Conqueror (36 page)

Hurrying now, she guided them to the end and poked her head out another door, on the northwest side of the inner bailey, just across from the secret door she’d brought Eustace through. No one was about. She rushed Wind through and jogged the gelding around to the front of the castle.

She began to encounter more people, servants and household staff who smiled and nodded. Did she notice a lot of strange looks in those smiles? A sickly trail of fear rippled through her stomach. Slowing to a walk, she loosened Wind’s cinch and blew a curl off her face.

“Lady Guinevere?”

She jumped. The young page had materialised from nowhere. “Aye, Peter?”

“Sir Alex said to find you, for my lord Griffyn is returning,” he piped cheerfully.

“Returning? Today?”

“Well, tonight,” he clarified. The sun was soon to set.

She reached out and gripped his shoulders.
“When?”

“Soon,” he shouted back, utterly confused.

“Soon.” She dropped her hands.

“Aye, my lady. And Sir Alex said to find you—”

Another thread of fear unravelled. “He said…he said to
find
me?”

“Well, my lady,” explained the seven-year-old, confused as to why he was receiving such attention from the beautiful countess, but perfectly happy to be the object of her interest, “
we
all knew you were in your chambers, but Sir Alex said to find you. But I had to deliver a message first to Albert, the smythe. He’s been having problems with the forge, and—”

“Thank you,” she breathed and began towards the stables.

Alex knew.

She hurried to the stables, passing Griffyn’s squire Edmund along the way. At his heels tagged Renny, Griffyn’s ancient hound.

“My lady!” shouted Edmund.

Her heart slammed against her chest as the boy hurried over.

“I saw in your cellars”—Edmund said, and Gwyn almost fainted—“the dulcimer you used to keep. Would it be possible for me to learn, do you think?”

Her hand fluttered over her chest, her face hot. “Why, yes, Edmund,” she agreed shakily, trying to focus on the mundane matter. She had entirely forgotten the instrument, else she’d have sold it already. “
I-I
am certain we could find someone to teach you. My scribe used to play, just a bit, but he might still know a few lines to teach you.”

Edmund’s face lit up. “Thank you, my lady!”

“You’re welcome,” she replied, and bent to pat Renny on the head before going on for the stables.

The dog growled.

Gwyn ripped her hand back. She looked at Edmund, who appeared as shocked as she. She turned to the hound again and another low-pitched snarl rumbled out of his whitened muzzle.

“Why, my lady,” Edmund exclaimed, tugging on the dog’s collar. “I do not know what’s into him! He was at your heels only yester—I mean the day before.” He looked at her in swift concern. “How is your headache, my lady? I should have asked from the first.”

“It’s fine,” she said slowly, looking warily at Renny as Edmund tugged the dog away. “’Tis fine now,” she finished for no one, and headed shakily across the bailey to unsaddle Wind.

She hadn’t made it forty paces before a Sauvage knight approached her.

“My lady Guinevere?”

Saints above, was every soul in the castle intent on her? She turned with a stiff smile.

“My lord is looking for you.”

Dread curled up her spine. Good God, he was back already? “I will just cool down my horse,” she said weakly, trying not to sound desperate. “Where is Lord Griffyn?”

“He’s in the hall now, my lady, but said he’d see you in his chambers.”

His chambers.

She took quite a bit longer than was necessary to walk Wind, rub his sweaty fur with straw to encourage circulation and massage the weary muscles, fill his water bucket, and thump the saddle over a horizontal post hammered into the wall, for cleaning later. For how long had be been back? What of Jerv? Had Griffyn come upon him, been told she was inside resting, then found the room empty? How in God’s name would Jerv explain that? How would she?

The chilling notion made her wipe her hands on her skirts and march up the stairs to the keep. No Jerv. She passed the great hall, where tables were being laid for the meal. No Jerv. She passed a narrow window set in a recessed landing on the stairwell and peered out; no Jerv swinging from a post anywhere. That was a good sign.

Squaring her shoulders, she pushed open the door to the lord’s chamber.

Griffyn was sitting on the bench, rummaging through a sack. He looked around at the sound of the door opening. A lock of dark hair fell over his forehead. “Guinevere! I’ve been looking for you. Where were you?”

“Riding,” she said in a weak voice, about to fall into a dead faint. “My lord, truth, I am surprised to see you back so soon.”

