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of information together.
    “You’re hoping I’m not a Scot,” he said finally.
    “Yes,” she admitted, then against her better judgment added, “But you sound like one, though you look like a Norman nobleman, except your hair is long—” She stopped, aware she was babbling, and felt a twinge of foreboding which she hoped her eyes didn’t betray.
    He glanced around the room. “I should perhaps stay silent then,” he murmured.
    She didn’t reply, but nodded slightly. “Sip more ale.”
    At a loss for what to say after several minutes of awkward silence, she ventured, “We retrieved your sword. You were grasping it tightly. We might never have discovered you, if not for your horse. But your hauberk and helmet are not in good condition. We had to cut off most of your clothing.”
    She blushed. He would now suspect she’d helped to strip him. Should she ease his embarrassment by assuring him she’d looked away? Or would trying to find the words increase the discomfort for them both? In an effort to change the subject, she reached underneath the pallet to grasp his sword. It was heavy, and she needed two hands.
    He laughed, which caused him to wince. “Such a delicate nun, wielding such a large sword.”
    His laughter warms me.
    He took the sword from her with both powerful hands, and held it up in front of him, examining it in the dim candlelight. A spasm of pain ripped through him as he raised the weapon, though he masked it. She dared a glance. Was there a glint of a memory in his blue eyes? The sword swayed, and she had to take it carefully from his hands. She brought out the damaged helmet. He looked at it, laid it on his belly, closed his eyes, and fell asleep with his hands on it.
    He dreamed of a desperate battle, an intense struggle. But who was his enemy? He felt the despair of a cause lost. Mangled bodies, parts of men, shrieking horses. Blood, a river of blood. Axes chopping off heads. Screams of terror. The rank smell of death. A suspicion of betrayal. A sword raised high against him. He turned his body and the blow glanced off his helmet. He fell, felt his opponent’s sword slice into his leg and pain sear through his chest. He awoke sweating and calling out, disturbing the handful of other patients.
    Perhaps my little nun should have kept me tied up.
    How long had he slept? Agneta was gone. Without her there, his befuddled mind sensed something important to him was missing. He felt an inexplicable need to look into those intriguing eyes.
    “I suppose nuns are instructed to keep their eyes downcast,” he muttered. “Pray God I’m not a Scot. She hates Scots.”
    He wondered about the cause of her deep hatred? What had happened to make such a beautiful woman sound cold, distant, and bereft? He felt ashamed he’d become aroused by a nun. What kind of man was he? Who was he?

 
    CHAPTER FIVE
    “How long have I been here now, Agneta?” the warrior asked, scratching the stubble at his chin, as he watched her approach, carrying the usual bowl and flint razor.
    She smiled briefly. “Ten days, and you seem much improved.”
    “Aye. Only thanks to you. And the food.”
    “I’m surprised you enjoy the food here. Men don’t usually like vegetables. My father—”
    She seemed reluctant to continue.
    “I love cabbage, and garlic and leeks, and onions,” he interjected, sensing her unwillingness to continue.
    The tension seemed to leave her. “And we throw in the occasional salted herring.”
    He laughed, and now there was less pain. He liked the way she smiled when he laughed. She didn’t smile enough. “I do feel better. When I first stood, with the help of the monks, it took all my strength to relieve nature’s needs.”
    He smiled, remembering how discrete the pious monks were when they removed the jordans filled with urine. “They carry the jordans away as if they held gold,” he jested.
    “In a way they do,” she explained timidly. “They use the—contents—for making