Gwyn fought to keep the smile tipped upward on her face. “Nay, my lord. My father respected all the king’s men. But, since you mention it, I am on one, small, middling mission.”
His eyebrows went up just as his gaze happened down. His bushy brows shot straight to his overgrown hairline. “Lady, what has happened?” He pulled back her cape and had full view of her stained, torn, tattered gown. “God’s teeth, what is this?”
“This is Marcus fitzMiles.”
Hipping looked at her, his hand still holding one side of the cape aloft. “God’s bones! Endshire? He attacked you?” She nodded, feeling light-headed with relief. Hipping was a barely tamed nobleman, but noble he was, and he would help her. “What demon possessed him to attack you? Your father will have his head.”
“Yes, well. My father is dead.”
Hipping dropped the cape. “Ionnes de l’Ami is dead?”
“Aye. Pap—the Lord Earl passed away a fortnight past, God rest his soul. I just gave news to the king and his council last eve. As you can see,” she smiled bitterly, “fitzMiles didn’t grieve long.”
“No, but well,” Hipping replied absently, his gaze growing distant. He stared into space a moment, then snapped his fingers, calling for a servant and a bath.
Gwyn’s knees almost buckled with relief. Hipping himself bustled her up the stairs to one of the rooms on the second floor. It was clean, with a small bedframe, a straw-filled mattress, and a narrow window.
“Thank-you,” she exhaled. “’Tis perfect.”
He turned to her. “Now tell me, what is this mission of yours? How can I help?”
“I must get word to the king. Marcus led me to believe King Stephen had approved of a match between him and the House of Everoot, but I believe my king would ne’er countenance such a union.”
“No,” Hipping agreed. “No, he would not countenance a union of the de l’Ami heiress with any lesser baron, would he?”
Gwyn felt a flicker of concern. She smiled cheerily. “Word of your assistance will rate highly with the king, my lord. I will ensure it.”
“Will you, now? How kind.” He took her hand and sat her on the bed, then backed up a few steps. “Tell me, Lady Guinevere, how are you holding up under all the strain?”
“Oh, well, my lord,” she laughed awkwardly, fumbling over his abrupt solicitude. “Such things are always hard, but we…well, I am doing well.”
“Aye, but your father must have left some important and burdensome things to you, as his heir.” He eyes dropped to the single bag left hanging around her girdle.
Gwyn followed his gaze. “Just some letters of Papa’s,” she said brightly.
His eyes ratcheted back up like a drawbridge. “Really?”
“Aye.” Her hand went to the bag, her fingers curving around it, instinctively protecting it from view. “Lord Everoot’s private missives to my mother the countess while he was away.”
Hipping digested this. “Away on Crusade.”
She hesitated. “Aye.”
“Are you certain there are only letters inside?”
“Meaning?”
“No…objects.”
“Objects?”
“Of unknown origin. Of…Holy Lands origin.”
“Of course not,” she snapped.
He held up his hands. “As you say, lady. I ask only because there are rumours of treasure connected to Everoot, but Endshire found nothing.”
Her blood flowed chill. “Endshire? Found nothing? Where?” She pushed up off the mattress and said gravely, “I think Lord Endshire’s loyalty is in question, Lord Hipping.”
“Really?” he drawled, powerful amusement twisting the word into a taunt. He leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “How about you let me see these letters of your Papa’s?”
She smiled bitterly, realising the time for pleas to the heart had passed, if indeed it had ever been to hand. This was about power.
Drawing her cloak around her shoulders, she lifted her chin into the haughtiest pose she knew how. “Lord Hipping. I am cold and wet and torn like baggage. If you wish to negotiate with me, I would be warm and dry throughout it.”
He considered her for a long moment. “Very well, Lady Gwyn. I will send up food and a bath.” His eyes settled on the bag again. “As soon as we read through those letters.”
He left, and as he closed the door, she heard the key turn in the lock.
“Your rooms are ready. And again, congratulations, my lord.”
Griffyn nodded for what he hoped was the last time tonight. It was late, the hall was dark, lit only by firelight, and Robert Beaumont had already gone up to his own chambers, flush with success, negotiations complete. Henri fitzEmpress had his essential ally.
“But won’t you stay up for one more drink?” Hipping asked one more time.
Griffyn shook his head. “I’m weary, and have a long ride tomorrow.” Fatigue was no mere pretext. He’d secured the allegiance of one of the most vital allies Henri fitzEmpress would ever need, and all he felt was tired. Weary with spying, with war, with all the machinations of the world. He needed another lost waif to lift his spirits, he decided, stifling a yawn, but they were hard to find.
Something crashed on the floor above them. He and Hipping jerked their heads backwards and stared at the ceiling. It sounded like something heavy hit the floor hard, perhaps a washing pot. Hipping looked over with a convivial smile.
“My betrothed.”
“Ahh.”
“Just arrived.”
“Ahh. Congratulations.”
Hipping paused. “She’s still adjusting.”
“Mmm. Your wash pot may not.”
Hipping laughed out of proportion to the inane jest. “Aye. I shan’t bother her with my attentions again tonight. The priest has been sent for; tomorrow shall be soon enough.”
Griffyn felt a strange ripple of unease. Not required, he told himself. None of my business. Leave it be.
He was shown to his room by a washed-out looking servant. The room was plain, small, and smelled of rot and mould. Which was not the problem. Small cracks in the wooden walls allowed wind to inch in, making it quite cold despite the brazier burning. But that was not the problem either. It was looking for a chamberpot that ruined everything.
Finding none in his room, and knowing the full tankard of the infamous Hippletun brew he’d imbibed would soon be needing release, he went in search of a chamberpot, a privy, or a servant to direct him towards either.
What he came across was a violent pounding coming from a chamber door at the far end of the corridor.
He stopped and stared. The wind?
Another spurt of wild hammering, then silence. No. That was not the wind.
’Tis neither any of your business, he cautioned himself. Enough time