The Conqueror

She felt sick. Not again. Twelve years of self-imposed penance had wrought no change. Twelve years of denying every fickle intuition, bringing each emotion to heel, and still, in the end, they ruled her actions. Impulsive, reckless…

How many more people must die because of her?

Swinging about, she moved only two paces before being brought up short by the sight of King Stephen.

He was headed directly for her, the crowd parting before him in a river of samite and silk. He strode past great nobles with faint smiles and rich burgesses with polite nods, intent on her. Gwyn’s knees quaked, her mind whirled.

Reaching her side, Stephen of Blois directed a faint smile towards Marcus, who had somehow positioned himself behind her. She could feel coldness emanating like a frozen river at her back, knifing through her gown and freezing her blood. Before she could do more than stare like a dolt at her king, he had her hand at his lips.

What was she doing staring straight into his eyes? She toppled down into a curtsey.

“Lady Guinevere.”

“My lord King,” she breathed reverently. Papa had spoken about this man for sixteen years, told of how he had taken the crown when the Old King died, how he’d held Mathilda, heir to the throne, at bay and bested the most skilled troops of England, how he had held sway over rebellious lords and money-hungry burgesses for almost two decades. Now he stood five inches away with his lips on her hand.

And Marcus at her back.

“Your gift was well-received,” the king said, tapping a cluster of dried rose petals pinned to the inside of his vest. Gwyn had sent the rare, twice-blooming rose of Everoot along with her relief payment when her father had died.

She lifted eyes that had grown as round as the stopper on a flask. “’Twas well-sent, Your Grace,” she stammered.

“It came with a message.”

“Aye, my lord,” she murmured, ducking her head again.

“Which spoke of the undying loyalty of the de l’Ami heiress.”

She bowed her head further. “’Tis but a pale symbol of the devotion and constancy of your northern province, my lord.”

“And a beautiful one, lady. One I will recall ere the need arises.” He lifted her to her feet with a light touch on her hand. “Your father’s loyalty was steadfast, and I will miss him. He was my friend.”

“And so our name,” she murmured.

“De l’Ami,” the king mused with a faint smile. “A friend, and so he was.”

“My father would have been honoured to hear you speak suchly. That he is gone brings me great pain, but the chance to do your will eases it, Your Grace. I am ever at your call.”

The king’s dark eyes regarded her bent head carefully. “I will remember that.”

“My lord,” Gwyn murmured. Her face was bleached white when she rose. There had been no chance to request an audience; he was already disappearing into the crowd.

She started to follow when Aubrey de Vere, one of the king’s closest advisors, stepped into her path. Earl of Oxford, he was yet another with a chequered history of allegiances. Their fathers had been together on Crusade, though, and Gywn felt a small spark of hope that brightened when he grasped both her hands warmly in his.

“My lady, please accept my condolences. How sad I am to hear of your father’s—”

“My lord Oxford,” she interrupted, closing her hands around the edge of his palms, “I need an audience with the king. Now. Can you make it so?”

He squeezed her fingers back. “Surely, my lady,” he said soothingly. “First thing in the morning, I’ll review the king’s schedule and—”

“No. I need to see him now.” She pushed forward, craning to see around Oxford’s huge shoulder. She pushed so insistently, in fact, that she might have completely pushed by, had he given even an inch.

“Ahh, but my lady,” he said in a smooth, polished voice, designed to make her relax. It made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. “The king cannot. He has had too many demands on his time this evening.”

“That is ridiculous,” she snapped. “He is right there. It will only take…” Her voice drifted away as she became aware of two things: one, the king was nowhere in sight; he’d hurried—or been hurried—away with astonishing speed; and two, the earl of Oxford and Marcus were holding each other’s gaze over the top of her head. Oxford gave an infinitesimal nod.

Cold fear dripped down her spine. She stared without sight at the back of someone’s blue gown, heart thundering in her chest. The earl lowered his gaze and bowed with a gallant flourish, his polished smile firmly in place.

“First thing in the morning, my lady, upon my word. Would you care to stay here at the king’s residence, to ease your travel back in the morn? No? You needn’t be startled, my lady; ’twas but a question. Well, then, in the morning.”