by Kris Kennedy
She swallowed carefully. “After that, in those awful days, Marcus was ever underfoot, marauding about, hinting at treasures. And weddings. I tried everything I could to open this chest. I don’t know, it just seemed important. And important that Marcus not even know it existed. I even tried holding a fiery hot poker stick to it, to burn it open. Nothing. You can see, it’s not even scorched.
“Then, one night, I was exhausted, touching it—it is so beautiful,” she said again, softly, “and suddenly I recalled what I’d done as a child. I put my hand just so,” she splayed her fingers wide in demonstration, and placed them inside the chest, “and felt around, and pushed, and—”
The lid of the secret compartment sprang open.
Alex inhaled sharply. She looked up. Griffyn was watching her. “Disobedience has some small boons,” she said ruefully.
Something like a smile lightened the measured remove on his face. “I must admit, I ne’er did view disobedience as quite the sin the Church does.”
A small vestige of him came back in that moment. It was like fresh air moving through a sickroom. She smiled, close to tears. “No, Griffyn. You wouldn’t.”
He was brilliant to her. A bright, shining light. Excellent, without flaw, even amid his mistakes. Scarred face, sinful body, beautiful heart, he simply took her breath away.
And she had no right to it anymore.
“Is that what you needed, then?” she asked, keeping her voice carefully neutral. “To know what was underneath?”
The smile faded from his face. “Aye.”
He slid his thumb under the flipped-up edge. All three of them leaned forward. For no reason she could explain, Gwyn held her breath as he lifted the lid and revealed what was within.
“More documents,” he said hoarsely, and closed his eyes. “It’s not here.”
Alex flung himself backwards against the wall, cursing. His boots cracked small stones underfoot as he turned and paced the room. Gwyn looked between them in amazement. “What? What is the matter?”
“The third key.”
“A third key?”
“We need another key.”
Bleak conviction dulled his words, but Gwyn’s heart started beating faster. She leaned forward.
“I have a key. A little golden one.”
Griffyn’s grey eyes opened onto her, his gaze burning a path through the space between them like fire through a forest. She nodded, feeling giddy, and reached for the nondescript pouch sewn directly onto her skirts.
Every morning she performed this ritual, sewing the pouch to her skirts, ensuring the last thing her father had bequeathed to her stayed safe. Within its brown folds huddled the minuscule key her father placed in her hand on his deathbed. It was covered to both hide and protect its golden glow. For glow it did, as if burnished by the sun.
With trembling fingers, she ripped it from her skirts and dropped it into Griffyn’s calloused palm.
His eyes held hers a moment, then his fingers closed around it. He swept up the two keys already on the table, one black, one silver, and pushed them together. They joined with a satisfying click. He fitted her little gold one into the centre of them, so it created a tri-colour puzzle key. The silver key sat inside the dark exterior of gnarled iron, looking like a silver lining on the inside of a storm cloud. Her key, gold at the centre of it all, glowed like the end of a rainbow.
“God above,” Alex murmured.
“’Tis beautiful,” breathed Gwyn.
Griffyn let out a long breath.
“And now?” Gwyn asked, looking up. “What now?”
Griffyn shook his head. “I have no idea.”
She gestured to the chest, the scrolls still sitting in the hidden compartment. “What are those?”
Slowly they shifted their attention. Griffyn picked one up.
“Vellum,” he said. Expensive. But the next one he lifted shocked her into a gasp.
“Is that copper?” she murmured, her mouth going dry. “What are they?”
Griffyn’s face was a study in wonder. “Maps.”
“Maps?”
He held up a handful of vellum sheets and a few in metal that looked like bronze.
She looked at them blankly. “What kind of maps?”
“Treasure maps,” murmured Alex.
Gywn bent over the tabletop. She could indeed discern squiggly lines on some of the documents that might well mark the end of land masses or the beginning of waterways. She caught a brief glimpse of images of mythical animals, bright, vibrant colours, explosive lettering, and something that almost smelled of musty herbs and dew, ancient mystery.