“As were the men. But I rode them hard.” He ran his eyes over her body. “I wanted to get home.”

Gwyn sat down on the mattress. She wasn’t to be thrown in the cellars? Cursed? Beheaded? Did he even
know
?

“First, this,” he said, and, reaching into his pocket, pulled out the ring of keys to the castle. Even from beneath his tunic, his rock-hard body radiated masculinity, but it was that damaging, sweet smile that made her heart start fluttering. He handed the household keys to her. “You’ll want these. I should have returned them sooner.”

She squeezed her eyes shut for a brief second, nodding her thanks.

“Come, now.” He touched the tips of her fingers, helping her rise. “See what I’ve got.” Excitement tinged his words as he rummaged around in a sack beside him. “See what I’ve got for you.”

He pulled out one of her mother’s small, chestnut-red harps, the one she’d sold to buy wheat. The other, black-dark, sat, tipped on its side, half hidden amid the linen folds.

Fierce, the memories pressed in close.

“These were your mother’s?” she heard him asking dimly, as if from a distance.

She ran her hand across the smooth, carved wood. “They were.”

“Good.”

She brushed her fingers over the strings. Familiar, melodic whispers filled the room. She did it again, her eyes swimming.

“Good?” he said again, tentatively.

Her breath shot out in a weak, watery laugh. “More than good,” and the tears spilled over.

“Bien.”
He ran the back of his fingers down her wet cheeks. “I know you miss her.”

“Every day.” Her voice caught. She smiled and touched the polished, red wood. “This will help.”

Their eyes were inches apart, she standing, he sitting. He cupped the sides of her head and, pulling her down, kissed one cheek, then the other. Then he smiled, that lopsided, ferociously sensual grin, and she began heating up again. All he had to do was look at her and she was ready for him.

“Griffyn,” she protested as he straightened, shaking her head but smiling nonetheless. “You should tell me about your trip—”

“I should lay you out on the bed.”

She laughed. “Griffyn.”

“Gwyn.”

“Truly—”

He grabbed her hand. “Truly. I don’t want to wait. My trip went fine. I—” His words stumbled for a moment. “I got your mother’s harps, and am home again, hungry for you.”

She raised an eyebrow. “’Twas news of my mother’s harps that sent you running to Ipsile? Nothing else?” she teased, but he stiffened. His fingers squeezed uncomfortably around hers.

“What do you mean?”

Her smile faltered. “I meant nothing, Griffyn. I was in jest.”

His hand relaxed. “I am sorry. I am tired, ’tis hot, and ’twas a long ride. But this is a truth: I thought of
barely
nothing but you.”

She laughed. “That suits well enough.”

Reaching behind her, he tugged at the yellow laces that held her shorter, outer tunic. With each gentle tug, the material tightened around her breasts. The tunic slipped to the ground. He pushed aside the collar of the undertunic and pressed his lips to her bare shoulder.

“And you, Raven?” he murmured. “Did you think of me?”

“Every moment,” she said in a voice barely whispered.

And just as he’d promised, he laid her out on the bed and took her to orgasm with such swift, stunning confidence she almost died from the pleasure.

And the pain. What had started as fierce loyalty to her king was turning into pure desperation. Griffyn must not be hurt by this. Yet she was depending on a most foul saviour in that regard, in Marcus fitzMiles.

Marcus sat whittling wood on a low bench in his herb garden. The mint was coming up fine, but the onions looked like vermin had got them. So be it. The cycle of life.

He shaved off another thin slice of wood. What Gwyn had given him was far too good to pass up. Far too juicy to do as she’d asked. Ride into the Nest, then out again, with only one ailing, dethroned prince to show for it? What then? Was he to prop Eustace on a saddle and shove him out before Henri fitzEmpress’s armies? While Griffyn Sauvage got to nuzzle his Guinevere?

Gwynnie was fine and funny and sharp, but none too bright about these kinds of things.

And for all that Griffyn Sauvage was her betrothed, whom had she come to in her hour of need? Him. Marcus. A hot wash of pride filled his chest. She’d run from him a year ago, now she’d ridden straight to his keep, head bent, begging for help.

Of course, he’d have given succor if her head had been staked on a pike or screaming in his face. There was nothing he could refuse Guinevere. ’Twas her own fault she didn’t know it. She never asked for anything.

