The Conqueror

“Did your lackeys find my chemises to their liking?”

His gaze swung back blankly. “What?”

“My wardrobe.” She gestured to the space it used to occupy. “’Tis gone.”

“’Twas yours?”

“Whose else?” She wandered to the other side of the room, making a path away from the tapestry.

“Your father’s,” he suggested.

The old familiar pinch of pain tightened. “He loved that old wardrobe. Did you notice the way it was carved? Legend says ’twas the Conqueror’s, but Papa always scoffed at that. He just liked the skill of the craftsman.” She laughed a little, unsteadily. “But why am I telling you about my father? You know everything, is that not so? Enough to hate him for a hundred years.”

“I could hate him for a very long time,” he agreed quietly.

“Well, how pleasant for us.”

“But I don’t hate the wardrobe, Gwyn. If you want it, I’ll bring it back.”

“I cannot fathom how that would matter in the least.” She paced to another corner of the room, leading him ever away from the linen draped innocently over the wall. “I suppose you’ve arranged for the meal?”

“You could have come down and done that yourself,” he said. Well, true, she could have, but she’d been busy in the cellars. “You’ve not been sequestered.”

“And why not?”

He opened his hands. “To what end?”

Indeed. She lowered her buttocks to the ledge in front of the window and almost started crying. “Truth, Pagan, I don’t—”

“My name is Griffyn.”

She drew up, her tears stalled by this. “Last year, ’twas Pagan for me. And your men call you that.”

“Not my wife.”

“Oh.”

He watched her for what felt like a very long time, then said, “There are worse things than missing your father when he dies, Gwyn.”

This time the tears did push forth, burning the rims of her eyes. “Really? What?”

He lifted his hands a little, tilted up. “Not.”

She blew out an unsteady breath. “Well. I had not considered that.” They were quiet for a moment. “There’s no seed, Griffyn.”

He blinked. “Seed?”

“No seed. Barely enough for to sow this winter, and for certes not enough for the spring. We might make it through the winter. We might not.?

? He was watching her with a quiet regard, listening closely. “There’s nothing left to sell. Everoot has naught. I hope you did not come north expecting treasure or riches,” she added with a watery laugh. “The wars have been too long, the summer too dry. The leavings up north are barely worth it.”

“Those ‘leavings,’ lady, are my ancestral home,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, vibrating tone that would have warned off a bull. “I was born here.”

Their eyes locked. Griffyn watched her face shade through more emotions than a single moment ought contain. Then she took a deep breath. “Well,” she murmured. “I see we are at odds once again.”

“Aye.”

She threw up her hands. “When have we ever not been?”