The Conqueror

by Kris Kennedy

  Clid grunted. “Marcus fitzMiles?”

  “—then it will fall, my men will die, and I will be wed to—” She stopped short and stared wide-eyed into the firepit, blinking hard.

  They sat in silence for a long time. Gwyn became aware Clid was fingering the pile of coins on the table. Sifting it through his fingers, letting it clink back down. She looked over. He was watching her, a brooding expression on his face.

  “Beseigin’ and burnin’ and weddin’,” he muttered. “What kind o’ place would Marcus fitzMiles think was worth all that effort?”

  “Any place he could get his hands on,” she quipped, but swallowed the taste of something unpleasant. Fear.

  Clid didn’t change his look, except perhaps to become more guarded. “Why don’t ye tell me yer name, missy?”

  She lifted her chin. “My name is mine own, sir, and I would keep it so. Truth: we will all be safer that way.”

  She could see a slow smile emerging from beneath his beard and it wasn’t a pleasant thing. “But since I donna know ye, lassie, I can hardly be trustin’ ye, now can I?”

  A low rumble of nasty laughter rumbled through the room. The men exchanged glances. Something cold flowed down her spine as Clid turned back to her. “That’s a powerful lot o’ gold for a lone missy to be carrying about—”

  “Have it all.” She cupped the pile and pushed it towards him.

  “—and it makes me think ye might be worth more than whatever that pile there adds up to, so I’ll ask ye one more time: what’s yer name, and where’s this castle of yers that fitzMiles wants so bad?”

  Gwyn’s mind sped through half a dozen responses, from pleading to fainting to snatching the knife from his belt and slitting his throat, but before he finished his sentence, she decided. Lie.

  “I have to use the outhouse.”

  Admittedly, a weak defence, but it amused him, and that was sufficient. He erupted into laughter. Bits of food sprayed over the table. Pleasant. All he had to do was think her a fool and she had her chance. A slim one, but a chance.

  “Go, go.” He waved his hand in the air. “Elfrida, go with her. Show her the way to the ‘outhouse.’” The manly troupe exploded into more uproarious laughter.

  Gwyn smiled as if she had no notion of what lay in store. The square-shouldered matriarch Elfrida shuffled forward, glared at Gwyn, and snapped the door open. They walked a few yards behind the huts, the woman trudging beside her. Gwyn’s mind raced. Elfrida The Matriarch might lumber along like an ox, but she wasn’t letting Gwyn get more than a hands-breadth away, and that would never do. The forest lay about thirty steps further on, a creek bed gurgling at its edge. Four huts sat to their right, dark and silent except for the sounds of farm animals shuffling inside. Gwyn caught a glimpse of the plough horse.

  They stopped and the woman pointed generally in the direction of ‘over there.’

  “Anywhere near them saplings. Ye’ll smell it. I’ll be standing here,” Elfrida grumbled.

  “Yes, I think I smell it already.” Gwyn smiled. “But, ma’am, I hate to ask…” She dropped her voice. “I’m in need of…I’m afraid I’ve just come on my…monthly flux.”

  The woman’s face shifted slightly. Her eyebrows went up, then down. “Oh, all right.” She turned and shouted “Elfwing!” for what seemed like an eternity, but no one came.

  Gwyn smiled encouragingly. “I can’t really go back inside like…this.”

  She pulled aside the cloak and displayed her skirts for viewing. In the darkness it was hard to detect colour, but not shade, and there was clearly a huge, dark stain right in the middle of her skirts. Cloaked as Gwyn had been, the woman didn’t realise the entire dress was in much the same state, nor that the stain was not Gwyn’s own blood, nor that much of it was not blood at all, but mud and muck flung up in her various pursuits of the night.

  Elfrida backed up. “I’ll have ye a rag. I’ll be right back.” She pointed again, this time the other direction. “We girls go over there, near the forest edge, this time o’ the month.” She started off. “Don’t try anything,” she warned, looking back over her shoulder.

  Gwyn smiled in a friendly way and waved her hand in the air, indicating the general vastness and emptiness of her surroundings. “What could I try, and where would I try it?”