She looked at Griffyn as he bent over the papers, his lips moving silently as he read the Latin script she’d recognized from the monks’ manuscripts, unable to fathom the sense of destiny riding up her spine, filling her body with freshness and no small measure of fear.
“What is all this?” she whispered. “Who are you?”
“Charlemagne’s heir.” Alex’s voice came from the shadows.
She looked over. “What does that mean?” she demanded. “What will it do to him?”
Griffyn’s gaze lifted from the papers and held hers, but the look was unreadable. Another shiver brushed down her spine.
It was the sheer majesty of him, masked but palpable, that took her breath away.
Again, it was Alex who replied. “It means he has the burden and privilege of guarding treasures over a thousand years in the making,” he said in a voice that would have carried to Henri’s army, perched three leagues away, as if he’d waited Griffyn’s whole life to say it aloud. “It means that while some claim to fight for God, what they truly claim is glory, and greed, while others, in secret, have the burden of protecting the true wealth of our collective souls. It means Griffyn’s blood is the royal purple, in a way that cannot be bred anymore. It means he is noble and worthy. Guardian of the Hallows.”
Gwyn looked at Griffyn, feeling desperate. “What Hallows? What hallowed things?”
“The Arc of the Covenant. The Amra Christi, Instruments of the Crucifixion. The Spear of Destiny. The Shroud of Turin.”
It was Griffyn now who spoke, and his words came out like a chanted dirge, low and rhythmic, and made the hair on the back of Gwyn’s neck stand up. “The Sudarium, the face cloth that covered Jesus’s face. The Crown of Thorns.”
Chills moved in shock waves down Gwyn’s spine. Griffyn stopped, but Alex named one more, looking straight at Griffyn. “The Marian Chalice.”
Gwyn’s blood washed cold. “The Holy Grail?”
Alex almost shrugged. “He is Charlemagne’s Heir. He is the Heir.”
She stared at Griffyn, her lips parted as she tried to remember how to breathe. Yes, she could believe he was a child of kings. The hard, chiseled features of his face were anguished enough to hold such a burden. His eyes were complicated enough. Certainly his soul was wrecked enough, if that’s what it took.
And she’d betrayed him.
The room, Griffyn’s face, became difficult to see as the tears filled up and flowed from her eyes. She bent her head and stretched her hand across the table. If he didn’t want it, her, all he had to do was remain still. Or leave.
She waited. She heard bootsteps walking away. The door clicked shut. A single hard sob wracked her body.
Then Griffyn’s hand closed on top of hers.
Her breath shot out in a jagged, gasping rush. Her forehead fell onto the length of her outstretched arm.
“I’ve no words, Griffyn,” she cried, not trying to hide her sobs now. “My sorrow goes deeper than a well. I never meant for you to be hurt. It all went so wrong. Nothing matters to me but that you never get hurt again.”
“’Twasn’t only yourself.”
She sniffled. “What are you talking about?”
“I lied, too.”
She exhaled a short, sharp breath. It could have been a laugh, only there was nothing amusing. Probably never would be again. Then again, his hand was still lying
atop hers, warm.
She lifted her head, her eyes puffy and hot. “That doesn’t matter, Griffyn.”
“I knew treasure was here,” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “I knew the legends. I knew the truth. I knew people would hunt for it. I found a chest you thought was your father’s, and I did not tell you. I rode for Ipsile-upon-Tyne to find a treasure, and I did not tell you. I knew all those things, and I didn’t tell you, and that put us in danger.”
“No! No, you didn’t put me in danger—”
“Us. Us, in danger, and aye, you alone, too. I did it here, I did when I left you at the Saxon village, I did when I let you walk away from me into Saint Alban’s Abbey, alone. I have put you in danger over and over again, when it has served my ends. I abandoned you, and I lied to you, and I am sorry.”
