The Conqueror

“All Hallows’ Eve.”

The night when the portal from the Other World to this world were opened, the only night in the year. Magic flowed, spirits dwelt.

The smokey greyness of his eyes was unreadable in the darkness. “Warm and safe and dry,” he reminded her.

“If you say.”

“If you behave.”

Her eyebrows went down. “Behave?”

“Don’t talk too much. Can you manage that?”

She dropped her head to the side. “Of course.”

“Good. And a ride to your Abbey tomorrow.”

“You?”

He swung off Noir just as the door to the largest hut swung wide. A thick band of yellow firelight spilled out over the muddy earth.

“No. Them.”

Two figures appeared in the doorway, one behind the other. Large, broad-shouldered figures who seemed to be holding blunt-edged weapons of some sort. Aloft.

Pagan said something in the guttural Saxon tongue and that’s all there was to it. The men lowered their weapons and came out with welcoming gestures. Gwyn could understand nothing of their Saxon-held conversation, but it was clear Pagan was not worried.

She rested her hands on Noir’s furry, warm withers, patting his neck while listening to the murmurs of the men’s conversation, watching Pagan. He stood unaffectedly, a day’s growth of stubble roughening his face. He put his foot up on a log. The leather of his knee-high black boot rose up his calf, dully reflecting the firelight. One mailed forearm rested on his bent knee as he nodded and laughed at something one of the men said.

Gwyn found herself smiling too, and her belly did a little flip when he turned his dark gaze back to her. He said something to the men, then started over, his stride long and confident.

They walked together into the warm hut. Eight or so souls stood and sat in the small open space at the centre. It was crowded, but not uncomfortably so. Over the firepit near the centre hung a black cauldron, and inside the contents bubbled and burped. To the right, behind a half-wall, Gwyn could hear a cow shuffling in the hay.

All the faces were staring at her. She smiled. They didn’t exactly smile in return, but neither did they brandish swords. They were dirty faces, unkempt, but they did not appear hostile, nor like they wanted anything from her, and for the moment, that was sufficient.

One of the women, the blunt-nosed, square-shouldered matron, came forward and, with a nod, indicated Gwyn should sit at the table. A bowl of hot stew was plunked down in front of her. Small flecks of colour swirled in the dark brown broth, carrots and onions. Alongside lay a chunk of day-old rye bread.

“My thanks,” she exhaled in true, great gratitude.

Pagan nodded to her. “I’ll leave you here, then, mistress.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, startled, then tried to hide it. How embarrassing. Certes, he had more important things to do. She had no claim on him. “Of course.”

“Tomorrow morn, Clid there,” he said, gesturing to one of the square-shouldered men who had greeted them, “will be your escort to Saint Alban’s.”

She swung her leg over the bench. He was already backing towards the door. “I cannot express my thanks, Pagan. I owe you more than I can ever repay. You saved my life.”

He shrugged. “Your virtue, more’s the like. I don’t think your life was in any danger, mistress.”

“Oh, truth, sir, ’twas. For I’d have killed myself before I married Marcus fitzMiles.”

He paused, gauntleted hand on the door jam, and grinned over his shoulder, just like a friend would do. “Me too.”

She pushed to her feet then, feeling reckless and unruly and everything she hadn’t let herself feel for a dozen years. Crossing to the door, she kept her eyes on the dirt floor and fumbled with the bag of silver tied round her waist, shocked at how weepy she felt.

“Lady, please.” A touch of impatience sharpened the masculine rumble of his words. He turned and walked out.

“I am simply looking for a way to recompense you,” she explained helplessly to his back.