  Elfrida grunted and walked off.

  Gwyn started running.

  Chapter Nine

  She reached Hipping Hall and was escorted inside at knife point. A lowered blade, once they knew who she was, but it was not sheathed entirely, which Gwyn found distinctly odd. She was a noblewoman in obvious distress, torn from stem to stern and shod less well than a rouncy. What on earth could be imperiled by her bedraggled presence?

  “Lady Guinevere,” Hippingthorpe himself greeted her, holding her hand and pressing his lips to the back.

  Gwyn smiled warmly, ignoring a shudder inside at his touch. He might be slightly revolting, and he might have a spotted past in the loyalty department, but he was her writ to the king, and she would have done almost anything to secure his goodwill.

  “Whom do I thank for this unexpected visit, my lady? Where is your father?” He looked around as if he expected Ionnes de l’Ami to appear from behind an oaken post.

  “He’s…not here.”

  “Ahh.” Hipping turned back to her, his glittering eyes hard. “Of course not. In nigh on twenty years, your father has ne’er passed within a mile nor passed a single hour with me. And yet, here you are, his only daughter. I can barely countenance that he sent you on some sordid mission on his refined behalf.” He laughed uproariously. “Always too good for the likes of the lower barons, eh? And everyone marks lower than the Lord d’Everoot.”

  Gwyn fought to keep the smile tipped upward on her face. “Nay, my lord. My father respected all the king’s men. But, since you mention it, I am on one, small, middling mission.”

  His eyebrows went up just as his gaze happened down. His bushy brows shot straight to his overgrown hairline. “Lady, what has happened?” He pulled back her cape and had full view of her stained, torn, tattered gown. “God’s teeth, what is this?”

  “This is Marcus fitzMiles.”

  Hipping looked at her, his hand still holding one side of the cape aloft. “God’s bones! Endshire? He attacked you?” She nodded, feeling light-headed with relief. Hipping was a barely tamed nobleman, but noble he was, and he would help her. “What demon possessed him to attack you? Your father will have his head.”

  “Yes, well. My father is dead.”

  Hipping dropped the cape. “Ionnes de l’Ami is dead?”

  “Aye. Pap—the Lord Earl passed away a fortnight past, God rest his soul. I just gave news to the king and his council last eve. As you can see,” she smiled bitterly, “fitzMiles didn’t grieve long.”

  “No, but well,” Hipping replied absently, his gaze growing distant. He stared into space a moment, then snapped his fingers, calling for a servant and a bath.

  Gwyn’s knees almost buckled with relief. Hipping himself bustled her up the stairs to one of the rooms on the second floor. It was clean, with a small bedframe, a straw-filled mattress, and a narrow window.

  “Thank-you,” she exhaled. “’Tis perfect.”

  He turned to her. “Now tell me, what is this mission of yours? How can I help?”

  “I must get word to the king. Marcus led me to believe King Stephen had approved of a match between him and the House of Everoot, but I believe my king would ne’er countenance such a union.”

  “No,” Hipping agreed. “No, he would not countenance a union of the de l’Ami heiress with any lesser baron, would he?”

  Gwyn felt a flicker of concern. She smiled cheerily. “Word of your assistance will rate highly with the king, my lord. I will ensure it.”

  “Will you, now? How kind.” He took her hand and sat her on the bed, then backed up a few steps. “Tell me, Lady Guinevere, how are you holding up under all the strain?”

  “Oh, well, my lord,�
�� she laughed awkwardly, fumbling over his abrupt solicitude. “Such things are always hard, but we…well, I am doing well.”

  “Aye, but your father must have left some important and burdensome things to you, as his heir.” He eyes dropped to the single bag left hanging around her girdle.

  Gwyn followed his gaze. “Just some letters of Papa’s,” she said brightly.

  His eyes ratcheted back up like a drawbridge. “Really?”

  “Aye.” Her hand went to the bag, her fingers curving around it, instinctively protecting it from view. “Lord Everoot’s private missives to my mother the countess while he was away.”

  Hipping digested this. “Away on Crusade.”

  She hesitated. “Aye.”

