Still, Griffyn took note of the belligerent thrust of his chin. He rubbed his cheek thoughtfully, then said in a casual tone, “I’ve need of a stout man to help oversee the rebuilding of the defences. ’Tis no small job.”
He could almost feel the young man’s eagerness pressing forward. He waited, and Jeravius finally burst out with, “If you will, my lord,
I would speak freely about the Nest.”
“Please.”
“The eastern wall is tunneled under ferociously, and tilts like a fish trap in winter. And for ten years now, the west wall has been tumbling into disrepair—I can’t believe you didn’t start your assault there. As far as the keep goes, well—”
He trailed off, his face paling, but Griffyn nodded. “That is just the sort of enthusiasm I need.”
“My lord?”
“As I said, I am in need of a man. To learn from the masons I am bringing in, to assist in command of the labourers in the work. Happens I might just have found him.”
Jerv took a step forward and almost tripped over the bench that was there. “Are you in earnest, my lord?”
“For certes. How long have you been a lover of stone?”
“Some long time,” Jerv answered eagerly. “I suppose when I turned seven and my father took me to Westminster, then I knew for certes. But I could ne’er…. I am a knight. Myfather paid well for me to earn that station, to be fostered and tutored by Lord Ionnes. I am a soldier, my lord, meant for other things than architecture. Good things,” he added, a trifle vehemently.
Griffyn nodded. “My uncle also found great pleasure in the labour of designing and repairing castles. He was the architect for the French king and the Duke of Normandy in building several castles. They’ve come to be regarded as masterful works, strong in defence but pleasing to the eye. He built the castle at Côte sur Seine.”
Jerv’s eyes widened. “Côte sur Seine?” he repeated. “’Tis said to be a wonder.”
“I think so,” Griffyn said simply. “Would you like to meet with the mason, when he arrives?” he asked, waiting for the buoyant enthusiasm he sensed in the young knight to burst forth. It may not be tonight, nor come another week, but it would come, and when it did, he would tap it and shape it so it would never threaten his home again.
A boyish grin spread across Jeravius’s face. “If ’tis your will, my lord, I should like it more than anything.” He thrust out his hand.
Griffyn reached out and clasped it. Their hands encircled each other’s forearm, wary, appraising, but with the glimmer of something new: respect.
“Lady Gwyn will be mightily pleased to see the repair begun, my lord,” Jeravius added. “She has oft spoken of it, but with so little money, and so few to hand….” He shrugged.
“And those hands otherwise occupied, it has been put off.”
“Time and again, my lord. For good cause, of course,” he added hurriedly, and cast a wary glance towards the dais.
Griffyn’s head cocked to the side to take in Guinevere’s stiff pose. My, but she was having fun. Her spine was stretched straight, her eyes glaring blankly across the room. She could have been in the front row of the chapel at midnight for all the expression she showed.
The only hint of connection to the room around her was her hand, idly stroking the sleek head of Griffyn’s aged hound, Renegade. The old dog had edged away from Edmund and sat down by a sweeter scent.
“But then, there have been so many good causes,” Jeravius said, “and my lady after them all.”
The words were so softly spoken, Griffyn thought perhaps he was not meant to hear. He looked over to find an affectionate, devoted smile on Jeravius’s face. Why, he loved her. They all did. Exactly as she had said.
Jeravius was turning back to him, arranging his face into the semblance of neutrality. Griffyn nodded back, allowing the young knight the privilege of his disdain. Soon enough he’d have Jeravius and all the others, even the glowering Fulk, as closely bound to him as a sword to its scabbard.
And, if needed, with a more deadly clasp, too.
Chapter Ten
Gwyn had viewed the whole encounter, from Griffyn’s nonchalant approach, to the ensuing conversation, to Jerv’s animated leap from the bench and the clasping of wrists.
Another conquest, she thought sourly. The stiff, echoing room she had envisioned was not to be. Revelers were everywhere, householders, villagers, knights and soldiers all sat with Pagan’s men and exchanged polite words. No, more than “polite.” The room felt distinctly…jovial.
Had they forgotten ’twas but a moonrise ago they had been at war with these men? Apparently so, for they talked happily with Pagan’s men, sharing ale and laughs, and secrets most likely too. She scowled.
Pagan stood in quiet conversation with Jerv, but still drew looks from around the room. He wore a close-cut tunic which revealed wide shoulders and a body plated with hard muscle and sinew. The bejeweled brooch at his shoulder flashed green and red fire, and her unwilling eye was drawn to the way the dark hose hugged his muscular thighs. Firelight highlighted the slants of his cheekbones and a wide, square chin, and from this distance, the scar was a small slash across the noble lines of his face. He was every inch the triumphant warrior. Which made her his plunder.