Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. Take your half loaf with the others. She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. ‘Well, nothing,’ uttered her betrothed crossly, before Gerald could answer. He embraced her, kissing her cheek, then her neck. She refused to sleep in the same room with him one night, kicking him in the shins.
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