the man who sat opposite him at the table, a man who was as comfortable among these people as Sir Anton was uncomfortable.
“Against her will, you said,” his guest replied, setting his tankard aside with slow deliberation. “A woman who loves a man would willingly be secreted away in order to marry him. I can but wonder at how greatly this Glenys of yours cares for you if she must be taken by force and imprisoned until you come to fetch her.”
Sir Anton considered his companion with care. Kieran FitzAllen was well known as a man who could be trusted to complete unpleasant tasks for pay and afterward keep silent, but he was also known to be particular about the work he accepted. He was willing to steal, thieve, thwart intentions and fight like the very devil, but he refused to harm women. Though that was hardly to be wondered at. FitzAllen was a handsome knave, and women, young and old, married and unmarried, pure and impure, had an unfortunate tendency to throw themselves at him. He repaid such adoration with equal admiration, mainly of a physical nature, or so Sir Anton understood it. Kieran FitzAllen, it was rumored, had lain with more women in his twenty-nine years than most men could hope to merely meet in a lifetime. Nay, he would never harm a woman, not even for a fortune in gold. Sir Anton knew he must find the way to convince this man of his sincerity.
“Glenys’s family is what lies between us,” he told him, leaning forward, “and what keeps her from coming to me freely. ’Tis difficult for any who are not acquainted with the Seymours. She fears death if she tries to leave them.”
“Death?” Kieran FitzAllen regarded him with suspicion. “How so? You do not mean that they would kill the girl for wedding you?”
Sir Anton sighed and nodded. “’Tis what Glenys believes, no matter how I strive to reassure her. Her family has chosen another for her to wed, and will not even let her see or speak to me. But such is the measure of our love that she, in turn, has refused the marriage they have arranged.”
“This would seem a foolish course,” Kieran FitzAllen told him, taking up his tankard to drink from it once more, “since the family has turned your suit aside.”
“But you do not understand! They have only refused me because I have not yet come into my inheritance. But my uncle, the Duc d’Burdeux, is very ill, and not expected to live long. I have been called to Normandy to attend him until his death, and once he has gone to heaven and I have gained the title and lands, I am certain the Seymours will agree to let Glenys become my wife.”
“Then tell them what you have told me,” Kieran FitzAllen advised, “and ask them to wait. I do not see why you should want the girl kidnapped and held against her will if she has already refused the other suitor, and if you are but weeks from obtaining your goal.”
“But her family will force her to wed this other man,” Sir Anton insisted. “You cannot begin to know what they are like. Glenys is terrified of them, and I cannot make her understand that I can keep her safe, that they will not even know how to find her once you have taken her away.”
“If I take her,” Kieran FitzAllen corrected. He lifted a finger to summon one of the serving maids to refill his tankard. The girl, who with every other woman in the tavern had been staring at him without ceasing, rushed to fulfill his bidding. Her reward was a lazy smile and a pat on her ample behind, which nearly made the foolish girl drop the heavy pitcher she carried. Sir Anton felt slightly ill as he watched Kieran FitzAllen’s dealings with the maid. He would probably take the filthy, sluttish creature upstairs and tumble her the moment their business was completed. He looked to be the kind of man with just such lowly appetites.
“You have not yet explained why your beloved must be held against her will,” Kieran said once the girl had gone away and he had turned his attention back to Sir Anton. “If I tell her that you have sent me to take her away and keep her safe, she should become instantly agreeable—if all that you say is true.”
Sir Anton gaped at the man sitting across from him. “Do you accuse me of speaking falsely?” he demanded.
“Not in the least,” Kieran FitzAllen replied easily. “Do you accuse me of being a fool? For only a complete lackwit would accept such a tale without some manner of reasoning. Tell me plainly why you wish me to take this woman against her will.”
“I have told you already that she fears her family,” Sir Anton said, struggling to contain his anger at such insolence. “Even if you tell her that you have taken her at my command, she will never believe that she can be kept safe from them. But there is, I admit, another reason. Glenys is…I suppose you might say she is on a quest.”
Kieran FitzAllen looked amused. “A quest?”
“Aye,” Sir Anton said wearily, nodding. “Her family—the Seymour clan—is Welsh, and descended from a noble Celtic lineage. This is their greatest pride, and they yet cling to many of the old beliefs, strange and profane as that may be. The head of the family, Lord Aonghus Seymour, who is Glenys’s uncle, even claims to possess certain powers.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Mystical powers.”
Kieran FitzAllen seemed unimpressed by this. “And does he? Possess such powers?”
“Of course not!” Sir Anton replied, much flustered. “He’s half madman. The whole lot of them are—all of Glenys’s strange uncles and aunts. She’s the only sane member of the family, despite her insistence upon regaining the Greth Stone at all costs—even that of her own life.”
“Greth?” Kieran repeated. “’Tis the ancient word for grace, is it not?”
“Aye, and that is just what it means. The Stone of Grace. ’Tis a ring that has been in Glenys’s family for many generations, most beautiful, with a large, dark sapphire set in the midst. To see it, one would admire the ring’s beauty, but for all that ’tis merely a common family heirloom. I have seen many rings possessing far greater loveliness and value. But the Seymours will have it that the Greth Stone is blessed with great powers—more of their foolishness about all things mystical—and they crave its return to them. It was stolen some months ago by a man named Caswallan, and taken back to Wales. Glenys is determined to find this knave and have the ring again, but Caswallan has not been heard of since he took it. No one knows where he is, or what he has done with the ring. ’Tis a foolish quest she follows, and a dangerous one, but she is set upon it. And I,” Sir Anton added, sitting back in his chair, “am determined to keep her safe, even from this. But I confess…she will not like it.”
Kieran FitzAllen emptied his tankard for the third time that day and set it aside. Wiping his lips with his fingers, he said, “So. You desire that I steal Mistress Glenys and take her to…”
“A small keep that I hold in York. ’Tis an insignificant dwelling, uninhabited for many years now, but stout enough that you can surely keep her well and secure. And her family will never find her there.”
His guest gave a curt nod. “And you want me to keep her there—against all her protests and fears of her family and her desire to follow her quest—until…”
“Until I am able to come for her,” Sir Anton replied. “’Twill be no more than a few months—mayhap weeks, for I vow that my uncle is gravely ill. You will have enough gold to supply all your needs even for a year, if need be, and to keep Glenys in every comfort.” Looking about the tavern to see whether any watched what he did, he reached into an inner pocket in his tunic and pulled out a leather bag. “I have come ready to make part payment, you see. Fifty pieces of gold now, fifty pieces on the day you take Glenys, and a hundred when I come for her.”
He had expected Kieran FitzAllen—or any knave like him—to leap at the chance to earn so much gold, but the other man merely sat in his chair, looking at him thoughtfully.
“A year is a long time to hold an unwilling woman prisoner, regardless the payment. I am not yet certain ’tis even necessary. Her family must be odd, indeed, if they will not even wait a few weeks for your uncle to die so that you may be deemed suitable.”
“I’ve already told you they’re half-mad,” Sir Anton said with a growing sense of desperation. If