“The innkeeper’s son serves as a courier at times. He will take your message.”
“Oh.” Steam from the tub rose against a backdrop of red tapestries. She could feel his presence behind her, standing motionless, watching her. She sucked her lip in between her teeth.
“Guinevere.”
“What?” she mumbled.
“Get in.”
The edge of the sloshing, steaming tub warranted all her a
ttention. She could barely rip her gaze from it. “You…you…”
“Are leaving.” The door squeaked open. “But I’ll be back.”
She jerked her head around, but he was already gone.
Several moments later, a tap came on the door and she opened it to find the feminine face who had smiled at her from the shadows downstairs smiling at her once again. She spoke in a voice so quiet Gwyn had to duck her head closer to hear.
“He said you’re to tell me your message.”
Gwyn smiled gratefully. “I thank your son for carrying it.”
The woman blinked. “My son?”
“Oh, I am sorry.” Gwyn’s cheeks flushed hot. “I was told the innkeeper’s son would carry my message, and I thought you were his…well, I am sorry.”
“No, no,” the woman replied hastily. “No need, my lady. ’Tis my son, indeed. My son who will carry your message.”
“Well, then, I am in luck,” Gwyn said slowly. “Please, come in.”
They sat at the table. It was an odd feeling, to be tucked in this remote inn, no one knowing where she was. The windows were shuttered and it was dark outside, so she could tell nothing about the world outside her room either. The only thing she knew for certes was that the storm was getting worse and the innkeeper’s wife didn’t know she had a son.
She directed the missive to Cantebrigge, to her friend Mary and her husband John, lord of a small but strategically important manor, where Gwyn had planned to stop on her return trip, before all the madness began. It was unlikely, but possible, that King Stephen had indeed sold her to fitzMiles, and with Everoot at stake, she was not taking chances. She would not send a message directly to the king, revealing where she was. She needed a conduit. John of Cantebrigge was favoured by King Stephen, and would know what to do.
She spoke slowly, carefully crafting her words to tell of her need yet reveal nothing of import should the message, or messenger, fall into unwanted hands.
“Dearest John: Lord d’Endshire plans to wed me against my will,” she said slowly, “and set upon me when I was without assistance.” She looked at the candle flickering on the table. Its flame was small but bright. “By God’s Grace, I was saved by a miracle, but am with the knowledge that our lord king has allowed this debauched thing, although I cannot fathom it. Would that you send him my plea for mercy and an audience. My greater need, at present, is to be succored at Saint Alban’s, whence I have escaped. Take the back paths, and speak to no one, John. Everoot may depend upon it.”
The maid repeated it word for word, then withdrew. Gwyn glanced at the bath. All she could do now was wait, hope her friends in Cantebrigge would believe the message was truly from her. And that was a large hope.
In these lawless times, no one depended on anything but death and King Stephen’s taxes. A message such as hers, with its urgency and need for secrecy, with no seal from the true sender, could be interpreted as either plea or ruse. John of Cantebrigge might well think it a trick.
She had momentarily debated handing over the only thing in her possession with the identifying de l’Ami device on it, but swiftly decided against it.
Everoot had, as did few other places in the realm, such as Chester and Durham, privileges to minting rights. A great deal of coin was melted and stamped at the Nest upon a time, but in the lawless days of rape and plunder that marked Stephen’s reign, there was little work to be done, and even less profit to be made. The privilege had become a burden.
Even so, while no longer minting coin for the realm, the Everoot minting tools had created the most precise, indelible, unforgettable stamp in the land—a budding rose. Its lines were etched like a sunrise, clear and precise. When others chose boars and hawks and bears, her father had taken an emblem that was dear to his wife’s heart—the twice-blooming rose of Everoot.
It was distinctive. It was rare. It would be recognised anywhere, and it adorned the steel-plated, curving lid of Papa’s box.
She shifted and her foot touched the felt bag. She bent over and touched it, almost as if it were a talisman, then sat straight again.
What purpose would it serve, to have sent the thing along? They would believe the message or not, but she was certain her friend John of Cantebrigge would not wait upon a charm or seal before coming to her aid.
And she could not give it up, not even for a moment.
She picked up the bulky bag and pulled out the chest. It was a beautiful thing. It had a strange attraction about it—made one desire to touch it—but beyond its simple, almost unearthly beauty, it was precious because, in the last moment of his life, Papa had thought this the most important thing to bequeath to her, the small chest that held love letters between him and Gwyn’s mother while he was away on Crusade. Strange.