She could have told him to support Stephen or Henri or Nur al-Din, the Muslim leader who was about to crush the Crusaders in Outremer. He would have done anything. Politics did not matter. Guinevere mattered. Her fierce fortitude, her lush body, her sharp, sharp mind. Marcus knew a jewel when he saw one, and every one he’d ever wanted lay within the Nest.

Sauvage would come out of the Nest, though. Marcus would ensure it. He would lure him out, close enough to parley, then give his ultimatum, without even the pretense of submission. Because he would never submit. Not to a Sauvage. He would submit to Lucifer before Griffyn Sauvage.

And if Gwyn thought Marcus had the Hallows chest, so much the better. The confusion would prove very useful in about two weeks.

The chest must have been tied to Sauvage’s horse, which was rescued, Marcus later learned, by two of Sauvage’s retinue. One of them was a Watcher, Alexander. Best to stay away from them; they had a habit of killing people who interfered with the Heirs. Had Marcus’s father not been acquainted with that fact? Damned Scots.

Marcus’s fingers twitched and a large chunk of wood fell to the ground. The small wooden figurine horse was now missing a leg. Marcus kicked it away.

But the chest had apparently
not
been recovered. It must be still sitting in the mud somewhere near where they’d apprehended Sauvage. Marcus would have to send a few discreet men to those woods, to kick aside every fern and find the thing.

And from there, his men could continue on to Henri fitzEmpress’s camp, with some very interesting news.

At present, Marcus had only one of the puzzle keys. But by craft or cunning or cold hard steel, he intended to confiscate every single thing that mattered to the Heir.

He felt for the chilled weight of the steel key. It hung from his neck on a craftily-wrought steel strand he’d ordered and had de Louth secure for him on a recent trip to the city of Ipsile-upon-Tyne.

The key was just the beginning.

He whittled off another sliver of wood, then cursed as he sliced a gash through his thumb. Cupping his wrist, he held his hand out between his knees and let the blood drip onto the dirt, a bright red pool between the yellow leaves from the oak tree.

A time for everything and everything in its time. He straightened and dragged his knife along the wood figurine again. It sliced effortlessly. The time had come for Endshire to rise, and Sauvage to fall very, very far.

Griffyn met Alex in the hall the next morning. Griffyn was whistling. Alex looked over, eyebrows raised.

“Pagan? Are you well?”

Griffyn smiled and kept walking.

“You’re whistling,” Alex pointed out.

Griffyn looked over. “I am glad to be home, and to have her to wife is not so bad.”

That was an understatement, thought Alexander as they strode towards the stables to meet a saddlemaker who was here to show off his wares. Alex glanced up at the keep windows and saw a flash of black move past one of them. It was strange, really. Griffyn had been looking for Lady Guinevere for an hour before she showed up yester eve, sweaty and out of breath, yet no one announced she’d ridden through the gates and returned.

The stables were cool after the afternoon sun, and the men spent an hour admiring the leatherwork of the exquisitely stitched saddles. When they made to leave, Alex glanced in at Gwyn’s horse.

He was a fiery chestnut, with withers that grazed the underside of Alexander’s nostrils and hooves large enough to crush a small child. For all that, though, he seemed good-natured, snuffing politely when presented a hand and nickering before they left. In truth, this was a Windstalker who couldn’t be missed, really.

But a’missing he had been when Alex looked in an hour before Griffyn had arrived home yesterday. And missing, too, the night before, when Alex poked his nose into the stables on a whim, on a somewhat aimless search for anything amiss.

And the horse had not been there.

Kneeling in the kitchen gardens, helping prepare the soils for winter, Gwyn tried to forget the mess she was now entangled in. There was nothing to be done about it. All she could do was wait. And hope.

The thought was almost laughable. Hope what? Hope that King Stephen would be conquered, or that Griffyn’s lord would be crushed? Either way spelt ruin for someone she loved.

Truth be told, there was no guarantee Eustace would even live. He just might die.

Gwyn jerked her head up at the treacherous thought. Or rather, treacherous emotion. The thought was but a reality. The way relief swept through her was the villainy.

Her blood pounded as she stared at the clear blue sky. Wispy white sweeps of cloud dimmed the blinding blue brightness of the autumn sky. Cold dirt clumped under her fingernails. The inside of her nostrils burned hot and freezing cold with each breath.