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“I’d swear to it on a Bible, my lady,” Wenna confirmed. “He’s a good man, is Myghal.”

“Obviously Sir Ranulf believes he’s trustworthy, or he never would have made him sheriff,” Beatrice agreed.

Wenna smiled. “That’s what I think, too, although some of them—the ones who should spend less time drinking and more time working—say Myghal’s made some sort of devil’s bargain with Sir Ranulf to be sheriff.”

“I can assure you, he has not. Ranulf wouldn’t bargain with anybody when it comes to such things.” villagers’ opinion

As Wenna’s expression grew both satisfied and triumphant, Beatrice sincerely hoped, for Wenna’s sake, that Myghal was indeed a trustworthy fellow. Nevertheless, she couldn’t forget that there had been times she felt less than safe with Myghal, even if she wasn’t able to say exactly why.

Perhaps Ranulf should hear of the villagers’ opinion of Myghal’s family. It was possible Ranulf didn’t realize the level of mistrust the villagers had for their new sheriff.

“I’d best be getting back,” she said, rising. “Maloren will start worrying, and she doesn’t worry in silence.”

Wenna bade Beatrice a fond farewell, and as Beatrice left the cottage, the two guards she’d asked to accompany her and who’d been sitting with their backs against the west-facing wall of Wenna’s cottage, scrambled to their feet to follow her.

When Beatrice went down the main street, the villagers and merchants greeted her as she passed, either with a smile, a nod or a few words.

Then she spotted Myghal hurrying toward her through the small crowd, a smile on his round face.

Since he was clearly intent on speaking to her, she waited for him to approach.

As he did, she considered him as a possible suitor, as Wenna must have.

Myghal had much to recommend him. As undersheriff, he had been trusted by Hedyn and Sir Frioc, as well as Ranulf.

In terms of his personal appearance, Myghal was not unattractive, especially when he smiled. His body couldn’t compare to Ranulf’s, but Ranulf was a trained warrior in his prime. To many women, Myghal would seem appealing enough.

Not to her, though. There was no mystery to Myghal, no sense of hidden depths, no hint of a struggle to overcome loss and pain that made a man more than mere flesh and blood.

What he did have was an air of watchful wariness, as if he was always looking over his shoulder and more than half prepared to flee. Perhaps that accounted for the uneasiness she felt in his presence.

She really shouldn’t consider that a lack on his part, given all that had happened here, most recently to Hedyn and Gwenbritha. It couldn’t be easy or particularly agreeable to be sheriff of Penterwell now.

Yet Ranulf had faced his share of troubles, and instead of unease, he exuded calm confidence and a willingness to confront whatever difficulties assailed him.

“Good day, my lady,” Myghal said in greeting. “What brings you to the village today?”

“I came to visit Wenna,” she replied.

“Are you returning to the castle, then?”

“Yes, I am.” She saw an opportunity to talk to him about those tales of Ranulf, and took it. “Would you mind walking with me?”

“It’d be my pleasure, my lady.”

Perhaps not, she reflected, when he found out what she had to say.

She glanced back at the soldiers a few paces behind. “Myghal will escort me back to the castle,” she said to them, “so there’s no need for you to follow us. Please go on ahead.”

With a nod of acquiescence, the guards started back to the castle, leaving Beatrice and Myghal to make their way at a more leisurely pace.

Beatrice took a few moments to best decide how to begin, then finally chose to be direct. “I understand from Wenna that you’ve heard certain stories about Sir Ranulf.”

Myghal flushed and looked around at the stalls and those studying the wares available there, or talking among themselves. “Yes, I have, but if you please, my lady,” he answered quietly, “I’d rather not talk about this in so crowded a place. We can take the back lanes to the castle.”

Although by rights she shouldn’t be alone anywhere with any man to whom she was not at least betrothed, Beatrice didn’t refuse. She wanted to speak to Myghal more than she feared censure.

“Wenna told me some things you’ve heard about Sir Ranulf,” Beatrice said as Myghal led her past the chandler’s and down an alley.

He colored, but his expression was resolute for all that. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about them, too, my lady.”

“Suppose you tell me exactly what you’ve heard, and where, and when?”

“I was in Terwallen the other day,” Myghal began, “asking about those two men who went missing, and I met a boatman there who generally plies his trade on the Thames. He was down visiting his sister, and I happened upon him in a tavern. When he heard me speak of Sir Ranulf, he whistled and called him… well, my lady, it’s not fit for your ears.

But it made me so angry, I wanted to hit him.

I called him—the boatman—a liar and a rogue and a few other names I won’t repeat.

“Then another fellow come up. He wasn’t a friend of the boatman, but he said the Londoner was right, for he’d heard the same thing—that this Sir Ranulf, now castellan of Penterwell, had drowned his own brother when they was both boys, so his father cast him out.

Sir Ranulf trained with Sir Leonard, and then come to London, to court, a few years back.

It took Sir Ranulf a while to discover Southwark, but when he did, he went…

well, wild, I guess you could say. Drinking and carousing, and he made this wager with one of the tavern keepers.

He bet the man fifty marks that he could bed fourteen virgins in a fortnight and bring the man their bloody shifts as proof. ”

Beatrice hadn’t heard that last part, and while it sickened her, it was also more proof that this had to be a lie. She couldn’t even begin to imagine Ranulf in a dirty, stinking tavern offering up women’s soiled shifts as proof of such a disgusting wager.

“And according to the boatman and this other fellow, that’s exactly what he did. I didn’t want to believe it, neither, my lady,” Myghal finished, giving her a sorrowful look, “but I thought you ought to know.”

“I know Sir Ranulf, and that’s enough to make me certain that wager could not have happened,” she said staunchly. “And I certainly hope you aren’t going to tell anyone else these terrible lies.”

“This way, my lady,” Myghal said, turning down another lane.

Beatrice halted in confusion. “Why this way? This doesn’t lead to the castle. This leads to the road that goes to the shore.”

“Aye, the main road. At a fork we turn left to the castle, instead of right to the shore.”

“Why don’t we go left now and make directly for the castle?”

“Because there’s a stream that way we’d have to cross, and it’s a bit far for you to leap, I think.”

Because she’d seen the stream on her visits to the village, Beatrice couldn’t dispute its existence; even so, she was reluctant to follow him.

She told herself she was being ridiculous. Ranulf trusted Myghal; so had Hedyn and Sir Frioc. Nevertheless, she couldn’t ignore her qualms.

“We could turn back,” she suggested, “and go another way.”

“Trust me, my lady, this way is faster.”

“I think you underestimate me, Myghal,” Beatrice said as she headed in the direction of the castle. “I’m sure I can jump the stream and I’m too hungry to take the longer way.”

Myghal jogged after her and, as he neared, she quickened her pace, even as she silently chastised herself for letting her imagination worry her when surely there was no need.

“My lady, please,” he called out. “What’s wrong?

She tripped and fell, landing hard on her ungloved hands, her knees somewhat cushioned by her skirt and shift. Biting back a curse, she scrambled to her feet as Myghal arrived beside her.

“There’s no need to run, my lady,” he said. “No rush to get where you’re going.”

His voice and his words made her blood run cold.