The Conqueror

“No. Just gone.”

She rose, pushing away the parchment rolls and wax tablets scattered across the broad table. “That’s all for now, William. I’ll find another steward…later.”

The office chamber was set deep in the castle walls, where no fresh air or light came in, but in the dog days of summer, it was cool and refreshing. Reluctantly, she pushed herself into a corridor damp with hot moisture; even the stones were sweating from the heat. Her steward hurried behind.

“Proceed with your plan to replace the fish traps on the upper river, William. You are right: they’ve been vandalised and catch nothing but reeds.”

She went limply through the heat, to the north-facing solar where her women waited for her to join them.

She chatted for awhile, then let her sewing drop to her lap and stared across what was to be a nursery, devoid of children, where she took one precious hour from each day to embroider and chat with the women. It was the only time she could spare.

Today, the murmur of their voices was laced like thin strands of silver through the hot, heavy summer air. They sat on benches, heads bent, busily chattering, their fingers darting over their sewing. Every so often a colourful veil or hair ribbon would lift—red, green, sapphire—and a pair of bright eyes would peer out to smile at some joke, before dipping down to work again.

Her entourage had grown rather alarmingly over the past six months, but what could she do? When the daughters of valued vassals and southern nobles needed a safe place to flee to, was she to turn them away?

Nay, ’twas only in the far north, on Everoot lands, that a safe refuge existed. The word had gone out: Guinevere de l’Ami was one of the faithful.

But it was not only the noble-bred who required a safe haven, she discovered as the famine-month of July began claiming its victims last month—more than usual with the men away at war. Girls of the village needed a haven too, their need no less for their humble station. And what was she to do with them? Let them die?

Most assuredly not. It was not all sacrifice, she reflected, casting a hopeful, anxious eye on the bright tunics and shining plaits of hair. The girls brightened her days and in these troubled times, no price was too high for that.

She rubbed her slick neck, then leaned against the backing of her chair and closed her eyes. Despite the draining heat, she let the light from the open window drift across her thighs. The sounds of chattering faded to a golden background buzz.

“Milady?”

She dragged one lid open. Her small page, Duncan, another refugee from the wars, was standing in the doorway. Looming behind him was a dark shape, unrecognisable. She opened both eyes.

Duncan stepped aside, revealing a dust-ridden, grim-faced messenger who moved into the archway and filled it with somber leather and dirt. He swung a wary glance around the room. When all he encountered was bright colours and soft, feminine laughter, an almost hungry glance passed over his face. He turned back. “My lady?”

She rose, her sewing slipping unheeded to the ground. “Sir?”

“I would speak with you.”

A jagged chill, odd in the summer heat, trickled over the knobs of her spine. “Girls,” she said without looking away from him, “’tis time for your afternoon walk.”

A chorus of groans and gripes met this, but they rose obediently and streamed out through a far door. When they were gone, a silence stretched out for a few precious seconds.

“My lady, I have news.”

“You are come from King Stephen,” Gwyn said, her voice flat and toneless.

When he nodded, she couldn’t deny the rush of tears that swelled in her eyes. God’s truth, what could he say that could hurt her now?

“The king will lose the war.”

She shook her head. Denial, weariness, she did not know which. All these years of war and wanting and waste, for what? “Cannot we send more troops?” she asked in rote, like a lesson learned. “More men, more money?”

“What money?” He smiled grimly and moved further into the sunlit room, a dark, weather-beaten figure strapped in leather and despair. “What men? What troops? All are turning to the fitzEmpress. They think their plight will be better in his hands than our lord king’s.”

“They are fools,” she spat, running the back of her hand along her trembling lips.

“’Tis said the king’s son is dead.”

She took an involuntary step back and dropped into her chair.

“I’ve something for you.” He covered the ground between them in two strides and dropped to his knees in front of her. Digging under his tunic, he caught at something, then brought out his fisted hand, which he held before her nose.

“What is it?”