The Conqueror

“Thanks be to God.”

Dozens of hands were raised in greeting. Linen caps removed, rough country curtsies offered. In welcome.

It ought to be a balm.

Flicking on the reins, he urged Noir up the small incline to the inner bailey. His men rode behind, their cobalt-blue cloaks flung back to reveal steel-ringed mail coats and long swords. A suddenly cool breeze blew through the bailey, carrying the scent of decaying leaves and wet bark and the salty hint of the sea.

How many times had he ridden home as a boy on the scent of that breeze, satiated after a day of hunting or hawking or simply riding, hungry and dreaming great dreams, before everything had changed?

And yet this, his moment of triumph, his homecoming, felt utterly hollow. Where was the elation, the joy? After all this time, after all the warring, and the years of coming home, the fierce satisfaction he’d felt even imagining this moment was absent. The only thing that moved him was the thought, “Where is she?”

They neared the centre of the bailey, hooves clacking over cobbles.

“My lord earl,” murmured a balding man who appeared near his boot.

Griffyn checked Noir and looked down. “Who are you?”

“William of York, my lord. I am the earl’s…I am…I was the seneschal.”

“William of York,” repeated Griffyn. He felt so strange. His heart was beating, but far away. His words sounded warped, as if they were being turned in the air like cream through a butter churn. Of the Five Strands, she had called him back at the inn, and he had laughed.

“Lord Griffyn, my lady Guinevere wishes to bid you and your men welcome to the Nest.”

His eyes flicked down again. “Where?”

“My lord—”

“Where is your lady?”

“My lord—” the steward sputtered.

“Where is Guinevere?”

A musical voice called out, “I’m here.”

His head snapped up and everything that had been grey and distorted became clear as an untouched lake. The world took on almost painful clarity. He scanned the vanquished people before him, then his gaze locked on her. His heart started beating again, strong and loud.

“I bid you and your men welcome to my home.”

He swung off Noir, threw the reins to his squire Edmund, and started over. Every step felt like it stretched furlongs. Her hair was as black as he recalled, bounding in riotous ringlets around her face. It was the first thing he noticed. That and the fact that her voice still rang like a bird song over a frozen lake, and it made him think of faerie dust.

He stopped in front of her, feeling his breath strong and hot.

“My lord. Welcome.”

Something hovered at his shoulder. He ignored it. The bailey was utterly silent. Even the breeze went still, and nothing moved except a dog, cracking a bone. Griffyn heard the snaps like ice breaking on a lake. He flicked his gaze over. The dog looked up and whined, then got to his feet and slunk away. Everyone held their breath, waiting for his vengeance to spill its fury.

“Welcome, is it?” he repeated quietly. “Your army was a welcome?”

“I did not know ’twas you,” she said softly enough, but her green eyes stayed on him with a fierceness that could burn holes through linen. He suddenly noticed how his cloak was bright against her frayed and dull fabrics. The Sauvage brooch alone gleamed more brightly than anything she wore, in large part, he realised, because she wore no jewels at all.

A breeze lifted a few stray stands of long, black hair to flutter in the air between their bodies. For a twelvemonth her face had haunted his dreams, and now here she was, in the flesh.

“You know now,” he said coldly.

“I know more important things than even that, my lord.” Her bitter words were bitten off with great precision. “I know these wars must end. I know my men have barely eaten in a fortnight, while yours have lived off the fields and barns of dozens of poor villagers along the way to this killing field. I know my army is small and yours huge. I know your horse probably ate better than my kitchen staff this past week—”

“You don’t know anything.”