The Conqueror

A predatory smile edged up his lips. “You bent once. For me.”

She almost died of shame. Choking on a horrified gasp, she drew her herself up. “You met me for one night, Pagan. Do not confuse that with knowing me.”

His upper lip almost curled in derision. “I know you.”

“You know nothing. You are a child playing at being a man. Warriors all, fighting for lands your women and children do not want, leaving a legacy of scorched earth and fatherless children behind. Listen, Pagan, whilst I explain my position: I do not intend to grovel at your heels, begging for any small mercy that might allow me to lift my skirts when I cross the muck in the stable yard. This is my home too.”

“’Twould be a mercy indeed to lift your skirts elsewise, when you’re in a fury like this.”

“Then, my lord, expect to see me in such a fury every night henceforth, and beg that you show me no mercy.”

Pagan was on the move, striding through the filtered sunlight of the room, until he towered above her. His voice reached down and jerked her head up. His jaw was locked, his eyes ice-grey, the animal rage in him barely constrained, and then she knew true fear.

“Ponder this, de l’Ami spawn,” he rasped. “My mercy is the only thing that can save you now.” Her face was inches from his, his chest even closer, throbbing heat onto her like a blanket. “Cross me and you’ll be pleading for mercy and then some come the morn. As will every other soul inhabiting this castle.”

He spun on his heel, grabbed his blades, and was gone, the door crashing shut behind him. She stood in the middle of the room, reeling. Good God, everyone in the castle? Settle her bones into his reign? With the heir to the throne belowstairs?

And what would happen if he ever discovered that piece of the loyalty he so avowed? She had a brief vision of her neck in a noose, swinging from a barren tree branch.

“My lady?” said a voice from the hall a long time later. The door inched open a notch and an unfamiliar brown-mopped head poked in. “My lord wishes to have the keys to the castle,” he said hesitantly, nodding towards the huge iron key ring affixed to her girdle. She looked down helplessly. “And he would see you in the hall come Vespers.”

“What of my prayers?” she asked in a shaky voice, thinking that now, of all times, she needed a visit to her confessor.

A worried look met this, as if the boy read her mind. “My lady, if you please, he’s said he’ll see to that himself.”

She fell back to the bed, her hand at her pounding chest.

Chapter Six

Griffyn barreled down the winding staircase like a bull in a headlong rush. Buckling his belt as he went, he landed on the bottom step and crashed into the busy great hall. Servants and soldiers and varlets hurried here and there, dodging between the trestle tables, tapestries, and benches scattered everywhere as the new cleared out the old.

Raashid, a middle-aged Muslim, long in Griffyn’s employ as estate steward, was in conference with the balding seneschal William in a far corner. Sauvage knights were trolling in and out, grabbing food from passing trays and eyeing the women who scurried to and fro. Chaotic and disconnected as they were, all occupants in the great hall sputtered to a halt as Griffyn plowed into the mayhem.

“And the streams have gone dry, but even so, earlier this summer we…” William of the Five Strand’s tinny voice drifted off from his accounting of the demesne manor’s income. He turned and stared at the new, apparently enraged, lord of Everoot.

Griffyn looked at Raashid, met his eye, and angled his head towards William of the Five Strands in silent query. Raashid smiled and nodded, and Griffyn turned away, confident the Muslim could manage one aging steward, however reticent he was to say anything terribly relevant about the estates they had just conquered. Raashid had more years of experience under his robe than a whore had customers and an almost terrifying knack for numbers. He accompanied Griffyn everywhere, no one knew where he came from, and neither Griffyn nor Raashid ever said.

Raashid nodded and turned back to William with a wide smile on his handsome, dark face. “Suppose you tell me of the estate’s monetary reserves, rather than its fish runs, Master William?”

Griffyn started for the door, intending to find Alex, and almost trod into Edmund, his earnest squire, who’d already watered and walked Noir, and was now banging along at Griffyn’s heels. He paused and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Lady Guinevere is your task, Edmund.” The boy nodded eagerly. The perils of youth. “She is not to stay secreted in that room,” he explained grimly. “She comes down to sign the betrothal papers. She comes down for the meal. If she wishes, she may plan it. If she wishes, she may mortar the herbs herself, but she will come down. See to it, Edmund.”

“My lord,” Edmund nodded. “And should she want confession?” he added, because everyone usually did, upon a surrender. Even at thirteen Edmund knew that. There was always so much guilt to absolve. “Because,” the boy was saying, “the chapel priest is down in the village, and—”

“I’ll take care of that. Make sure she’s down here by Vespers.”

“Aye, my lord.”

He started to turn away, then stopped. “Lady Guinevere has the keys to the castle.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“Get them.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Alex stood in the bailey, in the gusts of hot sun, long after the others had gone inside, letting heat blow over him like the wind. Waiting.