Conqueror (43 page)

Her red overtunic blew back in the breeze, revealing the bright yellow linen beneath. Wind tugged at her hair. The scent of the sea was strong today, and it rode under the smell of blood. Time to end this thing.

She pressed her fingertips to her temple, trapping the blowing hair beneath, and turned to Marcus. His eyes were calm, but something hectic lurked beneath their surface. He had sprouted an unkempt beard.

“What are you thinking, Marcus?” she demanded. “What is all this?” She waved at the soldiers. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Aye.” He put his foot up on his helm, set on the ground beside him, and grinned quite like a madman. “How is Eustace?”

She shook her head. “You’re too late to ruin me, Marcus. I did that myself. Griffyn knows. I told him.”

“Oh, good.” He glanced at Griffyn, who was still staring at some distant point on the horizon. “Then we can do business. Each of us has something the other wants.”

“You have nothing I want,” Gwyn snapped.

“Oh no? And only a fortnight ago I was your last hope. Tsk. Well, in any event, I have something Pagan might want.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, when it became clear Griffyn had no intention of opening his mouth. “Please, Marcus, stop. It’s over, thank God. I was wrong.”

“You
were
wrong, Gwyn, but ’tisn’t over. Not yet. At the risk of repeating myself, I say again: I have something your Griffyn wants.”

“You don’t have anything I want, Marcus,” Griffyn finally said without lowering his gaze. “You could kill me, if you dared. I do not care.”

“But Guinevere does.”

Something chill flowed down her back, and it had nothing to do with the roiling weather.

“You care very much, don’t you, Gwyn, what happens to Griffyn? I can see it in your eyes. You’d do almost anything for him. Not
quite
anything, of course.” He smiled. “The little treason in his cellars. I got that. But almost anything else. You don’t want anything to happen to him, do you?”

“What are you talking about?” she whispered.

He shifted his crafty gaze back to Griffyn’s profile. “Henri fitzEmpress is coming.”

Gwyn waved this off. “We know that.”

“He is riding for the north like the very devil is at his back. I’ll wager you didn’t know that. He should be here by day’s end. Mayhap sooner. He’s coming for Everoot.”

“Why?” She couldn’t even glance sidewise at Griffyn, her agony of self-loathing was so complete.

Marcus affected a baffled expression. “Who knows? Perhaps he got word of some perfidy here in the north.”

She looked at him in growing horror. “Oh, Marcus, no. No.”

“Did he know of your plan?” Marcus turned to look at Griffyn in mock appraisal. “Did she tell you how I was to hurry Eustace away, from under your nose?”

“Stop talking.”

“But I chose a different route, Guinevere. It seemed wise to me to have a few manœvers that even you were not privy to. That, now,” he gestured to the battlefield, “seems most wise.”

She grabbed the thick mail of his hauberk sleeve.
“What have you done?”

“Henri will know of your beloved’s treachery, Gwynnie. Hiding the prince in his cellars?” Marcus clucked his tongue in mock dismay. “Henri is forgiving enough with those who’ve never claimed for him, but your betrothed? His right hand in the field, trusted councilor, esteemed diplomat? Première spy?
Friend
?” Marcus shook his head. “It always hurts most when those closest to us do the evil deeds. Treason is a terrible thing.”

She was shaking her head, spilling hair from its case. “No, Marcus. No.”

“Rather, I should say it hurts most when one is disemboweled while still alive, dismembered, parts flung to the four corners of the realm. That hurts a great deal.”

The only reason Gwyn wasn’t weeping was because she was about to scream. Her head was ready to explode with rage and self-hate and unadulterated fear.

Griffyn stood, arms crossed, staring out across the fields and distant forest. He shifted at this, angled his head in Gwyn’s direction without actually looking at her. “This matters to you?”

“Of course,” she exhaled the words, deep, hot sounds of agony.

Marcus clapped his hands together. “Then let us bargain. I am willing to do business. You want Griffyn safe.”

“And what do you want?” she asked wretchedly.

“You.”

Gwyn’s mouth dropped open. Griffyn finally looked down. Marcus smiled.

“Glad to have your attention. Now,” he continued in his blithe tone, “maybe you”—he looked at Griffyn—“actually do
not
care if you’re alive or dead. I do not know. Your father was a wild man, unpredictable, so perhaps it runs in the blood. But while you might not care so much about your living or dying, I have something you care about above all that.”

