

Instead of pressing for answers, a perplexed Robin only looked at her intently, observing her stillness and her downcast eyes for a long moment.

Gryff held his breath and prayed the boy would not ask what had happened at Lincoln.

Anyone could see she did not want to speak of it.

All the sweet contentment that had been in her for days was draining away as she sat silent in the face of his curiosity.

Gryff opened his mouth, prepared to say anything to deflect the questions, but Robin moved.

He simply touched the back of Nan’s hand, barely a brush of his fingertip, to draw her attention.

When she met his eyes, he gave the ghost of a nod.

His voice was light as he asked, “You have sent word to Morency that you will be delayed in your return?”

This casual change of subject endeared him to Gryff. He would think of what it meant later, that this boy could understand her silence and communicate without words. Right now he was only relieved to see the tension leave Nan.

“Aye, I asked the prioress at Broadholme to send word.” She looked at Gryff, a faint smile briefly chasing across her face. “But now I’ll be going another place, and should send a new message.”

Gryff smiled back at her, vaguely wondering how it was that a servant had such freedom in where she may go and how long she may be away from her duties.

He might have asked, but Robin burst into a fresh grin of delight and said, “You must come to the manor at Whitting with me, then! Is but a few hours from here on foot, a message can be sent from there.”

“Whitting?” Gryff asked sharply. “Whose manor is that?”

“It is one of Uncle Rob’s holdings,” the boy said to Nan, who looked delighted at this news. He explained to Gryff, “My uncle is Robert de Lascaux, the lord of Darian.”

He kept explaining, saying it wasn’t truly his uncle but a friend of his father’s who was dear enough to be family, while Gryff ran the names through his memory.

He could not recall a lordship of Darian at all, which meant it must be a small place and a very minor lord.

The name de Lascaux meant little to him, unless this uncle was related to the man who commanded a force in the Aquitaine – and if he was, Gryff could not remember ever meeting that man or anyone of that family.

He was sure he had never heard of Whitting.

“You must come! There will be soft beds for you both, and a hot bath,” Robin said, his eyes dancing with excitement.

“And if the time is right I think me there may be something even better than all that. Better even than pork pies,” he assured Nan.

“Though I know you will say there is naught can be better than a good pork pie.”

To Gryff’s intense gratification, Nan looked at him briefly before blushing prettily and saying perhaps they would go to Whitting tomorrow, but for now they should eat something.

She busied herself in searching through the basket for the best offerings, while Gryff felt the boy’s curious eyes on him.

As the evening wore on, it became plain that these two knew each other from Morency, that Robin was squire to its lord.

Gryff would have asked him more, including why a squire went to tourney without his lord, but he was afraid of saying too much and revealing his familiarity with that world.

Instead they spoke of hawking, a subject about which Robin was almost as passionate as the sword.

It was a safe topic, except for the moment when the boy said his father had once owned a peregrine of Aderinyth, the best-trained bird he’d ever seen.

Gryff could feel Nan look at him when the word was spoken.

When Gryff only replied that it was well known that the best falcons and falconers came from Aderinyth, she no doubt took it as modesty.

Perhaps he need not hide it. There was nothing wrong with being a common man from Aderinyth, after all, and this boy would only know him as that.

The light was failing, and Robin was saying he must stay awake and keep guard because of the horse. Nan insisted they must take it in turns, that he would take the first watch and must wake her halfway through the night so she may take the second.

“How easily you command me! You peck at me as a wife pecks at her husband,” Robin teased her with a laugh.

He turned to Gryff like it was a fine jest. “She could be my wife, you know. I asked her years ago and she refused me. My heart yet bears the wound.” He turned back to Nan with a wide grin.

“You may still say yes, Nan, never will I disclaim the offer.”