  “Are you certain there are only letters inside?”

  “Meaning?”

  “No…objects.”

  “Objects?”

  “Of unknown origin. Of…Holy Lands origin.”

  “Of course not,” she snapped.

  He held up his hands. “As you say, lady. I ask only because there are rumours of treasure connected to Everoot, but Endshire found nothing.”

  Her blood flowed chill. “Endshire? Found nothing? Where?” She pushed up off the mattress and said gravely, “I think Lord Endshire’s loyalty is in question, Lord Hipping.”

  “Really?” he drawled, powerful amusement twisting the word into a taunt. He leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “How about you let me see these letters of your Papa’s?”

  She smiled bitterly, realising the time for pleas to the heart had passed, if indeed it had ever been to hand. This was about power.

  Drawing her cloak around her shoulders, she lifted her chin into the haughtiest pose she knew how. “Lord Hipping. I am cold and wet and torn like baggage. If you wish to negotiate with me, I would be warm and dry throughout it.”

  He considered her for a long moment. “Very well, Lady Gwyn. I will send up food and a bath.” His eyes settled on the bag again. “As soon as we read through those letters.”

  He left, and as he closed the door, she heard the key turn in the lock.

  “Your rooms are ready. And again, congratulations, my lord.”

  Griffyn nodded for what he hoped was the last time tonight. It was late, the hall was dark, lit only by firelight, and Robert Beaumont had already gone up to his own chambers, flush with success, negotiations complete. Henri fitzEmpress had his essential ally.

  “But won’t you stay up for one more drink?” Hipping asked one more time.

  Griffyn shook his head. “I’m weary, and have a long ride tomorrow.” Fatigue was no mere pretext. He’d secured the allegiance of one of the most vital allies Henri fitzEmpress would ever need, and all he felt was tired. Weary with spying, with war, with all the machinations of the world. He needed another lost waif to lift his spirits, he decided, stifling a yawn, but they were hard to find.

  Something crashed on the floor above them. He and Hipping jerked their heads backwards and stared at the ceiling. It sounded like something heavy hit the floor hard, perhaps a washing pot. Hipping looked over with a convivial smile.

  “My betrothed.”

  “Ahh.”

  “Just arrived.”

  “Ahh. Congratulations.”

  Hipping paused. “She’s still adjusting.”

  “Mmm. Your wash pot may not.”

  Hipping laughed out of proportion to the inane jest. “Aye. I shan’t bother her with my attentions again tonight. The priest has been sent for; tomorrow shall be soon enough.”

  Griffyn felt a strange ripple of unease. Not required, he told himself. None of my business. Leave it be.

  He was shown to his room by a washed-out looking servant. The room was plain, small, and smelled of rot and mould. Which was not the problem. Small cracks in the wooden walls allowed wind to inch in, making it quite cold despite the brazier burning. But that was not the problem either. It was looking for a chamberpot that ruined everything.

  Finding none in his room, and knowing the full tankard of the infamous Hippletun brew he’d imbibed would soon be needing release, he went in search of a chamberpot, a privy, or a servant to direct him towards either.

  What he came across was a violent pounding coming from a chamber door at the far end of the corridor.

  He stopped and stared. The wind?

  Another spurt of wild hammering, then silence. No. That was not the wind.

  ’Tis neither any of your business, he cautioned himself. Enough time and energy had already been expended tonight on things that were none of his business.

  He backtracked to the stairwell and found a servant who directed him to the guest privy outside. The rising winds almost blew the door off the privy. He manhandled it closed a few times, then, admitting defeat, let it bang maddeningly open and shut, thudding against the wall on each crest of wind as he completed his business. He tromped back inside, rubbing his eyes. Sleep. All he needed was a few hours’ sleep.

  He reached the upper landing. It was dark despite a torch slung in an iron ring hanging on the wall. Instead of turning left to his room, though, he paused and looked to his right.

  Silence. Only the muted moaning of the winds. No cries for help, no frantic hammering. He stomped down the corridor anyway, uncertain why.

  “Because I’m a fool,” he muttered out loud.

