“’Tis for the best, Gwyn.”
Someone came to help the boy. They herded the animal out of sight. “But how do you know that, for certes?”
His deep, resonant voice rumbled across the room. “Because it has to be.”
She nodded dully, not looking around.
She heard his boots start across the room in her direction, then stop. After a moment, they retreated and the door closed behind him.
A few minutes later came the sound of running footsteps. Shouting. Someone calling for Griffyn. Muted voices. Another messenger had arrived.
Gwyn stared out the window for perhaps half an hour. The misting rain slackened, then stopped.
King Stephen knew his son was not dead. Any agreement or treaty would simply be a ruse, a strategy to buy time, time for Guinevere to heal the prince and set him loose, to save her king and kingdom.
She’d made a promise. She’d given her word. What was different now? Nothing. Her duty remained, unchanged by sentiment. Unchanged by having a heart.
She felt it rising up inside her like a scream. To ward it off, she lifted her chin delicately, as if it were a glass phial.
She needed help. She must visit Marcus.
Slanting, sparkling sunlight began bursting through the clouds. It was going to be a beautiful day.
Griffyn loped down the stairs, Alex on his heels. William of the Five Strands hurried over as they entered the hall.
“A messenger, my lord. I took the liberty of putting him in your office.” He gestured to the long corridor of offices that ran along the first-floor level of the castle.
Griffyn started forward, Alex directly behind. William brought up the rear, the sleeves of his overtunic wafting back in the breeze. They drew up at the door. William leaned forward and murmured, “He said ’twas exceedingly private, my lord. I hope I did not overstep?”
“You did well,” Griffyn said, and touched him on the shoulder. He looked at Alex. “Wait here,” he said, with a significant nod in William’s direction. Alex’s face tightened, but he nodded and took a step back, setting up by the wall outside the office chamber, with a suspicious eye on a nervous, flustered William.
It was dim and windowless inside the office chamber, lit only by several candles on the walls and tabletops. The young messenger had perched the edge of his rump on a bench beside the table, as if afraid his full weight would collapse the four-inch-thick oaken legs. He was begrimed and haggard, and looked like he hadn’t eaten in days. He leapt to his feet as soon as Griffyn entered.
“My lord Everoot!”
“Your name, son?” Griffyn asked, striding forward.
“Richard, sir!”
“Sit, Richard.” He picked up the jug of ale William had put in the room, and splashed some into a wooden mug. He thrust it at the boy, who took it and gulped down half.
“What news?” Griffyn asked when the boy’s throat stopped moving.
Young Richard yanked the mug from his mouth in a frenzy of obedience. A wave of brown ale splashed over the rim, onto his tunic. “I carry a message from a knight in the north, my lord,” he said briskly, pausing neither to wipe his mouth nor his drenched tunic.
“Who?”
“I’m given leave to say only that you do not know him.”
“The message?”
Richard flung himself at the pouch hanging by his side and wrestled it free. He yanked the flap over, and drew out a crumpled roll of parchment. “My master asked only that if you did not wish to hear more after reading his missive, you would not hold it against me. Not,” he gulped, trying to be inconspicuous, so it actually looked like he swallowed a bug, “make me eat the message.”
Griffyn glanced up from the parchment. “That would taste awful.”
“Aye, sir,” Richard agreed with solemnity.
Griffyn checked the blotted seal, then broke the heavy red wax and rolled the scroll open.