The Conqueror

He rose, gave her a kiss, and sat back down to wrangle on the other knee-high leather boot. “Your yearning is lessened?”

“No!”

He looked up slowly, several tendrils of dark hair curling just past his temples and cheekbones. She suddenly realised she had to cut his hair. That was her job now.

“Good,” he said slowly. “Are you well, Gwyn? You’re not—” His face suddenly lit up. He reached out and touched her wrist. “You don’t think you’re with child a’ready, do you?”

“No!” she almost shouted.

He drew back, peering at her as if she’d sprouted a growth on her forehead. “Well, Gwyn. I cannot fathom the mood possessing you. I must go. If you’re worried about me and the fair maidens of Ipsile-upon-Tyne—”

“No!”

He looked over flatly. “’Twas but a jest. Would you please stop shouting at me?”

She nodded and fingered the tapestry, then snatched her hand away. “’Tis just, it’s so soon,” she finished lamely.

“I will be back.” He got his spur buckled on and rose. “We will be wed, and we shall go to Ipsile-upon-Tyne and any other northern town you develop a sudden interest in. We’ve over two weeks until the wedding, Gwyn. I will be back in two days.” He planted a swift kiss on her lips.

“Please don’t go,” she said again, in a whisper, but it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d shouted, because he’d already left the room.

Chapter Seventeen

The wooden sign swinging in the darkness outside the tavern had a red cock on it, or at least a cock, rutted, chipped, and pockmarked such that it might have once been red.

Fulk snorted. “I doubt anyone ever went to the effort of painting it, my lord. Mayhap ’tis blood, and they just stuck it up there anyhow.”

“That I’d believe,” said Griffyn in fervent agreement.

They stood outside the Red Cock Tavern, pondering not only the wisdom of entering, but the wisdom of the man who would direct them there. Its thin walls listed precariously to the right. It was huddled between two other establishments of much the same ilk, and boasting much the same clientele. Fulk and he stood in an ice-encrusted puddle and stared at the slime-encrusted door.

“I’ve been in worse,” Fulk announced.

“So have I,” Griffyn said, just as firmly.

And they had, both of them, much worse. But neither wanted to go in here.

The night was cold and dark, and the mists were building. White ribboned ghosts swirled about their ankles like cats. The alleyway was narrow, and above them, the three-storey buildings lurched inwards, like old women over a cauldron. From between the shuttered windows of the tavern, small bright candles shone. A loud shout of laughter burst out, then someone opened the door and stumbled out. The door slammed shut. Griffyn looked at Fulk.

“At least they’re laughin’,” said Fulk grimly.

“Aye, but about what?”

They went inside. The tavern was mostly open space, filled with men in various stages of drunkenness. Seven or eight tables sat at odd angles across the crowded floor, and a long counter stretched along the length of the back wall. It was manned by two bartenders and strewn with drunk men, mugs of ale, and women covered in rouge and dilapatory pastes.

“Now there’s paint,” Fulk said, gazing reverently and solemnly at the buxom women.

Griffyn snorted. “Aye.”

It was an unruly, festive crowd. They were packed together like cows, loud like cows, and stinking like cows.

“And cow piss,” muttered Fulk as they crossed the threshold.

The men closest turned to regard them sullenly. In response to eighteen years of a civil war on the border between two hostile nations, the men of Ipsile had developed a fierce sense of community. They looked out for their own. Griffyn and Fulk were unknown quantities, and as such, treated with a polite regard that bordered just north of hostility. Griffyn did not care to enlighten them on the fact he was actually now their lord.

Fulk and he exchanged glances, then Griffyn shouldered his way towards an empty table he’d spotted, hoping Fulk was following behind. He glanced over his shoulder.

He wasn’t. Fulk had detoured to the bar, and was staring open-mouthed at the cleavage of one of the prostitutes, ignoring the bartender standing in front of him. Griffyn sighed and pushed onwards to the table.