by Kris Kennedy
“When?” he asked swiftly.
“August.”
“August.” Jerv’s gaze shot ceiling-ward. “That was after Stephen was thrown from his horse. After the siege and truce at Wallingford…The truce.” His words started running together. “Ipswich was taken in August, then Eustace died, and…” His words trailed off. He looked down slowly. “Gwynnie, what are you caught up in?”
“I cannot say.”
“Will not.”
“Fine. Will not.” She looked up at the tumbled-down battlement walls, the ones Griffyn had given to Jerv to restore to greatness. Jerv had his path, his life’s love. She gave a slightly bitter smile. “’Tis simple for you, Jerv. You have what you want. ’Tis a simple matter to think everything bad is over now.”
He’d been her friend since childhood, but he was looking at her now like she was a stranger. One who’d spit in his tankard of ale. “I am not a child, Gwyn,” he said coldly.
“Nor am I. I am holding to an oath, and ’tis eating me up.”
Jerv raked his fingers through his hair. “If your oath is about keeping Stephen in power, prolonging this god-awful war, then it has nothing to do with the world we live in anymore. Nothing of goodness, or right. The war is over, Gwyn. Let it go.”
“You think I want more war? You think I want more people to die, more lives to end?”
“You want something, else you wouldn’t be doing whatever you’re doing now.”
“I want—. I want—.” He looked disgusted. She started shaking with anger. “I do not recall being offered a choice, Jerv: ‘Would you like to keep to your vow?’” she said in a sing-song, querying tone. “‘Is it quite convenient to honour your oaths?’ ‘Has it grown in the least bit inconvenient? Do you regret anything you said or did, for we can surely forget the whole matter.’” She leaned forward and said in a furious, desperate whisper, her voice breaking, “I regret nigh on everything, Jerv. What matters that? Being sorry is never enough.”
He stared a moment, then turned on his heel. He paused at the stable door and looked back. “Your father was wrong, Gwyn.”
Her hand fluttered to her heart. “Papa? Wh-what are you talking about?”
“It was an accident. He should have forgiven you. But this? Whatever you’re about to do? It will not make that right.” He turned and stalked off.
Gwyn stood for a long time, staring at the stable door, hand at her chest. Jerv was wrong, completely wrong.
This had nothing to do with the guilt that crushed her spirit. Nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that her father had never forgiven her for killing his son and then his wife. It was completely unrelated to her desperate search for a way to prove herself worthy, to absolve herself of the sins of the past, and she, with no new penances to perform.
It was this or her heart would die.
She was still half a mile from Endly Hall when she was met by three gap-toothed Endshire scouts. They recognised her on sight, of course, but they still rode close by, as if suspicious of her motives, trotting so close to Windstalker he rolled his eyes. But Gwyn knew it was simply an excuse to let their greedy eyes linger on her body, or their thighs to brush against hers.
Would that I could loose Griffyn on these wretches. He would learn them their error, she thought grimly, not realising she was already thinking of Griffyn as her protector.
They drew near Endly Hall. It was a square, embattled affair, with a crenellated curtain wall patchworked in an approximate oval around its bailey. The squat, square keep hunkered at its centre. Two watch towers stood sentry, one facing east, one south, each rising another twenty or so feet above the wall, both slit with dark arrow loops.
On this bright sunny morning, small pricks of light moved along the curtain walls, marking the helms of armed sentries. Sable-black Endshire pennants snapped in the brisk autumn breeze, hung at intervals along the wall’s length, and double-hung on either side of the east-tower gatehouse. Gwyn swallowed a lump as they passed under its jagged shadows.
Rusty iron winches screamed as the chains were lowered, dropping the draw to allow entry. It fell with a thundering blast. Mud splattered everywhere. Gwyn simmered as she wiped clods of muck from her cloak and, snapping her wrist, flicked them back to the ground. Ever was Marcus the purveyor of filth.
