The Conqueror

She was still half a mile from Endly Hall when she was met by three gap-toothed Endshire scouts. They recognised her on sight, of course, but they still rode close by, as if suspicious of her motives, trotting so close to Windstalker he rolled his eyes. But Gwyn knew it was simply an excuse to let their greedy eyes linger on her body, or their thighs to brush against hers.

Would that I could loose Griffyn on these wretches. He would learn them their error, she thought grimly, not realising she was already thinking of Griffyn as her protector.

They drew near Endly Hall. It was a square, embattled affair, with a crenellated curtain wall patchworked in an approximate oval around its bailey. The squat, square keep hunkered at its centre. Two watch towers stood sentry, one facing east, one south, each rising another twenty or so feet above the wall, both slit with dark arrow loops.

On this bright sunny morning, small pricks of light moved along the curtain walls, marking the helms of armed sentries. Sable-black Endshire pennants snapped in the brisk autumn breeze, hung at intervals along the wall’s length, and double-hung on either side of the east-tower gatehouse. Gwyn swallowed a lump as they passed under its jagged shadows.

Rusty iron winches screamed as the chains were lowered, dropping the draw to allow entry. It fell with a thundering blast. Mud splattered everywhere. Gwyn simmered as she wiped clods of muck from her cloak and, snapping her wrist, flicked them back to the ground. Ever was Marcus the purveyor of filth.

She was escorted to him at once. He was engaged in sword practice with one of his men. Around them grouped ten or so other soldiers, who shouted and hooted in obvious glee. Marcus and his knight circled one another with wooden blades, shields slung on their left forearms. The knight made a sudden thrusting motion. Marcus spun, continued around and swiped his sword in a low, slashing sweep. The blunted wooden edge smashed into the side of his opponent’s right knee. The knight crumpled to the ground, hands clamped around his leg, head thrown back and eyes screwed shut in silent, obvious pain.

Marcus shoved off the mail hood covering his head and tossed his blade at the man’s feet. “Everywhere, Richard. You’ve got to be looking everywhere.”

Eyes still squeezed tight, the knight nodded. The others helped him to his feet. Someone caught sight of Guinevere, and gestured to Marcus. He turned.

His eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. Then he started forward, leaving faint bootprints in the damp dirt, tugging off his gloves as he came.

“Guinevere, what an unexpected pleasure. I faintly recall you saying something about, what was it? Something about ‘never darkening your fetid door…’” He smiled apologetically. “I forget the rest.”

“‘Again.’”

“That was it.” Cupping both thick leather gloves in one hand, he used them to wipe the sweat off his forehead. “So, is my door not so fetid, or has some other change been wrought?”

“Griffyn Sauvage has taken the Nest.”

“I know.” He lowered his gloves slowly. “And you?”

“We’re betrothed.”

He seemed to digest this, gaze on the dirt. She lowered her voice. “May we speak somewhere?”

His hawk-like eyes ratcheted back up. Despite the autumn chill, a trickle of sweat dripped into the gully between Gwyn’s breasts. No matter how long they trained, his knights could never compete with their lord in the ability to perceive, compute, and adjust. Marcus was like an abacus, swiftly adding and subtracting the merits and weaknesses of his opponents, then crushing them beneath his deadly calculations.

He watched her a moment, then gestured to the keep. Servants eyed them as they passed, but kept their faces averted. The thump of their footsteps over cobbles and through rushes seemed to tap out the thundering of her heart. What sort of pact was she about to make?

They sat in a darkened corner of the great hall, the room being filled with nothing but darkened corners and cobwebs and sharp-ribbed canines. Marcus ordered a plate of food, then sent the servants from the room.

“What news have you of the south, Marcus?” she asked as soon as the room was empty. “I know nothing these last days. How do we stand?”

Marcus paused in chewing on a crust of bread. “You came all this way for a spot of news?” He smiled briefly. “Tell me, Gwynnie, by ‘we,’ do you mean Stephen?”

“I mean we who have pledged ourselves to the king,” she snapped.

“Well, here is how ‘we’ stand, Gwyn: ’tis only a matter of time before Henri fitzEmpress sits on the throne. All the barons are turning to him.”

“You mean you are turning,” she retorted bitterly.

“I haven’t. Yet.”

“No. Not yet.” Up in the north, men like Marcus had time to test the winds before committing themselves.

He shrugged. “’Tis but a matter of time until the country is Henri’s.”

“Only if men like you give it to him.”

He sent her a level glance, then carved off a slice of cheese with a paring knife. “Your fealty is, as ever, in bold display, Gwyn, but it serves no purpose.”

She clenched her jaw. “It serves some small purpose,” she said through gritted teeth,