Chapter 16
Sixteen
HARPER
The household settled slowly into silence as the storm deepened around Thames.
Servants banked fires lower in the great hall before disappearing belowstairs.
The Baron retired at last with two final dispatches tucked beneath one arm and visible irritation toward England itself carved permanently between his brows.
Somewhere along the western corridor, a shutter banged once in the wind before someone hurried to secure it properly.
I lingered in the solar after everyone else departed.
Mostly because I had no desire to climb into a freezing bedchamber while the storm attempted to dismantle the castle stone by stone.
The solar had become my favorite room at Thames without my fully realizing it. Sweet-smelling rushes covered the floor. Shelves of books lined the far wall. Candlelight softened the sharp edges of winter while the fire snapped steadily in the hearth.
I sat curled near the fire beneath a wool blanket with one of the Baron’s maps spread across my lap, though I had stopped reading several minutes earlier. Outside, snow moved endlessly beyond the narrow windows like pale ghosts crossing the dark.
The door opened quietly behind me. Geoffrey stood in the doorway with one hand still resting against the frame.
He had abandoned the heavier fur-lined mantle from supper, wearing only a dark wool tunic unlaced slightly at the throat and soft enough with wear to look comfortable for perhaps the first time since I’d met him.
“I suspected I might find you here,” he said.
“You say that like I’m a mildly elusive forest cryptid.”
His mouth curved faintly. “You have appeared unexpectedly in my life carrying ancient manuscripts and historical knowledge. The comparison feels reasonable.”
I smiled despite myself and shifted the blanket slightly. “I was avoiding hypothermia.”
“A noble goal.”
He crossed the room slowly before settling into the chair opposite mine near the fire.
For a few moments neither of us spoke.
Outside, the storm pressed against the keep with low mournful sounds while firelight moved softly across Geoffrey’s face.
Up close the exhaustion looked worse somehow.
I could see faint shadows beneath his eyes now.
The roughness along his jaw. One small healing cut near his temple I had not noticed downstairs.
War had begun leaving marks on him. The realization hurt more than it should have.
“You and Aldwin were arguing,” I said quietly.
Geoffrey exhaled softly through his nose. “We were discussing strategy.”
“That was absolutely an argument.”
“One can argue strategically.”
“That sounds like something a medieval noble tells himself before developing stress-induced heart disease.”
That earned me an actual laugh. Brief. Low. Gone almost immediately.
Geoffrey leaned his head briefly against the chair behind him, eyes closing for one exhausted moment before reopening.
“He thinks I should remain here through Christmastide,” he admitted.
The words surprised me enough I blinked. “And you disagree?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
His gaze shifted toward the fire.
“Because every time I stay in one place too long lately, another part of England catches fire.”
The quiet bitterness beneath the words settled heavily between us. I looked down at the map in my lap instead of him. “That’s not your fault.”
“No,” Geoffrey said softly. “But that distinction matters less after the third village.”
For one strange suspended moment, the solar felt less like a room inside a medieval castle and more like a small fragile pocket of warmth surviving against the edge of something enormous and merciless.
The fire had burned lower during our conversation, settling into deep orange coals beneath blackened logs while candlelight moved softly across the solar walls. Somewhere belowstairs a door opened and shut. Distant voices drifted briefly through the corridor before fading again into silence.
I pulled the blanket tighter around myself before asking softly, “How bad is it really?”
The question settled between us.
Outside, wind moved hard against the shutters. For one moment I expected Geoffrey to deflect again. Another polished diplomatic answer. Another carefully measured explanation designed to reassure everyone around him while revealing absolutely nothing real.
Instead he leaned forward slowly, forearms braced against his knees, eyes fixed on the fire.
“I no longer know who means what they say,” he admitted quietly.
The honesty of it startled me.
“At court?”
“At court. Among the barons. Among the king’s men.” He exhaled slowly through his nose. “Everyone lies now, Harper. Constantly. Alliances shift by the hour depending on who feels insulted, frightened, or ambitious that morning.”
Firelight moved across the sharp line of his jaw as he spoke.
“Men speak about loyalty while quietly negotiating with both sides. Priests preach peace beside halls preparing for siege. Nobles toast one another at supper then send riders through the night arranging betrayals before dawn.”