She was escorted to him at once. He was engaged in sword practice with one of his men. Around them grouped ten or so other soldiers, who shouted and hooted in obvious glee. Marcus and his knight circled one another with wooden blades, shields slung on their left forearms. The knight made a sudden thrusting motion. Marcus spun, continued around and swiped his sword in a low, slashing sweep. The blunted wooden edge smashed into the side of his opponent’s right knee. The knight crumpled to the ground, hands clamped around his leg, head thrown back and eyes screwed shut in silent, obvious pain.
Marcus shoved off the mail hood covering his head and tossed his blade at the man’s feet. “Everywhere, Richard. You’ve got to be looking everywhere.”
Eyes still squeezed tight, the knight nodded. The others helped him to his feet. Someone caught sight of Guinevere, and gestured to Marcus. He turned.
His eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. Then he started forward, leaving faint bootprints in the damp dirt, tugging off his gloves as he came.
“Guinevere, what an unexpected pleasure. I faintly recall you saying something about, what was it? Something about ‘never darkening your fetid door…’” He smiled apologetically. “I forget the rest.”
“‘Again.’”
“That was it.” Cupping both thick leather gloves in one hand, he used them to wipe the sweat off his forehead. “So, is my door not so fetid, or has some other change been wrought?”
“Griffyn Sauvage has taken the Nest.”
“I know.” He lowered his gloves slowly. “And you?”
“We’re betrothed.”
He seemed to digest this, gaze on the dirt. She lowered her voice. “May we speak somewhere?”
His hawk-like eyes ratcheted back up. Despite the autumn chill, a trickle of sweat dripped into the gully between Gwyn’s breasts. No matter how long they trained, his knights could never compete with their lord in the ability to perceive, compute, and adjust. Marcus was like an abacus, swiftly adding and subtracting the merits and weaknesses of his opponents, then crushing them beneath his deadly calculations.
He watched her a moment, then gestured to the keep. Servants eyed them as they passed, but kept their faces averted. The thump of their footsteps over cobbles and through rushes seemed to tap out the thundering of her heart. What sort of pact was she about to make?
They sat in a darkened corner of the great hall, the room being filled with nothing but darkened corners and cobwebs and sharp-ribbed canines. Marcus ordered a plate of food, then sent the servants from the room.
“What news have you of the south, Marcus?” she asked as soon as the room was empty. “I know nothing these last days. How do we stand?”
Marcus paused in chewing on a crust of bread. “You came all this way for a spot of news?” He smiled briefly. “Tell me, Gwynnie, by ‘we,’ do you mean Stephen?”
“I mean we who have pledged ourselves to the king,” she snapped.
“Well, here is how ‘we’ stand, Gwyn: ’tis only a matter of time before Henri fitzEmpress sits on the throne. All the barons are turning to him.”
“You mean you are turning,” she retorted bitterly.
“I haven’t. Yet.”
“No. Not yet.” Up in the north, men like Marcus had time to test the winds before committing themselves.
He shrugged. “’Tis but a matter of time until the country is Henri’s.”
“Only if men like you give it to him.”
He sent her a level glance, then carved off a slice of cheese with a paring knife. “Your fealty is, as ever, in bold display, Gwyn, but it serves no purpose.”
She clenched her jaw. “It serves some small purpose,” she said through gritted teeth,
“in that I can live with myself when I awake each morn.”
“Meaning I am not able to? Or should not be?” He popped the cheese into his mouth.
She glared. “Loyalty is not a commodity to be bought and sold.”
“Of course it is.” Set deep within the lean face, his glittering eyes regarded her coolly. “If there is no price on it, my loyalty would be poorly regarded, indeed. I should be a fool.”
“And we cannot have that.”
A flicker of anger sparked in his eyes. “You are a child, Gwyn. Those who receive the kind of loyalty you describe are the only beneficiaries. The cherished loyalists are used, discarded, and the stench of their sacrifice blows away quickly. Should I be one of them, then? Truly, you surprise me. I thought you intelligent.”
“And I thought you decent. Of a sort.”
“Ah, Gwyn,” he said, chuckling. “You thought no such thing.” He leaned back in his chair. “But we would have made quite a union, you and I.”
She looked at him sourly. “What, with your lack of loyalty and my excess?”
