The Conqueror

“So, I’m not to have a traitor’s death?” Alex asked, quite seriously.

Griffyn smiled a little. “No.”

“And you’re not turning me out?” he asked, his voice cracking.

Griffyn shook his head.

“Nor Guinevere?”

He shook again.

Alex exhaled. “I would think you would want the two of us far away. You’re keeping closest the ones who’ve betrayed you.”

“I’m keeping closest the ones who’ve made mistakes, and know it.” He looked at the chest. “I may need to be reminded of that from time to time.”

Alex laughed bitterly. “Of what? That people are flawed?”

He shook his head and got to his feet. “That redemption is possible.”

Gwyn was speaking with Fulk just outside the third-floor solar door. He’d been set as the guard outside her door, or rather he’d set himself there. The landing was dark, both from the late evening hour and the storm outside. Rain pelted the leaded windows.

“Lord Griffyn is not going to hurt me,” Gwyn had protested, half laughing, the first glimmer of unburdened amusement in her life in a long time.

“I know, milady.” Fulk straightened his tunic and cleared his throat. “’Tis just that, I’d rather stay close by.”

Gwyn smiled. “Fulk, if I were a better woman, I’d marry you.”

He hemmed and hawed and blushed. “Nothing to it, my lady. I’ve just been at protectin’ ye for so long, t’would feel strange to stop now.”

She leaned her shoulder against the doorway, unwilling to go inside and shut the door. And yet, she planned to stay up here until she heard from Griffyn, one way or another. Send her to a nunnery, to Marcus, to plead her case with Henri fitzEmpress. Whatever he wanted, she would do, if it meant being outlawed to Palestine. But for now, the storm outside was kicking up, things were dark, and she didn’t want to close herself up in the room just yet.

“I think I know what Papa wanted, Fulk. I think he wanted Griffyn to have the chest.”

“Well, sure he did.”

She looked at him as if he’d just told her he was studying to be an alchemist. “Why, Fulk. Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“I had no idea ye were wondering about it,” he retorted with an identical level of indignant surprise. “I had no idea ye thought ’twas anything but a chest.”

“I didn’t, really. Don’t. And now Marcus has it. Whatever it is.”

Fulk gruffed. “I wouldn’t worry much, my lady. Pagan’ll see everything he needs is brought home again.”

She opened her mouth to say more, then shook her head. “Whatever was, doesn’t matter anymore. We will simply wait and see what tomorrow brings.”

“Aye, milady.”

She leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, and Fulk leaned his back against the wall. They stared at the far window. The storm was crashing and kicking at the walls, much like that night a year back, when she’d fallen into love with Griffyn at the storm-tossed inn.

“Yes, don’t you see?” she said thoughtfully. “‘Wud. Guh. Saw.’ I thought it meant something about ‘giving.’ Giving the chest, of course. It must be. ‘Griffyn Sauvage.’ ‘Give Sauvage.’” She paused. “I don’t quite understand the ‘wud,’ of course.”

“Wed.”

Gwyn’s head turned slowly. “What?”

“‘Wed Griffyn Sauvage.’”

Chapter Twenty-Nine