And for all that Griffyn Sauvage was her betrothed, whom had she come to in her hour of need? Him. Marcus. A hot wash of pride filled his chest. She’d run from him a year ago, now she’d ridden straight to his keep, head bent, begging for help.
Of course, he’d have give
n succor if her head had been staked on a pike or screaming in his face. There was nothing he could refuse Guinevere. ’Twas her own fault she didn’t know it. She never asked for anything.
She could have told him to support Stephen or Henri or Nur al-Din, the Muslim leader who was about to crush the Crusaders in Outremer. He would have done anything. Politics did not matter. Guinevere mattered. Her fierce fortitude, her lush body, her sharp, sharp mind. Marcus knew a jewel when he saw one, and every one he’d ever wanted lay within the Nest.
Sauvage would come out of the Nest, though. Marcus would ensure it. He would lure him out, close enough to parley, then give his ultimatum, without even the pretense of submission. Because he would never submit. Not to a Sauvage. He would submit to Lucifer before Griffyn Sauvage.
And if Gwyn thought Marcus had the Hallows chest, so much the better. The confusion would prove very useful in about two weeks.
The chest must have been tied to Sauvage’s horse, which was rescued, Marcus later learned, by two of Sauvage’s retinue. One of them was a Watcher, Alexander. Best to stay away from them; they had a habit of killing people who interfered with the Heirs. Had Marcus’s father not been acquainted with that fact? Damned Scots.
Marcus’s fingers twitched and a large chunk of wood fell to the ground. The small wooden figurine horse was now missing a leg. Marcus kicked it away.
But the chest had apparently not been recovered. It must be still sitting in the mud somewhere near where they’d apprehended Sauvage. Marcus would have to send a few discreet men to those woods, to kick aside every fern and find the thing.
And from there, his men could continue on to Henri fitzEmpress’s camp, with some very interesting news.
At present, Marcus had only one of the puzzle keys. But by craft or cunning or cold hard steel, he intended to confiscate every single thing that mattered to the Heir.
He felt for the chilled weight of the steel key. It hung from his neck on a craftily-wrought steel strand he’d ordered and had de Louth secure for him on a recent trip to the city of Ipsile-upon-Tyne.
The key was just the beginning.
He whittled off another sliver of wood, then cursed as he sliced a gash through his thumb. Cupping his wrist, he held his hand out between his knees and let the blood drip onto the dirt, a bright red pool between the yellow leaves from the oak tree.
A time for everything and everything in its time. He straightened and dragged his knife along the wood figurine again. It sliced effortlessly. The time had come for Endshire to rise, and Sauvage to fall very, very far.
Griffyn met Alex in the hall the next morning. Griffyn was whistling. Alex looked over, eyebrows raised.
“Pagan? Are you well?”
Griffyn smiled and kept walking.
“You’re whistling,” Alex pointed out.
Griffyn looked over. “I am glad to be home, and to have her to wife is not so bad.”
That was an understatement, thought Alexander as they strode towards the stables to meet a saddlemaker who was here to show off his wares. Alex glanced up at the keep windows and saw a flash of black move past one of them. It was strange, really. Griffyn had been looking for Lady Guinevere for an hour before she showed up yester eve, sweaty and out of breath, yet no one announced she’d ridden through the gates and returned.
The stables were cool after the afternoon sun, and the men spent an hour admiring the leatherwork of the exquisitely stitched saddles. When they made to leave, Alex glanced in at Gwyn’s horse.
He was a fiery chestnut, with withers that grazed the underside of Alexander’s nostrils and hooves large enough to crush a small child. For all that, though, he seemed good-natured, snuffing politely when presented a hand and nickering before they left. In truth, this was a Windstalker who couldn’t be missed, really.
But a’missing he had been when Alex looked in an hour before Griffyn had arrived home yesterday. And missing, too, the night before, when Alex poked his nose into the stables on a whim, on a somewhat aimless search for anything amiss.
And the horse had not been there.
Chapter Twenty
Kneeling in the kitchen gardens, helping prepare the soils for winter, Gwyn tried to forget the mess she was now entangled in. There was nothing to be done about it. All she could do was wait. And hope.
The thought was almost laughable. Hope what? Hope that King Stephen would be conquered, or that Griffyn’s lord would be crushed? Either way spelt ruin for someone she loved.
Truth be told, there was no guarantee Eustace would even live. He just might die.
Gwyn jerked her head up at the treacherous thought. Or rather, treacherous emotion. The thought was but a reality. The way relief swept through her was the villainy.