“Nay. With your fire and my ambition.”
“Oh, that.” She took a deep breath. Now or never. “You must come pledge your fealty for the lands you hold of Everoot, Marcus.”
Marcus looked over like she’d lost her mind. “Did Sauvage send you here to tell me that?”
“Of course not. You’re lucky Griffyn didn’t ride here himself and burn all of Endshire to the ground.”
“Griffyn?” he echoed her use of his Christian name, rather than a surname or other, less intimate appellation.
She brushed an invisible piece of dirt off her skirts. “He doesn’t like you.”
“He owes me,” Marcus hissed.
She drew back slightly. “For what?”
“We go back.”
Gwyn searched her memory. “Your fathers had a history.”
Marcus ripped his gaze away. “My father was fond of Sauvage.”
“Christian Sauvage, the father?”
Marcus gave a bark of bitter laughter. “Not a bit of that. At least, not in the end. But he was fond of your Griffyn.”
Gwyn sat with this a moment. “More so than of you?”
Quick as a snake, Marcus’s hand swung out. He stopped it barely a grass blade’s length from her cheek. Gwyn’s mouth dropped open, her face drained of colour. They stared at each other, shocked.
Marcus flung his hand down, as if it were a separate object he could let go free. “I am sorry, Gwyn. What I have with your betrothed”—he spit the word out—“is not yours to worry on.”
“It might be,” she said, her words shaky. Whatever old wounds lay here, they were potentially as fatal as a dry riverbed after a storm. People walking through were likely to get swept away. And again, she had no choice.
“You must come. Pledge fealty,” she continued, trying to even out the tremble in her voice. “All the other barons are coming. Two weeks from now, our wedding. The night after, the ceremony of homage. You must be there.”
Marcus shook his head. “You’re asking an awful lot, Gwyn, with nothing to offer in return.”
“Oh, I have paid, Marcus. You’ve taken.”
He looked surprised. “Me?” He shook his head. “Not so much as your Griffyn.”
“You took Papa’s box.”
He looked truly confused. “What box?”
“Oh, please, Marcus. My heirloom box. The one you took from Griffyn when your men captured him outside of London.”
“Ah.”
His complacency sent her tripping into a sudden fit of anger. “Does it please you to read the letters between my parents?” she snapped. “To read their private thoughts?”
He drew back slightly. “We’re all very upset about our parents today, aren’t we?” He brushed his hands together, wiping off crumbs. “I’ll not pledge to Sauvage.”
“Then you’ll lose your lands.”
He rested his hand on the rim of his mug and glanced at the crimson Endshire tapestry hanging on the wall behind the dais. “Let us not be fools, Gwyn. Stephen will fold by Yuletide. There’s news of a treaty to come in just a few weeks. Stephen has no choice, now that Eustace is dead.”
She closed her eyes. “Eustace is not dead. He’s with me.”
Marcus’s expression did not change for a moment, but he did straighten his fingers and deliberately edge his mug off the table. It smashed to the ground, spilling ale all over the floor.
“Like that, Gwyn,” he said in a calm, explanatory tone. “That is how quickly things change. What was, is no longer. Which is why I do not commit myself without cause. And considerable gain.” He smiled. “Tell me about Eustace.”
“He was brought to the Nest mid-August, and has been lying in illness ever since.”
He looked at her sharply. “Ill? How bad?”
“Bad enough,” she admitted. “He’s been sweating out a fever for weeks now, and it doesn’t break.”
He drummed his fingers on the table. “I would speak with him.”
“So would I. He is beyond talk, sweating and pitching his head about is all he can manage, that with effort.”
Marcus rose and began pacing, his boots marking a tight circuit around the table. Then he stopped and looked at her. “Why are you here, Gwyn?” he asked, each word like a taste he was rolling over his tongue.
There it was again, that incisive mind, turned now towards her as the sudden object of his ambition. Gwyn took a deep breath. “I need help.”
He let her words settle back into silence. “From me?”
She nodded.
“Say that again, Gwyn.”
She swallowed thickly. It tasted bad. “I need your help.”
