“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.