Conqueror (34 page)

“You could choose another one, now.”

De Louth got to his feet and shook his head. “No. I made a pledge.”

“You
stole
this from him,” Griffyn pointed out.

De Louth scowled at his incredulous tone. “Who’s to say getting this thing out of his hands is not a way of honouring him? I saw the way he wanted it. The way the tattooed man wanted it.” He glanced at the key. “’Twasn’t a restful thing. So, we’ve a deal?”

Griffyn nodded. “Safe haven for your daughter when she’s ready to be fostered.”

“Aye. In seven years.”

Griffyn looked up in surprise. “How old is she?”

De Louth pulled his cloak over his shoulders. Someone jostled him from behind, walking by with a fistful of mugs. He stepped closer to the table. “She was just born. Two weeks ago. I’ve got to go.”

He turned and disappeared into the throng, just another pair of cloaked shoulders, then not even that.

Fulk and he walked side by side back to their inn. Griffyn had lodged his men at the monastery’s guest hall just outside the town walls, but he and Fulk had needed to stay inside, to attend this meeting that occurred long after the gates were closed and locked for the night.

Their bootheels clacked loudly over the wet cobbles. The moonlight glistened on the streets and lit the alleyways in an eerie silver glow. The scent of wet hay mixed with damp leather and the faint odour of blood: Tanners Row was three blocks over, but its stench carried much further. A cat slunk out from a shadow.

Griffyn said quietly, “Where is yours, Fulk?”

The Scotsman nodded, as if he’d been waiting for the question. He stopped walking, reached up and unbuckled his gambeson. The corner of the heavy quilted doublet flapped down. Expressionless, he yanked on the collar of the tunic beneath and held the lantern in his left hand aloft. There, in the soft crevice where his collarbones met, just below this throat, was a small, brightly inked, soaring eagle.

Griffyn nodded. Fulk buckled up and they walked on. After a moment, Fulk said, “We get ruined every so often too, my lord, just like everyone else.”

“Do all Watchers have the tattoo?” Griffyn asked grimly.

“Aye. But not in the same place.”

Griffyn looked his query, in the form of a sidewise, raised-eyebrow glance. Fulk elaborated.

“We choose. We didna choose the duty, but we choose how it marks us. Or we’re supposed to. Our power over the power of the thing.”

Griffyn’s gaze dropped to Fulk’s chest, where the tattoo now lay hidden beneath his armour. “Why there?”

“It lies halfway between my head and my heart. Exactly where it’s supposed to,” he added dourly.

They walked in silence for another few moments and turned down a small, crooked alleyway. It was dark in the buildings overhanging the street, all candles extinguished by command, the
couvre-feu
, to prevent fire. In a few buildings, on the third floors, a rogue flame still burned here and there, but mostly they made their way by the lantern in Fulk’s hand and the wet ground reflecting moonlight.

“And you’re certain Gwyn knows nothing of it?” Griffyn asked.

Fulk shook his head. “Lady Gwynnie knows nothing.”

“I suspect I owe you for that.”

Fulk stopped walking, his gaze sharp beneath his bushy, grey-flecked eyebrows. “Ye owe nothing, my lord. I’m paying off old debts myself. Ye may not want to hear this, but if I could have, I’d have told Lady Gwyn everything. I think she’s a right to know.”

“I think that would be unbelievably dangerous.”

Fulk nodded. “Aye. Every way ye turn, there’s danger. Ye’re the Heir. That’s the way of it.”

Danger was the least of it, Griffyn thought. It was the unveiled
craving
he recoiled from. He could already feel it building inside him. He ran his finger over the serrated edge of the steel key, still cupped in his hand. That made two. Two of the puzzle keys.

“There’s three, Fulk?” he asked suddenly. “Three puzzle keys.”

Fulk grunted. “Aye. Three keys that, when fitted together, open the gate to the resting place of the Hallows.”

So why had his father given away two of them? Why make Griffyn hunt down his destiny?

He ran the key between his fingertips thoughtfully. “What do you remember of my father, Fulk?”

“Well, now, I recall he changed. He grew…hard.” Fulk looked over briefly through the reflected moonlight. “I know ye think ye know yer father well, Pagan, and I’m sure ye do, but ye only know
that
part of him.”

“Which part?”

“The part after the Crusades. He was different upon a time. Before.”

“How?”

“Well, now, he and your mother, they sure did love each other. ’Twas as clear as anything.”

Griffyn’s mouth fell open.
“What?”

“Dearer than that twice-blooming rose she was to him, and that’s saying something. And you and he were inseparable upon a time, that ye were.” Fulk pinched his eyes half-shut and peered at Griffyn’s shocked face. “About two weeks before the coup that put Stephen on the throne, your father up and left for Normandy. The only thing he took with ’em was ye and yer mother. Now why would he have done that?” His eyes never left Griffyn’s. “Take yer wee self, and leave everything else behind.”

The rhetorical question hung in the air between them.

A familiar surge of anger flooded Griffyn’s limbs. Indeed, his father had taken him, and his mother, and had left behind such a brutal legacy that his name was still remembered among the Norman tenants and noble neighbours as an accursed thing,
Mal Amour
: “Bad Love.”

