The Conqueror

She flung her hand over her mouth in horror.

Who else but him, sitting astride his great black destrier at the crest of a hill, his helm removed, giving her one last chance? One last chance to surrender…to him. Whom else? Griffyn Sauvage, her ghost of passion.

He was looking directly at her.

She almost laughed at the madness of it all.

Saint Jude save me, she prayed, her heart pounding giddy blood from earlobe to ankle. She smoothed her skirts with a trembling hand. “Call them back.”

Fulk spun and looked at her. “My lady?”

“Call them back.” She pointed over the wall. “Do you know who that is?”

He nodded. “Aye. Sauvage.”

Her hand fell. “You know him,” she said flatly. “You know Griffyn Sauvage.”

Fulk shrugged. “I was with your father for many years, Lady Gwyn. Afore yerself was born.”

“So, you know there’s history there. Between our families.”

He averted his gaze. “A bit of it.”

“A bit of it,” she echoed. “Tell me, Fulk,” she demanded. “How do you think we stand, with Griffyn Sauvage and his army out there?”

Fulk looked over the battlement walls again, then shrugged. But the twitch of something in his eye gave him away. He knew how things stood. They could fight. And they would lose.

Gwyn was already planning for the future. She would open the gates. That was better than having him batter them down. A pitched battle would only give him more cause to run through the castle like a firestorm, laying claim to everything. And he must not be allowed to discover the prince. So she would open the gates. Feign surrender.

Feign, she cautioned herself. Pretend. Do not truly do it. Do not succumb to all those things succumbed to before: his passion and decency and the way he made her feel like there was hope.

Was this not the weight of her penance, finally bearing down?

Had she thought it would be easy?

“I will not have our men die needlessly,” she said to Fulk. “And I see no wisdom in angering Sauvage any more than….” Her voice trailed off. More than what? How couldhe hate her more than he already must? “Call them back. Open the gates. Surrender the castle.”

Fulk nodded grimly. “Aye, my lady.” He strode off, shouting for his commanders.

Gwyn watched him go, her heart tumbling and fluttering, her blood moving fast and cold through her body. Inside, her mind was screaming: He’s supposed to be dead!

And her heart was chanting: He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive.

Chapter Three

Griffyn rode under the gate with his sword drawn but hanging by his side. His gaze travelled swiftly over the crowded bailey. Surely Godwin the marshal, or Hamish the blacksmythe might have survived the years.

Then he snorted, dismissing the glimmer of childlike excitement. Only the strong survived, and eventually they died too. How many times must he be taught that affection was perilous and pointless?

He peered up at the dark, turreted battlements of the Nest, set against a backdrop of brilliant blue skies. It almost hurt his eyes to keep them open. Home. He was home again.

It was utterly quiet. Hushed villagers and householders thronged the edges, making a colorful, if tattered, pathway. Most bowed their heads as he passed, some bent their knees. He heard the whispers.

“Sauvage…”

“…remember his father…”

“…like a legend, upon our time…”