He took a step closer, his body radiating heat. Chills shimmered over her body like a fever. Then he slammed a palm against the wall beside her head. She jerked to attention. “I made no threats, lady.” He put his other hand on the wall, so she stood between his outstretched arms. “I shall tell you what I told them: The castle is mine, you are mine, as is everything within. If you sport with me, you will get burned.”
“You dare threaten
me
?”
He looked at her coldly, his eyes glittering. “You have seen nothing of what I dare, lady, nor what I have lost. You are a sheaf of wheat. And I have not threatened you,” he corrected in a low voice. “I have explained my position.”
“Too good, my lord,” she said in a cold, clear voice. “Now hear mine: I did not wield a blade in battle, so have not yet fought. Do you think to squash me like a bug, be forewarned: I sting, and carry a venom the likes of which you’ve not seen in Normandy these long years.”
She ducked beneath his arm and stumbled away. A sheaf of wheat? That was what London had meant? She suddenly felt as if she’d had too much to drink and wanted to retch.
He was watching her, his eyes unreadable. “I have not forgotten the pests of England, lady. They have been in my mind for some long time.”
“You mean my father,” she spat.
“I mean your father. And you.”
“Me?” she practically shrieked. “Me? What of
you
?”
“Me?” The look on his face was almost comical. “What?”
She threw her hands in the air. “Oh, mayhap, the
army you drove before you
?”
“To regain my home, lady,” he returned in a low voice. “For my home, I would drive a chariot of hell.”
“That I well believe,” she spat. “For you and yours, you would do all the things we none of us should do, and the rest may rot in hell. Know this, Pagan,” she vowed, her words trembling with too many emotions to name, “you cannot threaten me, nor cow me. And I do not bend.”
A predatory smile edged up his lips. “You bent once. For me.”
She almost died of shame. Choking on a horrified gasp, she drew her herself up. “You met me for one night, Pagan. Do not confuse that with knowing me.”
His upper lip almost curled in derision. “I know you.”
“You know nothing. You are a child playing at being a man. Warriors all, fighting for lands your women and children do not want, leaving a legacy of scorched earth and fatherless children behind. Listen, Pagan, whilst I explain
my
position: I do not intend to grovel at your heels, begging for any small mercy that might allow me to lift my skirts when I cross the muck in the stable yard.
This is my home too
.”
“’Twould be a mercy indeed to lift your skirts elsewise, when you’re in a fury like this.”
“Then, my lord, expect to see me in such a fury every night henceforth, and beg that you show me no mercy.”
Pagan was on the move, striding through the filtered sunlight of the room, until he towered above her. His voice reached down and jerked her head up. His jaw was locked, his eyes ice-grey, the animal rage in him barely constrained, and then she knew true fear.
“Ponder this, de l’Ami spawn,” he rasped. “My mercy is the only thing that can save you now.” Her face was inches from his, his chest even closer, throbbing heat onto her like a blanket. “Cross me and you’ll be pleading for mercy and then some come the morn. As will every other soul inhabiting this castle.”
He spun on his heel, grabbed his blades, and was gone, the door crashing shut behind him. She stood in the middle of the room, reeling. Good God, everyone in the castle? Settle her bones into his reign? With the heir to the throne belowstairs?
And what would happen if he ever discovered
that
piece of the loyalty he so avowed? She had a brief vision of her neck in a noose, swinging from a barren tree branch.
“My lady?” said a voice from the hall a long time later. The door inched open a notch and an unfamiliar brown-mopped head poked in. “My lord wishes to have the keys to the castle,” he said hesitantly, nodding towards the huge iron key ring affixed to her girdle. She looked down helplessly. “And he would see you in the hall come Vespers.”
“What of my prayers?” she asked in a shaky voice, thinking that now, of all times, she needed a visit to her confessor.
A worried look met this, as if the boy read her mind. “My lady, if you please, he’s said he’ll see to that himself.”
She fell back to the bed, her hand at her pounding chest.
Griffyn barreled down the winding staircase like a bull in a headlong rush. Buckling his belt as he went, he landed on the bottom step and crashed into the busy great hall. Servants and soldiers and varlets hurried here and there, dodging between the trestle tables, tapestries, and benches scattered everywhere as the new cleared out the old.
