The Conqueror

“Your mother.” Her green eyes held his, intent, concerned. “Did she try her best?”

Well, that was a novel thought. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I’m sure she did.”

“And sometimes,” she added after a moment, “it is just not enough, is it?”

“And sometimes,” he pulled her close, “it is.”

She nodded against his shoulder. That felt nice. This whole thing felt…unexpected. And what he’d been hoping for. He’d been about to get submerged beneath wanting the thing, but came to Gwyn instead. Came to her, for her, for whatever lay inside her. And she’d lifted him out of it. Pulled him back from the muck and the pit.

“Tell me of yours, Gwyn,” he said a moment later.

Her head shifted up a little. “My what?”

“Your anything.”

She gave a little laugh and propped herself on an elbow to peer at him. “I’m quite sure I told you all about myself, a year ago, on horseback. You’ll either be tired of hearing it, or have forgotten it entirely, which means it doesn’t bear repeating.”

He plucked a stray strand of hair from the corner of her mouth. “Marinated mushrooms and stained glass. And a bolt of a certain blue fabric, the shade of which you’ve never found.”

“Oh, Jésu, Griffyn,” she whispered.

He rolled her onto her side and tugged her backwards into him, so they formed a sma

ll, heated curve on the bed. “You remember wanting children when you were only a child, Gwyn, but I recall wanting you when I was barely a man.”

She snuggled into him more deeply. “You didn’t know me when you were a boy.”

“I dreamt of you.”

They lay so still for so long after that, she probably thought he was asleep when she finally whispered, “I wish I’d known to dream of someone like you, Griffyn. I’ve muddled through with such lesser dreams.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Griffyn was up on the walls with Harman, his architect and master mason, the next morning. The energetic Frenchman was gesturing to the nearest flanking tower.

“The problem, my lord, is that ’tis square. You see? No good!” He cut his hand through the air. “Round is better; no blind spots for your archers. And these walls,” he continued in his confident, gravelly voice. His bulbous nose shone red in the afternoon sun as he pointed to the parchment plans fluttering on the battlement wall before them. A rock positioned at each corner kept it from fluttering off. “You see, my lord? ’Tis a simple matter, non? To build another tower, just so, opposite.” He pointed again.

Griffyn nodded. A shot of cool air gusted over the walls. He brushed his hair back. “Another barbican.”

Harman nodded. “Another killing zone, non? The arrow slits, too, I will make them crosslets, so more flexible. Flare them out, here on the inner sides, such that your archers can sit within. Happy boys they will be. We build a walkway overtop, and voilà.” He turned his masonic squint to Griffyn and grinned. “A simple matter, non?”

“An expensive matter, non?”

Harman spread his hands and grinned. “Mais, bien sûr, my lord.”

“But, of course,” Griffyn echoed. He looked over the wall. A line of wagons was arriving, just cresting the hill and starting down the long, winding road from the south. A whole trainload of wagons. Just as he’d ordered. He smiled. Gwyn would want to know about this shipment immediately. He looked at the architect.

“Build it,” he ordered, and clattered down the stairs.

He found her in their outer chamber, sitting with a few of her ladies-in-waiting. He wasn’t surprised. She had women to spin and women to embroider, women to cook and women to fetch, women to distract his men and women to fall in the well, or at least stumble very near it, which might best be considered a particularly dramatic example of the former.

“My lady?” he said quietly, drawing near. The three fair maidens looked up, their faces flushed, then they giggled. Gwyn waved them off with a smile and started gathering the embroidery needles scattered across the table. “What can I do for you, Griffyn?”

“Why do you have so many?”

She looked at the needles, startled. “For embroidery, my lord. They break.”

“Women. Servants. Ladies-in-waiting.” He sat down beside her and plucked at the small patch of sewing Gwyn had been working on. “Why are there so many?”