The Conqueror

He leaned back a bit and looked the torn and tattered gown up and down. “If she dresses you like that, I’ve no interest whatsoever.”

Gwyn had a wild vision of Marcus fitzMiles, Lord d’Endshire, one of the most cunning lords of the realm, dressed up in a woman’s tunic and headdress, capering about a maypole. The mad humour of it almost sent her into hysterics. She shoved her tongue inside the range of her teeth and clamped down hard.

“I know the cloak is not yours, Gwyn. That is why it matters.” He ran the side of his finger along the lump inside her cheek where her tongue was pressed. “Humour me.”

She gave a wild laugh. “I cannot imagine how to begin doing that.”

“You do it with every breath, lady.”

The abbot flowed back into the room like a river of muddy water and looked at them askance. Marcus pushed away from the chair and paced to the far wall just as John returned, followed soon after by two servants. One carried a tray of wine and some foodstuffs, the other carried furs for Gwyn.

The abbot propelled Marcus to the desk on the other side of the room and was speaking in low tones, his tonsured head bent over the sheaf of parchment that had fluttered to the floor upon her arrival.

Marcus was looking directly at her.

Chapter Twenty-Two

She sat, huddled in a chair, bundled in furs and sipping warmed wine. Almost an hour had passed, and around her the abbot and John and Marcus were still rehashing the latest news that had gripped the war-torn country.

“Stephen has confirmation that the rumour of fitzEmpress’s spy is true. He fears he may have infiltrated some noble houses during the London council meetings.”

Marcus and the abbot listened to John relay the king’s concerns, Marcus with a yawn, the abbot with a worried frown.

“I had hopes he’d already been killed,” fretted the abbot. “We’ve had no confirmation from anyone on the matter, but we’ve lost no more lords to the Angevin’s cause.”

“Yet,” concluded Marcus. “’Twould be unwise of them to announce their defection while in London. We shall hear what word comes in a few weeks’ time, when they are safe behind castle walls and the harvest is brought in.”

John shook his head and leaned the heel of his hand against the wall, hitting the hilt of his sword on the stone. It clanged and he caught it with his free hand unconsciously, his pleasant, ruddy face serious. “We can’t simply wait him out, Marcus. Time is on his side. If the spy is here, we must flush him out ere we find Henri fitzEmpress camping on our shores come spring.”

“Winter, I would venture,” Marcus suggested calmly. He sat on a bench with his legs pushed out in front of him. “One or two more nobles to his cause, and Henri will not wait for the marriage bed to dry afore he comes for England. And Pagan Sauvage is a convincing man.”

Gwyn rose out of her seat like she was yanked on wires. “Pagan?”

Every head turned to her. Marcus went still.

His gaze, fixed on the far wall, shifted slowly over. He stared at her a moment, then smiled, a slow, terrible smile. He pushed to his feet.

“Ready your men, Cantebrigge. She came from the south woods.”

He and John were already striding out the door, talking rapidly of horses and pathways.

“No!” Gwyn cried, running after. “No! You can’t!”

They paused long enough for Marcus to lean back and run a finger by her cheek, whispering, “I knew it” in her ear. Then he strode away with the abbot quick on his heels. She started forward again, but John put a restraining hand on her arm.

“Gwyn!” He gave her a small, impatient shake. “What is wrong with you? This is the spy we’ve been hunting. Due to him, your king may lose his crown!”

“He saved my life!”

John’s pleasant, kind face screwed up in an expression of disgust. “Do you know who he is, this Pagan of yours?” he demanded furiously.

“N-no.”

He made an impatient move with his hand. “Pagan is Griffyn Sauvage, Guinevere,” he fairly hissed. “Christian Sauvage’s son. Heir to Everoot.” Her face went cold and white. “Pagan’s father and your father were once friends. The best of friends. They shared everything. Women, wine, wars. They went everywhere together. Everywhere,” he repeated significantly.

Something dim started coalescing in her mind. Something frightening. “The Holy Lands,” she whispered.

John looked at her sharply. “Aye. And Marcus’s father was there too, my lady. The three of them. Do not forget that.”