The Conqueror

This was not happening. She could barely control herself. Her hands clenched into fists and her face flushed hot.

“And so,” Marcus was saying, “our king felt the need to protect his interests. Namely, Everoot.”

“You mean Endshire,” she spat back. “You threatened him. You threatened my king.”

“Lady Guinevere,” the abbot reprimanded.

“He did,” she said, suddenly calm. “You sold your loyalty for a wardship.”

Marcus bowed slightly. “You shall be worth it, my lady.”

“It is not decided yet, is it?” she demanded, spinning to John.

He shook his head sadly, but the abbot interrupted. “By your actions,” he proclaimed, “’twill be determined if such a thing is necessary.” Here he sniffed, as if doubting they would see much to convince them otherwise. “To mine own mind, ’tis becoming more and more clear that such governance is indeed required.”

Her ears started ringing, and the world slipped a little into grey. She leaned on John’s arm, trying to still the dizziness and panic flooding through her body.

“Gwyn,” John murmured encouragingly. It came softly through the ringing. “Mayhap you ought stay and speak with Lord Marcus.”

She ran her tongue over dry lips. He would ask questions she could not answer. Questions of where she’d gotten the cloak, of where she’d spent her night. With whom. Every answer revealed would doom Pagan. Every answer denied would seal Everoot’s fate.

“Aye, John. I will stay.”

Marcus smiled.

John left and the abbot glided behind a tapestry leading to another room, leaving them alone. The only sound was the abbot’s robes shurrushing over the flagstone floor in the distance, then silence. Marcus gestured to an elaborate chair by the hotly glowing brazier.

“Gwyn, sit.”

She debated arguing the point, and then admitted it would be pointless, fruitless, and idiotic. She sat down.

“We were all so worried.”

“Do stop, Marcus,” she snapped. “They have all gone, and there’s no one else to fool.”

He laughed. “You’ve a temper that will be the death of you one day.”

“Or you,” she quipped sourly.

His laughter slowly faded. He put one hand on the arm of her chair and bent down. “Where did you get the cloak?”

She turned her head to the side, away from him. “What does it matter?”

He braced his other hand on the other side of the chair, so she was sitting between his outstretched arms. He bent at the hip and leaned nearer her face. “Where did you get the cloak?”

“’Tis mine.”

“Not bloody likely,” he whispered very close to her lips.

She swallowed. “Marcus, how is this helpful?”

His lips pressed together so tightly they turned white. His usually aristocratic, aquiline face turned quite red.

“’Tisn’t,” he agreed. His breath skidded by her face, and the acrid, choking scent of wet leather and iron filled her nostrils. “What would be helpful, is for you to answer my questions.”

Gwyn started slipping off the chair, the sweat of her fear was building so thickly.

“I cannot see how my clothes are of any interest to a man,” she said, hiding the tremor in her voice as she retreated to the only style of communication that would work with Marcus: self-assured irreverence. He had no patience for weakness, no respect for fragility, and without one or the other from him this night, she was in dire trouble. “Still,” she went on, affecting idle disinterest, “I can send you my dressmaker to consult, seeing you are so enamoured of her work.”