The Conqueror

He could see Alex nod out of the corner of his eye. “There are three keys, each set inside the others. Yours is the iron one, the outer key.”

“And inside?”

“A steel key, and a small gold one at the centre.”

Griffyn turned his head slowly. “Why haven’t you told me this before?”

Alex looked over too, and lifted his eyebrows. “I didn’t know you were looking. You almost took my head off once, for even suggesting it.” He paused. “Why didn’t you get me?”

Griffyn shrugged. “I wanted to be alone.”

“I see. Why, of a sudden?”

He shrugged again. “Lady Gwyn spoke of a dream, things her father said.”

“You trust Ionnes de l’Ami and not your own father?”

Griffyn leaned his shoulder against a merlon and kicked one foot in front of the other, toe resting on the stone walkway. “I don’t trust anyone, Alex, except you. For certes not either of the men who were ruined by it.”

Alex was quiet for a minute. “Greed does motivate men, Griffyn,” he said quietly. “But so do other things.”

Griffyn looked out over the valley of the Nest. Mist was glistening off the russet and flaming gold leaves of the majestic oak tree that grew in the exact centre of the valley floor. Its leafy crown marked the hub of almost every castle event of the year. Hallmote, fairs, and summer courts were held there. Bonfires burned near its arching branches during the old pagan rituals his father had never seen fit to forbid. In the distance, men were trudging off to the fields. A faint scent of the sea slipped under the nearer smells of hay and wet stone and leather.

He rested his palms on the knobbly stone battlement wall. A wife could motivate a man, he supposed. Or a family.

“Stephen is going to sign a treaty with Henri,” was what he said, though.

Alex paused, adjusting to the new course of their conversation. “I thought I saw another messenger come early this morn. So, Stephen will surrender.”

“A few weeks at most.”

“Bien. The war will end.”

Griffyn ran his hand over his jaw. Stubble was already beginning to roughen the surface he’d shaved clean for the feast. “In most of England, maybe. I still have to tell Guinevere.”

Alex gave an obligatory laugh, and Griffyn looked over.

“You needn’t indulge me as regards Guinevere, Alex. I know you don’t like her.”

“’Tisn’t that, Pagan. As far as I can see, she is brave and stalwart, commendable as a lady and a leader. ’Tisn’t that I don’t like her. I don’t trust her.”

Griffyn was quiet a moment, then gestured to the wall. “Aubrey the Mason is coming. He and his men will be here by the Sabbath.”

Alex smiled. “The walls will be rebuilt by Yule—”

“—the castle by Easter,” he finished with grim satisfaction, then looked over Alex’s shoulder. Guinevere was coming through the misty morning. She was smiling. At him. The tight centre of his chest lightened a little. Still pleased, but not so savage or furious.

“Better than even my father had done.”

Guinevere woke up and sat in the bed, taking a layer of furs with her. The room was empty, but a fire burned in the brazier. It was wonderfully chilly. It was also rather late in the morning, judging by the brightness of the pearly light. And yet, if so, why so grey? She shook her head, trying to clear it.

“My lady?”

Mary, her serving maid, was laying a bundle of wood by the brazier. Wood. They needed a fire. It was cool enough to need a fire. She smiled.

“Would you want help dressing?”

Gwyn shook her head.