The familiar comforting smells of hot water, burning wood, cooked meat and human sweat mingled pleasantly to greet his entrance. How quickly the years had passed, Gruffydd thought, since he had first brought the infant Nimue to be cared for by the chief cook of the Venonae garrison. Although she had never borne a child of her own, Gallwyn had proved to be an excellent mother and Perce, the kitchen boy, had grown to be Nimue’s staunchest companion and foster-brother. When Gruffydd came to visit, he always felt as if he was returning to a second family. ‘Where are you, Gallwyn?’ he called, a little alarmed at the quiet. ‘For shame, woman! Lazing about at this time of day when the venison is beginning to burn.’ He laughed gently at this old joke, but a quick glance at the chaos in the usually ordered hearth stopped his mirth. For twelve years, Gruffydd had become well versed in the ordered frenzy of the kitchens, so a protracted silence and the fact that a large pot of stew was about to boil over on the hearth unnerved and alarmed him.
