She’d soaked the linen of his sherte, which had dried into the blood of his wound, so that it could be pulled away with as little pain as possible. She mashed a paste of dried woad and comfrey root over the deep slice in his side—the mark of a sword, and not an unfamiliar sight to Maris. After wrapping it with cloth soaked in a birch bark tea, she watched for a long while until his breathing became regular and deep.

Only then was she able to settle back in her chair and look upon him with new eyes—realizing that this day, her world had shifted.

Her beloved father. The most important person in her world. He’d almost not come home.

And if he had not, she would be left alone, heiress to Langumont and vassal to King Henry—a ripe prize for any man to take.

Maris slid to her knees at that moment, sending prayers of gratitude to the Heavenly Father for sparing her earthly one. The rough stone of the floor cut through her heavy wool skirts, and the chill and dampness seeped into her knees, reminding her how different her life would be were her father not there to protect her.

Despite her array of responsibilities as lady of the manor, Maris suddenly felt young and small when she thought of being without her papa. Allegra had never had the inclination or the skill to manage the estates. Indeed, Maris tended to care for her mother more than Allegra cared for her. Her papa was her strength.

Maris rose from her knees and dashed away the single tear that had seeped from one eye.

It was foolish and a waste of time to cry over that which would not come to pass. Papa had returned and he would heal well. She would see to it. And she wouldn’t let him leave again until he was strong and able. She would also take Raymond of Vermille aside and impress upon the master at arms that if he allowed one hair on Merle’s head to be harmed, she would flay him herself, and—