The Conqueror

“What?” he asked in a carefully measured voice.

Beaumont ran his fingers over his short, greying beard. “Something your father and Ionnes de l’Ami brought back from the Holy Lands.”

“And what would that be?”

Beaumont’s reply was spoken so softly it barely disturbed the candle flame sitting on the table in front of him: “Treasures.”

Like a river freezing over, Griffyn’s blood went cold. “A treasure? What treasure?”

“Treasure?” Beaumont’s eyebrows arched up. “I said treasures, Pagan. Plural. The plunder from Crusade is legendary. And your father and Ionnes de l’Ami brought some of it back. Rumour says ’tis hidden in the vaults of the Nest.”

Griffyn’s muscles relaxed in a hot wash. Beaumont did not know. No one knew, for all the rumours that flew about among the initiated. And Robert Beaumont, be he Earl of Leicester or King of Jerusalem, was not one of those. ’Twas all guesses, as people were wont to do when money or mystery was involved.

Silent guesses, usually. Aloud, few dared whisper their speculations. Aloud, none ever mentioned a hallowed treasure over a thousand years old. And be it aloud or in their dreams, not one of them knew Griffyn was its Guardian.

Except Ionnes de l’Ami.

He’d been their family’s closest confidant, dearest friend, fellow Crusader and brother-in-arms to Christian Sauvage, Griffyn’s father. Then, with one, vicious swipe, he’d betrayed them all and broken Griffyn’s heart. Greed had destroyed Christian Sauvage, then crept up on little spider legs and stole Ionnes de l’Ami too.

Oath-breaker. Thief.

Griffyn’s hand went to the small, heavy iron key hung around his neck since his father had died, an instinctive movement.

“Everoot is all the treasure that matters to me, my lord,” he said tightly.

The earl’s perceptive eyes held his a moment, then said, “So be it,” just as Hipping stepped into the room.

“Have you all you need, my lord?”

“Indeed,” replied Beaumont. “Leave us to it.”

Hipping nodded. “I will see to the gates.” He paused. “There’s something in the air tonight. My watchmen sent word there’s many more men than is wont on the highway, and some are riding off it. FitzMiles is in one of his raging rampages. The king’s councils are breaking up. All Hallows’ Eve. There’s something most odd in the air tonight.” He grinned and rubbed his hands together. “I hope ’tis something either brutish or beautiful. Or both.” He exploded in laughter and barreled down the corridor.

“’Tis time, Pagan,” Beaumont said, but Griffyn was watching Hipping. “Convince me to have my men and castles waiting.”

Griffyn nodded but his gaze lingered a minute, watching Hipping go. Hipping was like a trained bear. On most occasions, he’d follow your bidding, but never, ever turn your back.

No, he’d never have brought Guinevere here.

“Hippingthorpe’s hunting lodge is near here?” she asked incredulously.

“’Bout half an hour’s hard walk down the river path,” gruffed the man Pagan had called Clid. He was obviously the patriarch, and Gwyn dealt with him.

Behind his bearded head, an equally bearded man threw another log on the fire, then sat on the bench. Everyone was sitting, listening to the conversation. As if they could do much else—the room was as wide as a birthing-stall, and half was in fact a stall. A cow’s slow chewing provided rhythmic background, and chickens scratched through the hay.

“Aye,” Clid said. Or grunted. “A couple miles north o’ here.” He slurped up a bit more brown broth, then eyed her doubtfully. “But why wouldn’t Pagan have taken ye there straight off, iffen that’s where he wanted ye?”

But Gwyn wasn’t listening. Hope had sparked inside her, and she was mindless of any more mundane considerations, such as how she’d get there or whether it was wise. “What fortune! But, no,” she said, and slumped again. “’Tis no use to me empty. I need lords. Or at least hardy men with horses.” She looked at Clid. “Men loyal to the king.”

He smiled, his rotted front tooth prominent. “Not many of them here in the Midlands, o’ course.”

“No,” she agreed, and stared glumly into the firepit.

“But Hipple’s lodge ain’t what ye’d call ‘empty.’”

She lifted her eyebrows.

“Hipping hisself rode in afore dawn, along with his accursed knights.” Clid ripped another chunk of bread free with his teeth and worked it between his jaws. “Burning and raping and takin’, and yer king doin’ nothing to stop ’em.”