“And recall this,” Fulk was saying. “Ye were thirteen when your father died. And he did not want ye Trained. I dunno what ye make of that, but there it is. And who knows, mayhap he was right. For centuries these things have laid quiet. Perhaps for a thousand more. This is ancient treasure. There’s no rush.”

“Not for my father, surely,” Griffyn said bitterly. “He wanted to keep it all for himself. Thought he’d live forever.” He paused. “Could he? Could something about the Hallows make him live forever?”

Fulk glanced around. It was dark and silent and empty. The lantern swung back and forth in his gloved hand. “There’s a powerful lot o’ rumours, aren’t there, Pagan? The most I can tell ye is what ye already know: ’tis pure power.”

They finished their frosty walk, passing darkened storefronts. The wooden platforms that served as shelves during the day were drawn up tight. As they passed one narrow building, Fulk muttered, “Agardly, the goldsmythe. That’s where Lady Gwyn’s harps were taken.”

Griffyn pulled his mind to the present. “Harps?”

“Her mamma’s little harps. Sold for seed. Probably gone now.”

They reached their inn. Fulk swung the door wide, peered inside, sword in hand, then stepped back to let Griffyn enter. They trudged up the stairs to a small room at the back of the house, a luxury to have a single room, with two beds all to themselves.

“’Tis shivering cold these nights,” Fulk grumbled as he sat down on one of the narrow, straw-filled cots that lined opposite walls. Griffyn unbuckled his belt with its array of weapons and threw himself on the other. There was enough space to sit and heave off your boots, if you didn’t mind your nose touching the other bed when you bent forward to do so.

Fulk extinguished the single candle flame with a squeeze between his calloused finger and thumb. He punched his tunic around beneath his head and lowered his head with a grunt. “’Twill be good to be home again.”

“Aye,” Griffyn said distractedly. “I need but to stop at that Agardly’s shop tomorrow, and we can be off.”

Fulk’s grizzled head came back up. He was grinning. “Ye’ll make her real happy with that, my lord.”

“That’s the plan.”

Griffyn lay, arms folded behind his head. A sliver of the crescent moon was visible through the window. It was indeed getting colder. The mornings were bringing frost. Soon the snows would come, and Griffyn meant to spend Yule at the Nest this year. Henri fitzEmpress would have to summon him with an armed escort to make it otherwise. This year, he would be home. With Guinevere.

She had not betrayed him. He could believe that, or spend the rest of his life suspecting everyone of everything. Half the time he’d be right. But half would be wrong, and if he was going to have Gwyn to wife, then have her he must. Wholeheartedly. He was in or he was out.

And may God forgive me for being the fool a second time,
he thought,
but I believe she is honourable.

It was barely two hours after Griffyn had left, but Gwyn was already in the stables, tightening the cinch around Windstalker’s belly. Puffs of smoke appeared in front of her mouth with each exhale. Autumn had come with a vengeance.

It was three hours to Endly Hall, three back again. She would be home before Sext tomorrow. Long before Griffyn returned.

She must be quick, and no one could notice, not even for a moment, that she was gone.

A summons to Jerv had brought him on the run. She’d posted him in the landing outside her bedchamber, admonishing him to ensure she wasn’t disturbed while she suffered a sudden, raging ‘headache.’ Jerv was instructed not to disturb her either. Her childhood friend was the only one she could trust to follow her instructions without question, and it was vitally important he ward off any potential visitors. Especially with Alexander about.

“What are you doing?” said a voice at her back.

She stifled a scream and spun. Jerv was standing there, not following her instructions whatsoever, looking confused and angry.

“What are you doing?” he asked again, looking rather stubborn.

“What are
you
doing?” she retorted, gathering her wits. “You’re supposed to be posted outside my chambers.”

“For your…headache?”

She started to retort with a haughty “aye,” then stopped herself. That would be ridiculous and insulting. She turned to Wind and grabbed his reins. “I am going for a ride.”

“Alone?”

“Aye.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“I have ridden these woods for fifteen years, Jerv. I know them. I will be safe.”

“I will come with you.”

“No.”

She started to push past him, but he laid a hand on her arm, which he had not done since they were children, playing childhood games of tag and castles. This felt nothing like a game. She yanked on her arm. He didn’t release.

“Gwyn, what are you doing?”

“Keeping an oath,” she snapped. “Unlike you, who cannot follow simple instructions.”

He let go her arm. “What kind of oath?” he asked slowly.

“The kingly kind.”

Jerv’s eyes narrowed. “Gwyn, what is going on? What are you doing?”

Tension had already squeezed the muscles in her neck and chest and back tight. Much more and she’d begin to collapse in on herself. Fear was working hard to make her back out of this oath. Jerv must not be allowed to assist.

“I am keeping faith,” she whispered through gritted teeth. “I have no choice. Leave me to it.” She pointed. “Go back inside. Guard my door.”

He reached for her again. “
You
come back inside and—”

“And what?” She jerked away and fought to keep her voice at a whisper. “Forswear my oath? Prove faithless to my lord king?”

“Faithless? To Stephen? What are you doing in Stephen’s name?”

“Making good on old promises.”

Jerv stared. “God’s bones,” he said in a low voice. “What are you doing, Gwynnie?”

“Don’t call me that!” They called her Gwynnie in tenderness, when they loved her. That would ruin everything. “But ’twas a deed done before Griffyn ever came,” she added, hoping that would matter to him. To her.

“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.