The Conqueror

She dropped to her knees beside the prostrate form of her prince. A fact, was it? A fact that the uncrowned king might die on her watch come some night soon? A fact that the pillaging boy-king fitzEmpress could sweep o’er her isle with nary a flame of resistance? Not while she was in stead at the Nest. Not while blood pulsed through her heart. Not if she were truly her father’s daughter.

Not if she wanted this last chance to make up for past sins.

“Has he spoken?” Her lifted head shone in a wedge of light cast by the candle burning from Duncan’s hand.

“Not so’s it’d make any sense, my lady,” he replied, worried eyes on the would-be king. “None but to groan and reach for the heavens, as if He could see anyone down here.” A black look condemned the stone roof, but the gaoler lay even further above, his bootheels likely clacking even now over her father’s once-hallowed halls, ordering jongleurs to work their magick and pretty harps to play their spell in preparation for the victory feast.

While in the cellars lurked his undoing.

Gwyn placed Eustace’s head back on the rushes and took back the key from Duncan. Against every fibre of her being, she knew what she was bound to do. Surely King Stephen was aware Griffyn had taken back his home. The king would send word, instructions. She must hold on until then.

“Keep him well, and warm.” A look at her young servant brought a sigh to her lips. “And yourself as well, Duncan.”

“Ah, well, sure’s anythin’, I’m well warm,” he avowed, icicles forming on his nose with each exhalation. Tears welled up in her eyes: could anyone have more loyal, valorous men, be they the cowherd’s son stowed beneath a castle floor?

She patted Duncan’s shoulder, promised more blankets, and rubbed her hands together for warmth. Stephen may soon be ruling at the privilege of Henri, as some said would be the case come another month, but Eustace would rule at the call of his barons one day, lords who would rise up en masse when he stepped into the glorious light of day.

Until then, Gwyn thought, her head falling, he needs rest.

She turned and glided up the stairs, the darkness only a faint hindrance now, since she was not looking where she went anyhow. Her mind was turning on paths far distant from the shadowy cellar.

Mindless, she reached the top landing and flipped the door latch up. It swung open. She pushed aside the tapestry with a flick of her head.

The door swung shut behind her, the tapestry fell flat against the wall and, after bending over to free a skirt hem caught in her boot, she looked up into the eyes of Griffyn Sauvage.

Chapter Eight

“Good Lord!” she cried, falling back with her hand at her chest. “What are you doing here?”

He took a step into the room, a long stride that seemed to bring him right beside her, although he was still standing some ten feet away. He was divested of most of his armour by now. The soft shirt that lay beneath mail hauberk and padded gambeson clung to his muscular body. His hair was longer than it had been last year. Slightly damp from a bathe or dunk in the horse trough, it was plastered across his forehead and down the column of his strong neck. She backed up a step. He took one forward.

“I think I’ll ask you that same question.”

“I was just…looking about.” She fingered the edge of the tapestry that hid the passageway to the donjons, then snatched her hand away.

His gaze flicked to the tapestry before sliding over her body slowly, as if digesting something of uncertain flavour. “What did you find?”

“Nothing,” she said in a bright, cheerful tone. “I know I should not be in here. I’ll leave now—”

He kicked the door shut behind him. “Stay.”

“I should go.”

“You should do what I tell you.”

She felt weakly behind her for some support: a table, a wall, a weapon. “Did you tell me not to come in here?”

He smiled, a predatory, slow grin that sucked the moisture from her mouth. “Not yet.”

“If you told me to do so now, be assured I would do it with a right good will.”

“Oh, I am.” He ran his fingers along his jaw, drawing Gwyn’s eye to the square outline of his chin, and his mouth, which seemed intent on making her squirm as it continued its tormenting smile.

“Well, then, I’ll just—”

“Stay.”

She scrambled backwards again. She would be climbing out the window in a trice. He glanced to the right again, his gaze travelling over the tapestry. Her heart hammered. Given a moment more, he might move towards it.