The Conqueror

Inside the padlocked cellar door, Duncan stood at the ready, short sword in hand, sweat trickling down his temples, prepared to be killed in the service of his lady. Prince Eustace lay dying behind him, but this had never been about a young prince he barely knew. ’Twas always about good lady Gwyn and her radiant smile.

Truth, she’d saved him and his little sister when the rebels tried to burn all of England to the ground. Papa and Mamma had roasted like cinders, but he’d hied it straight to Everoot, tugging Alice alongside, tripping and crying under the cover of a tattered cloak, pinched from a solider too drunk to realise. Papa had mentioned good Lady Gwyn, and right he’d been. She’d taken them in without a second word, given them food and a place, from now until they died, she’d promised, and she would, too.

The sounds of muted voices drifted away, and Duncan lowered his sword, his heart hammering. He sat down next to his charge, hoping Lady Gwyn would come soon and tell him what was happening abovestairs. Truth, he’d never expected to have a long life, but not until he came to Lady Gwyn had he expected to have such an exciting one.

Griffyn came upstairs from the cellars into the great hall and was met immediately by William of York, as dour and nervous as ever. “My lord. Another messenger.”

Griffyn looked over. A middle-aged, muscular messenger sat at a table, but rose quickly at Griffyn’s arrival.

“My lord,” he said, smiling.

Griffyn returned the grin. “Ralph,” he said warmly, grasping the arm of one of Henri’s trusted messengers. Griffyn had used him himself a few times, with Henri’s leave, on the most sensitive missions.

“What news?” he asked, releasing Ralph’s arm. “Why are you two hundred miles north of Henri? Have you been fed?”

He glanced over Ralph’s head and nodded to William of York, who nodded to a servant, who hurried to the passage of screens that comprised the hallway to the kitchens. Around the hall, off-duty knights and soldiers rested or talked or played games of dice. A few women, distaffs in hand, sat near the fire in a small, bright cluster, their chatter a low, pleasant hum.

Ralph pulled a document from the leather pouch at his hip. “The fitzEmpress is coming to Everoot.”

“I know.” Griffyn scann

ed the scrolled document. “A few weeks. Right after the treaty.”

“No. Now. He’ll be here in a day.”

Griffyn looked up swiftly. “What? Why?”

Ralph’s eyes met his. “He saw fit to come here first.”

“Ahh.” Griffyn nodded, utterly perplexed. He scanned the parchment again, then looked between the parchment and the scene outside of the window. It had grown colder. Billowing clouds were piling up on the horizon.

“Why?”

“Our lord Henri has ever done what he wanted to do.”

“Indeed. But Ralph,” Griffyn said quietly, “why?”

The messenger’s eyes shifted away. “Henri’s always been fond of you.”

“Not that fond,” Griffyn said grimly. “Not enough to postpone a treaty that hands him the country.” He glanced at the paper again.

“A messenger from fitzMiles did arrive two days ago,” Ralph admitted reluctantly.

Griffyn nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “But what has that to do with me?”

“Fulk, what do you know of Eustace?” Gwyn asked as casually as possible. The world was a blanket of grey, pearly mist this morning, bouncing their voices back like they were in a cave.

Fulk looked over in confusion. “Eustace?”

“The prince. As a man, I mean. His behaviours and such.”

She stood next to her marshal, anxiety working to tighten her stomach into a churning, knotted mess below her hard, thundering heart. Ever since she’d risen this morning, there’d been the feel of impending doom. Perhaps it was simply the nightmares: they always made her feel sick to her stomach and bristly the following day.

But in her heart, she knew this was different. It was impending doom.

They stood near the tilting yards where the squires and knights trained. It was too early for many to be out at their jobs yet. Even Fulk, taskmaster that he was, did not require his men to train before they’d had a crust of bread and a mug of ale, so it was just Fulk and her, and one lone fourteen-year-old, desperate to be knighted, who whooped and hollered around the quintain, then spurred towards it with his lance. He speared the proper end, then got knocked violently in the back of the skull as it swung around before he’d galloped away. This was the third time that had happened in the five minutes Gwyn had been standing here.

Fulk, almost religiously dedicated to the meal she’d carried out for him, groaned and set the plate down on a round of wood.