“What is it?”
He didn’t answer, but swung away to look at Alex, who was suddenly hurrying down the stairs, his boots clattering. Gwyn watched too, a knot of unease forming in the pit of her belly. Griffyn was still squeezing her fingers much too tightly.
She tugged on her hand.
He looked down slowly, with that odd, blank expression.
“Griffyn? What is it?” The small knot of uneasiness rethreaded itself into something prickly. But before she could name it ‘fear,’ it was gone, because Griffyn’s gaze cleared, and his smile returned.
“My apologies, Gwyn. You were speaking of your father. Your mother, in fact, being able to read. And you, not.”
She nodded, feeling very much like a missing conversation had just scurried away, much like Alex had down the stairs.
“You need not fear, Gwyn,” Griffyn said, and this time, his fingers tightened just enough to lift her knuckles to his lips. He pressed a kiss to each. “Your father is gone, as are his strictures. I will teach you to read.”
She couldn’t summon the will to speak the truth on the matter, to say she’d feared neither Papa nor his infrequent ‘strictures.’ What she feared then is what she suddenly realised she might need to fear again: the strange distancing of the Lord of Everoot. This going-away, when his body was still present.
She rested the side of her cheek against his long, hard body as he turned and responded to one of the men. He was sweaty, with a strong musky odour. She inhaled, feeling safe and protected and, well, that was sufficient.
This was all she wanted. Just to be near him, watch him turn his thoughtful grey gaze on whoever was speaking, occasionally asking questions or adding comments, but mostly listening. And people expanded under his attention. He was like a draught. They drank him in, grew brighter. His knights and hers. Jerv. Fulk.
Griffyn was making good what was once soiled, bringing life to what had been dead or dying. Papa hadn’t possessed the heart to create what Griffyn was doing so effortlessly, in fifteen days, in enemy territory. Griffyn had simply swept in and made it good.
And she was going to betray him.
Madness.
She stared at the rock-strewn walkway underfoot, as a very novel, very reckless thought occurred to her: Need she?
There’d been no word from King Stephen. He could have had a messenger to Everoot within days if he’d wanted, even if he’d been standing on the cliffs of Dover. Why no news, then? No succor? No instructions for her?
Perhaps King Stephen was going to sign the treaty. Her heart fluttered. Perhaps there was no ruse. Mayhap ’twas over, and her king knew it. She’d concocted the notion that it was a lie. Her heart started rattling around in the wide, open space
the dawning realisation created.
And on this flimsy foundation, she was to betray the most decent man she’d ever known?
Her mouth opened, without any real decision on her part. “Griffyn?”
It was like those mornings when she wanted just another moment of lying abed, warm under the furs, but her body would start moving on its own, climbing out into the cold morning air, doing what needed to be done, without her ever deciding anything.
Relief washed through her like sparkling rain. It was over. She was going to tell him about the prince.
“Griffyn?”
He looked down. “Aye?”
Her heart was hammering, her fingertips cold. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
Alex appeared just then, racing up the stairway. He stopped, one boot on the top step, panting slightly. His tunic was soiled from the day’s work, half caught up in the waist of his hose, his blond head disheveled. He looked flushed, harried. Or excited.
“Pagan, you need to come. Now.”
“What is it?”
Alex leaned forward. “I found something.”
Before the words were fully out, Griffyn had dropped his arm off Gwyn’s shoulder and was striding away. She stared after them, shocked. At the top of the stairs Griffyn suddenly turned, as if he’d just remembered her. “What did you want, Gwyn? Can it wait?”