Griffyn’s forehead. He brushed it back impatiently.
His heart still pounded, his loins still ached, but he would never have brought Guinevere here, not if she’d begged him. Hipping was a dangerous fool, and no one knew he’d already changed sides, secretly forsworn his oath to King Stephen and joined Henri’s cause.
Some would call that traitorous. Griffyn even might have, in different circumstances, but he chose to call it prudence. Above all, it was a secret. No one knew Hipping had changed sides, but change he had, and he was an opportunistic turncoat. An heiress loyal to Stephen might be in true peril.
Griffyn rode over the narrow bridge spanning the moat and ducked his head as he passed beneath the murderous wooden spikes of the portcullis gate hanging tautly overhead. If they lowered it now, he’d be skewered, skull on down. Helmed faces peered grimly at him from the narrow windows of the gatehouse, attended by crossbow quarrels aimed even more grimly, and directly, at his throat.
He rode Noir about halfway into the centre of the dark, silent bailey and, swinging his leg over, dropped to the cobbled ground. Hipping’s burly figure appeared at the top of the stairwell, backlit by the torches burning on the walls behind him.
“Welcome, Pagan,” he growled, grabbing Griffyn’s wrist in greeting. “We thought mayhap you’d changed your mind. Out doing dark, clandestine things, no doubt.”
Griffyn smiled faintly. “No doubt.”
Hipping threw his head back and guffawed, still pumping Griffyn’s arm. “Just as I like it.” His forearm spanned the same width as a sapling and his chest was half again as wide as a wagon wheel. Bushy grey and black hair hung down past his shoulders, and he had a wolf cape thrown over his shoulders. Glittering, shrewd eyes held Griffyn’s. “But your special guest is frothing at the mouth.”
Griffyn lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve never seen Robert Beaumont froth from anywhere.”
“You’ve not been looking hard enough, my boy!” roared Hipping in laughter. “From across the Channel, ’tis hard to see, I admit. From where I sit, I see every twitter and shake of the great ones.”
Hipping hurried him inside the building. They paused at the top of a set of stairs leading down to the great hall. The air was stale and frigid. A few tapestries hanging limply on the walls looked like they contributed much of the mouldy odour to the room. It was dimly lit, but he could see that it was emptied of all retainers.
Hipping stomped down a long corridor and pushed back a tapestry to his right, gesturing Griffyn inside.
Robert Beaumont, Earl of Leicester, rose. A brazier sat near the rough-hewn table that dominated the centre of the room, and there were several fat candles plunged into puddles of their own wax on the tabletop, but otherwise the room was set in darkness. A jug of ale huddled in the centre of the table, and two wooden cups cast flickering shadows on the oak tabletop. One sat half-emptied before the earl.
The middle-aged Beaumont stepped around the table and grasped Griffyn’s wrist warmly.
Griffyn bent his head. “My lord. A pleasure.”
“No, the pleasure is all mine,” said the most powerful earl in the kingdom. After a very deliberate pause, he added, “My lord.”
Griffyn went still.
“Is it good to be back in your homeland, Pagan? It’s been a long time.”
Griffyn inhaled slowly and rubbed his palms together, looking down at them. Then he lifted his head. “I didn’t know you knew.”
Beaumont spread his hands. “How could I not? You’ve his eyes.”
“Ahh.”
The earl glanced at Hipping, who’d paused at the door to speak to a servant, then lowered his voice. “Your father would ne’er have guessed it, Pagan.”
“Guessed what?”
“That you would be the hound to flush out England for the fitzEmpress. He might have been proud.”
A side of Griffyn’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “He might have brutalized a convent before
His heart still pounded, his loins still ached, but he would never have brought Guinevere here, not if she’d begged him. Hipping was a dangerous fool, and no one knew he’d already changed sides, secretly forsworn his oath to King Stephen and joined Henri’s cause.
Some would call that traitorous. Griffyn even might have, in different circumstances, but he chose to call it prudence. Above all, it was a secret. No one knew Hipping had changed sides, but change he had, and he was an opportunistic turncoat. An heiress loyal to Stephen might be in true peril.
Griffyn rode over the narrow bridge spanning the moat and ducked his head as he passed beneath the murderous wooden spikes of the portcullis gate hanging tautly overhead. If they lowered it now, he’d be skewered, skull on down. Helmed faces peered grimly at him from the narrow windows of the gatehouse, attended by crossbow quarrels aimed even more grimly, and directly, at his throat.
He rode Noir about halfway into the centre of the dark, silent bailey and, swinging his leg over, dropped to the cobbled ground. Hipping’s burly figure appeared at the top of the stairwell, backlit by the torches burning on the walls behind him.
“Welcome, Pagan,” he growled, grabbing Griffyn’s wrist in greeting. “We thought mayhap you’d changed your mind. Out doing dark, clandestine things, no doubt.”
Griffyn smiled faintly. “No doubt.”
Hipping threw his head back and guffawed, still pumping Griffyn’s arm. “Just as I like it.” His forearm spanned the same width as a sapling and his chest was half again as wide as a wagon wheel. Bushy grey and black hair hung down past his shoulders, and he had a wolf cape thrown over his shoulders. Glittering, shrewd eyes held Griffyn’s. “But your special guest is frothing at the mouth.”
Griffyn lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve never seen Robert Beaumont froth from anywhere.”
“You’ve not been looking hard enough, my boy!” roared Hipping in laughter. “From across the Channel, ’tis hard to see, I admit. From where I sit, I see every twitter and shake of the great ones.”
Hipping hurried him inside the building. They paused at the top of a set of stairs leading down to the great hall. The air was stale and frigid. A few tapestries hanging limply on the walls looked like they contributed much of the mouldy odour to the room. It was dimly lit, but he could see that it was emptied of all retainers.
Hipping stomped down a long corridor and pushed back a tapestry to his right, gesturing Griffyn inside.
Robert Beaumont, Earl of Leicester, rose. A brazier sat near the rough-hewn table that dominated the centre of the room, and there were several fat candles plunged into puddles of their own wax on the tabletop, but otherwise the room was set in darkness. A jug of ale huddled in the centre of the table, and two wooden cups cast flickering shadows on the oak tabletop. One sat half-emptied before the earl.
The middle-aged Beaumont stepped around the table and grasped Griffyn’s wrist warmly.
Griffyn bent his head. “My lord. A pleasure.”
“No, the pleasure is all mine,” said the most powerful earl in the kingdom. After a very deliberate pause, he added, “My lord.”
Griffyn went still.
“Is it good to be back in your homeland, Pagan? It’s been a long time.”
Griffyn inhaled slowly and rubbed his palms together, looking down at them. Then he lifted his head. “I didn’t know you knew.”
Beaumont spread his hands. “How could I not? You’ve his eyes.”
“Ahh.”
The earl glanced at Hipping, who’d paused at the door to speak to a servant, then lowered his voice. “Your father would ne’er have guessed it, Pagan.”
“Guessed what?”
“That you would be the hound to flush out England for the fitzEmpress. He might have been proud.”
A side of Griffyn’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “He might have brutalized a convent before
Similar Books