  He stopped in front of the doorway. Oddly, there was a key resting in its lock. He put his hand on it, paused, then turned it, feeling the fool. More silence. Nothing to be seen or heard.

  “Of course not,” he said to the emptiness. “Because there’s nothing here.”

  The door crashed open and Guinevere fell into his arms.

  Chapter Ten

  They fell into a clump against the far wall, Griffyn propelled backwards by her headlong rush. He struggled to his knees and clamped his hand over her mouth, which she’d opened to scream.

  “I cannot believe it,” he announced, removing his hand when he saw she was not going to loose the shriek.

  “Oh, thank the Lord,” she cried in a whisper. “Pagan! How came you here? No, no, not now. I cannot believe you came, but we must get out of here—”

  “We? What are you doing here?”

  “—for I’ve only a little while until he comes for me.”

  “Comes for you?” he shouted back in a whisper. “What are you talking about? I left you with Clid, a safe refuge, and now you’re here?” He stared at her a moment. Realisation dawned. “His betrothed.”

  “I am not!”

  He rubbed the heel of his hand across his forehead, muttering, “I can’t believe it. How incredibly unlikely. Abducted, twice in one night.”

  She scowled. “Astonishing. I can barely bestill my wonder. I left the village—”

  “Why? It was warm and dry—”

  “Yes, yes.” She brushed off his kept promises with an urgent whisper. “But not safe.”

  “Aye, well, I can see how being here suits you so much the better.”

  She touched his arm lightly, but the subtle contact felt more forceful than that, a flash of feminine verve. “You were mad to leave me there,” she whispered vehemently. “But there is no time for that now. I came because I had to. I know of Hipping’s reputation, of course, and the trouble he’s caused my lord king. But I did not know he was a…a brigand.” Her lips twisted, and Griffyn wondered if Hipping’s lips had touched hers. The thought, against all reason, brought a flood of anger surging through his blood. “He is holding me against my will.”

  “For what?” he asked suspiciously.

  She paused for half a heartbeat. “It doesn’t matter. Politics.”

  The evasion seemed unnecessary, and would have caught his attention if he hadn’t had his attention captured by so many other things, such as the bewildering verity that he was kneeling on the floor of a minor nobleman’s corridor with a woman he’d already rescued once tonight and left miles from here not three hours ago. And she needed
more rescuing yet.

  Then again, abductions were commonplace enough. Kidnappings, forced betrothals. An unprotected woman on the road was fair game.

  And all of a sudden, Griffyn’s largest concern was not expanding Henri fitzEmpress’s frontiers, it was the raven-haired, flushing-cheeked demoiselle in front of him. Her tousled hair and wild eyes made him worry, but it was her incredible, indomitable spirit that turned his tides.

  “I hate to be a burden yet again…”

  He grabbed her arm. “Let’s go.”

  He leaned in and took a quick survey of her room—much nicer than his—then grabbed a lantern sitting on the table. Lowering its flame to almost nothing, he propelled her down the stairs.

  Keeping close to the shadows, they made their way straight out the front door and through the rising winds to the stables without being seen or heard. No one could have heard an approaching army over the winds, and no one was about to witness this abduction.

  Griffyn pulled open the stable door. A powerful gust wrenched it out of his hands and flung it wide, slamming it against the wall. Muttering under his breath, he shuttled them inside and hauled it shut behind them.

  The roaring quieted. There were the dim sounds of animals crunching hay and shuffling. It was warm, with tighter seams between the planks of wood than of his guest bedchamber, he noticed grimly in passing. He began fumbling around in the darkness, feeling about on the ledge by the doorway for a flint.

  Her shadowy figure moved down the row of stalls. “Where’s my horse?”

  He set the lantern on a small ledge. Light spread further into the dark stable. “What horse?”

  “I had a horse.”

  “What?”

  “A horse, a horse. I came here on a horse.”

  His looked at her suspiciously. “Where did you get a horse?”

  She shrugged. “From the village.”

  “They gave you a horse?” he said in flat disbelief. The purchase of a single plough horse would require the village’s annual intake, which was nigh on nil, for a few decades.