The Conqueror

He held up his hands. “As you say, lady. I ask only because there are rumours of treasure connected to Everoot, but Endshire found nothing.”

Her blood flowed chill. “Endshire? Found nothing? Where?” She pushed up off the mattress and said gravely, “I think Lord Endshire’s loyalty is in question, Lord Hipping.”

“Really?” he drawled, powerful amusement twisting the word into a taunt. He leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “How about you let me see these letters of your Papa’s?”

She smiled bitterly, realising the time for pleas to the heart had passed, if indeed it had ever been to hand. This was about power.

Drawing her cloak around her shoulders, she lifted her chin into the haughtiest pose she knew how. “Lord Hipping. I am cold and wet and torn like baggage. If you wish to negotiate with me, I would be warm and dry throughout it.”

He considered her for a long moment. “Very well, Lady Gwyn. I will send up food and a bath.” His eyes settled on the bag again. “As soon as we read through those letters.”

He left, and as he closed the door, she heard the key turn in the lock.

“Your rooms are ready. And again, congratulations, my lord.”

Griffyn nodded for what he hoped was the last time tonight. It was late, the hall was dark, lit only by firelight, and Robert Beaumont had already gone up to his own chambers, flush with success, negotiations complete. Henri fitzEmpress had his essential ally.

“But won’t you stay up for one more drink?” Hipping asked one more time.

Griffyn shook his head. “I’m weary, and have a long ride tomorrow.” Fatigue was no mere pretext. He’d secured the allegiance of one of the most vital allies Henri fitzEmpress would ever need, and all he felt was tired. Weary with spying, with war, with all the machinations of the world. He needed another lost waif to lift his spirits, he decided, stifling a yawn, but they were hard to find.

Something crashed on the floor above them. He and Hipping jerked their heads backwards and stared at the ceiling. It sounded like something heavy hit the floor hard, perhaps a washing pot. Hipping looked over with a convivial smile.

“My betrothed.”

“Ahh.”

“Just arrived.”

“Ahh. Congratulations.”

Hipping paused. “She’s still adjusting.”

“Mmm. Your wash pot may not.”

Hipping laughed out of proportion to the inane jest. “Aye. I shan’t bother her with my attentions again tonight. The priest has been sent for; tomorrow shall be soon enough.”

Griffyn felt a strange ripple of unease. Not required, he told himself. None of my business. Leave it be.

He was shown to his room by a washed-out looking servant. The room was plain, small, and smelled of rot and mould. Which was not the problem. Small cracks in the wooden walls allowed wind to inch in, making it quite cold despite the brazier burning. But that was not the problem either. It was looking for a chamberpot that ruined everything.

Finding none in his room, and knowing the full tankard of the infamous Hippletun brew he’d imbibed would soon be needing release, he went in search of a chamberpot, a privy, or a servant to direct him towards either.

What he came across was a violent pounding coming from a chamber door at the far end of the corridor.

He stopped and stared. The wind?

Another spurt of wild hammering, then silence. No. That was not the wind.

’Tis neither any of your business, he cautioned himself. Enough time and energy had already been expended tonight on things that were none of his business.

He backtracked to the stairwell and found a servant who directed him to the guest privy outside. The rising winds almost blew the door off the privy. He manhandled it closed a few times, then, admitting defeat, let it bang maddeningly open and shut, thudding against the wall on each crest of wind as he completed his business. He tromped back inside, rubbing his eyes. Sleep. All he needed was a few hours’ sleep.

He reached the upper landing. It was dark despite a torch slung in an iron ring hanging on the wall. Instead of turning left to his room, though, he paused and looked to his right.

Silence. Only the muted moaning of the winds. No cries for help, no frantic hammering. He stomped down the corridor anyway, uncertain why.

“Because I’m a fool,” he muttered out loud.