The Conqueror
“What else do you want to know?” she asked in a cold, clipped tone.
“The seneschal.”
“That is my William. Of the Five Strands.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I recall you speaking of him. You were right.”
She looked halfway over her shoulder. “About what?”
“Five is about all I noted.”
She bit her lip to quiet the unconscionable twitch of her lips and looked down at the ground. Feign surrender, she counseled herself angrily. Do not actually do it.
“And his leaning?” Griffyn asked.
“Towards me, no doubt.” She paused. “Have you a thought for him, though, he is well endowed with a capacity for numbers, and bides his calling well.”
“I’ve no need of him. What of your knights—how many?”
“One score at the moment.”
“And what can I expect?”
She smiled thinly. “Resistance, to a man.”
His smile was rather broad. “To a man, you say?”
“What?”
“They are loyal to a man, you say?”
Her smile faltered. “Do you know otherwise?”
“I know they pledged their fealty to me.” He paused. “To a man.”
Her mouth fell wide. A fly could have buzzed in and out with nary a tense moment. “Jeravius? Fulk?”
“A tall, muscular fellow with a glint in his eye? Likes architecture, stone?”
“Jeravius,” she breathed.
“And your marshal?”
Her shoulders slumped. “Fulk.”
He considered her from head to toe. “They said ’twas for your safety I received their pledge.”
“My safety? For my safety?”
“They seemed to think ’twas in danger,” he mused, his eyes now travelling over the room’s threadbare furnishings.
“And I’m sure you were not troubled to put their minds at ease.”
His gaze swung back. “What makes you think you are not in danger?”
An involuntary shudder of fear shot through her but an angry glare, meant to burn away his arrogance, fell well short of the mark.
“Am I?” she managed to say.