His tunic was deep blue wool so finely woven it barely resembled wool at all, the cuffs embroidered with silver thread that caught the late afternoon light when he moved his hands. A mantle lined in vair rested across the back of his chair, soft grey-blue fur imported at staggering expense and I itched to touchit. Heavy gold rings gleamed against weathered fingers, and the chain at his throat carried a seal carved from dark green stone.
Nothing about him suggested extravagance for its own sake. Every piece served a purpose.
Authority.
Lineage.
The quiet reminder that men commanded armies because other men believed they should.
Even his boots looked expensive enough to start a minor war.
“Tell me what you know about the next ten years,” he said without preamble.
I had prepared for this. Geoffrey had coached me through it, helping me shape answers that were technically true while carefully obscuring the terrifying degree of specificity I actually possessed.
“I know England survives,” I said carefully. “The charter holds in various forms. The monarchy continues. There are conflicts between the crown and the nobility, but?—”
“But what?” The Baron leaned forward. “Give me something useful.”
“I know the archbishop grows more powerful,” I said. “Ecclesiastical authority becomes increasingly important in the political structure. And I know the northern territories remain unstable. There are conflicts with Scotland that will?—”
“Scotland?” The Baron’s attention sharpened immediately. “What kind of conflicts?”
I silently cursed my own tendency toward specificity.
“The borders shift,” I said. “Scotland attempts territorial expansion. There are wars. But the northernmost parts of England remain English. Eventually the borders stabilize somewhere around the Tweed.”
“How long until that stabilization?”
“Decades,” I admitted. “More than a century, probably. I’m unclear on exact dates.”
The Baron rose and crossed toward the window, his back to me. Late afternoon light caught the silver threading through his hair, making him look older and harder all at once.
“My son believes you can help us navigate the coming years,” he said quietly. “That your knowledge, properly used, could give Thames an advantage during unstable times.”
“Your son is a strategist,” I said. “He’s thinking about how information can be used.”
“He’s thinking with his heart,” the Baron corrected. “He sees a frightened woman in a tower and mistakes sentiment for strategy. Though occasionally the two resemble one another.”
He turned back toward me as I watched some internal calculation settle into place behind his eyes.
“Here is my proposal,” he said. “You will remain at Thames Castle as a guest rather than a prisoner. You’ll be housed properly and treated with courtesy, though you will not leave these walls. In exchange, you’ll provide information about coming years. Threats. Opportunities. Political developments. You understand?”
I understood perfectly. I was being reclassified from prisoner to captive. From captive to strategic asset. Materially, this was unquestionably an improvement. Emotionally, it felt more complicated.
“What happens if I don’t know the answer to something?” I asked.
“Then you say so.” The Baron returned to his chair. “I’m not unreasonable enough to expect omniscience. But I do expect honesty. And I expect you to understand that deliberate deception will carry severe consequences.”
“I understand.”
“Good.” He folded his hands together. “You’ll begin by telling Geoffrey everything you know about Scottish movements over the next fifty years. After that, we’ll proceed through noble houses, succession disputes, territorial shifts, and likely political alliances. My sons will determine what information is most valuable.”
“Your sons,” I repeated. “Not just Geoffrey?”
“Geoffrey is thoughtful but hesitant. Aldwin is practical but violent. Together they form a reasonably competent whole. You’ll work with both.”
Wonderful.