An almost imperceptible shake of Griffyn’s head. “You have nothing I want, fitzMiles.”

“Oh, but I do. Something meant only for the heirs of Everoot. The one, true Heir.”

This finally got a flicker in Griffyn’s eye.

Marcus’s voice dropped. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? The thing you’ve been looking for? Oh, I’ve heard how you renounced the treasure, and your destiny. But I know you. I know this thing. You’ve been looking for it, haven’t you? I have it, and I will give it to you. If you give me Guinevere.”

The winds blew around them, pulling hair from helms and hair bands. Gwyn’s skirts flattened against her legs, as if they’d tried to flee but got caught on her knees. She looked at Griffyn. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were furious, wrecked. The muscle beside his jaw ticked. She spun back to Marcus.

“What are you doing to him?
What are you talking about? What is this thing?”

Marcus never looked at her. “Tell me, Griffyn: how much is she worth to you?”

Silence, again. It was as if Griffyn were doing battle inside himself, only barely aware of the words being said. Except that his eyes were locked on Marcus, his look murderous.

Gwyn’s eyes filled up with hot tears. A year ago, she swore to kill herself before marrying Marcus. She and Griffyn had shared a laugh over it. Now it was Griffyn, not she, who would die if she did not submit. She bent her head.

“I will do it.”

She said it so quietly neither man heard at first. For the moment she was incidental, although she was the chip they were bargaining with, she who had incited this madness. Griffyn’s face was impenetrable and hard as stone, but when Gwyn said it again, “I will marry you,” he turned to her.

Marcus did too. Many emotions raced across his face, but all of them seemed to make him smile. “I’ve said it all along, Gwynnie: you’re impetuous, but not stupid,” he observed with real affection. Gwyn felt astonished at that. “So we have a deal.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

They turned at the sound of Griffyn’s voice. For he first time since he he’d learned of her betrayal, he was looking at her, and he didn’t break his gaze, even when he said, “Leave us, fitzMiles. She’s not marrying you.”

Gwyn reached out. Her fingers brushed his arm. “Oh, but Griffyn, I must. They’ll hang you if they find out about Eustace.”

“There is nothing for you here, Marcus,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “There’s never been anything for you here. And fitzMiles,” he added, shifting his gaze to Marcus’s flushed face, “by this treason, you’ve forfeited the lands you hold of Everoot. I disseise thee.”

Marcus laughed hoarsely, a little wildly. “Henri fitzEmpress will simply grant me others.”

Griffyn’s face hadn’t changed during the entire interchange, but Gwyn saw the slightest ripple disturb it now. “That will not be my doing,” he said softly. “And I answer for my deeds alone.”

The mask settled back. His gaze swept to Alex. “If his men haven’t left the hills in twenty minutes, kill them all.”

He turned on his heel. Gwyn stared around her at the shocked, helmed faces, then took a step to follow him off the field.

But Marcus, master chef of intrigue, had one last sotelty to reveal, one last spectacular, complicated dish to add to this meal of madness Gwyn had helped him deliver to their doorstep.

“You’ll never get it open, Sauvage,” he called to Griffyn’s back. “I have one of the keys.”

Gwyn’s heart dropped, if possible, another yard. It would be through the gates of Hell soon, where it belonged.

Griffin turned. Marcus lifted a chain from around his neck and held it in the air. On it hung a steel key. Gwyn gasped. She almost leapt forward to snatch it.

Just then, Griffyn lifted a chain from around his own neck. “You mean this?” he said, no inflection in his voice. And from his chain dangled a key, too.

Two keys in fact, one black like iron, the other silver like steel. Marcus’s eyes flew wide, then narrowed. He whipped to his right, where de Louth stood, his captain. De Louth closed his eyes briefly.

“You bastard,” spat Marcus, the truth dawning in a low, audible hiss. “You had a copy made, when you picked up the chain.”

Griffyn met de Louth’s eyes. “Your daughter: you should send her to me now. Come yourself, if you choose. You have a livery here for life.”

Then he turned and walked off.

All around her, the huge Sauvage destriers started to move forward, pushing Marcus’s forces back up the hill.

She shivered and hurried to Griffyn’s side. “What is it? What does Marcus have?”

“A vessel,” he said tonelessly.