Raashid, a middle-aged Muslim, long in Griffyn’s employ as estate steward, was in conference with the balding seneschal William in a far corner. Sauvage knights were trolling in and out, grabbing food from passing trays and eyeing the women who scurried to and fro. Chaotic and disconnected as they were, all occupants in the great hall sputtered to a halt as Griffyn plowed into the mayhem.
“And the streams have gone dry, but even so, earlier this summer we…” William of the Five Strand’s tinny voice drifted off from his accounting of the demesne manor’s income. He turned and stared at the new, apparently enraged, lord of Everoot.
Griffyn looked at Raashid, met his eye, and angled his head towards William of the Five Strands in silent query. Raashid smiled and nodded, and Griffyn turned away, confident the Muslim could manage one aging steward, however reticent he was to say anything terribly relevant about the estates they had just conquered. Raashid had more years of experience under his robe than a whore had customers and an almost terrifying knack for numbers. He accompanied Griffyn everywhere, no one knew where he came from, and neither Griffyn nor Raashid ever said.
Raashid nodded and turned back to William with a wide smile on his handsome, dark face. “Suppose you tell me of the estate’s monetary reserves, rather than its fish runs, Master William?”
Griffyn started for the door, intending to find Alex, and almost trod into Edmund, his earnest squire, who’d already watered and walked Noir, and was now banging along at Griffyn’s heels. He paused and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Lady Guinevere is your task, Edmund.” The boy nodded eagerly. The perils of youth. “She is not to stay secreted in that room,” he explained grimly. “She comes down to sign the betrothal papers. She comes down for the meal. If she wishes, she may plan it. If she wishes, she may mortar the herbs herself, but she will come down. See to it, Edmund.”
“My lord,” Edmund nodded. “And should she want confession?” he added, because everyone usually did, upon a surrender. Even at thirteen Edmund knew that. There was always so much guilt to absolve. “Because,” the boy was saying, “the chapel priest is down in the village, and—”
“I’ll take care of that. Make sure she’s down here by Vespers.”
“Aye, my lord.”
He started to turn away, then stopped. “Lady Guinevere has the keys to the castle.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Get them.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Alex stood in the bailey, in the gusts of hot sun, long after the others had gone inside, letting heat blow over him like the wind. Waiting.
Sweat beaded on his neck, under his arms. He could feel it burning onto his skin, but he was used to that. Years of it, upon a time. Hot winds, parched, angry earth, denying anything green or fertile to the greedy hordes of Crusading hooves galloping over it.
He approved. Deny them everything. Men were too small to contain greatness. Even Griffyn so far had balked at reaching out for his destiny. Only then would he be truly great.
Sun baked the back of Alex’s neck. He unbuckled his mail hauberk and slowly dragged it over his head, bending his neck to the side. His muscles were long and strong, sculpted from years of wielding not just a sword but lance and bow and knife. But now, today, in this heat, at this homecoming, he felt beleaguered, his armour as heavy as lead. He dragged the weight of it over his head. Sharp metal links caught at the thick quilted gambeson underneath.
“Alexander,” said a gravelly voice.
He dragged the armour off the rest of the way and let it drop to the ground. Then he turned.
There he was, the stone block of flesh from decades past, Fulk. Alex and he went back far too many years to count, long before the chasm of civil war tore apart England. Fulk was once his mentor. Fulk was a Watcher too.
A false one. He’d forsworn his oath eighteen years ago, done something no Watcher had ever done before, abandoned the Heir, Griffyn’s father. He’d stayed with the de l’Amis.
More proof, as if it were needful, that the de l’Amis brought nothing but ruin.
“So,” rumbled Fulk. His eyes were shadowed. “’Tis yerself.”
“And yours.”
Fulk glanced around. They were not the only ones in the bailey, but they were alone in this little corner. He looked back. “You’re with him still.”
“I am,” Alex agreed. “Although you are no longer with your man.”
“He’s no longer around to be with.”
“No. So you are with her.”
“I’m with Lady Guinevere, if that’s who ye mean by ‘her’.” Fulk stood motionless, his belt emptied of anything resembling a blade. But Alex knew Fulk did not need a weapon to do damage. A lot of it.
Fulk said gruffly, “Took ye awhile to get here.”
“We were delayed by eighteen years of a civil war. Thanks be to your master and his ilk.”
“Aye, well.”
