At its other end the gallery emptied into the lower bailey, where Aedyth’s hut stood in a copse of saplings. Trig had given an order, not made a request, but Mychael had no intention of obeying. Aedyth would probably as soon poison him as not. Moreover, he was still hurting from the night and Madron’s concoction yet ran through his blood. God knew what another dose of some female’s herbal might do to him. The maid looked a bit mutinous herself, her mouth a thin line, her gaze steady on some distant spot—avoiding his. Her strides were long and determined; the quicker to get rid of him, he was sure. Tall stalks of jhaen warmed in the morning light, filling the air with the scent of ripe grain and brushing their shoulders as they passed. The harvesters were working the west side of the field, their voices a silvery murmur beneath the swaying of the grass. Llynya was not like the other girls in Merioneth. Seeing her with Edmee and Massalet had sent that point home with a clarity that had been missing the other times they’d been together.