His mouth curved bitterly.
“And the worst part is that after enough time surrounded by it...” He stopped briefly. “You begin adapting.”
Something in the way he said it made my chest tighten.
“You hate politics,” I said softly.
“I used to think I merely hated court.” His gaze remained fixed on the flames. “Now I think I hate what surviving court requires.”
Geoffrey rubbed one hand slowly across his mouth before continuing.
“You learn how to manipulate people because failing to do so becomes dangerous. You learn which truths to soften. Which fears to exploit. Which men require flattery and which require humiliation.” His voice lowered slightly. “You begin calculating every conversation before it happens.”
I thought suddenly of modern corporate meetings. Performance reviews. Networking dinners. Entire industries built around strategic charm. 1215 apparently had fewer LinkedIn posts and significantly more executions.
“And you’re good at it,” I realized quietly.
Geoffrey looked up at me then. There was no pride in his expression.
“That,” he said softly, “is precisely the problem.”
The fire crackled sharply between us.
“When I was younger,” he said after a while, “I believed cruel men announced themselves clearly. That evil looked obvious.” His mouth curved faintly without humor. “Then I met kings.”
A chill moved through me unrelated to winter.
“John was not always like this,” Geoffrey continued quietly. “Or perhaps he was and learned he could be rewarded for it.” He stared down at his hands for a moment. “That is the danger power creates, I think. Not madness. Permission.”
The words settled heavily into the room.
“You begin convincing yourself small compromises are necessary,” he said. “Necessary for stability, for order. Necessary for survival.” His gaze lifted toward the fire again. “And eventually you wake one morning realizing nobody around you can safely disagree with you anymore.”
That was so much more terrifying than simple villainy.
Geoffrey leaned back slowly into the chair, exhaustion pulling visibly at him now that he had stopped pretending otherwise.
“Aldwin carries too much,” he admitted quietly after a long silence. “My father grows older every winter. Thames remains vulnerable if the war spreads further south.”
His jaw tightened slightly. “Every road back here, I spend half the journey wondering what I’ll find when I arrive.”
The words landed somewhere deep beneath my ribs. Not because of what he said, but because of what he carefully didn’t.
The firelight flickered softly across his face. Across tired eyes and winter-shadowed exhaustion and restraint worn thin by too many months of war.
Before I could stop myself, I said quietly, “My world wasn’t better at this, you know.”
His gaze shifted toward me immediately.
“At what?”
“Loneliness.”
The word surprised both of us a little.
I looked down at the blanket pooled around my hands. “People in my time are connected constantly. Phones. Emails. Messages. Social media.”
I laughed softly without humor. “You can technically reach someone every second of the day and still go weeks without anyone actually seeing you.”
Geoffrey listened without interruption.
“In Boston, I worked constantly. Entire weeks passed where most of my conversations happened in meetings or through a laptop screen.” I stared into the fire now too.
“I lived beside people for three years without learning their names. My friends scheduled dinners six weeks in advance because everyone was too busy surviving their jobs.”
The words kept coming once I started.
“There were nights I came home exhausted and ate dinner alone answering work emails because somehow productivity became more important than... than belonging anywhere.”
My throat tightened unexpectedly. “Nobody needed me. If I disappeared from my office tomorrow, they’d replace me before lunch.” A harsh laugh escaped. “I’m sure that’s what they did.”
Outside, the storm continued wrapping itself around Thames while firelight softened the edges of the room into gold and shadow.
“And here?” Geoffrey asked quietly.
The question undid me more than it should have. I swallowed hard before answering.
“Here people notice absence.”
His expression shifted slightly. I looked toward the fire before continuing.
“Meals matter. Families matter. The servants know when someone is ill before they say anything.” My voice softened. “Everyone depends on everyone else here.”
The fire crackled softly between us.
I thought suddenly of the Baron sitting beside the hearth with dispatches scattered around him.
Of Aldwin carrying grief through the corridors like another layer of armor.
Of servants quietly setting aside Geoffrey’s preferred cup before supper because they knew he would arrive frozen from the road.
Of Geoffrey himself returning through the storm because somewhere beneath duty and politics and exhaustion, some part of him had needed to come home.