The response could have been comprehension or contempt, but it was all Fulk gave.
“Where are they?” Alex said suddenly.
Fulk looked confused. “Where are what?”
“The keys.”
A sour smile rippled across Fulk’s face, all traces of confusion swept away under his complete comprehension. “The keys are not ours, Alex. I thought I taught ye that.”
Alex continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Griffyn has only one. The iron one. I assume the rest were given to de l’Ami, before he betrayed us.”
“And why do ye think he did that, Alex? Why do ye think Christian Sauvage gave away two of the three keys that open the gate to the treasure of the Hallows?”
“I don’t know. Madness?”
Fulk shook his head. “I don’t think he was mad.”
Alex laughed shortly. “You weren’t with him there at the end. Christian Sauvage was raving. He was terrified to die.”
“De l’Ami wasn’t looking any too rathe to meet his Maker, either, Alex. They done some awful things, and no one knows it better than ye and I. But I don’t think madness made Sauvage give away the keys.”
“Well, I cannot think of any other reason.”
Fulk scowled. “Ye wouldn’t.”
“Blessed Mother, Fulk,
we are Watchers
. Did you forget? We have a duty to the Heir.” Alex took a step closer, his voice growing louder. “Why did you leave Sauvage? Why did you abandon us?”
Fulk let the words settle into the dust coating the cobblestones, then shook his head and wiped his open palm over the top of his sweat-stained head. “Alex, my lad,” he said sadly, “I didn’t abandon ye—”
Alex jerked his head, as if deflecting a blow. “I’m not your lad,” he said coldly.
Fulk sighed. “So be it. I need to see Griffyn.”
“No.”
Fulk’s bushy eyebrows went up.
“No?”
He laughed. “Ye’re not the door warden, Alex. He’s not yers to say yea or nay about—”
“He’s mine to protect. And I say no.”
“About what?”
They both spun. Alex was surprised, not to see Griffyn standing a few paces off, but to realise his own heart was hammering like he’d just run a footrace.
“No about what?” Griffyn said again, but even though he was speaking to Alex, his eyes were on Fulk.
Fulk immediately bent his head. “My lord. We’ve missed ye.”
Griffyn gave an abrupt burst of laughter. “Is that so? I would never have known. My father wouldn’t have either.”
Fulk stood his ground. “Sir, we’ve to live by our consciences. Ye by yers, me by mine. I had to decide. ’Twas yer father who placed me with de l’Ami. I was his to command, and he sent me to de l’Ami, saying if anything happened to his dearest friend Ionnes, ’twould be too big a blow for him to survive.”
“Something did happen to Ionnes de l’Ami,” Griffyn pointed out coldly. “The same thing that happened to my father.
Greed
.”
Fulk wiped his hand across the back of his neck. “I won’t deny anything ye’re saying, my lord. What I
will
say is that yer father wasn’t the only Guardian. And neither are ye.”
Something like a spasm of shock passed over Griffyn’s face. “Guinevere.”
Alex stepped angrily forward. “De l’Ami
stole
the Nest, Fulk, he didn’t become an Heir. And neither did
she
.”
“The Hallows were here, and not a Sauvage in sight to protect ’em,” Fulk pointed out mildly.
“It’s the blood that makes a Guardian, not possession of the treasure. Ours is an age-old duty, Fulk. Twists of fate do not change it.”
“There aren’t no twists of fate here, Alex. Christian Sauvage knew ’zactly what he was doin’ when he left England without it.”
Alex shook his head angrily. “It matters naught, Fulk. This bloodline goes back five hundred years, the treasure a thousand and more. If the treasure is out of our sight for a few years, even a generation, what matters that? Our duty does not change. Watchers guard the bloodline. We’re meant for the
Heir
. Charlemagne’s heir.”
Fulk shrugged. “Someone will always be in possession of the treasure. And that person needs guardin’ too. Usually it’s the Heir. Never been different afore.”
“But when it is, people have to make choices.”
“And live by ’em.”
Alex stepped up into his face. “Are you regretting yours, Fulk?”
“Never,” retorted the leather-strapped mountain. “How ’bout yerself?” He pushed his bearded face right back into Alex’s. “Have ye been regrettin’ the choice that took ye so far away from it? Wondering if it was safe, were ye? Dreamin’ of
it
, rather than women, were ye?”