The Conqueror
Guinevere sat at the edge of the dais, encircled by children. She looked to be telling a story. He smiled faintly. The children sat, their little red lips parted in anticipation, rapt as they watched her bright face and slender hands move, spinning out a tale.
Henri’s voice broke in. “You’ve made a good start here, Pagan. The people are happy, and well fed, and that will go a long way.”
“That’s been Guinevere’s doing.”
“Maybe. Everoot will be a good bulwark here in the north.” Henri turned back and said bluntly, “There’s rumours, Pagan.”
Griffyn had known it would come. “About what?” he said.
Henri watched him over the rim of his pewter wine cup, reflecting ice-blue eyes on the metal. “Treasure.”
Griffyn nodded slowly and met Henri’s shrewd gaze. “My liege, know this: everything you need to know, you will know. Everything due you, you will have. Everoot stands true.”
Henri considered him for a long minute, evidently weighing whether to allow the deflection, when treasure might be at stake. But something stayed him.
Perhaps a covert knowledge, passed down from a grandfather who had once given up rich Angevin lands to marry a witch and become King of Jerusalem. Perhaps a fringe sense of awareness, the sort that had him already talking about granting the Knights Templar rich lands throughout England.
Or perhaps it was the realisation that a treasure lying buried in the ground was not half as valuable as the treasure of a strong alliance. Whatever it was, Henri nodded.
“Aye. Everoot will stand true. I know that. Or at least,” he lifted his cup again, “you will.”
Griffyn bent his head. “My lord.”
Later that night, he sat on the bed and watched Guinevere’s sated, sleeping body stretched out on the furs beside him. No nightmares, no restless tossing. Just a faint smile crossing her face for a brief moment as she dreamed. If he had any part in giving her that, that was enough.
No, he admitted a moment later. Not quite enough. He tugged the furs up by her shoulders and turned away. He had an obligation to at least read through the documents inside the Guinevere chest.
He gathered the scrolls together and sat on the edge of their bed, reading, while Gwyn slept by his side. He bent over them, scouring the Latin and Hebrew with his rusty memory, the candlelight flaming bright by his face. He quickly realised not all of the papers were maps. One, in fact, appeared to be instructions.
He bent further, his lips moving slowly, silently, for an hour or more. He was so intent on translation, in fact, that when the truth of the words sprang clear, he almost fell off the bed in amazement. Then he burst out laughing.
Gwyn lifted her head. “Griffyn?” she asked, her voice soft and sleepy.
“Do you know?”
“Know what?”
Griffyn gestured to the papers. “What I’m supposed to do with it?”
“The treasure?” She pushed herself onto her elbows. The sheets had pressed small pink creases onto her cheeks. “Alex said that only the Heirs know, the Guardians.”
“I may be the Heir, but I haven’t been
a true Guardian. But now,” he gestured again to the paper, “now, to know this? Yes. I choose the burden. I will become a Guardian.”
Gwyn looked away. He could only see the top of her head. She lifted her hand to her chest, fingers still wrapped around the sheet.
“Gwyn?”
“You will be leaving, then. I’ll see to your things first thing in the morning.”
He looked at her in surprise. “Why?”
One long, slender finger loosed from the sheets to point at the documents and maps strewn across the bed. “You have to find those, is that it? You must find the Hallows.”
He smiled faintly. “Not quite.”
She squinted at him. He looked really quite pleased. He was reading those papers, and he looked pleased. She pushed herself up to sit. “What do you mean?”