The Conqueror
“You speak truly, my lord Endshire,” he droned. “And well do we appreciate your concern. Without you, we might ne’er have known to watch for the lady.”
“You sent word that I was missing?” she cried, looking back at Marcus.
He bent his head in a humble nod. “I thought perhaps you might come here, after you left London so swiftly last night.”
“I left swiftly,” Gwyn gasped, unable to believe this mummery he was performing, “because you threatened to wed me against my will!”
“I did but explore the possibility with you, my lady. That you took offence was not my intention, nor my desire.”
“Your desire? You explored it? Why, you threatened me!”
“I explained to you the value of such a union.”
“You sent troops to the Nest—”
“For your defence.”
“—and said if I did not wed you—”
“Then you at least would have some protection from the forces arraying against you,” he finished smoothly. “My men are there for the defence of Everoot. These are dangerous times, Gwyn,” he went on, his face becoming more serious as he dropped the use of her title and affected intimate concern, “and with your father so recently dead, there are those who conspire against the House of Everoot.”
“Indeed! With you among the worst!”
She turned to John, but his look of concern had deepened into one of unease. She spun to the abbot, but his hands were pushed up the sleeves of his robe and he was nodding his shiny head pompously. Gwyn wanted to fly into a rage.
“My lady,” John interjected quietly. He took up her hand again, kindness and worry in his look. “You need to be cleaned up.”
She stared numbly at the far wall, reality hitting her. They did not believe her. They thought ’twas as Marcus had said—either that, or it was more convenient to believe such. They thought she had fled like a small, impetuous child, unable to know her own mind nor to think clearly. They thought her…incapable.
She turned numbly and let John’s gentle hand guide her to the door.
“Where did you get the cloak, my lady?”
Marcus’s voice slid up her back like a cold hand. Her foot paused on its way to the ground, then she hurried forwards, pulling on John’s arm, trying to get out of the room before Marcus could ask his dangerous question again.
“My lady, where did you get the woollen cloak?”
“John,” she turned pleadingly to her old friend, “perhaps I am a bit turned in my head.” She swallowed the bilious rancor that accompanied pretending to be witless, and peered into his concerned eyes. “It has been a harrowing night, and I would rest now.”
“Stay, lady,” Marcus ordered quietly. “I would speak with you a while longer.”
/> “John,” she pleaded, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice.
Marcus laid a hand on her arm. “Wait.”
Gwyn threw him off with a jerk. She was dangerously close to flying into that rage, and it would be the worst possible thing. Assaulting Marcus with bared teeth would hardly prove her a reasonable, capable adult.
She and Marcus stared at one another, eyes glittering, shoulders squared.
“My lady,” interjected the abbot into the silent showdown. “Lord Endshire has not only brought word that you were in danger, for which you should give thanks rather than a critique of our Lord’s grace.” Here he frowned firmly. “But he also brings word that our lord king is considering giving your wardship to Lord Endshire, to ensure protection for you and your estates.”
Her mouth dropped open. “My king would not do that!” she cried. She wheeled to John. “Stephen made a promise to Papa! He promised he would not…he would not—” She tossed a helpless look over her shoulder at Marcus. “Give me to anyone without my consent!”
“King Stephen has other subjects than you, Lady Guinevere,” Marcus observed.
The abbot sniffed. “This childish selfishness bodes ill.”
Marcus glanced at the abbot, then took a sip of wine before continuing as if the churchman had not spoken. “Subjects who must be kept happy, as must you, of course.” He smiled. “I will do my best.”