A smile inched up his mouth. “I would be honoured.”
She looked away. “I have to get Eustace out of the Nest.”
He plucked at his lower lip thoughtfully. “Have you a plan?”
She offered the only one she’d been able to come up with. Its value was in its simplicity, which might also be its downfall. “When the other barons come to pledge fealty, you come as well. You’re in the castle, you pledge fealty, you leave the next morning. With Eustace.”
His smile kept getting bigger. “When is the ceremony of homage?”
“The fair begins the day before the wedding. The ceremony is the night after.”
He sat down and seemed to consider this longer than was necessary. He had to agree. If he didn’t…
She leaned forward and hissed, “Just get him out of the Nest.”
He leaned back in his chair and looked at her. “Why, Gwyn. That doesn’t sound like your usual devoted self.”
She stared the wall behind Marcus’s head, but could still feel his gaze on her.
“You don’t want Sauvage to be hurt,” he said, his voice filled with wonder and something else. “You are trying to be loyal to the king and in love with his enemy at the same time.” He shook his head, his smile mocking. “It will never work, Gwynnie. You’ll have to choose. One day.”
“Can you do it?” she asked from between gritted teeth.
“Two weeks?”
She nodded tightly.
His smile returned. “I can do much more than that, Gwyn. ’Tis a simple matter.”
His reply recalled to her Griffyn’s words upon his arrival: You think me a simple matter. Which wasn’t true at all. She thought him perilous and perfect, and had fallen so deeply into love they would never be able to drag her up again. But one did not follow one’s heart. One did one’s duty.
What mattered the heart? What had it ever done but kill, murder, destroy?
Following the heart made a person foolish, reckless. Other people got hurt. Brothers, mothers. Gwyn had made a vow, taken an oath. She had reparations to make. There was no room for feelings.
And Marcus was dead wrong. She could honour both Griffyn and the king. God would not be so cruel as to force her to choose between them. Or her father. And her promises. To leave her in
his world with no way to redeem herself.
But Marcus had been right about one thing: getting Eustace out of the Nest was no longer an exercise in loyalty. It was a way to rid the Nest of treachery before Griffyn got killed by it.
Chapter Nineteen
She rode hard to be home by Sext. The mid-day meal should be starting soon. Make a showing in the hall, headache vanquished, and no one would be the wiser.
She reined the gelding into the northern woods and followed a barely marked path to the entrance of a hidden cave set within the face of a jagged rock ledge. Wind followed her faithfully inside.
She edged by the spring in the centre of the cave, its milky colour and sour smell unappetizing. But within its lightly burbling centre was a hot, sulfur spring that had eased her muscles on many a night. At the rear of the cave, Gwyn reached into a small hole. Her fingers touched the edge of the line of lanterns laid here. She pulled one out, lit it, and descended into a cool, earthen tunnel.
Hurrying now, she guided them to the end and poked her head out another door, on the northwest side of the inner bailey, just across from the secret door she’d brought Eustace through. No one was about. She rushed Wind through and jogged the gelding around to the front of the castle.
She began to encounter more people, servants and household staff who smiled and nodded. Did she notice a lot of strange looks in those smiles? A sickly trail of fear rippled through her stomach. Slowing to a walk, she loosened Wind’s cinch and blew a curl off her face.
“Lady Guinevere?”
She jumped. The young page had materialised from nowhere. “Aye, Peter?”
“Sir Alex said to find you, for my lord Griffyn is returning,” he piped cheerfully.
“Returning? Today?”
“Well, tonight,” he clarified. The sun was soon to set.
She reached out and gripped his shoulders. “When?”
“Soon,” he shouted back, utterly confused.
“Soon.” She dropped her hands.
“Aye, my lady. And Sir Alex said to find you—”
Another thread of fear unravelled. “He said…he said to find me?”
“Well, my lady,” explained the seven-year-old, confused as to why he was receiving such attention from the beautiful countess, but perfectly happy to be the object of her interest, “we all knew you were in your chambers, but Sir Alex said to find you. But I had to deliver a message first to Albert, the smythe. He’s been having problems with the forge, and—”