See paragraph 1. The man is a stranger to me. She and Courtlaw drove homewards together. Not once during the ceremony did the two look at each other, but riveted their gaze upon the lips of the man who was forging the bands: gazed intensively, as if they feared the world might vanish before the last word of the ceremony was spoken. Fortescue, with a bow. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. 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.
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