She shook her head so vehemently hair fell all around her shoulders. “No, Griffyn. You cannot say you’re sorry. Not to me.”
“I am doing it. And I have more.” He half-rose, reached across the table, cupped her face in one of his hands and whispered: “I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you.”
Her breath exploded out in a gulping sob. She slid off the bench, to her knees, and laid her head in his lap, crying for the simple words she’d longed to hear her whole life, and to hear them now, from this good man, broke down all her barriers. She wept like a river. Wracking, hard sobs, quaking her body.
After a time, she became aware of his hand, gently stroking her head. She reached up blindly and touched his face. He held out his arms, for her to climb into his lap. She rose and swung one leg on each side, straddling him, her face a few inches above his. Her hair fell down around them like a cocoon. Griffyn rested his hands on her hips.
“And now, you tell me you forgive me too,” he said hoarsely, like he needed to hear it. She shook her head.
“No matter what you say, there’s nothing you’ve done that needs forgiving. But I will give you something I think you need more.” She leaned close and whispered just above his lips, “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
A corner of his mouth lifted and he leaned his forehead into hers. They sat that way for a long time, his hands on her hips, her forearms slung long over his shoulders, her hair falling like a dark curtain around them. His breath was unsteady for some of the time, hitching here and there, then it calmed and grew steady again. His thighs were powerful beneath her legs.
“Isn’t there a bridge around here that needs defending?” she asked softly.
His hand tightened on her hips, then slid up her ribs. “Truth,” he muttered, his words rough-edged. “We do know each other from the inside out.”
“Let’s be gentle.”
“Indeed.”
By now, the sun was starting to come up. The storm had spent itself. Bright, crisp, yellow light streamed though the eastern window. They were quiet for the longest time, their foreheads still touching.
“Henri will be here soon,” she murmured. “I’ll make sure you…” Her voice faded away. She had nothing left to finish the sentence with. She would what?
“Do not worry on Henri’s account.”
“I worry on your account,” she replied with a shaky laugh.
“Henri and I have a long history, Gwyn. He knows me. I am not worried.”
She blew out a breath of air.
“Tell me you love me again,” he murmured against her neck.
“I love you again.”
His fingertips stroked down her back.
“We’ll be husband and wife in a few hours,” she observed in a quiet voice.
He entwined their fingers and kissed them, one by one. “We already are.”
Epilogue
Rain washed over the little church like a sparkling waterfall throughout the marriage ceremony. Henri fitzEmpress had arrived, his explosive Angevin temper in fine display, but, as Griffyn had known, his mind was sharper than his tongue, and he quickly stopped breathing fire when he heard the particulars.
And so they sat, afterwards, in the great hall, talking and drinking while the celebration unfurled around them. “She’s smart,” Henri observed. “And full of spirit. That’s how I like them. But you’ll have to watch her.”
“No I won’t.” Griffyn lifted his wine cup towards Henri’s, in toast. “But you’ll surely have to watch Lady Eleanor.”
Henri roared in laughter and smashed their cups together. “Indeed I shall. We’ve chosen women with strength of mind.”
Griffyn grimaced good-naturedly. “That’s one thing to call it.”
He set down his cup and looked around the hall. People were everywhere, standing in small groups, talking and laughing. A minstrel sat beside the dais, strumming and singing softly to a small group. Later, he would sing to all, tales of fierce monsters and brave knights and newly wedded, warring Houses whose union would bring peace to the land.
Guinevere sat at the edge of the dais, encircled by children. She looked to be telling a story. He smiled faintly. The children sat, their little red lips parted in anticipation, rapt as they watched her bright face and slender hands move, spinning out a tale.
Henri’s voice broke in. “You’ve made a good start here, Pagan. The people are happy, and well fed, and that will go a long way.”
“That’s been Guinevere’s doing.”
“Maybe. Everoot will be a good bulwark here in the north.” Henri turned back and said bluntly, “There’s rumours, Pagan.”
Griffyn had known it would come. “About what?” he said.
