Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically. He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears. A hollow feeling opened up inside her, and she felt her heartbeat quicken. Gerald’s temper flared. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he had greeted her, entering the little private parlour where, Martha being at prayer in their room, she sat alone, reading over and over the letter Mother Abbess had given her and revolving plans in her head.
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