She turned to face him. “Why didn’t you tell me your name last year?”
“Why didn’t you tell me yours?”
She paused coldly. “Well, it seems that our names did not matter at all.”
He smiled. “If you can show me what else does matter, I’ll have Henri apply to the Pope to canonise you.” He took a step forward, she a step back. “’Twas a name that ensured I lost these lands some eighteen years ago, and my name that assured me of a hearty welcome in the Tower a year back.” Each phrase was followed by another step in her direction. “’Tis my name which has kept me sane, and my name that has given me my lands back.”
“It looked to me to be your sword.”
“You, Guinevere, show a keen mind. Happens I will keep it close, and use it.”
“Your sword or my mind?” she snapped.
He stopped the length of a long stride away and smiled into her furious glare. “Both.”
Tyber, her aging dog, slowly rose to his creaky paws and walked out the door. Traitor.
“Your lord knows little of what he must do to win this country back,” she said coldly.
Another slow smile slid across his features. “He knows enough to send men into all the rebel castles, to wed the women and silence the rebellion.”
“Really?” She drew the word out, as if unwilling to fully release it.
“Aye. And ’twould behoove you to recall this, too.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You have been betrayed by your Stephen, not Henri.”
She covered her heart reflexively. “King Stephen ruled by right!”
“He ruled by might, and rather poorly too. You keep house up here in the north, and perhaps know little of the state of the realm, but I will tell you: ’tis terra guerra, a land of war.”
“Are you mad?” she snapped, biting the words like ice chips. “You think I do not know my country is ravaged—by men like you.”
He shook his head. “Every baron and knight knows the way to end the civil warring is to have Henri take the throne. ’Tis no secret, simply a matter of time. The Pope would not even crown Prince Eustace, not that it matters now that he’s dead.”
Gwyn felt the blood drain from her face, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Stephen is kind and chivalrous,” she managed to say through gritted teeth.
“He is a fool, gallant though he may be. And he stole the crown, my lady, do not forget that. He vowed to honour Mathilda’s queenship, then took it whilst she was not looking. How fits that with your notions of chivalry?”
“Better than my notion of you right now.”
He smiled, a dangerous curve of flesh.
Something hot and longing moved through her chest, right over her heart. She wanted him. Wanted that smile, directed at her, for her.
And how could that ever be? Lord Griffyn abovestairs, Prince Eustace below? The family her father had hated, the enemy her king had made her oath-bound to oppose. She could see the awful future shimmering right before her eyes, like a reflection in a pond.
Breaking her gaze, she retreated to the window. “I weary of these games. What do you want to know?”
“The defence. How many?”
“Some twelve in the garrison, mayhap two hundred from the surrounding villages and town.” Her voice caught in her throat. “Ignoring those who died.”
His voice was a low stroke through her pain. “They will not be forgotten.”
“By you?” She laughed bitterly.
“By you.” She lifted her head, surprised to find him so close again. So close she could hear him breathing. “Perhaps you would be surprised by how much respect I show towards loyalty.”
His square chin jutted out a bit, prompting a sensual consideration she squashed flat. His handsome arrogance was not to be one of the surprises.