Henri watched him over the rim of his pewter wine cup, reflecting ice-blue eyes on the metal. “Treasure.”
Griffyn nodded slowly and met Henri’s shrewd gaze. “My liege, know this: everything you need to know, you will know. Everything due you, you will have. Everoot stands true.”
Henri considered him for a long minute, evidently weighing whether to allow the deflection, when treasure might be at stake. But something stayed him.
Perhaps a covert knowledge, passed down from a grandfather who had once given up rich Angevin lands to marry a witch and become King of Jerusalem. Perhaps a fringe sense of awareness, the sort that had him already talking about granting the Knights Templar rich lands throughout England.
Or perhaps it was the realisation that a treasure lying buried in the ground was not half as valuable as the treasure of a strong alliance. Whatever it was, Henri nodded.
“Aye. Everoot will stand true. I know that. Or at least,” he lifted his cup again, “you will.”
Griffyn bent his head. “My lord.”
Later that night, he sat on the bed and watched Guinevere’s sated, sleeping body stretched out on the furs beside him. No nightmares, no restless tossing. Just a faint smile crossing her face for a brief moment as she dreamed. If he had any part in giving her that, that was enough.
No, he admitted a moment later. Not quite enough. He tugged the furs up by her shoulders and turned away. He had an obligation to at least read through the documents inside the Guinevere chest.
He gathered the scrolls together and sat on the edge of their bed, reading, while Gwyn slept by his side. He bent over them, scouring the Latin and Hebrew with his rusty memory, the candlelight flaming bright by his face. He quickly realised not all of the papers were maps. One, in fact, appeared to be instructions.
He bent further, his lips moving slowly, silently, for an hour or more. He was so intent on translation, in fact, that when the truth of the words sprang clear, he almost fell off the bed in amazement. Then he burst out laughing.
Gwyn lifted her head. “Griffyn?” she asked, her voice soft and sleepy.
“Do you know?”
“Know what?”
Griffyn gestured to the papers. “What I’m supposed to do with it?”
“The treasure?” She pushed herself onto her elbows. The sheets had pressed small pink creases onto her cheeks. “Alex said that only the Heirs know, the Guardians.”
“I may be the Heir, but I haven’t been
a true Guardian. But now,” he gestured again to the paper, “now, to know this? Yes. I choose the burden. I will become a Guardian.”
Gwyn looked away. He could only see the top of her head. She lifted her hand to her chest, fingers still wrapped around the sheet.
“Gwyn?”
“You will be leaving, then. I’ll see to your things first thing in the morning.”
He looked at her in surprise. “Why?”
One long, slender finger loosed from the sheets to point at the documents and maps strewn across the bed. “You have to find those, is that it? You must find the Hallows.”
He smiled faintly. “Not quite.”
She squinted at him. He looked really quite pleased. He was reading those papers, and he looked pleased. She pushed herself up to sit. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t have to find them. I know where they are.”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Where?”
“Downstairs.”
She felt the blood drain from her face.
“I’ll show you.”
She dressed hurriedly, dumbfounded, and followed him down the curving dark staircase, into the cellars. Their boots crushed small pebbles as they went, each holding a lantern aloft, Gwyn behind. The sounds of grit and tense breathing scraped against the stone-cased silence of the cellars, but Griffyn was surprised to find his heart was beating normally. Knowing what he knew now, he felt…free.
They stopped before the doorway where Eustace had been hidden. He pushed Gwyn’s small little key into the dragon’s mouth, and it dropped open. Swept clean of anything resembling straw or treachery, it looked like what it was meant to be: an antechamber.
He held up the lantern and pointed to the far wall. There, marked by a small rift in the stone, was a door. Another door carved out of the stone itself. Another huge door, towering above their heads. A door that would be completely hidden, if someone didn’t already know it was there. Rock itself, it blended so well with the stone around it that it looked no different. It would stay concealed if Attila’s armies came crashing through the gates of Everoot.