“No,” shouted Marcus to his back. “
Guinevere
is the Vessel. God’s truth, didn’t you know?” He gave a bark of mad laughter, and Griffyn drew to a halt. “At least my father taught me that much. The women who tend the roses are the Vessels. But that you don’t know that?” He laughed again. “That means you haven’t found the Hallows, yet, have you?”

Griffyn started walking.

Gwyn stared at Marcus’s unfolding fury and madness. He stood, boot atop his helm, one arm crossed over his chest, the opposite elbow resting on his wrist, fingers pressed into his unkempt beard. Motionless. Smiling. “What Hallows?” she demanded.

He grinned. “Your father’s little chest, Gwynnie? Remember that?”

Griffyn’s step hitched.

“Your Griffyn wants it, Gwyn,” Marcus called out, still grinning.
“Badly.”

“Please, Griffyn,” she said, catching up to him again. “Let me go to him. ’Twill be madness if I stay. Every time you look at me, you’ll remember. Every word I say will be suspect. Let me go.”

He down looked at her from his cold, terrible heights. “No.”

Tears burned at the back of her eyes, hot and painful. Her exhale came in a short, thrusting out-breath. “Saint Jude, Griffyn, let me go.
You’ll be killed!
I can save you.”

“No.”

He did not wave her off, did not invite her closer. She was walking at his side and it was as if she was a thousand miles away.

“So this
is
it,” Griffyn said. He and Alex stood in the lord’s chamber hours later, after the horses were rubbed down, the injured tended, the soldiers fed, and the children comforted. They were both staring at the small carved Guinevere chest, which is how he thought of it now, sitting square in the centre of the table.

Apparently; he
could
trust himself.

The sun was getting ready to set, not that one could tell from this side of the castle. On this northeastern side, the storm clouds were lowering, grey-edged and sullen, pumping across the sky. Griffyn walked away from the chest and threw another square of peat on the brazier. It flared into life, crackling.

“‘I think I ne’er truly believed,” he said.

Alex nodded. “Many thought your father waited too long to tell you about your destiny. The deathbed is no good place to lay such a burden on a young soul, for many reasons.”

Griffyn pushed the coals and new fuel about, coaxing it into a hotter burn. “I once would have claimed my father did so because he wanted it all for himself. Trying to live forever.”

“And now?”

“Now.” He threw down the poker and sat back at the table. “Now I think he took me away from it. To protect me from the things it did to men. The things it did to him.” He picked up the letters and trinkets scattered inside and laid them on the table. The tarnished ring, the scrap of reddish-purple linen, the blade hilt, the lock of hair, the coins.

“I know what you did, Alex,” he said quietly.

There was a pause. “Pagan?” He could hear confusion and tension, spiraling together in Alex’s voice.

“Did you know I have this?” Griffyn asked, and held up the steel key.

He heard Alex’s breath suck in. “Where did you get it?”

“Same place you tried. De Louth.”

Stillness descended behind him. If he wished to, Alex could simply whack him on the back of the head and be done with it.

“What did you plan to do with it, Alex, if you got hold of it?”

He heard Alex’s boots thud as he came around. His face was bleached white. “I’d like to say, ‘give it to you.’”

Griffyn leaned back, spine against the wall. “Yes. I’d like that too.”

Alex grabbed a bench and dragged it near. He sat down, one leg on either side, leaning deeply forward. “There’s so much I haven’t told you, Pagan—”

“I know. Why not?”

Alex wiped his hand over the top of his head. “At first, ’twas simply that you did not want to know. Were rather
militant
in your wishing not to know, for many years.”

“That I was. But you’re supposed to be my protection, are you not, Alex? A Watcher?”

“Aye, we Watch, Griffyn. And protect. But we are protecting you, so you can protect the treasure. We are oath-bound to protect the treasure.”

“Not me?” Griffyn said, but it wasn’t a question.

Alex stood stiffly at the unspoken accusation of betrayal. “I am your friend, Pagan. I will always be your friend. I need no vow to make that so.”

“And yet, you lied to me. Why did you not tell me you thought you had found one of the puzzle keys?”

“Because I couldn’t be sure you were going to be a good Guardian,” Alex burst out. “Good?” he added, then gave a short bark of laughter and began pacing the room. “I did not even know whether you would become one at all. You inherit the Blood, but the burden, as you said yourself, has to be chosen. No one can give it to you, or force it upon you. You must accept it.” He stopped by the west-facing window and looked over. “I didn’t know if you would.”