The Conqueror by Kris Kennedy

Author:Kris Kennedy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Zebra Books
Published: 2009-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six

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.”

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